Glancing back to the boy, Meric noticed the streams of tears trailing down the lad’s face as he conjured forth a home that he would never know, and suddenly Meric understood the lute’s song. Here was what they should be fighting for—not the ancient honor of a banished people or the lost bloodlines of a vanished king, but simply peace.
Meric let the boy play, allowing him his moment of home and hope. And in this music, Meric also discovered a calmness of spirit.
Here was something worth fighting for.
Suddenly the sunhawk let out a piercing screech. Meric sat straight in his bed, and the precious lute almost tumbled from Tok’s startled fingers. Both their gazes swung to the bird.
The hawk stretched on its perch, wings pinioned out. Its snowy plumage now flared with a brightness that stung the eye.
“What’s wrong?” Tok asked.
Meric was already out of his bed, reaching for the bird. “I’m not sure.” The bird leaped to the elv’in’s wrist. Claws dug into his flesh, piercing skin. Meric swooned as images flooded him. He saw ships riding stormwinds, keels cresting through clouds. Sweet Mother, not now! He had thought to have more time!
With the bird on his wrist, Meric hurried from the room. Tok followed. Meric hurried atop the decks. Joach, Flint, and the black-skinned zo’ol were the only ones present. Their mouths dropped at the sight of Meric and the fiery hawk.
Meric raised his wrist, and the bird shot upward, sailing past the billowed sails and up into the sky. Lowering his arm, Meric stared out at the seas. The Pale Stallion had by now passed among the fringe islands of the Archipelago. The Dre’rendi fleet and the raging war could no longer be seen except as a smudge of darkness to the east and an echoing whisper of horns in the distance.
Flint crossed to Meric. “What were you doing? That cursed bird’s brilliance could give away our position.”
Meric watched the hawk disappear into the glare of the sun. “He’s been called home. It seems other parties are being drawn to the battle here, like moths to the flame.”
“What do you mean?”
Meric glanced back to the grizzled Brother. “If you want the Blood Diary, we must hurry. This war of the isles is about to rage more fiercely. My mother comes—Queen Tratal!”
Flint’s brows rose with hope at the news. “We could always use more allies. If we could get word to Sy-wen and coordinate—”
Meric clutched Flint’s arm and hissed at him. “You are not listening! She comes not to aid our cause, but to end it! She means to lay waste to A’loa Glen, to destroy everyone and anything on the cursed island.”
Flint blinked at his outburst. “And . . . and she has such strength to accomplish this?”
Meric just stared at Flint. The elv’in’s silence was answer enough.
Flint’s eyes narrowed with concern. “But what of the Blood Diary? It is meant for Elena. Why would your mother seek to thwart us?”
Meric scowled and turned away. “Because I asked her to.”
22
THE TRIO OF mages led Er’ril through the Grand Courtyard of the Edifice. Two guards followed behind, bearing long swords. Not that Er’ril was much of a risk to anyone: Bound from ankle to shoulder with chains that limited his pace to a shuffle, he clanked with each small step. As he limped along the garden path of white stone, he stared up at the blue skies, squinting against the brightness of the afternoon after so many days buried in the dungeons of the citadel.
With the sun already drifting toward the west, the gardens of the central court lay pooled in shadow. Only the top branches of the huge koa’kona tree, the ancient symbol of A’loa Glen, stretched above the walls and reached the warm sunlight. But where the sight of the tree in the bright sun should have cheered him, the cries of battle from beyond the walls of the castle transformed the image into one of desperation. It was as if the dead limbs of the tree were struggling against its own demise, arms and fingers scrabbling against drowning.
To heighten this image, around the base of the tree’s trunk, among the knees of its gnarled roots, a group of black-robed mages gathered, encircling the tree. Ten muscled men leaned on long axes nearby, their expressions dark. Er’ril could almost smell the menace from this swamp of evil.
But that was not all he scented: Smoke stung the nose and marred the skies, while all around the city, drums and horns blared stridently. At first the war sounded as near as the castle itself; even the occasional snatches of shouted orders could be heard. Then the clash of noises seemed muted, as if the battle had drifted far from here. But Er’ril knew neither was true. The seas played tricks with sound. In truth, the battle surged all around the island.
Earlier, he had viewed the launching of the attack from atop the westernmost tower. He had seen the ships of the Bloodriders and the dragons of the mer’ai collide with the forces entrenched here: Monsters had risen from the sea; ships manned by foul berserkers had cut into the ranks of Dre’rendi ships; showers of flaming arrows and boulders had harried the dragons and riders. The waves soon frothed with blood and gore. Husks of burned-out ships ran aground against the drowned edge of the city. Bodies of the slain—both friend and foe—floated amidst the wreckage. A few of the city’s towers were now fonts of flame as the pitch and oil stored inside them were torched by the attackers. Everywhere one looked, carnage marked the seas.
During all this, Shorkan had merely stood at the window of his tower chamber and stared at the slaughter below. No emotion had marked his face. Finally, responding to some signal known only to himself, Shorkan had turned and ordered them all to the catacombs for the final preparations for the night’s ritual. He had seemed little concerned for the battle raging below the city.
It was this lack of concern that unnerved Er’ril the most. If the fiend had gloated at the destruction, shown some sign of humanity, Er’ril would have felt better. This total disinterest in the slaughter demonstrated how far from human this creature who walked in his brother’s skin was.
As they crossed the gardens, Er’ril studied Shorkan’s back. The only rise he had managed to get from the man had been a narrow-eyed suspicion when he had suggested that a traitor lurked within Shorkan’s party. But when Er’ril had refused to elaborate, the Praetor’s concern had quickly died away.
Still, Er’ril had managed to spark that initial response. As much as his false brother played the role of the stoic demigod, Er’ril knew some of the old Shorkan still survived behind that cold countenance. Nothing noble or good, just the baser sides of his brother that Shorkan had once kept buried and chained.
When he was a young man, Shorkan’s pride and confidence had sometimes overwhelmed his judgment. He had hated to be bested in a game of strategy. That childish rage still existed behind his white robe. Though the Praetor’s face remained blank, Er’ril knew Shorkan’s mind and blood roiled with thoughts of who the traitor might be. Er’ril had planted a seed of suspicion, and he trusted his brother’s baser nature to grow this kernel into a true core of distrust. And a man who kept his gaze suspiciously fixed on those at his side might miss an attack from the front.
Or so Er’ril hoped.
With his ankles chafing and his old wounds complaining against the rub of the manacles, Er’ril was glad to reach the far side of the Grand Courtyard. In the garden wall, a gate of intricate ironwork molded and twisted in the shape of twining rose branches stood locked against visitors.
It was the entrance to the subterranean catacombs where, for the past centuries, the deceased Brothers of A’loa Glen had been interred. Its passages ran deep into the volcanic core of the island. Some said the tunnels below were once natural passages carved from the flows of molten lava when the island was first born. Now the halls bore little resemblance to natural structures. Centuries of scuffling feet had rubbed the black rock to a polished sheen, and the skill of the city’s early artisans had worked the walls and roofs with carvings and facades.
Still, behind the worn sheen, Er’ril had always sensed the natural rock of
the island. It was like the thrum of a heart as one rested one’s head on the chest of a lover. It was always there, a sense of eternity.
Er’ril suspected it was for this reason that the site had been chosen as the burial crypt for the island. It was also the reason why Er’ril had entombed the Blood Diary here. In these subterranean tunnels, time seemed to have no meaning. It was a perfect place to preserve the past and protect the future.
Suddenly, the screeching complaint of ancient hinges drew Er’ril back to the present. He blinked away the old memories of the past. Even this close to the opening to the catacombs, the halls below seemed to draw him out of time’s eternal step.
“Lock the gate after us,” Shorkan instructed the guard. “None must disturb us.”
The guard nodded his understanding, but Shorkan was already past him and entering the catacombs. Denal followed next, while Greshym kept guard behind Er’ril.
Past the gate, a set of stairs climbed down into the first level of the catacombs. It was here that the most ancient Brothers were interred in narrow crypts sealed with engraved stones. A pair of torches flanked the opening. Denal took one of the torches; but Shorkan merely raised a hand, and a spinning globe of silver fire drifted out from his palm and floated before him as he led the way.
The group’s steps and the clink of Er’ril’s chains echoed hollowly along the passage. Their shadows danced on the wall to the hiss of the torch.
Greshym kept pace behind Er’ril’s shuffling gait, guarding the rear. It was clear to Er’ril that the darkmage wished to speak but feared the others hearing. Yet it was also clear that fatigue plagued Greshym, keeping him from maintaining the pace of the pair of younger mages. When Er’ril glanced back, he saw the pain of protesting joints etched on the old mage’s face and noticed how Greshym’s single hand clutched his staff in a white-knuckled grip.
“Be ready,” Greshym breathed at him, his voice lower than the furtive whisper of a secret lover.
Er’ril nodded but did not answer.
The passage continued its wide spiral deeper into the island’s heart. Other hallways branched and crisscrossed the main passage. “It would be easy to get lost in here,” Greshym whispered between wheezes as they walked; the other two mages had drifted farther ahead. “The extent of these tunnels has never been fully mapped. One could easily vanish down here.”
Er’ril only snorted derisively. Greshym was trying to suggest to Er’ril that escape might be possible. But of course, such a chance would only be offered after Er’ril freed the Blood Diary and turned the tome over to the ancient darkmage.
As their group wound deeper into the world of the dead, the etchings on the grave markers grew more legible as the age of the tombs lessened. Soon, they even passed a few open niches, graves awaiting future occupants.
“Still,” Greshym continued, “it is something to ponder.”
Shorkan led them deeper, past the open graves to where the walls roughened to natural stone. The depths of the catacombs reached levels where the sea itself claimed the tunnels, but their group was not going that far. Shorkan led them without warning off of the main tunnel and into the narrow side passages. He continued without hesitation through the maze of crisscrossing passages and rooms, moving unerringly toward his goal.
Finally, Shorkan followed a passage that ended in a blind chamber. Unadorned rock marked the walls to either side, but before them stood a sheet of black ice reaching from floor to ceiling. Its dark surface seemed almost to flow, as if the ice melted and refroze in an eternal cycle.
Shorkan approached the icy bulwark. In the glow of his flaming sphere, the solid barrier cast back their reflections. With a look of distaste, Shorkan turned his back on the sight. “The mage who cast this spell for you, Er’ril, was skilled. For the past centuries, it has resisted my attempts to breach it.”
Er’ril shrugged. “He had owed me a favor.”
“Do not mock me. Brother Kallon used his dying breath and the magick gifted to you from the book to forge this tomb for the Blood Diary. He died with the spell on his lips, taking its secret to his grave.”
Er’ril laughed sharply. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Brother. It is no great secret or arcane mastery. Brother Kallon was simply a better mage than you. You know this yourself. Before the book was forged, you complained many times to me of the old mage’s immeasurable skill, how he bested you at every turn. It was for this reason that I sought him once I realized the road was no longer safe. He was better than you.”
Shorkan’s face remained cold, impassive, but Er’ril noticed how the flames of his sphere blew brighter with his anger. “Brother Kallon may have been more skilled long ago. But over the past five centuries, I have grown in power and talent.”
Shrugging, Er’ril nodded toward the wall of ice. “Ah . . . true. But I see you are still not strong enough to defeat Brother Kallon. His spell stands, mocking you to this day, a testament to his superiority.”
Shorkan’s countenance finally broke. A savage fury filled his eyes; his lips pulled back in a feral growl; his brow grew dark with a threatening storm. “That will end this night! Brother Kallon’s spell will be defeated by one of my own! His death long ago will have come to naught. Both the book and you will be destroyed with the rising of the moon.”
Er’ril remained calm in the face of Shorkan’s fury, his words slow and deliberate. “That is yet to be proven, my dear brother. Kallon has bested you before—and he will do so again this night.”
Shorkan glowered, anger choking him. He spun on Denal. “Lay out the knives and prepare a mage ring!”
The boy mage placed his torch in a wall sconce and hurried forward. Bending down, he slipped two rose-handled knives from wrist sheaths and a long white candle from a pocket. Greshym joined the boy, setting aside his staff and collecting one of the knives. The old mage glanced at Er’ril, clearly worried by the plainsman’s goading of Shorkan. Finding no answer in Er’ril’s face, he returned to helping the boy. Denal lit the candle with a wave of his tiny hand and began dripping its wax in a wide circle before the wall of ice. They meant to recreate the setting when the Blood Diary was forged.
As the pair worked, Shorkan stepped nearer Er’ril. “I will succeed,” he hissed. “I will thwart Brother Kallon by destroying what he sought to preserve. And in doing so, I will watch your heart break as all your hopes and struggles are laid to waste before you. I will see you defeated!” Shorkan slipped a knife from his own sleeve and held it before Er’ril. “Do you recognize this?”
Now it was Er’ril’s turn to fail at feigning disinterest. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of the old worn dagger. “Father’s hunting knife . . .”
Shorkan leered. “On the night of the book’s forging, you gave it to me. Do you remember?”
Er’ril’s face paled with the memory. Long ago, he had lent the knife to his brother for the spell of binding. He had thought the knife forever lost. But to see the piece of his father’s memory now about to be employed for such a foul cause weakened his resolve.
Shorkan leaned over Er’ril. “I know our father meant much to you, Er’ril. I will enjoy seeing his heritage help destroy all that you hold dear.”
Er’ril refused to cower before the vehemence of this other. He shot his words at Shorkan like arrows. “Only if you first discover the traitor in your midst.”
Shorkan’s left eye twitched toward the pair behind him. Er’ril kept his expression fixed. So his seed of distrust had found fertile ground.
Er’ril spoke clearly. If Shorkan thought to use their father’s memory to dishearten him, he would return the favor. “A traitor stands with you, Brother—in this very room. This I swear on our father’s grave and eternal spirit.”
Shock and dismay bloomed on Shorkan’s face. Enough of the old Shorkan remained for the fiend to know that Er’ril would not voice such an oath unless it was true. “Why warn me then? What trick is this?”
“It is no trick. I tell you because the knowledge
will do you no good. You are too late, Brother. You are trapped. If you don’t find the traitor before the moon rises, you will be betrayed this night. And if you manage to destroy the traitor, you will be missing a key player in the spell of unbinding. Either way, the book will remain safe. There is no possible way for you to succeed.”
Er’ril leaned closer to Shorkan and drove his words deep. “You have been outmatched, Brother.”
Shorkan trembled with rage. “No!” He raised their father’s dagger and plunged it toward Er’ril’s throat. “You will never win!”
“Stop!” The command burst from Greshym. “Shorkan, if you kill Er’ril, the spell will never work. He deceives you with his oath. Don’t listen to him. He only tries to trick you into killing him. He lies!”
The knife tip rested in the hollow of Er’ril’s neck. Shorkan lowered the weapon and turned to face the pair of mages. His voice went cold. “No. Er’ril spoke truthfully. There is a traitor amongst us.” He raised his free hand toward Greshym. “I only threatened Er’ril to flush out the betrayer.”
Greshym raised his arm in a warding motion, but Shorkan spun on Denal instead. Darkfire shot out of his hand and washed over the boy mage. As magick poured forth, Shorkan spoke. “Denal’s silence revealed his mutinous heart. If I had killed Er’ril, it would have destroyed any chance of unbinding the book. Your timely warning, Greshym, proved your trustworthiness.”
With a twist of his wrist, Shorkan tied off his magick. Denal lay bound from scalp to ankles in wraps of darkfire, like a fly in a spider’s web, unable to move, unable to speak.
Shorkan turned to Er’ril. “You erred in your plot, Brother. I don’t need this traitor’s cooperation, only his living body. Bound and imprisoned, Denal will still serve his role in the spell. Afterward, I will kill you both.” Shorkan stepped back toward Er’ril. “So you see, dear brother, it is you who have been outmatched.”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 48