“Only luck played a role in her victory there. Who knew Er’ril’s iron ward had the magick to activate the gate?”
“But luck or not, she still thwarted you.”
“She did not thwart us, only delayed us. We still have plenty of time to establish the Weirgate at Winter’s Eyrie. It is only a minor inconvenience.”
Greshym scoffed. “You describe the fact that she almost stumbled upon the Black Heart’s ultimate design as minor?”
“They will never suspect—at least not in time.”
The boy Denal added his voice to the fray. “What of the other Weirgates?”
Shorkan seemed to regain his composure, his back straightening, his spate of darkfire dimming. “The gates at the Southwall and the Northwall are almost complete. Once the wit’ch is neutralized, either by killing her or unbinding the book, then none will have the strength to combat the Weir.”
“Perhaps,” Greshym argued. “But do not turn your back on this wit’ch, or you may find her at your throat.”
“So what do you propose?” Shorkan finally relented.
“We attack her before she can gather her strength.”
Shorkan dismissed the idea with a wave of a robed arm. “For now, she is too well protected. The forest will honor its pledge to our ancient Green Brother, Lassen. The sargassum weed will keep her hidden. We would waste forces hunting her in that watery maze.”
“Maybe not,” Greshym said.
Shorkan glowered at the crippled mage.
Greshym simply continued. “Perhaps we could send an emissary whom the weed will take better to heart—someone the weed will trust more than the companions of the wit’ch. With the forest as an ally, it would be a simple thing to shred the defenses of our enemy and capture the wit’ch. With the right emissary, we could forge the weed into a tangled trap.” Greshym’s gaze flickered toward Rockingham.
Rockingham cringed. He had caught the meaning in Greshym’s milky eyes. He was to be this emissary. A tremble began to build in his shoulders as he continued to kneel. What was the foul darkmage plotting?
Shorkan had the same concern. “What is your scheme?”
Greshym seemed to enjoy the sudden attention and interest of the other two mages. “If we sent our dog here out with a stick, a token of our affection for the sargassum, it might listen to our plea for aid.”
“Speak plain. Out with it.”
Greshym bowed his head in feigned obeisance. “We must learn to use the resources that our ancestors conveniently stored here. Among the dusty relics of the Edifice’s libraries and storerooms, there are many unusual items of worth.”
“Like what?” Denal asked, sounding like a child begging for a treat.
“Like the old staff of Brother Lassen,” Greshym answered. The old mage simply crossed his arms, as if this was answer enough.
“So you propose to send this lackey out to the weed bearing Brother Lassen’s old staff as herald?”
“The weed will remember. Time moves oddly for the great beast. Though centuries have passed, it is only a handful of days to the sargassum. It will honor the man who comes bearing Brother Lassen’s staff. It will do his bidding.”
Shorkan seemed to warm to this idea. He turned his back on the others and pulled up his hood as he contemplated. “It is worth attempting. But our man here will need more support than a scattering of stray sea goblins. If we attempt this, we must strike vigorously. No more teasing and nipping at the heels of the wit’ch. This time we strike with full force.” Shorkan swung back to the others. “Fetch Brother Lassen’s staff,” he ordered Denal, then turned to Greshym. “And you prepare your man for his role.”
Greshym nodded as he stepped toward Rockingham. “And what will you do, Shorkan?”
Black flames again blew forth and coursed in rivulets of darkfire along the Praetor’s white robe. “I will loosen a legion of skal’tum from the island’s defenses to go with the herald. We strike at nightfall.”
Though Greshym’s lips spread into a wicked smile at these words, Rockingham quaked. He suddenly found it hard to breathe. He feared the winged servants of the Dark Lord with their poisoned claws and shredding teeth. To be accompanied by a hundred of such demons was a terror beyond reckoning.
Greshym reached Rockingham’s side and nudged him with his staff. “Come. We will retire to my room.”
Rockingham rose on numb legs and stumbled after Greshym.
The Praetor’s room topped the westernmost tower of the Edifice. It was a long trek down. Once free of the chamber and upon the tower stair, Rockingham found he could breathe again. Denal, on his young legs, had long since disappeared into the descending gloom, leaving the crippled mage to struggle his way down on his own. Alone with Greshym, Rockingham finally felt free enough to speak. “Wh-what is your real plan? I smell a plot behind the one you speak aloud.”
“Do not concern yourself with my plans,” Greshym wheezed. “Obey me in this matter, and what you wish will be granted. You will learn your true past, Rockingham.”
“And there is nothing you are willing to tell me now?”
Greshym paused at a landing. He leaned heavily on his staff, exhausted already by the steep descent of the winding stair. “I will grant you a boon. I will give you a question to ponder, a clue to your prior life.”
Rockingham knew the old mage wanted him to beg. He did not care. He was long past worrying about such minor concerns as dignity. There was only one drive that kept him from flinging himself from a tower, and that was to discover the mystery of his past. “Please tell me what you know. I beg this of you.”
Greshym smiled. After dealing with the haughty Praetor, it obviously soothed the old mage’s wounded pride to have Rockingham bow and scrape before him now. “I will grant you a farewell gift then. A riddle to ponder on your journey to the Doldrums. There was a reason we dragged you from your shallow grave up in the mountains after the wit’ch defeated you the first time, a purpose in reinvigorating your corpse and making you our spy along the coast. But why? Why did we do this? What makes you so special? The answer is a clue to your past life.”
Rockingham had to restrain himself from throttling the man. What clue was this? How was he ever to answer this dark riddle?
Amusement shone in Greshym’s eyes. “The sea is where you will find the answer, Rockingham. The sea is your clue.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
Greshym turned on a heel and continued down the steep stairs. “Come. Half the day is already gone. By sunset, you must be off to set a trap for the wit’ch.” Greshym glanced back over his shoulders to where Rockingham still stood on the landing. “And who knows what else may fall into our watery snare? Often the oddest things can be dredged from the sea.”
With rage building in his chest, Rockingham followed, fingering the closed scar on his sternum. He sensed the corrupt shadow that lurked at the edges of his awareness. He let his fingers drop. No matter what horrible deeds had haunted his past, this punishment was still too steep a price. No man should have to suffer this fate.
On leaden feet, Rockingham traversed the stairs and made a promise to himself. Before he left this world, he would know his true past, know why he had been cursed with such a burden, and have his revenge on those who had yoked him to such a fate.
This he swore.
BY MIDDAY, JOACH was alone on the deck, except for the strange black-skinned sailors who kept the Pale Stallion languidly gliding through the endless forest of red-fronded trees. His other companions had all retreated below to escape the sun’s glare or to pursue individual goals.
Left alone, Joach had nothing but his own thoughts to occupy his time. He sat cross-legged in the shadow of the mast. His gloved hands kept rolling the dark staff across his knees nervously. He stared out at the passing forest’s edge. After learning that the sargassum weed was intelligent, Joach could not escape the sensation that the forest was staring back at him. Joach wet his lips. It was as if a thousand eyes examined him: every hair
, every patch of skin. The sensation worsened the deeper into the forest they sailed. Was this the true reason the others had fled below? Had they sensed the immense presence judging them?
Something touched Joach’s shoulder. He gasped and rolled away, his staff coming to his grip. He found himself staring up into the face of one of the zo’ol sailors. This one was marked with a pale scar of a rising sun on his dark forehead. The fellow showed no sign of noticing the staff that Joach still held threateningly. Instead, he simply stared into Joach’s eyes.
Feeling foolish, Joach lowered the length of wood. “I’m sorry. You startled me.”
The fellow nodded and waved for Joach to follow him to the starboard rail.
Not understanding but afraid to insult the fellow further, Joach followed his bidding. “What is it?” Joach whispered. With the sailor so silent all the time, Joach felt as if his own speech was loud and crass.
The dark-skinned man turned back to Joach. “Eyes watch us,” he said, struggling with their language.
Joach’s skin crawled with these words. So the sailors sensed the forest’s presence, too. “It’s the trees,” Joach said.
The small man nodded. “Many eyes . . . but one heart.” He turned back to study the passing forest. “It watches us as we watch it.”
“Brother Flint says it means us no harm. It barely knows we’re here.”
The zo’ol made a noncommittal grunt. “It knows,” he mumbled.
A long stretch of silence followed, each lost in his own thoughts as the forest grew more dense around them. The leafy limbs now spread high enough to filter out most of the sunlight, an arched bower overhead. It was as if they floated down some shadowy tunnel.
Joach glanced sidelong at his companion. He realized that, during the many days at sea, he had never learned any of the black-skinned sailors’ names. They usually ate and lounged together, rarely socializing with the others.
The man turned to him. “Names have power,” the zo’ol said plainly.
Joach could not hide his shock. It was as if the man had read his thoughts.
“No,” the man said, staring directly at Joach. The sailor traced the pale scar upon his dark forehead with a single finger. “I am a tribal wizen. I see only what is written on a man’s heart.” The small sailor then reached and placed his palm upon Joach’s chest. “I read what is written here, not what is shadowed by thoughts.”
Joach’s face scrunched up as the sailor removed his hand. “You mean emotions. You can sense another’s feelings.”
The man shrugged and moved his hand toward Joach’s face. He traced a symbol on the boy’s forehead, the same as marked the sailor’s brow. “You are wizen, too. I sense your hidden eye.”
Leaning away from his touch, Joach rubbed his forehead. He could still feel the trace of the man’s finger. Joach realized the scarred symbol was not a rising sun, but an awakening eye.
The sailor continued to stare at him, waiting for an acknowledgment.
Joach found he could not deny the man’s words. He knew the sailor would sense any falsehood. “Yes. I have a talent . . . like you. I can read the truth of dreams, see paths of the future.”
The sailor bowed his head solemnly and remained silent for several breaths. Joach saw the man’s lips move, as if in some silent prayer. Once done, he raised his face and lifted his arms openly. “Fellow wizen may share names in brotherhood. I would share my name with you.”
Joach bowed his own head. “It would be an honor.”
“Not an honor . . .” the man intoned. “A responsibility. To take a name is to accept a burden.” The man slipped a hand into a pocket and removed a small object. “I offer a gift for the weight of my name.”
The man held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a rare black pearl the size of a robin’s egg. Joach hesitated to accept such a precious offering, but the sailor shoved his hand brusquely toward the boy. Joach sensed that it would be an insult to refuse.
Taking the pearl, Joach closed his fist around it. “I accept your offering and your name.”
The man bowed. “I am called Xin.”
As the sailor spoke his name, the pearl seemed to grow warm in Joach’s fist, but it may have been just his own nervousness. He sensed that to this black-skinned sailor, a name was more precious than all the ocean’s treasures.
Xin straightened from his bow and looked expectantly toward Joach.
Blinking, Joach realized he would need a gift to offer this sailor, too. He patted his pockets. Empty. He glanced at the staff. No, he was blood bonded to the length of wood. He could not part with that. Then he remembered. Pocketing the pearl, Joach reached to his throat and removed the dragon-tooth pendant that hung from his neck. It had been a parting gift from Sy-wen before she left to search for the Bloodriders with Kast. Joach did not think she would mind this exchange. It was done with honor.
Joach held out the dragon’s tooth. “A gift for the weight of my name.”
Xin nodded and accepted the offering.
Joach bowed, as the sailor had done. “I am called Joach, son of Morin’stal.”
Xin placed the cord around his own neck, touching the dragon’s tooth to his lips for a moment. The white tooth shone starkly against the black hollow of the man’s neck. It seemed to belong there.
“We are brothers now,” Xin said. “We bear each other’s names in our hearts. Names hold power. When either heart needs the other, they must come.”
Joach reached and clasped the sailor’s hand, understanding that a commitment was being forged here. “We are brothers.”
A commotion suddenly erupted near the bow of the ship. Breaking their handshake, both turned to see one of the zo’ol sailors frantically point past the ship’s bow. He chattered in the tribal tongue of the zo’ol.
Joach rushed forward with Xin.
Once at the bow rail, Joach saw the reason for the outburst. Ahead, the tree-lined channel ended in a huge expanse of open water. At first Joach had thought the ship had traversed the entire weed and that the ocean itself lay ahead. But he quickly realized his mistake. These waters were too still. Not a wave disturbed the glassy surface. As they floated closer, Joach spotted more forest through the mists on the far side of these calm waters.
It was not the ocean. It was a lake.
As Joach stared, the Pale Stallion drifted into the wide blue waters. Forest lay all around them, encircling their ship. With the channel closing behind them, soon there was no break in the continuous spread of weed, no path out from this weed-choked lake.
Joach sensed that they had just entered the sargassum’s heart.
Beside him, Xin motioned for his tribesman to go belowdecks and fetch the others.
Joach stared up at the open skies. After almost the entire day hidden by the trees, the full sun seemed too bright. Joach suddenly felt exposed. A knot of edginess formed in his chest.
“Something comes,” Xin said behind him.
Glancing to the small sailor, Joach saw that Xin stared up at the skies, too. Joach followed his line of sight. At first he saw nothing but thin, scudding clouds high overhead. Then the sun’s glare seemed to wane, and he spotted the small dark speck against a white cloud.
Joach’s staff responded. Small flares of darkfire trickled along its length. But Xin touched his shoulder, calming him. “I sense no threat . . . only . . . only . . .” Xin shook his head. “It is too far away.”
By now, others began to gather on deck. Flint crossed to them, Elena at his side. Joach pointed to the slowly circling beast up in the sky. He met Elena’s glance and saw the matching worried look in his sister’s gaze.
No one spoke.
Flint raised a spyglass to his eye and studied the interloper. “Thank the Sweet Mother,” he said, relieved. “It’s the dragon.” Flint turned to one of the other zo’ol. “Light the signal fire. Let them know it’s us!”
Elena clutched Flint’s shirtsleeve. “Is it truly Ragnar’k?”
Flint smiled. “And Sy-wen
. They made it.”
Though relieved himself, Joach could not shake off the sense of unease. As a signal fire was lit among cheers from the others, Joach remained at the bowsprit. He stared at the circle of forest. Xin remained at his side.
Joach glanced to the zo’ol wizen. “You sense it, too.”
Xin nodded. “Many eyes still stare at us.”
Overhead, a roar cracked across the sunny skies. Ragnar’k had spotted their signal fire. Joach shuddered. It sounded like an approaching storm.
“Look!” It was Elena’s excited voice.
Joach drew his eyes from the forest to stare at the waters around the ship. Bubbles rose all around, disturbing the waters’ placid surface. It was as if the lake had begun to boil. Joach clutched his staff tighter. Soon hundreds of scaled heads surged forth from the salty waters. Dragons of every jeweled shade rose from hiding in response to the roar from Ragnar’k. The entire lake filled with their twining necks and humped backs. Atop the dragons, riders waved to the boat in a salute of greeting.
Overhead, Ragnar’k swooped over the boat’s masts. Another roar of greeting flowed from his black throat. The dragon slowly tilted on a wing above the gathered army; sunlight sparked off his pearlescent black scales as he turned. It was a wondrous sight. But just as a handsome face can suddenly reveal a malicious soul, Joach caught a glimpse of the horror hidden behind the jubilation.
Joach froze at the rail, his heart clenched in a knot. Sensing the boy’s distress, Xin touched his arm, but Joach could not move. His sense of foreboding trapped him.
“I can read the fear in your heart,” Xin said.
Joach found no words to describe the claw of dread that pierced his throat. For the briefest moment, as Ragnar’k had banked over the mer’ai army, a phantom scene had appeared before Joach’s eyes, overlaid atop the one before him now. He had seen the lake turn bloody, dragons writhing in death, the skies full of demons, the waters frothing with slaughter. But in a blink, the scene had vanished, leaving Joach frozen and bewildered.
He was no longer sure of what was real and what was imagined. Had the appearance of Ragnar’k somehow ignited his weaving talent? Had this horrible sight been a glimpse of the future? Ragnar’k, once a font of elemental magick as the dragon slumbered under A’loa Glen, was still potent with magicks. Even now, in the wake of the dragon’s passage, Joach’s blood tingled with flared energies.
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 40