Wit'ch War (v5)

by James Clemens

  Fishing through a side pocket of a pack, her fingers found the familiar shape of the smooth and oddly warm seed. Mycelle slipped it free just as the others of her party came thundering around the forest’s edge. She held a palm out to slow them, then waved them off their horses.

  Once they dismounted, she led the others toward the glade.

  Kral’s gruff voice was ill suited to whispering. “Who is that?”

  Mycelle shook her head and stepped forward. Once near enough, Mycelle reached out and placed her acorn in the foliage-wrapped palm. It shone brightly, limned in moonlight for all to see.

  Mogweed spoke from behind her, shock in his voice. “That’s the acorn I gave to Elena! From the sp-spider forest!”

  The shade’s fingers closed over the seed. The apparition raised its fist to its chest, head bowed over it. Again the song began—but its mournful overtures now ran with traces of hope.

  No one moved.

  As they watched, a soft glow arose from the figure as the song continued. Mycelle stared and knew it was not the outer cloak that shone, but something inside. Its internal glow shone out from between the patchwork of leaves, like a distant hearth seen through trees.

  “What’s happening?” Tyrus asked brusquely.

  Mycelle hushed him.

  The song grew stronger and richer, less ethereal. The glow also grew sharper, almost blinding. Mycelle lifted a hand to shield her eyes. Then, in a single heartbeat, the song ended; the brilliance winked out.

  It took a moment for the dazzle to fade from Mycelle’s eyes. She saw that the figure still remained in the glade, a sculpture in leaves.

  Suddenly, a sharp gust blew into the glade. The figure shuddered as if it found the breeze chilling. With this small movement, the apparition’s cloak fell to the forest floor, scattering into leaves that whirled a bit in the wind. This time the singer did not vanish with the breeze.

  Among the discarded foliage stood a woman of simple beauty. In the moonlight, her skin was the color of cream. Her bowed face and upper body were draped modestly in long tresses the hue of warm honey.

  Posing in the moonlight, the woman’s fist still lay clutched to her throat. Slowly she lowered her arm, opening her hand. The acorn was a hollow shell, split into halves. The singer dropped it to the leaf-strewn floor, then raised her face toward them all. In the starlight, her eyes were the deepest violet.

  Mogweed coughed and stumbled away. “Nee’lahn!”

  27

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, Elena stood before a full-length looking glass and frowned. For the victory celebration, she had been primped and dressed like some porcelain doll. Her hair had been woven and pinned atop her head, with just the barest trickle of curl allowed to dangle alongside the small diamonds that now studded her earlobes. She was bound in a gown of soft green velvet with a deeper green sash and matching gloves. Her hem draped full to the woven rug and completely hid her silver slippers, which were each adorned with a single silk rose.

  Behind her, two wasp-thin women appraised her with pursed lips. Their silvery hair had long gone gray. According to Meric, these were his two aunts. The pair were also the ones to blame for Elena’s current predicament.

  “This will have to do,” Ashmin said with clear dissatisfaction.

  Carolin smiled slightly at the other. “You judge too harshly. You just need to see it move.” The older woman waggled her fingers at Elena, and a small breeze blew into the castle chamber and billowed the gown around her. “See? The dress is meant to move.”

  Ashmin sighed loudly. “If we were back in Stormhaven . . .”

  “Of course, Sister, then I would hide my head in shame to present even a servant girl in such attire.”

  Tapping a finger against her chin, Ashmin tilted her head. “Maybe we should try the pale rose gown again.”

  Before Elena could scream, a knock at the door interrupted the aunts. “Elena!” a voice called out. It was Joach. “Everyone’s been gathered in the hall now for almost a fortnight. I’ve been sent to escort you.”

  Elena thanked the Sweet Mother for her salvation. “I’m coming now!” She glared to her two torturers, daring them to object.

  Ashmin threw her hands in the air. “It will just have to do.”

  Carolin grasped her sister’s hand. “She looks lovely. You have worked wonders.”

  Elena rolled her eyes and proceeded to the door. She wanted to run, but the gown and slippers forced her to a shuffling walk. She reached for the latch, but Ashmin was already there. Elena frowned at the magickal quickness of the woman’s elv’in feet.

  Ashmin lifted the latch and pulled the door wide. It was not done in courtesy or in respect for Elena’s lineage to their ancient king, but for a more practical reason. “You mustn’t soil those gloves. Keep your hands folded under your bosom as we showed you. You are an elv’in princess, child.”

  Elena frowned but obeyed. The old woman’s tone was too motherly to ignore.

  Beyond the doorway, Joach stepped forward from the hall. So far, he had remained speechless. His mouth hung open as his eyes traveled from her slippered toes to her pinned hair. “You’re beautiful!” His words would have been complimentary if they had not been spoken with such sheer disbelief.

  Still, Elena smiled. She was a princess after all. “And I see they scrubbed you enough to find a man under all the usual filth.”

  Joach straightened his shoulders proudly, posing slightly to showcase his attire. His hair had been oiled and combed out of its normal tangle. The small reddish brown beard he had started to grow had been clipped and contoured. If Elena had not known better, Joach could have passed as some rich lordling. His pants were a hue of green so deep they appeared almost as black as the boots he wore. Tucked into a thick black belt was a shirt of spun silver overlaid with a sleeveless green jerkin.

  Elena shook her head slightly. Joach’s outer garment was the same hue as her gown. Clearly the two aunts had had some hand in his attire. If Joach was to be her escort, then of course the two must complement one another.

  Ashmin bowed, stiff from the waist. “My prince,” she said, formal and warm. “You are looking most handsome. My niece will be well pleased.”

  Joach returned her bow, then slipped an arm under Elena’s elbow. “Thank you, ladies. But our guests await.” Joach guided her away.

  At a safe distance, Elena leaned to Joach’s ear. “What did you do to win a civil tongue from Lady Ashmin? What was that about her niece?”

  Joach smiled, though his lips had a twist of exasperation. “Since these elv’in learned that, as your brother, I also share the blood of their lost king, every elv’in mother with a daughter has found her way to my door.”

  Elena squeezed his arm in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Joach. But at least I’m no longer the sole heir to half the elv’in heritage.” She grinned at her brother. “Believe me, I’m glad to have you share this with me.”

  “Thanks, El,” Joach said sourly.

  Too soon, they reached the double doors that led into one of the many halls of the Edifice. This room had been chosen for the ceremony due to its lack of damage from smoke and bloodshed. But the rest of the castle had not fared as well. It would take many moons to repair a tenth of the damage.

  Elena sighed at how much work still lay ahead. But once done, it would be well worth it. The island would become a foothold against the Gul’gotha. For the first time in five centuries, A’loa Glen would once again be a bastion of hope. And they meant to keep it that way!

  Around the island, three forces kept constant guard. The seas themselves were watched from below by mer’ai outriders who searched and questioned any ship that neared. Closer to the island, the remaining fleets of the Dre’rendi rode the waves in armed patrols, daring anyone who challenged their dragon-prowed might. Above the city itself were the ever-present warships of the elv’in, plying the clouds and watching the skies for threats from above. For now, the island remained secure.

  Meanwhile, word of their victory
had already spread. Boats from many lands were beginning to investigate. Elena had heard that a trading ship from the distant jungles of Yrendl, the old homeland of Mama Freda, had even docked at the island to share information. The captain had heard tales of the return of A’loa Glen and had come to see for himself.

  At the castle itself, men and women had labored for the past two days and nights to prepare for the coming celebration.

  A feast had been planned for this night, to raise mugs and voices to their victory. And to mark the beginning of the festivities, Elena had a role to play. With the rising of the moon, she was to open the Blood Diary for the first time and read the prophetic words written therein. Supposedly her magick had the power to bring the blank book to life. But that was yet to be proven. So much was based on the words of long-dead prophets. Who knew for sure if it would even work?

  As the doors to the great hall were swung open before her, dread at what might be revealed by the book suddenly constricted her chest. Elena found it difficult to breathe as the music in the cavernous hall washed over her. Distantly, Elena heard someone announce their arrival.

  Gentle clapping greeted their appearance.

  Joach led her inside. She was overwhelmed by the press of people. Walking arm in arm, the two passed down a narrow aisle between tables laden with wines and ales, cheeses and herbed breads. And a more sumptuous feast was still to come.

  At long last, the aisle emptied into a central court. Elena glanced around. Framing the four sides of the open space were long dining tables of polished mahogany. Seated at each table were the representatives of the various parties who had come to her aid.

  On her right, Elena nodded to Meric, who sat beside his mother, the elv’in queen. Meric’s older brother, the regal Richald, sat stiffly on the queen’s other side. Elena met Queen Tratal’s eyes for a moment. The silver-haired woman bowed her head slightly, not with any warmth, just as one woman of the royal blood acknowledging another. Elena smiled more warmly at Meric, quietly thanking him for saving the island by bringing the warships to their aid.

  Elena turned next to the more boisterous table on her left. Kast sat with Sy-wen among a party of Bloodriders who were well into their cups of ale. Elena recognized one member, a striking man named Hunt. He had come to the castle to represent the Dre’rendi fleet. The man’s father, the high keel, had been gravely wounded in the battle and still rested in Mama Freda’s ward. From this table, Sy-wen smiled at Elena, as did Kast. But Elena noticed how the two held each other’s hands. She sensed the pair’s pleasure lay more in the company of each other than in this feast.

  As Joach led Elena to the center of the open court, she noted that the table across from her was only sparsely occupied. It seemed that even a feast could not lure many of the mer’ai from the sea. Among the few here, Elena recognized only one. She nodded to Linora, surprised to see the elder present for the feast. Elena had heard that Linora still sorely grieved the loss of her bonded dragon and the passing of her husband. But from the way her gaze kept flickering to her daughter, Elena could guess the woman’s reason for coming. Through the cloud of sorrow behind Linora’s eyes, a glimmer of joy shone as she watched her daughter discover love. Elena left the mer’ai woman to her tiny island of happiness.

  As Elena drew near the last table, a full smile bloomed to her lips, and tears rose to her eyes as she greeted her friends. Tol’chuk sat in the center, hulking and towering over the others. Someone had managed to outfit the og’re in finery that ill fitted him. He seemed ready to tear the linens from his body at any moment, but so far had refrained. As their gazes met, Tol’chuk rolled his eyes but grinned, exposing his fangs. Elena waved a hand across her own elaborate finery, indicating her understanding of his discomfort. They shared an amused smile.

  Beside the og’re sat Mama Freda; her pet tamrink sat crouched atop a wheel of cheese on the table, nibbling at his perch. The three zo’ol sailors sat on Tol’chuk’s opposite side with the boy Tok among them. The small lad’s eyes were wide at the pageantry of the night. Elena thanked them all with a nod. The zo’ol and Tok had sailed the Pale Stallion to the island after the war, delivering her mare, Mist, to a makeshift stable beside the docks. Elena visited the horse each morning with a bit of dried apple. The mare seemed happy to discover solid ground under her hooves again.

  Elena moved farther down the table. As she spotted the empty seats and settings, her smile faded and tears flowed anew. Places had been prepared for Flint and Moris as a remembrance to the two Brothers’ sacrifice. This castle had once been their home. They had given their lives to turn it over to her and the others. Swallowing back a sob, Elena had to turn away from the empty chairs.

  As she swung around and wiped at her tears, she saw one last figure step forward from the opposite aisle of the court. Er’ril carried the Blood Diary in his hands. But his hands might as well have been empty; Elena was blind to anything but the man himself. His hair, combed and curried like a stallion’s after a run, shone with the rich hues of a raven’s wing. His skin was ruddy from the heat of the hall, almost aglow with the hues of the setting sun. Under a midnight-black jerkin, he wore a silvery gray shirt that matched his eyes. As he moved toward her, Elena watched how the silk slid over the firm muscles of his shoulders and arms. Not even this handsome attire could hide the man’s power; he was something raw and wild.

  Er’ril crossed to stand before her. He suddenly knelt and offered her the book. The rose on its cover glimmered in the hall. “Accept your birthright, Elena.”

  She took the book, then his hand. She pulled Er’ril to his feet. “Only if you swear to stand beside me, Er’ril, for all times. In the past, a mage needed a liegeman at his side, to keep him honest, to keep him humble.” She stared into his eyes. “Be my liegeman.”

  Shock froze his face, as if her words had stung him. His own words were strained. “Y-you do not know what you ask.”

  She touched his hand. “I think I do,” she whispered.

  He looked into her eyes, silent, as if about to say something. Elena suddenly knew he would refuse. He had already sacrificed five hard centuries of his life. He had earned his freedom. What right did she have to beg him to stay? She opened her mouth to rescind her offer, but then Er’ril knelt again on one knee.

  He reached to her hand and held it between his two palms. “My heart made its oath to you long ago. If you will have me, I will always be at your side.”

  Tears again rose in her eyes. She pulled on his arms. “Rise, my liegeman.”

  Er’ril stood and moved to his place at her shoulder.

  Elena found the others’ eyes all staring at her expectantly. It was time. She lifted the book and took a step forward. She had delayed long enough. If Er’ril was strong enough to oath-bind himself to her once again, she could at least face her own responsibility.

  The dread she had felt before entering the hall was gone. With Er’ril at her shoulder, she could face anything—even the Blood Diary. Slowly she peeled off the green gloves, revealing her two hands ripe with the Rose. Her palms seemed almost to glow in the torchlight.

  A murmur rose from the crowd at the sight.

  Elena ignored the onlookers and glanced to the book. In her bared hands, she felt the Diary’s power, a warm coal in her fingers. Before she lost the iron in her heart, Elena snapped open the rose-engraved cover.

  She gasped, stumbling back.

  In her grip, the book flared from a warm coal to a fiery agony, as if she clutched a flaming brand by its burning end. But she did not let go. She knew this pain. It was the same as when she had grabbed Joach’s staff. She felt blood magick rip from her palms, feeding the book. Still, Elena hung on. She sensed that to let go now would spell disaster. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  “Elena?” Er’ril took a step nearer.

  “No,” she choked out. “Stay back!”

  At her words, a sharp brilliance flared from the open pages, blinding her, searing into her mind. Then, as quickly as it came, the ligh
t vanished, taking the pain with it. Elena blinked away the residual glare. The book became a cooling balm in her hands. Relieved, Elena straightened, glancing down into the Diary.

  What Elena found within the tome so startled her that she almost cast it away. Er’ril steadied her with a touch on her shoulder, then leaned to gaze with her into the book. She heard his sharp intake of breath. Elena spoke to the plainsman, hoping he had an answer. “Er’ril, where are the pages?”

  There was no book between the tattered covers—there was another world. The open book became a window to a landscape of black voids, dense-packed stars, and clouds of gases in a rainbow of sharp hues. Suddenly an insubstantial figure composed of foggy light swept up and through the window and into this world.

  All around the room, chairs toppled as the celebrants retreated back. Weapons were drawn, but none dared approach.

  Er’ril pulled Elena back.

  Oblivious of their panic, the foggy form settled calmly to the hall’s marble floor, swirling and spinning with an inner glow that whispered of moons and stars. Slowly, the mist drew tighter, fog becoming substance. Arms and legs stretched out, ablaze with the same fire that had marked the rose on the book’s cover. The misty light grew even denser until actual features could be seen.

  Before the transformation was complete, Elena recognized the stern expression of the apparition. Soon what was once a glowing mist of scintillating light became a sculpture carved of moonstone. The apparition from the book faced Elena and the others.

  Elena’s heart eased. She knew this woman: the thin, unforgiving lips; the small nose that tilted slightly up at its tip; the hair bound in a severe braid, woven out of harm’s way while its owner labored at baking. Elena named their visitor. “Aunt Fila?” After so much strangeness, this familiar face was most welcome.

  Then the shade spoke, and all sense of family and old homes shattered. The voice was cold, echoing up from some distant plane. Behind the words, stars died, and worlds were burned to ash. As Greshym had hidden behind the face of Elena a few days back, now something larger and even stranger hid behind Aunt Fila’s face.