Elena sensed the tunnel’s end.
With each step deeper underground, a pressure built, pushing upon her ears and chest, making breathing increasingly difficult. It was as if she were again sinking into the bottomless pool around the Root of the world.
Er’ril would occasionally comment on something, but his words were muffled by the growing weight. A bubble of isolation surrounded her. She felt a distancing from everyone and everything. Even the brightness of the torch held by Tol’chuk grew muted and dull.
None of the others seemed affected. They continued to talk as if nothing were the matter.
Soon the tunnel walls began to gleam with thousands of glowworms. “We be near,” Tol’chuk called back.
But Elena already knew this. The pressure had started to level out. Her eyes ached, her heart thudded, but she continued on.
“Are you all right?” Er’ril asked. His words sounded far away.
Elena nodded. “It’s the magick here. The air is heavy with it.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” And she was. She sensed no malignancy, simply the presence of something vastly larger than herself. But a part of her still cowered before the enormity of it.
Er’ril squeezed her fingers, but even this gesture was dulled. Nothing could hold off the magick here . . . not even love.
Tol’chuk marched on, and at last the tunnel opened into a great chamber. The others followed him into the room. Er’ril and Elena were the last to enter.
All eyes were already fixed on the far wall. An arch of fiery brilliance climbed to impossible heights within the echoing chamber.
“The Spirit Gate,” Tol’chuk said needlessly.
“With that much heartstone,” Harlequin Quail muttered, “we could simply buy off the Dark Lord.”
Elena stared in awe. According to Tol’chuk, what they beheld was only part of the whole. The arch here was but half of a solid ring of heartstone.
Magnam stepped beside Harlequin. “If the Dark Lord ever got hold of this much heartstone, I fear the depths of the evil he might perform. Can you imagine an arch of this size transformed into ebon’stone? It would make the four Weirgates seem like a whore’s glass baubles.”
The d’warf’s words roused worried expressions on everyone’s features, especially Tol’chuk’s.
The og’re faced the Spirit Gate. One clawed hand covered his thigh pouch, as if he were trying to hide it from the arch of heartstone. “Perhaps we should think longer on this choice.”
“No.” Elena moved to Tol’chuk’s side. “I can sense the magick here—that bit of ebon’stone cannot threaten its might. It would take something the size of a Weirgate to challenge it.”
She recognized the doubtful glint in Tol’chuk’s eyes. She touched his arm, willing him to trust her.
Slowly he nodded. With a worried frown, he stepped toward one leg of the arch, fingering the ties to the pouch and tugging it open. With his head half turned, Tol’chuk was the last to see what he unleashed.
Inky jets of darkness plumed from the opened pouch, shooting high over Tol’chuk’s shoulder.
Elena gasped. Er’ril gripped her shoulder, pulling her back.
“Mother above!” Magnam exclaimed.
Seeing their reactions, Tol’chuk spun around. He stared up at the black cloud hovering under the arch. “It be the Triad!” he cried out. “I thought them gone when the stone turned black.”
Apparently this was not so.
As Elena watched, jagged forks of silvery brightness crackled through the roiling darkness, like lightning in a storm cloud. But this was no ordinary storm cloud. Rather it appeared more a mist of ebon’stone. And laughter, as black as the mists from which it issued, flowed out the churning darkness.
“Get back!” Er’ril shouted to Tol’chuk. He waved for the others to retreat to the tunnel.
Tol’chuk crouched under the cloud. “But the Triad . . .”
“They’ve been twisted like the Heart!” Nee’lahn called to him as Meric drew her back with the others.”Like my sisters, the Grim wraiths!”
Only Tol’chuk did not move. “But the Gate! I cannot abandon it!”
Words of dark amusement flowed from the cloud. “And we wouldn’t let you.” The mists split into three shredded bits of darkness. Two fled to either leg of the arch, with the last sailing high to the pinnacle. Separate now, they appeared vaguely og’re in shape.
“No!” Tol’chuk cried, straightening. “I won’t let you harm the Gate!”
“It be not we who mean to harm it!” The words seemed to rise from all three shadows. Jagged crackles of lightning shot forth from the spirits guarding the legs of the arch. The bolts of silver lanced out and snared Tol’chuk by the arms.
Tethered between the two, he was torn off his feet and yanked forward. Crying out, Tol’chuk fought, but his arms were stretched to the point of dislocation. In a heartbeat, he was pinned under the arch, hanging in midair between the two legs
Er’ril ran forward, yanking free his sword. The wit’ch sword gleamed like an icicle, its elemental steel blade singing out of its sheath.
Elena ripped off her gloves and grabbed the dagger at her waist. With deft slices, she cut each palm and called forth her magick. Flames ignited over both hands: wit’ch fire and coldfire.
She sensed Meric and Nee’lahn flanking her. The others returned with them. None of them would abandon Tol’chuk to the wraiths.
From the peak of the arch, the third shadow cast more bolts of silver, warding them back. The jagged spears struck with the might of true steel. Er’ril dodged a bolt, rolling to the side. Bits of rock blasted from the stone floor where he had been standing.
Other spears aimed for their group.
They scattered. The hammer blows echoed throughout the cavern.
“Back to the tunnel!” Er’ril shouted from behind an outcropping of stone. “I’ll go for Tol’chuk!”
Elena picked herself up from the floor. “Do as he says.”
Meric met her eyes, defiant, angry. Similar expressions flashed among the others. Even Magnam, with no magick of his own, shook his head. The d’warf had taken a blow to the shoulder. Blood flowed down his arm and still, he didn’t budge.
“Help Tol’chuk!” Nee’lahn urged. “We’ll offer what aid we can!”
The next barrage of lightning lashed out. Elena cast a shield of coldfire before her, blocking the energy. Still the bolt was strong enough to knock her back. She tried to take another step, but more strikes bombarded her, one after the other, pounding her back.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Fardale and Thorn drop to all fours, shifting into two wolves, one dark, one snowy. They raced across the floor in a zigzagging pattern, passing in front of her while bolts chased after them.
With the momentary distraction, Elena fought her way forward. She spotted Er’ril behind the outcropping, pinned down in the center of the room. Blasts struck his shelter, shattering chunks of rock, eroding his hiding space away.
On the far side of the chamber, Meric moved with the unnatural speed of his people, impossible to catch, while Nee’lahn crouched behind a boulder with Magnam, binding his wound. There was no sign of Harlequin Quail. The master spy had fled.
Elena turned her attention forward. It was a stalemate; neither group was strong enough to break the other. Elena feared using her full power against the wraiths that hovered in front of the heartstone arch. Even if her magicks could harm pure spirit, the backlash might harm the Spirit Gate. If the ring of heartstone were shattered, so would be all hope of learning whatever Sisa’kofa knew. It was too important to risk a direct attack.
Around her, the chamber echoed with lightning blasts, making it difficult to think. Elena kept up her shield as she slowly worked forward, trying to reach Er’ril.
But what then? How did you defeat an enemy that had no substance?
Off to the side, Thorn was suddenly tossed in the air as she caught the edge of a blast. She struck t
he stone and rolled back to flee on three legs, leaving bloody footprints behind, her snowy flank singed black. Fardale raced around her, keeping the bolts away.
The stalemate was beginning to fray—and not in their favor.
Elena moved ahead as an explosive strike rocked the cavern, blinding her for a heartbeat. All three spirits had struck the outcropping behind which Er’ril hid. Rock dust plumed up. As it wafted away, Elena spotted Er’ril sprawled under a tumble of rock, not moving.
She raced forward. Her anger and fear melded her magick into a shield around her. “Er’ril!”
His legs were pinned under rock. Blood seeped from a scalp wound and from one ear, but a groan answered her. He still lived! One hand scrabbled blindly on the stone. She saw his hand was attempting to reach the rose sword, still trying to fight.
His effort fired her. She snatched up Shadowsedge.
“No . . . ,” he mumbled weakly.
But as her bloody palm gripped the hilt, a jolt tore through her body. She was on her feet before she knew it. Magick fed into the blade and ignited its length into pure flame.
Lightning struck toward her from three directions. But unbidden, her sword parried each bolt, driving it aside or absorbing its energy into her own magick. She was not knocked back this time. She danced across the cavern floor, feinting and parrying the multiple attacks, one against three.
Around the chamber, the attacks on the others faded. The wraiths needed all their attention to hold her back.
And still Elena danced. Her feet moved with a skill not her own, her arm flashing with magick uncalled. A corner of her mind recognized this control: She had once fought her aunt Mycelle with a blade whetted in her own magickal blood. She remembered the surety of steel melded to her flesh. But that experience paled when compared to what she felt now.
Shadowsedge had been forged of elemental steel, fused with the blood of Sisa’kofa, her ancestor. Elena had not only joined steel to herself, but to the skill of an ancient wit’ch.
Lightning danced around her in a blinding display. Blocked by her blows, bolts struck walls and ceiling. Rock tumbled from above. The others retreated to the walls. Even they knew the fight was now between her and the three wraiths.
A smile grew on her lips.
Closer at hand, words reached her from behind. “Elena . . .” It was Er’ril, groggy. “The sword . . . a blood weapon.” His voice grew stronger. “It is only steel. You must control it.”
She dismissed his warnings. She was in perfect control. With a flick of her wrist, she parried a bolt back toward the wielder. The lethal force struck the granite wall under the arch, exploding the stone.
Was that not proof of her control?
Her smile stretched, exposing her teeth. Magick sang in her blood, steel in her ears. She backhanded another bolt, driving it to strike the wall again. With each breath, her skill grew.
A cry of pain sounded from ahead, a pebble in a raging sea.
“Elena!” It was Er’ril again. “Look at what you do!” he yelled at her.
Elena shook off his words. She knew what she was doing.
“Look with your heart! Do not forget the woman inside you!”
As his words sank into her heart, she remembered a moment from long ago, but not far from here. She had stood atop a mountain pass in virgin snow. She had joined a ruby hand to a pale one, joining wit’ch to woman. She had accepted her power at that moment, recognized the weight of her responsibility. But she had also recognized that which she refused to lose: her heart, her humanity, her ability to love.
“Er’ril . . .”
“Trust your heart . . . not cold steel . . .”
A veil slowly lifted from her eyes. Lightning struck at her feet, jolting her back, stumbling her away. She cried out as the world came back into focus. The perfect blend of magick and steel shattered around her.
Across the chamber, Tol’chuk still hung between the two legs of the arch. But to either side of him, the smooth wall was deeply pitted where her parried bolts had struck. She had come within an arm’s length of killing the og’re, her friend.
More lightning chased her. She fought it with the blade, but now she did not release herself fully to the sword. She sought a balance somewhere in between—and her skill ebbed. Blows again jolted her, threatening to tear the sword from her grip. The surety of victory faded. Elena sensed that only by releasing herself fully to the sword would she have the skill to bring the fight forward to the Gate, but if she did that, she risked losing herself and those around her. Steel did not care about love, only victory.
Movement by the Gate drew her attention. A small hand waved at her. It came from near a pile of rubble at the base of the wall, under Tol’chuk’s feet. A figure rose from hiding—Harlequin Quail!
The spy held a dagger in his teeth and motioned with his hands. Elena frowned, then understanding dawned. Her eyes grew wide.
Of course . . .
She risked a glance behind her. “I need everyone who can still move to be ready on my word!” Elena turned back and parried another bolt toward the ceiling.
Sounds of affirmation echoed out to her.
She locked gazes with Harlequin Quail. She prayed his plan was sound. “Now! Rush the Gate!”
Elena burst through a flurry of lightning strikes. To either side, the others raced forward: Meric with his unnatural speed, Fardale, Magnam, even Thorn raced on her three good legs.
Lightning shattered out in all directions at this last drive toward the Spirit Gate, but their efforts were a feint.
Under Tol’chuk, the short man dressed in motley and bells leaped with an unnatural silence. Moving with a grace that defied bone and muscle, he grabbed Tol’chuk’s ankle with one hand, pulled himself up, and used his dagger to slice the pouch hanging from the og’re’s thigh.
Harlequin then dropped and landed in a crouch, both hands held out. The ebon’stone Heart tumbled out the bottom of the pouch and into his waiting palms.
With his prize in hand, he raced from under Tol’chuk and aimed toward one of the pillared legs of heartstone. Only then did one of the wraiths notice the man under their misty noses. A bolt of lightning lashed out at him.
Harlequin dove forward with a jangle of bells, somersaulted twice, and was at the arch. Without pause he flew up the granite wall like a spider. Another bolt struck at him, but he was already leaping toward the arch. With the Heart held out before him, he slammed its dark shape into the gap where it fit with perfection.
A scream erupted from the trio of wraiths.
Harlequin leaped aside.
Brightness flared along the arch, exploding with such brilliance that all were driven back. The wraiths were burned from their perches, blasted into wailing fragments.
Tol’chuk, no longer restrained, dropped to the stone floor. He landed in a half crouch, swinging to face the Gate
Elena retreated to Er’ril’s side. He reached to her, blood dripping down his face. She dropped the sword and took his hand. The pressure she had felt in the tunnels grew to an enormity that threatened to drown her. Wincing, she leaned near him. “Are you all right?”
He grimaced. “I’ve felt better.”
Worried, Elena turned to the arch. The wall, framed in glowing heartstone, began to shimmer. Granite dissolved into illusion. The Gate was opening. The flow of ruby light trailed down under the stone floor and around again, marking the buried ring of heartstone.
When the brilliance reached the chunk of blackened stone at its heart, the ruby glow swelled over the darkness and overwhelmed it, wiping it away. With this release, the entire ring blossomed with a light that pierced flesh and bone.
For a moment, Elena felt a linking similar to that with the blood sword, a melding of her spirit to the energy here. But instead of being limited to the length of a steel blade, her essence sailed forth in all directions. The boundaries were vast, farther than her mind could fathom. In that instant, she knew to what she was blood-bonded.
T
he world . . . all the lands, all the peoples . . .
For the barest moment, she sensed all life. In the past, she had experienced hints of this interconnectivity, a vast web of all living things—but never more than at this moment. The beauty and symmetry grew into a harmony that was both complex and simple. It was a chorus without music, a perfect crystalline matrix of silver life force.
Her magick sang with her ecstasy.
Then, like a snuffed candle, it was taken from her. The cavern snapped back into focus. The pressure popped away into oblivion, gone. A sob escaped her clenched throat.
“Elena . . . ?” Fingers squeezed her hand.
She squeezed back, not ready for words.
Against the far wall, the ring of heartstone had opened. Beyond the threshold lay a well of darkness streaked with fissures of forking and crisscrossing veins of crimson fire. Bursts of brilliance raced along and disappeared, almost too quickly for the eye to follow, like shooting stars across a night sky. But this display was but a backdrop for the true marvel at the heart of the well.
In the center, slowly spinning, was a crystal the color of a clear morning sky. The stone seemed to swell toward the Gate, growing to fill the ring of heartstone.
The Spirit Stone . . .
The glow bathed the group huddled before its immensity. Elena again felt the connection to all living things. She sensed the beauty of her own lifeforce, of all those in the room, a shine of silvery energy. In Meric and Nee’lahn, she also recognized the flame of their elemental fire, a tiny spark of brighter magick.
In that moment, Elena realized a startling thing. They were the same: the lifeforce in all things and the silver energy of an elemental’s fire. She gaped at the stone. The same was true before her. The crystal was an amalgam of lifeforce and elemental silver. It was both! And with this realization came another. She had seen such a crystal once before.
She was not the only to make this connection. “De’nal,” Er’ril whispered in awe and sorrow.
Elena knew he was right. The boy had been sculpted of the same crystal as here: lifeforce and elemental silver, fused into a brilliant crystalline form. There was something important about this connection. Elena could almost grasp it.
Wit'ch Star (v5) Page 41
