Wit'ch Star (v5)
Page 1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
Foreword
Assignation of Responsibility
Wit’ch Gate
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Book Two
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Book Three
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Book Four
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Book Five
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Book Six
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
The Final Question of Scholarship
Afterword
Also by James Clemens
Copyright
To Spencer Orey,
for keeping the magic alive in a new generation
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to all the friends and family who made this journey through Alasea possible, especially one group of devoted colleagues: Chris Crowe, Michael Gallowglas, Lee Garrett, Dennis Grayson, Penny Hill (thanks for the pens!), Debbie Nelson, Dave Meek, Jane O’Riva, Chris Smith, Jude and Steve Prey, Carolyn McCray, Caroline Williams, Royale Adams, and Jean Colgrove. Additionally, a special thanks to everyone at Del Rey, past and present, who have made it a joy to tell Elena’s story: Steve Saffel, Denise Fitzer, Kuo-Yu Liang, Colleen Lindsay, Kathleen O’Shea, Chris Schluep, and especially Veronica Chapman, who guided me on every step of this journey. And lastly, of course, my dedicated agents, here and abroad, Russ Galen and Danny Baror.
FOREWORD
by
Jir’rob Sordun, D.F.S., M.A.,
Director of University Studies (U.D.B.)
As I prefaced the first book, so for this last book.
No word of warning will be given here; there is no advantage to be gained. In your hands, you hold the last of the Kelvish Scrolls, the final blasphemies of the madman from the Isles of Kell. Either you are prepared to withstand what’s to come, or you are not. Either you will gain the crimson sash of graduation, or you will swing at the gallows of Au’tree. So why speak now?
The answer is simple: Now is the moment for the final truth to be spoken.
Ahead of each student lies either death or salvation. It is time to cast aside falsehoods and misconceptions for a true understanding of our past . . . and our future. Before you join the inner cabal of Commonwealth scholars, a final revelation must be bared . . . a truth you must come to understand before undertaking this last journey into the mind of a madman.
And what is this truth?
The author is not a liar.
Though this may seem contradictory to prior warnings, it is in fact not a contradiction. Fundamentally, and in many ways, the author can be construed as a liar—as stated in previous forewords and instructions. But from a historical context, the madman speaks the truth. Ancient forbidden texts corroborate and substantiate the histories of the wit’ch named Elena Morin’stal. She existed as a real figure who shaped our world. The stories in the Scrolls are not fantasies, but realities—our true past.
But therein lies the danger. The final act of the wit’ch, as you will read, threatens our entire society. Its revelation could bring ruin and madness to all the corridors of the Commonwealth. Thus the Scrolls must be kept hidden from the unschooled masses.
This course of study is to prepare you to be guardians of the Commonwealth. Certain truths are too poisonous for the uninitiated. To protect society as a whole, these truths must be nullified, discredited, and disavowed.
This is the reason you have been trained these past four years to disbelieve what you have been reading and studying. From here, you must walk a fine line between reality and fantasy.
The wit’ch existed. She shaped our world. Here the madman of Kell did not lie.
However, the author remains a liar on a much broader level. The final act of the wit’ch, the physical act, can be believed—but not the consequence. Here is the ultimate falsehood, the danger to society that lurks in simple words spoken atop Winter’s Eyrie. The words were spoken—but were they indeed the truth?
I put to you that ultimately it does not matter. Truth or lie, the words remain damnable to the Commonwealth. Hence, the entire life of the wit’ch must be repudiated. It is the safest course for all.
Consequently, as you read this last book, you must accept two contradictory truths:
The author is a liar.
The author is not a liar.
A true scholar must learn to walk between these two lines. Only death and ruin lie outside.
WIT’CH STAR
With the passing of the long night
comes magick’s last light.
It is strange to dream of death on a bright spring day.
All around the Isles of Kell, life freshens to the warming sun. From the coastal beaches, children’s laughter tinkles on the breezes as the days stretch longer. The hills glow with green, and flowers spread soft petals to the touch of new light. Shutters are thrown back, and window boxes are planted. It is a time of rebirth.
But I stare out from my garret at brightness and know that death is a penstroke away. A flourish of ink and I am gone. The promise of the wit’ch to free me from the endless march of seasons has never felt more real. I savor it at as I sit.
On my desk, I have gathered the tools of my trade and have spared no expense in their purchase, shedding my wealth like a snake’s skin. The finest parchment from Windham, the smoothest ink procured by the traders in Da’bau, the handsome quills from the snowy egrets that wade through the canal city of Que-quay across the sea.
All is in readiness, awaiting one last tale to tell. Like an alchemist, I will conjure death from ink and parchment.
But I find myself waiting. Dust gathers across the rolled parchment and tiny glass jars of ink. Why? Not because I doubt the promise of the wit’ch or fear death on this spring day. Indeed, at first I thought I merely savored the end, holding it off like an exquisite torture.
But I was wrong. The reason was far simpler.
It came to me this morning as I gazed at a branch outside my garret window, where a small kak’ora had built her feathered nest. The mother bird’s plumage is a brilliant black with a bright red breast, as if her throat has been slashed. She spends the day hunting flittering insects or rooting in the dirt between the cobbles on the street below. This leaves her nest mostly empty, exposing her trio of eggs to my hollow gaze.
For several days, I’d studied this tiny clutch, suspecting some mystery to solve in their smooth shells, in the small brown specklings against the blue background. But what?
It dawned on me this morning. Each egg is a symbol of life’s endless possibilities. What path lies ahead for these fledglings? They all might die before hatching, suffocating in their own shells. Or one might be caught by a prowling cat as it learns to fly, another might waste of disease or starvation—or return next spring to this same nest to start a new family, starting the cycle all over again. So much potential, so many paths, all nestled in eggs no larger than my thumb.
Life’s endless possibilities . . . that is what I discovered this morning.
What does it mean to me? Am I to cast aside my pursui
t of death and embrace life again?
No . . . certainly not.
As I stared at those eggs, I realized that it was not potential that makes life worth living, but the discovery of one’s own unique path through life—from womb to grave—that brings significance to one’s existence.
What I begged of the wit’ch, what she granted to me as both boon and curse—endless life—was a mockery. When all the ages stretch infinitely in front of you, the potential and possibilities in life become endless. When all paths are open to you, you become merely potential—never real. With so many paths, it is easy to lose oneself.
No longer. This morning, staring at those eggs, I knew that I had tired of potential, and wanted only to see my life defined again.
A beginning, a middle, and an end.
The sum total of life—and I want it back.
So once again I join ink to paper, conjuring life and worlds through the alchemy of the printed word. Each letter brings me closer to death, closer to bringing meaning back to my life.
Did the wit’ch know this truth even back then? Had she offered me this one last chance to touch grace?
We will see.
Already I drift back to another time, a distant place. Follow me toward the jangle of bells, as one last player steps onto the stage, a latecomer to the festivities. Do you see him? The fellow with the blue skin, all dressed in motley and playing the fool.
Watch him closely . . .
Book One
RIPTIDE
1
Seated on the Rosethorn Throne, Elena studied the riddle before her. The small stranger, dressed in a patchwork of silks and linens, appeared just a boy with his smooth and unlined face—but he was clearly no youngster. His manner was too calm under the gazes of those gathered in the Great Hall. His eyes glinted with sarcastic amusement, bitter and road-worn. And the set of his lips, shadowing a smile, remained both hard and cold.
Elena felt a twinge of unease near the man, despite his illusion of innocence.
The stranger dropped to one knee before her, sweeping off his foppish hat. Scores of bells—tin, silver, gold, and copper, sewn throughout his clothes—jangled brightly.
A taller figure stepped to the tiny man’s side—Prince Tylamon Royson, lord of Castle Mryl to the north. The prince-turned-pirate had forgone his usual finery and wore scuffed boots and a salt-scarred black cloak. His cheeks were ruddy, and his sandy hair was unkempt. He had arrived at the island’s docks with the rising sun, requesting immediate audience with Elena and the war council.
The prince bowed to one knee, then motioned to the stranger. “May I present Harlequin Quail? He has come far, with news you should hear.”
Elena motioned for them both to stand. “Rise, Lord Tyrus. Be welcome.” She studied the newcomer as he rose to his feet amid another chorus of jingling. The man had indeed come from afar. His face was oddly complexioned: a paleness that bordered on blue, as if he were forever suffocating. But it was the hue of his eyes that was the most striking—a shining gold, full of a wry slyness.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you so early on this summer morning,” Lord Tyrus intoned formally, straightening his disheveled cloak as if noticing for the first time his sorry state.
Er’ril, Elena’s liegeman and husband, spoke from his station beside the throne. “What is this urgency, Lord Tyrus? We have no time for fools and jesters.”
Elena did not have to glance to the side to know the Standi plainsman wore his usual hard scowl. She had seen it often enough over the last two moons as sour tidings had been flowing into Alasea: supply chains to the island cut off by monsters and strange weather; townships struck by fires and plagues; ill-shaped beasts roaming the countryside.
But the worst tidings struck closer to home.
Elementals, those rare folk tuned to the Land’s energy, were succumbing to some dread malaise. The mer’ai were losing their sea sense and their link to their dragons; the elv’in ships could not fly as high or far; and now Nee’lahn reported that the voice of her lute was growing weaker as the tree spirit faded inside. Clearly whatever damage had been inflicted upon the Land by the Weirgates was continuing its onslaught. Elemental magicks waned as if from a bleeding wound.
As a consequence, the press of dwindling time weighed upon them all. If they were to act against the Gul’gotha, it must be soon—before their own forces weakened further, before the gifts of the Land faded completely away. But their armies were spread wide. As matters stood, the campaign against the Dark Lord’s stronghold, the volcanic Blackhall, could begin no sooner than next spring. Er’ril said it would take until midwinter to position all their armies; and an assault upon the island then, when the northern seas were beset with savage storms, would give the advantage to Blackhall.
So spring at the earliest, when the winter storms died away.
Elena had begun to doubt whether they’d be ready even then. So much was still unknown. Tol’chuk had yet to return from his own lands; gone these past two moons with Fardale and a handful of others, he sought to question his og’re elders about the link between heartstone and ebon’stone. Many of the elv’in scoutships had not returned from reconnaissance over Blackhall. The d’warf army, led by Wennar, had sent crows with news that their forces yet gathered near Penryn. The d’warf captain wanted more time to rally his people. But time was short for all of them.
And now this urgent news from afar.
Lord Tyrus turned to his companion. “Harlequin, tell them what you’ve learned.”
The tiny figure nodded. “I come with tidings both bright and grim.” A coin appeared in his hand as if conjured from nothing. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed it high into the air. Torchlight glinted off gold.
Elena’s gaze tracked the coin’s flight as it danced among the rafters, then fell. She startled back on her throne upon finding the strange man now toe-to-toe before her, leaning in. He had crossed the distance in a heartbeat, silent despite the hundred bells he wore.
Even Er’ril was caught by surprise. With a roar, he swept out his sword and bared it between queen and jester. “What trick is this?”
As answer, the man caught the falling coin in an outstretched palm, winked salaciously at Elena, then backed down the two steps, again jangling with a chorus of bells.
Lord Tyrus spoke up, a cold smile on his face. “Be not fooled by Harlequin’s motley appearance. For these past ten winters, he has been my master spy, in service to the Pirate Guild of Port Rawl. There are no better eyes and ears to sneak upon others unaware.”
Elena straightened in her seat. “So it would seem.”
Er’ril pulled back his sword but did not sheathe it. “Enough tricks. If he comes with information, let’s hear it.”
“As the iron man asks, so it shall be.” Harlequin held up his gold coin to the flash of torchlight. “First the bright news. You’ve cut the Black Heart a deeper wound than even you suspect by the destruction of his black statues. He’s lost his precious d’warf army and is left with only men and monsters to defend his volcanic lair.”
Tyrus interrupted. “Harlequin has spent the last half winter scouting the edges of Blackhall. He’s prepared charts and logs of the Dark Lord’s forces and strengths.”
“How did he come by these?” Er’ril grumbled.
Harlequin stared brazenly back. “From under the nose of the Dark Lord’s own lieutenant. A brother of yours, is he not?”
Elena glanced to Er’ril and saw the anger in his eye.
“He is not my brother,” her liegeman said coldly.
Elena spoke into the tension. “You were inside Blackhall itself?”
Harlequin’s mask of amusement cracked. Elena spotted a glimpse of something pained and darker beyond. “Aye,” he whispered. “I’ve walked its monstrous halls and shadowed rooms—and pray I never do so again.”
Elena leaned forward. “And you mentioned grim news, Master Quail?”
“Grim news indeed.” Harlequin lifted his arm and opened th
e fingers that had clenched around the gold coin. Upon his palm now rested a lump of coal. “If you wish to defeat the Black Heart, it must be done by Midsummer Eve.”
Elena frowned. “In one moon’s time?”
“Impossible,” Er’ril scoffed.
Harlequin fixed Elena with those strange gold eyes. “If you don’t stop the Black Beast by the next full moon, you will all be dead.”
Meric ran the length of the Stormwing. His feet flew across the familiar planks, hurdling balustrades and leaping decks. His eyes remained fixed to the skies. Through the morning mists, a dark speck was visible high overhead, plummeting gracelessly out of the sky. It was one of the elv’in scoutships, returning from the lands and seas around the volcanic island of Blackhall.
Something was wrong.
Reaching the prow of his own ship, Meric lifted both arms and cast out his powers. A surge of energy billowed through his form and into the sky, racing upward to flow into the empty well that was the other’s boat’s iron keel. Meric fed his power, but the plummeting ship continued its dive toward the waters around A’loa Glen.
As he fought the inevitable, Meric felt the weight of the other ship upon his own shoulders. He was driven to one knee as the Stormwing, drained of its own magickal energies, began to drift lower toward the docks.
Gasping in his exertions, Meric refused to relent. Mother above, help me!
He now saw with two sets of eyes: a pair looking up and a pair looking down. Linked between the two ships, he felt the weak beat of the ship’s captain, Frelisha—a second cousin to his mother. She was barely alive. She must have drained all her energies to bring the ship even this close to home.
Below, Meric whispered into the wind. “Do not give up, Cousin.”
He was heard. Through his magickal connection, the last words of the captain reached him. “We are betrayed!”
With this final utterance, the heartbeat held between Meric’s upraised hands fluttered once more, then stopped forever.
“No!” Meric fell to his other knee.