Angered mutterings rumbled from those gathered below. But the elder’root stood, holding up an arm to draw attention his way. He faced his people. “So it was foretold. So it will be!”
Others made sounds of disagreement, but the elder’root stood fast. He faced the crowd until they grew silent. None challenged openly now, but an undercurrent of doubt persisted.
“We will prevail,” the elder’root said plainly. “The Root has guided our people since we rose from the waters of our birth. We will trust its judgment now.”
Softer murmurs flowed through the crowd. Elena sensed her duty here was done for now. She knew their leader would eventually sway most to their cause. With the tide turned, the strength ebbed from her limbs. The sword trembled as she lowered it.
Then Er’ril was there. He caught the blade by its pommel, she returned it to his safekeeping. Ever her protector . . .
He slipped it into his empty scabbard.
She swung her attention to the pillar. With her right hand, she cast out tendrils of wit’ch fire and melted a chute down the ice tower. It was steep, but Er’ril wrapped her in his arms, and they slid down the trough of melted ice. At the bottom, Er’ril lifted her, holding her tight. She pressed her cheek against his chest. Despite the soaking and ice, he was so warm.
The elder’root stepped toward them, all signs of the beast gone. The leader’s eyes shone with regret. “I’m sorry . . .”
Er’ril brushed past him and headed for the gap in the briars. Once through, he began to order those around him. Elena barely heard, listening instead to the thump of his heart. “. . . horses and tents. And build a large fire . . .”
Elena slipped her hand through Er’ril’s shirt, resting her palm against his hot skin. She closed her eyes and sank into his warmth.
For now, this was fire enough.
As dawned neared, Greshym watched Er’ril leave Elena’s tent and cross to the fire. From the clear relief on the man’s face, the girl must be recovering well from her dunking and the freezing touch of her own magick. A si’luran healer had taken her draughts of steaming herbs, a mix of peppermint and ale-leaf, from the smell of it. Afterward Greshym had overheard the shape-shifter telling the trapper Bryanna that Elena should recover fully in the next day or two.
Still, throughout the long night, Er’ril kept returning to the camp’s fire to gather fresh coals to warm her blankets. As the plainsman bent by the fire, Greshym eyed the rose-carved pommel of the sword he bore. It shone bright as a star, even in the feeble firelight.
Shadowsedge . . . That was what Sisa’kofa had called the sword herself, leading to the rumor that it was sharp enough to separate a man from his own shadow.
Greshym’s eyes narrowed as he studied the sheathed blade. He could not believe his luck to have the ancient weapon within reach. Such a boon could not be ignored, even if it meant delaying his own plans.
As Er’ril gathered fresh coals into a pan, Greshym let his eyelids drift closed. He sought the familiar heartbeat of his servant. Rukh hid well outside the si’luran valley. Greshym sent a silent message to the stump gnome.
Earlier, Greshym had eavesdropped on a terse conversation between Er’ril and the elder’root. He knew where the group was going next: to the Northern Fang, where Mogweed and Fardale had last been headed.
He bound his orders to Rukh as well as he could, using the last dregs of his magick. The beast would have to set out immediately to reach those same lands in time. Keep my staff safe, he urged. He knew Rukh still carried the length of hollow bone. He sensed the gnome’s fear of the tool, but the creature would obey. Satisfied, Greshym brought his attention back to where Er’ril returned to Elena’s tent, hot coals in hand, oblivious to the dire weapon he carried at his side.
A voice intruded on Greshym’s reveries. “What are you plotting?” Joach asked harshly behind him.
Greshym glanced over his shoulder. “So you couldn’t sleep, either,” he commented, ignoring the boy’s question.
Joach settled to a boulder with a sigh. “It’s that sword; I saw you studying it. You think to use its magick against us.”
Greshym shook his head, smiling broadly. “I wouldn’t touch that weapon for all the magick in the Land.”
Joach’s face tightened with suspicion. “Why’s that?”
“You know why.” Greshym nodded to the boy’s petrified wood staff. When Joach’s fingers clenched protectively to the stave, Greshym smiled. The boy was already lost to it . . . he just didn’t know it yet.
“Why?” Joach repeated.
He might as well be honest—the truth might do him more good than a lie. Greshym glanced back to the tent. “That sword was once wielded by Sisa’kofa, your sister’s ancestor.”
“I know,” Joach said sourly. “Elena told me.”
“Of course she did. Once touched, how could she not know it?”
“What do you mean?”
Greshym laughed at the boy’s naÏveté. “Joach, my young pupil, have you learned nothing? Would you not know your own staff?”
“What does one have to do with the other?”
Greshym rolled his eyes. “My boy, you’re not the only one to ever create a blood weapon.”
Joach’s eyes widened with shock.
Greshym nodded. “Sisa’kofa bled her own essence into that blade. Naturally one wit’ch recognized the touch of another.”
“The Sword of the Rose . . . ?”
“It’s a blood weapon,” Greshym finished. “Created by Sisa’kofa. One of the most powerful and darkest weapons ever forged.” Greshym sighed, leaning back. “It will destroy your sister.”
Er’ril passed into the tent. The chill of the night air was quickly warmed away by the heat of the tent’s interior. As he crept carefully over to the pile of blankets and furs, he found Elena’s eyes open and staring at him.
“You should sleep,” he whispered, slipping the pan of warm coals under the foot of her makeshift bed.
“Can’t sleep . . . ,” her voice rasped.
He sighed and settled beside her. He felt her forehead. She was still cool to the touch. He glanced to the door.
She must have read his mind. “I have enough coals.” A hand wormed out of the nest of blankets and sought his. She stared into his eyes. He knew what she wanted.
“Just this one night . . . ,” she said hoarsely. “Hold me.”
Er’ril squeezed her fingers, seeking some way to deny what she asked. There was so much yet to do. But as he stared into her wounded face, he let it go. This night, he would follow his heart.
In the weak glow of the single lamp, he undid his sword belt and dropped it to the floor. She watched his every move as he pulled out of his leathers and slipped free of his leggings. Standing only in his smallclothes, he knelt and pulled back the furs and blankets. Then he slipped out of the last of his garments and slid under the coverings.
He nestled deeper, seeking her out. He pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms, sharing his warmth.
She settled her head against his bare chest. He lowered his cheek to her hair and breathed in the scent of her. She stirred against him, soft and smooth-skinned. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold passed through him.
She murmured something unintelligible.
“I love you, too,” he answered.
Six days later, Elena stood at the prow of the Windsprite, an elv’in scoutship. With the aid of the si’lura, they had made the journey to the Pass of Tears without mishap. The rendezvous ship had been waiting, moored to the tops of the highland pines.
Elena stared down the slope of the pass all the way back to the forests of the Western Reaches. But it was near at hand, spread along the pass, that the si’luran army was breaking camp for the next leg of the journey.
Craning forward, Elena stared north. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay their destination: the Northern Fang. She would follow the direction of the Spirit Root and lead the si’lura to the twin brothers. With luck, perhaps the other party
had succeeded among the og’res.
The scuff of a boot sounded behind her. She turned and found Er’ril standing there, his face dark with worry. “Joach was able to reach Tyrus. His pirate brigade is in the Bay of T’lek that surrounds Blackhall.”
“And the main fleet?”
“Three days behind him.
“That’s as we planned, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but Tyrus has fears for the d’warf armies.” Er’ril’s brow knit with concern. “In the past three days, they’ve had no answers to the crows sent to Wennar. Tyrus is heading to the northern coasts to investigate the sudden silence.”
“When will we know more?”
“Two days at the least.”
Elena nodded, calculating, “We should be almost to the Northern Fang by then.” She bit her lip, then asked the question worrying her most. “What about Sy-wen?”
Er’ril frowned. “No word. Kast remains at A’loa Glen, but there has been no sign of her.”
Elena slipped an arm around his waist, grateful to have him at her side. He matched her embrace, pulling her to him. The ship’s sails snapped overhead as she leaned into him, wishing the moment could stretch forever. After the night in the tent, duty and decorum had kept them mostly apart. Still, after sharing her bed, some dam had broken between them. Er’ril’s chance kisses were held longer; his hands sought her out with more passion. And when she looked into his eyes, the hunger there was no longer hidden, only restrained by the moment.
Soon a horn sounded from below, echoing up to the ship. Er’ril sighed. “That would be Thorn. The si’lura are ready to depart.”
Elena nodded. “Then we should be under way. Are we all stowed and ready?”
“Yes,” Er’ril said, giving her a final squeeze, “even the horses.”
Despite the dire news, Elena could not stop a smile from forming as she remembered the struggle to haul Rorshaf aboard ship. The war charger had not been too keen on this mode of travel, but Elena had no intention of leaving the stallion behind.
Er’ril leaned in, teasing. “Rorshaf’s never going to forgive you, no matter how many apples you coax him with.” He quickly kissed her, then headed toward the stern deck, where Meric and the ship’s captain were conferring. Belted to his hip was the ancient sword, the silver rose on the pommel glinting in the morning sunlight.
Shadowsedge.
Joach had told them of Greshym’s words, revealing the weapon to be a blood sword. As a test, Elena had bloodied one hand and wielded the weapon. She had indeed felt the dark power stretch into her.
Er’ril had wanted the blade tossed down the nearest deep hole, but Elena had refused. The sword was revered by the si’lura, and it was a talisman left by Sisa’kofa, for her alone. To compromise, Er’ril insisted on keeping the blade at his own side: out of harm’s way, but close enough for its use if necessary.
A second horn sounded from below. “Ho!” Meric called. “We’re under way!”
The ship lurched as mooring lines were freed and hauled aboard. The sails swelled with winds that were not entirely natural. And then they were off and flying.
A great flurry of wings erupted from the ground. Soon the winds were filled with eagles of every color and feather: snowy, brown, rust, black, gray, and silver. Wings snapped wide and glided the currents and warm uprisings. The growing flock flanked the larger elv’in ship and followed its lead over the mountains.
Elena watched the gathering of eagles in the sky.
“So it begins,” a voice said behind her.
She turned and found Harlequin smoking a pipe.
He pointed its glowing stem toward the sky. “Let’s just hope this isn’t their last flight.”
Book Four
BLACK SEAS
15
Rising through the shallows around A’loa Glen, Kast clung to the mer’ai rider before him. Their mount, a sinuous jade seadragon, flowed toward the docks, maneuvering through the ruins of the half-submerged city. Kast stared around him at the man-made reefs that had once been towers and homes. Schools of skipperflicks darted through windows and doorways. Over the centuries, the sea had reclaimed this territory as its own. The dragon swam over a toppled statue, now festooned with anemone and scuttling crabs.
A graveyard, Kast thought dourly, lost in a black mood. Since Sy-wen’s disappearance, the ocean had held none of its charm or mystery. It had become just a cold, unforgiving landscape. He could not even transform into Ragnar’k and travel the seas on his own. Only Sy-wen’s touch could ignite the magick and release the dragon inside him.
So he was glad when they finally broke the sea’s surface into the late afternoon sunlight. He spat out the end of his air pod and drew a lungful of clean air, shivering in the thin breeze.
The dragon, a slender female, surged under him.
“Ho, Helia,” the rider ahead of him whispered, patting his mount’s neck with clear affection. The young mer’ai was little more than a boy, just recently bonded to his dragon. In fact, most of the mer’ai left here were the young and the elderly. They were quartered in the single Leviathan remaining in the deeper waters, with Sy-wen’s mother, Linora. She and Master Edyll had remained behind until her daughter’s fate could be determined. All others had departed days ago with the warships of the Dre’rendi and the elv’in.
Kast squeezed the young rider’s upper arm. “Thanks for your help, Ty-lyn. And for Helia’s skill.”
His words straightened the boy’s shoulders with pride. “My dragon was birthed from the best of the bloodlines. You even knew her sire.”
Kast frowned, not understanding what the young rider meant. “I did?”
“The jade,” the boy insisted.
His words made no sense to Kast, but the boy must have caught his confusion. “Helia is a jade. The dragon’s color comes from the father, another jade.”
As if sensing she was being spoken about, Helia glanced back over a shoulder. Kast’s brows pinched. A jade. As seadragon and man studied one another, Kast suddenly understood. The similarities in features between daughter and father were plainly evident now that he truly looked. After having spent so much time with the mer’ai, Kast had grown to recognize the subtle differences between the majestic creatures. “A jade male . . . ,” he mumbled.
The boy nodded. “One of the best bloodlines.”
Kast reached up and ran a finger along the nasal ridge of the sniffing dragon. For a moment, he felt close again to Sy-wen; she had loved this one’s brave father with all her heart. Conch, the bonded mount of Sy-wen’s mother.
Tears blurred his vision.
Ty-lyn glanced past Kast’s shoulder. “Here come the others.”
Kast turned. From the waters, another six dragons rose. Their riders dragged woven nets, heavy with ebon’stone eggs. At the sight, fury overwhelmed him, drying his tears with the heat.
“That’s the last of ’em,” the boy commented.
Kast growled in the back of his throat. After seven days, the crashed elv’in scoutship had been scoured of its deadly cargo. Over a hundred eggs were already stored deep in a windowless stone cellar, its single door guarded by a dozen armed guards. Once these last eggs joined the foul clutch, the room would be bricked up, never to be opened. It was the safest course. The cargo could not be left unwatched on the seabed floor, and all attempts to destroy the eggs with fire or hammer had failed.
So it had been necessary to secure the clutch and the tentacled beasts incubating inside. It was a grim duty after so many deaths: the ship’s crew, the corrupted scholars, even the priceless library. Now a suffocating rage burned within Kast, a smoldering fury. He seldom slept. He rarely visited the kitchens, and then he shoveled food into his mouth untasted. He sought anything to keep himself busy. While the fleets prepared for the assault on Blackhall, Kast had found plenty to fill his days and nights. But now with the forces gone, Kast kept himself occupied bolstering up the defenses of A’loa Glen, including securing the clutch of ebon’stone eggs.
&n
bsp; Earlier this morning, Kast had gone on this last journey to the ship to ensure the matter had been dealt with completely. Even the sands around the crashed ship had been sifted and searched to make sure not a single egg was missed.
As Kast turned to the island, a black despair settled into him. In the past, he had faced demons and monsters, seen friends slain, but what scared him most and threatened to paralyze him now was the empty bed that awaited him. For the thousandth time, he pictured the cold eyes of Sy-wen as she had laughed at his struggles in the library, how her fingers had reached toward him . . . not with love, but with something as cold as the slime at the bottom of the sea.
“Someone waits for us,” Ty-lyn said, drawing Kast’s attention back to the present.
The dragons and their riders swept toward the docks. One of the figures standing there raised an arm in greeting: Hunt, the high keel’s son. Behind him stood a cadre of Bloodriders.
As the dragons drew abreast of the docks, Hunt reached down and offered a hand. Kast took it and allowed himself to be hauled up to the planks. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noting the man’s pinched brow and hard stance.
“You’d better get dressed,” Hunt said, and nodded to the pile of clothes Kast had left at the end of the docks.
Kast dried off with his own shirt, then slipped on the damp garment; he’d let it dry on the walk back to the castle. He pushed into his boots and strapped on his sword belt, then turned his attention back to his fellow Bloodrider.
Hunt was studying the other seadragons. “Is that the last haul?”
Kast nodded. “Eighteen.”
Hunt’s eyes never left the seas and the dragons. “How soon can these be hauled to the dungeon?”
Kast frowned at the lowering sun. “By dusk at the latest.”
Hunt waved to the other Bloodriders. “I’ve brought men to help make that sooner.”
“What’s the urgency?”
Hunt didn’t answer. His only response was a slight narrowing of his eyes. He refused to speak aloud.
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 28
