Elena hugged herself tight to the wall, but Er’ril was blind to all but the door above. Even without the spell, she imagined he would not have seen her, such was his haste.
He swept past Elena, so swift that the heat off his body was like a slap in her face. But he paused at the top of the stairs. Elena moved one step closer. He raised his sword’s hilt to his brow, using its steel to cool his forehead. Elena moved closer still. She saw the pain behind his anger. He lowered his sword and took a deep breath. His eyes told her all she needed to know. Er’ril knew his death lay beyond the door but that he still must go.
He grabbed the door’s latch, his fist tightening on his sword. “Damn you, Joach. I’ll kill you for betraying your sister!”
Elena froze, shocked by his words. He meant to kill Joach!
Somehow Er’ril must have sensed her presence. He glanced behind him, his expression suddenly confused. Then, with a shake of his head, he tore at the latch and shoved the door open.
After the gloom of the long stair, the brilliance of the sun-set sky blinded her. It must have done the same to Er’ril. He raised his free arm to shade his eyes and stepped out onto the tower’s roof.
Elena followed, slipping around his back and moving to his side.
A voice cracked out from beyond the doorway. “I’ve been waiting for you, Er’ril!”
Elena’s eyes blinked away the glare. She saw her brother standing just a few paces back. He bore his staff in his half hand. But this was not the sight that startled a gasp from her throat. She spotted the crouched and robed figure of the darkmage Greshym behind Joach.
Er’ril’s angered words as he locked the tower door covered her own startled gasp. “Joach, you traitor! You would forsake your sister for mere power!”
These words had little effect on Joach.
Her brother was preternaturally calm, especially with a darkmage at his back. Joach warded the mage away with his other palm. “Stay back, El. This must happen!”
Joach twisted his staff, and Elena felt the surge of power.
Elena’s eyes twitched to the darkmage, then flew wide. She suddenly understood the illusion behind Joach’s dream. She leaped between her brother and Er’ril just as both men struck at each other.
She felt Er’ril’s sword pierce her back at the same time as Joach’s spear of darkfire struck her between the breasts. She cried out at the agony as the blade scraped against her ribs. Bones broke. But even this was but a pinch compared to the flaying burn of the black magick’s touch. Her skin burned; her breasts were charred to cinder.
The touch of black magick blasted away the spirit spell. She saw the horror in Joach’s eyes as she appeared. The font of black energies died instantly, and he flew toward her.
But her brother was too late. Elena fell back into Er’ril’s arms. The plainsman crashed to his knees under her—not from the heaviness of her body, but from the weight of his horror. He cradled her in his lap. “Oh, Elena, no . . .” His voice was like nothing she had ever heard. He sounded like such a lost boy. “What have I done?”
Elena stared up into his eyes. “It . . . it was my choice, Er’ril. Let me have this blame, not you.” She reached toward him, though the pain almost blinded her. She wiped away a tear that was not on his cheek. The horror of the moment and the shock had not allowed the plainsman any tears yet. But she remembered the glistening single tear on his cheek at the crossroads of the catacombs. She had known even then that it was for her. She wished to erase it.
Er’ril leaned into her touch. “I can’t live with this,” he sobbed, tears finally breaking forth. “Not after so many winters. Not after . . . after . . .”
Joach interrupted them. “Elena?”
She lifted her face toward her brother. He stood a step away, his eyes stricken. She knew that expression. His mind was in shock. He glanced from her, then back to the darkmage behind him.
“It’s a trick,” the darkmage hissed. “They only seek to deceive you, Joach. You know I’m your real sister! They only strive to steal the book.”
Joach stepped away from both of them. His gaze still shifted between them, almost panicked by his confusion. “The Blood Diary?”
“Yes,” Greshym spat. “Bring it to me! I will use it to destroy their illusions.”
Elena coughed at the darkmage’s deceitful words. “J-Joach . . .” But she had not the energy to argue.
Er’ril did. He shifted under her. “Don’t listen to him. It’s Greshym that lurks at your back, Joach. He is the one masked in illusions of your sister. It is he who seeks the book.”
Joach continued to back away from both sides. “I don’t know who to believe.” He held his staff before him, threatening both.
Elena added her voice. She knew how to convince her brother. She lifted an arm toward Joach. “Remember . . . remember, Joach . . . the staff.” She reached farther toward him, but this was too much.
Darkness rose from the edges of her vision and swamped over her. She fell limp in Er’ril’s arms and heard his cry of anguish. Elena struggled toward Er’ril against the rising tides of darkness, but she lost her battle. The currents here were too strong.
She was carried away.
JOACH STARED AS Elena’s singed and naked body sagged in the plainsman’s arms. Surely this was not his sister. He could not have just slain Elena. Joach stared at the other twin. This one was clothed in the same light shift and leggings that his sister had worn to the island. This had to be his true sister. Did it not?
Still, the earnestness of this other Elena seemed so real. She had begged him with her eyes. In the past, he had seen that same expression in his sister’s face. “Remember,” she had insisted. But remember what? Something from his past? Some detail only brother and sister would share? Joach crinkled his brow as Er’ril grieved over the fallen girl. Joach saw that her chest rose and fell, but her breathing was ragged and faded fast.
Joach turned to the other. “If you are truly my sister, tell me why I was punished to shovel our family’s barn every morning for a full moon.”
Elena smiled sadly. “Must you test me? But considering the nefarious scheme being played here, I guess I can understand. The answer to your question was that you were punished for feeding a berry pie to Tracker.”
Joach’s tense shoulders relaxed with relief. He smiled at Elena. He had been right all along. Here was his true sister. He glanced at the wounded woman, glad to know she was not truly Elena. He did not know if he could have survived the guilt of slaying his own sister.
Er’ril, though, interrupted his relief. “Answer the boy, darkmage!”
Joach turned to Er’ril, lifting his staff. “Stop this charade, plainsman. Elena just gave me the correct answer.”
Er’ril scowled. “He plays your mind like a fine instrument. No words were just spoken. He plied you with a trick to make you think you heard the right answer.” The plainsman nodded toward the fallen twin of Elena. “Here is your sister, Joach. Not that monster. Even now she dies. If you love her, bring the book to me. It may yet hold a chance to save her.”
“Don’t, Joach!” Elena insisted. “He struggles to trick you.”
By now, Joach’s mind spun in dizzying circles. Whom to believe? If Er’ril meant to harm him, why did he still cradle the girl? None of it made sense. He clutched his staff in both hands. How was he to discover the truth?
Er’ril looked up at him, not in anger but with eyes that beseeched him. “Her death nears, Joach. You must decide.”
“But my dream . . .” he mumbled.
“Dreams are difficult to judge, Joach, and weavings are even more so. In your vision, you saw yourself defending Elena, but in truth, it was this sorcerer disguised as your sister. Dreams are fraught with illusions.”
He pondered Er’ril’s words. The plainsman’s argument sounded familiar and struck Joach to the core. Had not someone just given him similar advice? But who? Then Joach remembered. He dropped his injured hand from his staff and fished in the poc
ket of his pants. It was still there.
He palmed the object and drew it forth. Opening his fingers, he stared at the large black pearl, the one Xin had given him. The zo’ol wizen had promised its power could connect them when the need was great. Joach closed his fist over the treasure and spoke his friend’s name. “Xin!”
Nothing happened.
Joach opened his fist and stared at the pearl. He was a fool.
Then words rose from the jewel’s blackness. Joach, son of Morin’stal, I sense a storm in your heart.
Words tumbled from his lips in a rush. “Xin, my dream . . . I can’t tell what is real and what is false. Can you help me?”
Elena interrupted. “Joach, what are you doing?”
Joach ignored her and listened. “I cannot help you from here,” Xin answered. “But, Joach, your own heart can.”
“How?”
“Ignore what your skull tells you. Listen with your heart. There is where all truths lie.”
Joach had no words to answer Xin. He returned the pearl to his pocket. How could he follow advice he did not even understand? He glanced to the clothed Elena. Her face, her voice, her mannerisms all spoke true. She reminded him of home and farm, all he had loved dear. Here was the sister from his past. He felt nothing wrong about her.
He then turned to the dying girl. What did he feel about her? He looked past her battered body. In her face and words, she had demonstrated bravery, selflessness, and a love that could even forgive her own murder. This was a woman Joach hardly knew. She was not from his past.
The truth of the situation then dawned in him, almost blinding him with its clarity.
Xin had been right.
In Er’ril’s arms was not the sister of his past, but of the present. The other Elena was a figment of old memories—familiar and comfortable memories—picked from his mind. But that was not who Elena was anymore. Joach hardly knew the woman whom Elena had become on her journey here. In his mind’s eye, he still considered Elena just his younger sister, someone he had to protect. But that was true no longer. Elena was no longer just a girl of the orchards. The strange woman in Er’ril’s arms was his true sister.
Still, Joach needed to be sure.
He glanced down to his staff and remembered Elena’s last words to him: Remember the staff. Even in this matter, his sister had surpassed him. Though in agony and near death, Elena had given him the key to the truth: the staff.
Joach raised his eyes toward the false Elena. If Er’ril and Elena spoke truthfully, there stood Greshym, the man who had tormented him for almost six moons, enslaved him, debased him. Joach was tempted to use the staff one more time and slay the monster, but after harming Elena, Joach could not bring himself to touch black magick again. He just wanted to be rid of the foul talisman.
But before he did that, the staff had one more duty.
Turning, Joach tossed the staff toward the one who claimed to be Elena. One of her arms snatched the staff greedily from the air. She brought it down to her side. Even disguised as Elena, Joach could see how well the poi’wood staff fit this figure. It was as if it were another limb.
“Good, Joach,” the false Elena encouraged. “I knew you wouldn’t fall for Er’ril’s tricks. Now bring me the Blood Diary.”
Joach slipped the book free of his shirt. “Er’ril . . .”
The plainsman raised hopeless eyes toward Joach. Er’ril did not say a word, clearly thinking himself defeated.
Joach tossed the book to Er’ril. “Save my sister if you can.”
Er’ril deftly caught it, eyes wide with surprise.
Cursing, Greshym shook free of his illusions. Elena’s features fell away, and Joach found himself staring at the wrinkled, bent-backed fiend. The darkmage glanced between the two men as Joach stepped closer. “How?”
“Elena could not handle the staff. It seems the two magicks—black and blood—repel one another.”
Greshym sneered and raised his staff. He pointed it at Joach’s chest. Darkfire bloomed along its length. “Your cleverness will cost you your life.”
Instead of ducking away, Joach stepped even closer. When he was within an arm’s length of the dire weapon, he shook off his deerskin glove and grabbed the end of the staff with his bare hand.
Greshym laughed. “You’ve grown bold, boy. You think to challenge me in the black arts?”
As Joach grasped his end of the staff, his blood entered the wood. The staff grew pale around his hand and spread down the length of the wood, dousing the spats of darkfire as it flowed. “I don’t challenge your skill at the black arts, mage,” Joach said with ice in his voice. “I will fight you with my own blood.”
Greshym stared as his staff paled. Joach saw the darkmage tighten his hoary grip upon his end of the poi’wood. The flames of black magick grew taller and thicker, washing against the paleness like an angry black surf.
Joach lost some ground, but not much. His blood continued to feed the hungry wood. White and black staff fought in its center. To continue to hold back the wall of darkfire, more and more of Joach’s blood was needed. The usual small red rivulets in the pale wood grew in number and size. Now thick torrents of crimson pumped through the staff. Joach’s heart beat like thunder in his ears. His vision focused down to a point. His entire world became just the staff. It was both his body and his spirit.
Across the length of wood, Greshym fared no better. Sweat ran down the mage’s face, and his breath grew ragged.
Joach knew something must give soon. Either he would faint from lack of blood, or Greshym would collapse in exhaustion. What actually happened startled both combatants. The staff exploded between them in a spray of stabbing shards.
Joach fell backward, as did the darkmage.
Both men eyed each other, bloodied by stabbing splinters. The staff was gone. Its entire length was just so much kindling scattered on the stones.
Eying the scraps, Greshym pushed off the wall. The flare of black magick from the destruction of the staff had revitalized him, but he still wobbled a bit on his feet. Their battle had taken its toll. Greshym spat in Joach’s direction. “You will pay for this, boy. We will meet again.” With those last words, Greshym waved a hand, and a portal appeared behind him. The darkmage stepped back into it, falling away and vanishing in a blink.
Joach suddenly sagged, wasted and suffering from loss of blood.
Suddenly Er’ril was at his shoulders.
Joach could not even look up. He just glanced to where Elena lay sprawled on the stone. “I’m sorry.”
Er’ril’s voice was gruff, but not unkind. “Her blood is on both our hands, Joach. We were equally deluded by fears of treachery.” Er’ril gathered Joach under his arm and pulled him toward Elena. “It’s time we put aside the past. If we are to have any chance of saving your sister, we must act quickly.” Er’ril then gripped Joach’s arm, hard. “And we must work together.”
Joach raised his eyes and met Er’ril’s gaze without flinching. “What must I do?”
WITH JOACH’S HELP, Er’ril spread Elena across a thin blanket from the boy’s pack. Though the sun had set and the full moon had begun to rise, the stones remembered the day’s heat and kept her warm. Her flesh, naked and bared to the stars, seemed carved of ivory. She was so pale. The seared circle in the center of her chest was like one of the darkmage’s black portals.
Er’ril touched her cheek. She was so cold. Her breathing was so shallow that Er’ril found himself holding his own breath between each rise and fall of her chest. She should be dead already, but her magick sustained her. Er’ril glanced to her hands. Only the softest pink hue remained of the deep ruby Rose; only a dribble of magick remained. When that ran out, Elena would die.
“What now?” Joach asked.
Er’ril glanced to the boy’s handiwork. As instructed, Joach had finished applying a bandage made from the boy’s shredded shirt over the sword wound. Its rough cloth should help clot the flowing blood. Er’ril stared at the bandage, suddenly remind
ed that it was his sword that had stabbed into her. He could not look away.
“Er’ril?” Joach touched his elbow.
Leaning back, Er’ril shook his head. He had no time to dwell on his own guilt. It would do Elena no good. “We’re ready,” he barked hoarsely. “Grab the ward.”
Er’ril knelt nearer and placed the Blood Diary atop the blasted circle upon her chest. The gilt rose shone in the growing moonlight.
Joach fetched the small iron fist from the stone floor and handed it to Er’ril.
Er’ril shook his head. “I must not touch book or ward from here.”
“What are we trying to do?” Joach finally asked, but his question ended in a sob. His resolve was deteriorating. Er’ril could not blame Joach. After bandaging the deep wound, the boy’s hands were fouled with his own sister’s blood, and the air reeked of her charred flesh: harsh reminders of what he and Er’ril had done to her.
“I’ll try to explain.” Er’ril waved for the boy to kneel on Elena’s other side. “When the book was first forged, the spell was incomplete. The boy mage, Denal, never infused his spirit into the book. Still, the presence of Shorkan and Greshym were enough to ignite the magick and bind me to it. To this day, the Blood Diary heals me and sustains me. If we can add Denal’s spirit to the book, then the spell will start again. When it ends this time, Elena must be the one bound. The book’s magick will then be available to heal her and protect her.”
Joach nodded, but his eyes had filled with doubt and fear. He lifted the ward. “And the boy Denal’s spirit is trapped in this iron fist?”
“Not trapped. Stored. Denal gave his spirit freely.”
Joach studied the ward. “What do I do with it?”
“Just place the iron fist on the book. If the spell ignites, there will be a flare of white light, and the book will be flung open. We must each then take one of Elena’s arms and guide her hands to close the book and complete the spell. Neither of us must touch it.”
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