“You’re going now?” Kast said, surprised. “What about Elena’s council meeting?”
“I am not needed. Master Edyll represents our people.” She nodded toward the two masts of the Eagle’s Fury. “Besides, it is clear where we are headed next. And if we are to leave at dawn, I have little time to say good-bye to Mother.” She stepped toward the railing. “I will return by nightfall.”
Kast refused to let her leave so easily. Catching her wrist, he pulled her back, drawing her to his chest and staring down into her eyes. “I expect you back before the sun’s last light,” he whispered, then leaned near her ear so his words were private. “We have a new bed to bless this night.”
His words brought a blush to her cheeks. He leaned for a kiss and found her lips as warm as her cheeks. With lips still touching, she breathed a promise. “Fear not. I’ll be here, my dragon.” A finger traced his chin as she pulled away, outlining the edge of his tattoo. Her touch was like fire on his flesh.
Then she stepped away again.
In the distance, the blare of trumpets sounded from the castle heights. The council was being summoned.
“I must be off,” she said.
Kast had no words left in him. He only raised a hand in farewell. Sy-wen crossed to the ship’s leeward side, climbed over the railing, and without a glance back, dove smoothly over the side.
Kast strode to the rail and leaned out. Far below, the barest trickle of bubbles marked where she had entered the water. The sea had welcomed back its own.
4
AS THE ASSEMBLY gathered, Er’ril stood at Elena’s side beside the Rosethorn Throne. Er’ril noted how half the council seats remained empty. During the night, the faint-hearted and the profiteers had clearly packed and fled, wanting no part of any real action against the Gul’gotha.
Er’ril turned. Elena wore a deep frown as she also stared around the assembly. Few members spoke as they settled into their places, eyes flicking toward the empty chairs.
From beyond the chamber, a trumpet blew a final note, announcing the start of the war council.
At this signal, Elena stood. She still wore her leather riding outfit but had abandoned the pair of matching lambskin gloves. The Rose was bright again on both hands. Earlier the assassin’s dagger had been carefully extracted from the table and given to the scholars in the library for study. With her handprint free of the magickal talisman, Elena had found she could easily renew in the light of the sun, returning the gift of wit’ch fire to her right fist. She kept her hands bared now to dismiss any rumor of weakness.
Though Er’ril was relieved no permanent harm had resulted from the mysterious attack, he felt a twinge of misgiving. He stared at the wounded handprint, as did others around the table. What did this assault mean? Why go through so much trouble for so little result?
As he stood guard, hand on sword hilt, Elena lifted her right fist for all to see. In the torchlight, the crimson hues whorled over her flesh. To the less observant, it seemed a twin to her left, but Er’ril recognized the slight fade to the Rose of her raised fist, a sign of magick spent. But the drain was no trick from the magickal dagger. After Elena had renewed, Er’ril had insisted she practice manipulating her magick to test whether her gift had somehow been tainted. Elena had lit a series of candles from ten paces away, her control so precise that not even a single drop of wax had melted. It seemed the attack had had no lasting damage.
And this fact bothered him more than anything.
He studied the tabletop. Just what had been the purpose of this assault? Why so much stealth and secrecy? The lack of any reasonable answer kept Er’ril on edge. He kept a wary eye on the faces along the table. Was the traitor still here, or had he fled with the night?
As if feeling his hard gaze, the crowd finally settled to full silence.
Elena took a step forward and clenched her raised fist tighter. A glow blew forth from her hand. But when she spoke, her voice was quiet. “This past night, we have seen the result of a wavering heart. While we’ve sat and argued, dark forces have grown in our midst, like poison in stagnant waters. Well, no longer. From this moment onward, we will be a rushing river, a torrent of determined force that no petty thief in the night can taint.” As she spoke, fire grew in her voice, and the glow of her Rose flared brighter.
Er’ril had a difficult time keeping a watch upon the table and surroundings, his gaze drawn to her like a moth to flame. Slowly, Elena lowered her fist.
“I thank you all for showing your true hearts here this day,” she continued. “Though our numbers are fewer, we are stronger, steel forged from iron. And before another winter passes, I promise we will bring this new blade to the throat of the Black Heart himself.”
A fist pounded rhythmically on the table. It was the high keel. His eyes were bright with the promise of war. “Let the oceans run red until our lands are free!” the high keel growled. Others murmured, and more fists added their support along the ironwood table.
Elena lifted a palm to silence the rising response. “War will come. There is no way to avoid it. But before we cast our bodies upon the shoals of Blackhall, we must be ready.”
“We are ready!” the high keel declared boldly, ignoring the bandages still peeking from under his clothes.
Elena smiled. “I’m sure you are. The Dre’rendi are not ones to shun a battle, even when the numbers are against them.”
The high keel nodded, chest swelling.
“But for now, another path lies ahead of us.”
“And what might that be?” These words were from a familiar dissenter, Symon Feraoud, the portly representative from Penryn. He blew out his black mustaches as he huffed his skepticism. Er’ril had been surprised to see the man take a seat at the meeting. He would have laid odds on Feraoud being the first to ship back to his coastal home last night.
Elena nodded to the question raised by the thick-bellied fellow. “As you all know, I have taken the night to consult the spirits of the Blood Diary and have studied the words coming from far places. We now know the source of the Dark Lord’s magicks. It is a set of four ebon’stone gates that contain the font of his black powers. Before we take our war to the shores of Blackhall, we must first discover these Gates and destroy them, stripping the Dark Lord of his magick. Therein lies our only chance at victory.”
Er’ril noticed Elena was careful not to mention what she had truly discerned from the Blood Diary—that the imprisoned spirit of Chi was the true well of power. Such news would not have been well received.
“And how will you attempt the destruction of these Gates?” Symon asked.
“We will not just attempt this,” Elena said coldly. “We will do it. Already elv’in ships are being readied to search them out.”
A new murmuring grew around the table.
Master Edyll of the mer’ai spoke up. “Tell us your full plan.”
Elena bowed her head to the elder, then answered. “We know of four Gates: the Wyvern, the Basilisk, the Griffin, and the Manticore. One we cannot reach. The wyvern statue has been taken by Shorkan to Blackhall. We will leave that Gate until we are ready to take the battle to Blackhall itself. But words and signs point to where the other three might lie.”
Elena continued to explain about the twin journeys: one to the north led by Meric, one to the south led by Prince Richald and accompanied by Sy-wen and Kast.
“And the Manticore Gate?” Master Edyll asked.
Elena grew silent for a few moments, then finally spoke. “The og’re, Tol’chuk, will search to the east, across the seas to Gul’gotha.”
This announcement stunned most of the members, except the handful who had been in the hall earlier.
“That is a most dangerous journey,” Edyll countered. “None who have attempted to seek out that distant shore have ever returned.”
Elena nodded. “That is why I have enlisted the aid of guides.”
Her answer lifted the brows of the mer’ai elder. “Guides?”
“The d
’warf captives in the dungeons below. It is their ancient homeland.”
At the mention of the d’warves, faces grew stern and angry.
“Even if such guides should prove faithful,” Master Edyll said, his voice thick with doubt, “this journey still is the most dangerous of all and the most likely to fail.”
“Not if I go with them,” Elena said simply.
Her answer had the entire assembly on its feet. Even Er’ril took a step toward Elena, but he restrained himself. He had sworn an oath to her. He would abide by her decision.
But that did not mean the others would.
The high keel’s face was as red as a bloodied bandage. “You cannot mean to travel to that cursed land! It is certain death.”
Er’ril could not stop his own head from nodding when others shouted their dissent. It was absolute folly.
Elena bore the brunt of their outburst, a rock beaten by waves.
Queen Tratal spoke for the first time. Her face, usually unreadable, was a mask of rage. “I will not allow this!”
Elena turned slowly to the elv’in queen. “I am going.”
The two women stared at one another. Tiny spats of lightning sparked among the silver strands of Queen Tratal’s hair, raising a slight nimbus around her head like a silver crown. Still Elena met the woman’s ice with her own. The hall quieted as the two faced each other down. The scent of the room grew to that of a brewing storm, and time seemed to slow to an excruciating length.
Finally, Queen Tratal clenched her fists once and settled back. “So it seems the blood of kings does run in your veins.” Lightning died around her—but her eyes remained narrowed, cold and brittle as shards of winter’s ice. “But if you mean to cross the Great Ocean, it will be aboard my ship.”
Elena bowed her head in acquiescence, clearly growing into a diplomat as much as a wit’ch. “I would be honored.”
The high keel, however, was not so easily swayed. “If Elena goes, then we go, too. The Dre’rendi have sworn blood oaths to protect you.”
Elena turned to the leader of the Bloodriders with a warm smile. “I appreciate your loyalty, High Keel of the Dre’rendi. I am doubly honored, but A’loa Glen must also be protected. I would ask the Dre’rendi and the mer’ai to keep the island safe while we are gone on our journeys. If we succeed, there must be a rallying point to which we can return. And I would prefer not to wage another War of the Isles to regain it.”
The high keel grumbled, but the winds seemed to die in his sails.
“And more importantly,” Elena continued forcefully, “this small island is the seed from which a new Alasea, a free Alasea, must grow. I will not have it fall again under the shadow of the Dark Lord.”
The high keel bowed deeply, fist raised to throat. “On the blood of every Dre’rendi, such a curse will never happen.”
Elena crossed her arms across her chest in the typical Dre’rendi fashion. An oath accepted. She then lowered her arms and faced the assembled council. “Are we agreed?” she asked simply.
The question need not have been asked.
Er’ril turned from the council as they pounded their assent upon the ironwood. He stared at Elena as she stood at the end of the table. The words of Queen Tratal echoed in his head: the blood of kings runs in your veins.
There was no doubt.
IN AN ABANDONED section of the castle, a cloaked figure huddled in the deeper shadows of a shallow alcove. She waited for the signal with only spiders and dust beetles for company. Then she heard it, echoing down through the halls of the Great Edifice: a trumpet’s blast. The council meeting had begun. The wit’ch and her companions would be occupied for a stretch of time. Straightening her lithe form, she slid smoothly from her alcove, not even disturbing the drape of spiderwebs overhead. She stepped through the parade of dust beetles without squashing a single insect. Her master had taught her not to leave behind even a single clue of her presence.
Around her, the halls were empty, as she imagined even the more populated sections of the castle were at this time. The entire castle held its breath at the outcome of the meeting in the Great Hall. But such matters of politics and intrigue were not her concern. She had accomplished half of her task. All that remained was a final act and her escape.
Running silently on feet padded in the thinnest leather, she left no footprint upon the floor’s thick dust. She ran the halls, winding her way toward the upper floors of the castle. Dashing down a last passage, she quickly came upon the door she sought. She tested its latch. It did not budge. She silently sighed in relief. It was locked, suggesting no one was inside. Allowing herself a tight grin, she sank to one knee. Tools slipped easily into hand. Deft fingers played the slim lengths of steel into the door’s lock and searched for the releases.
The tumble of the lock’s mechanism rewarded her efforts. She stood and tested the latch once again. It gave way easily.
Not pausing to appreciate her handiwork, she pushed the door open only wide enough for her slim form to slip past the threshold. She leaned on the door and let it snap closed behind her, thumbing the lock back in place.
The room was dim; only a single small lantern glowed atop a table in the far corner, its wick trimmed to the smallest flame. She frowned at the sight. Why was a lamp left burning, even as low as it was? Had one of the scholars been forgetful? She hurried deeper into the room. She could not trust such a thought. None of the scholars would risk an untended flame, especially here.
To either side, shelf after shelf of books and scrolls stood guard over the room. The rows towered three times her height with a scattering of ladders between them to aid the library’s staff in finding the proper text among the highest shelves. She crossed to the far side of the room, where desks, chairs, and tables were spread before a tall hearth. She glanced quickly around, ensuring herself that no one skulked in some shadowed corner. She neared the hearth and raised a palm toward a mantel stone. Still warm. The hearth had only recently died.
Biting a lip with worry, she hurried about her task. She had listened to the rumors among the castle help and knew where she needed to search. She crossed to the largest of the many desks. It was a huge oaken monstrosity with scrolled edges and so thickly cluttered that not a single space was bare atop it. Stacks of books were stationed at every corner, and parchment lay scattered amid a handful of open texts and inkwells. There was even a trio of scrolls splayed wide atop the desk, held open with small lead weights in the shapes of woodland animals.
She ignored all the determined research and went to the center-most drawer of the thick desk. She tested the drawer and was surprised to find it unlocked. Could she be mistaken? Fearing the worst, she yanked the drawer open with a loud squeak of wood.
She closed her eyes briefly with relief. It was still here! Opening her eyes, she reached into the drawer. Her fingers hesitated only a breath before touching the crystal dagger’s sculpted hilt. The carving of the basilisk, the ancient symbol of the ghouls of Tular, sickened her. Still, she lifted the blade from the drawer and examined the long shard of razor-sharp nightglass. Holding it up to the light, she saw the length of the blade’s core now glowed with a fiery brightness that had nothing to do with the lamp’s tiny flame.
Her master had not been mistaken!
She was so stunned that it took her half a moment to recognize the telltale sound of a key in a lock. She froze as voices rose from behind the door. Someone was coming!
Sliding the dagger into the sheath sewn into her cloak, she sped to the nearest row of bookshelves and flew up them without the use of any of the library’s ladders. She pulled herself atop the bookshelf and stood on the narrow strip of wood, balancing, praying it would hold her weight and not topple.
Across the room, the door swung open and a pair of robed scholars entered the room, one young, one old. They bore platters of bread and cheeses as they talked.
Not waiting, she ran for deeper shadows, where the row met the library wall. None noticed her motions or the dance
of her shadow on the ceiling overhead. Her master had taught her the value of heights as a means of flight. Most men looked forward and down, but seldom up. This proved true now.
Carefully, as the scholars continued toward their desks, the cloaked figure jumped from row to row, retreating back toward the doors.
Below, as they passed, the older scholar urged the younger one. “I’m sorry to disturb your meal, Brother Ungher. But my eyes are not as keen as they once were. I would have you see this for yourself.”
“It is never a bother to help you, Brother Ryn. I know your study of the dagger is of the utmost importance.”
“I just need you to study this blade with your younger eyes. There is an odd glow. I can’t discern if it’s just a reflection or something born inside the nightglass.”
The scholars’ exchange almost made the escaping thief miss a step. She came near to slipping from atop the last stack. Waving an arm for balance, she steadied herself and crouched to calm her heart. They meant to examine the dagger. Any hope of escaping the castle before the theft was noted was disappearing rapidly. Silently, she crept down the shelf back to the stone floor.
The murmur of voices had dropped below her ability to pick out words. She peeked around the edge of the bookshelf. The two scholars had paused to rest their trays atop one of the smaller tables.
The younger one’s voice rang clearer as he straightened. “Would you like me to relight the hearth, Brother Ryn?”
“No, no, this won’t take long. Come see the dagger.”
The two robed figures disappeared out of view.
With her heart in her throat, she slipped to the door, undid the latch, and prayed the hinges remained silent as she pulled the door open just enough for her to pass.
She backed into the hall just as she heard a startled outburst from inside. Her theft had been discovered! She pulled the door quickly shut and imagined ways to jam the lock to trap the two scholars. In this lonely section of the castle, it might be a long time until someone heard their yells for help. With a sudden idea, she backed a step and ran into a person standing silently behind her.
Wit'ch Gate (v5) Page 9
