Wit'ch Star (v5)

by James Clemens

  Watching from a distance, she saw the spread of black wings fold back into the cloud. The beaked visage dissolved into smoke. The last to vanish were the fiery eyes. They searched a moment longer—then they were gone.

  Cassa Dar shook with relief. She had come near to awakening the beast at the heart of the monstrous black pit.

  Thankful to escape its attention, she urged the swamp child out of the valley and away. The sun was disappearing into the mountains to the west. She chased after it, ready to return to her friends, to Jaston.

  She glanced once more behind her. The black smudge stood out against the darkening sky. She had found what she had come seeking. There was no doubt what beast had risen from the smoke: the black wings, the sharp beak, the fiery eyes. It had been the shadow of the Wyvern, the last Weirgate. It must surely lie at the heart of the pit.

  With a heavy heart, Cassa Dar fled the devastation. In two days’ time, she would return—she and all the others.

  They had no choice.

  A shudder of dread passed through the swamp child, and far away in her castle tower, Cassa Dar made a quiet plea. “Mother above, have mercy on us all.”

  “Have you made your decision, boy?”

  Leaning on his staff, Joach frowned down at Greshym. He clenched his gloved fingers, resisting the urge to smash that satisfied smirk from the darkmage’s face. Greshym had knowledge he needed.

  The darkmage sat in a pile of moldy straw in his makeshift cell, a small cave at the end of a blind tunnel off the main og’re cavern. His arms had been tied behind him and his legs bound. There were two guards, og’res armed with clubs, posted at the end of the tunnel—the only exit.

  “The sun has set,” Greshym pressed. “What is your decision?”

  Joach crouched, his old knees cracking. He supported himself with his stone staff. “Let’s be clear—if I free you, you’ll teach me how to imbue true life into my creations, and return the winters of my youth that you stole from me.”

  “Half the winters. Half,” Greshym corrected. “That was the deal.”

  “And once you’re free, you’ll leave here.”

  “Do you think I want to stay? To be recaptured?”

  Joach narrowed his eyes. Could he trust the darkmage? Surely not, but he could not risk losing this one chance. All day long, he had stared at the dream-sculpted rose, smelled its petals, fingered its green leaves. As the sun set, he had planted the flower in the meadow outside the caves, offering fresh loam to its new roots. He had stood guard over it as the sun disappeared. It truly lived. For such magick, he would risk anything.

  As he crouched, he pictured a girl with twilight eyes and skin as warm as the desert sands. Anything—he would risk anything to touch her again, to watch her smile under moonlight.

  Greshym’s eyes glinted in the torchlight filtering from the tunnel beyond the cave. A vague smile marked his lips, but also a trace of sadness.

  Joach lowered his voice. “First tell me how you brought life into the flower without any magick. Do this and I will slice your bonds.”

  “And after that?”

  “I’ll get you past the guards. Once away, you’ll return my years, then be gone from these mountains.”

  Greshym nodded. “I’ll need a horse.”

  Joach thought for a moment, then sighed. “Agreed.”

  Greshym rolled up onto his knees. “Then let us begin our last dance. To understand what I did to the rose, you must first understand about lifeforces, the flow of energies that separates the living from the dead.” The darkmage stared across at him. “All lifeforce is the same energy, but it is made unique by each individual’s spirit. A spirit will imbue this energy with its pattern. Sculpting it, if you like, into something unique.”

  “What does this have to do with the rose?”

  “I’m getting to that, my boy. Though you have the face of an old man, you have the patience of a brash youngster.”

  “Go on,” Joach urged, irritated by the darkmage’s jovial chiding.

  Greshym sighed. “As you know, I stole a large font of your lifeforce. It aged you, making me younger.”

  Anger flared in Joach, but he bit his tongue to keep the mage talking.

  “I had to rip it from you, and it is not an easy thing to do . . . for life energy, once patterned, is immutable. It can’t change. The lifeforce that keeps me young is still patterned after you.”

  “It is still me?” Joach trembled with the horror of this thought.

  “And it wants to return to you, like a stream wants to flow down a mountainside. You are its most natural vessel, but I keep it dammed inside of me by the force of my will, nothing more. For it to flow back to you would only take a touch of my hand and the release of my will.”

  “It’s that simple?” Joach could not keep the shock out of his voice.

  “Indeed.”

  “And the rose?”

  “You created it with your own sculpting. It is as much a part of you as your arm or your leg. To bring it to life, I had only to touch its petals and will the energy I hold to flow into it—energy patterned to you, patterned the same as the rose. Once the empty cup was full, I stanched the flow and broke contact. But the rose now lived.”

  Joach sat back, stunned. “So anything I dream sculpt, I can bring to true life by pouring my own energy into it, simply willing it to live.”

  The darkmage nodded. “Some of the strongest magicks are the simplest.”

  Joach closed his eyes. A tremble passed over his limbs. If it were true, he could bring Kesla back to life! But could he trust Greshym’s word? He wanted proof first himself. He positioned his staff over his knees.

  “What are you doing?” Greshym asked.

  “Testing your word.” Joach shook back the sleeve of his cloak and exposed the stump of his wrist. He had lost the hand to this one’s gnomish dog. He passed the stump over the length of his petrified stave, calling forth the magicks inside, calling forth the sculpture of the hand stored in his staff. Hand and fingers bloomed into existence, unlined by age, as smooth as when he was young. And though he could move the fingers, even grab objects with the strength of ten men, it was cold and unfeeling, as if he wore a glove of ice over the new hand. Though Joach could grant it the illusion of life, it was still dead.

  Joach stared over at Greshym. “To bring something I sculpted to life, all I have to do is will it?”

  The darkmage nodded, gaping at his creation. Joach noticed Greshym’s eyes flick to his own scarred wrist with clear desire—the darkmage had also lost a hand, centuries ago. “If I had your gifts . . . “ he mumbled.

  “What must I do?” Joach asked.

  Greshym studied the hand. “You must let some of your life energy flow into the new sculpture. To do this, you must merely wish it so. Patterned after you, the energy will fill the void.”

  Joach stared at the dream hand. Will it to live? Could it be that simple? He closed his eyes and pictured himself whole, hale of flesh and bone. He imagined a river flowing through his blood, spreading out from his heart in all directions: down his legs, out his arms, trailing to his fingers and toes. He waited for something to happen—but nothing did. “It didn’t work!” he blurted.

  “Didn’t it?” Greshym asked.

  Joach held up his sculpted hand. Only now did he see the corded lines, the bluish veins, the paper-thin skin. It had aged. He compared it to his left hand. They were the same. “I don’t understand.” He flexed the newly created fingers, and the aged joints ached.

  “You’ve brought the dream to life—true life. It must match the age of your energy. You are old, so it is old.”

  Joach ran his new hand over his staff. He felt the rough grain and the sharp green crystals imbedded in it. This hand was real! Closing his eyes, his thoughts turned to the one hope in his heart.

  Kesla . . .

  Greshym must have read his desire. “You’ve done well here. But to bring something as complex as an entire person to life will take a significant ch
unk of your own energy—energy that you don’t have to spare.”

  Joach opened his eyes. “But you’ll return half of what you stole if I free you.”

  The darkmage nodded. “That is the deal.” A vague smile again marked Greshym’s lips.

  Joach knew that there was something yet unspoken, a trick yet to be played, but he would deal with the consequences when they arose. He could not move forward from here without the darkmage’s cooperation.

  Cradling his staff under one arm, he pulled a dagger from his cloak. “You had best keep your word, Greshym, or I’ll use this same dagger to slice your throat.” He leaned forward and cut the man’s ropes.

  Greshym rubbed his wrists and stretched his arms. “What of the guards?”

  Joach waved him aside, then pointed his staff at the spot where Greshym had sat. He unleashed one of the two spells he had prepared before coming here. It had cost him blood and would cost him again much of his stored magick, but the price of his own youth was worth it.

  Dream magick plumed from the end of his staff. Upon the stone, a figure took form, sculpted from the energies and drawn into this world. It was an exact replica of the darkmage, bound again in ropes.

  Joach took a certain amount of satisfaction from Greshym’s shocked expression. “You’ve more talent than I suspected,” Greshym mumbled. “Remarkable.”

  The replica lay limp and blue-faced. There was no life in the creation, and there never would be.

  “They’ll believe you dead,” Joach said. “You can leave with no searchers on your trail.

  Greshym frowned. “Not if they see me walking around like this.”

  Joach’s eyes narrowed. “They won’t.” He swung his staff at the darkmage’s heart.

  Greshym backed a step from the threat, but Joach cast out his second spell. Dream magicks swirled. Joach was careful not to let this magick contact the mage, lest the Blood Diary’s spell suck it away. Instead he created a shell around Greshym and summoned an illusion to mask his form. The darkmage now appeared to be an elv’in sailor, with coppery hair and pale skin. The magick would not withstand much scrutiny, and any stray hand would pass through the shell, revealing the artifice. But it would suffice for now.

  Greshym spoke through the illusion. “Well done.”

  “Be warned, I can sweep away the magick at any time and call guards if you betray your word.”

  Greshym nodded, as did his illusory counterpart. “Then let us end this matter.”

  Joach thumped to the cave entrance and called down the tunnel. “Guards! Come quickly! Something is wrong with the prisoner!”

  A shuffle sounded—then one of the og’re guards lumbered down to them.

  Joach pointed his staff toward the corner of the cell, where the dream-sculpted body lay crumpled. “Dead,” he said in the common tongue, speaking simply for the og’re to understand. “The man is dead.”

  The og’re leaned into the cell. His nostrils sniffed. “Dead,” he said thickly.

  Joach nodded. “Send a runner to the flying ship. Let them know.”

  A grunt answered him. The og’re was only too happy to leave; death unsettled the large creatures. With a final wide-eyed stare at the body, the guard knuckled away down the passage.

  Joach waved for Greshym to follow. The guards had seen him enter with an elv’in at his side, but then it had been only the illusion sculpted briefly into existence to fool them—an empty shell that was now occupied by the darkmage.

  Once out of the passage, the og’re guard bellowed to a smaller clansman in his native tongue. With a grumbled assent, the younger og’re took off at a loping run toward the cavern’s exit.

  Joach hobbled past the pair of guards and led Greshym toward the open fields. Starlight shone silver over the highland meadows, while the mountains were dark giants leaning over them. Closer at hand, cook fires of the encamped og’re army dotted the fields, and in the near woods, the glow from the si’luran forces. Though the moon was already risen, both camps still were roused and busy. It was easy to slip past unnoticed.

  Joach nodded ahead. “I’ll take you as far as the corral. Then I expect to have my winters returned to me. If there is any trickery or I’m threatened in any manner, the spell will dissolve. You will be exposed.”

  “Fair enough,” Greshym whispered.

  Joach kept a step behind the darkmage, ready for any final deceit, but Greshym just marched toward the crude stockade where a few horses were penned. In a separate stanchion stood Ror’shaf, the mountain man’s former steed. The war charger tossed his mane and nickered at their approach. Its nostrils flared, and it pawed one steel-shod hoof in the mud, clearly not liking what it sensed here.

  “I’ll choose a mount other than that black monster,” Greshym said. “It wouldn’t do to escape only to break my neck on the first trail.”

  Joach stepped to the stockade gate. “First, your final payment for your freedom.”

  The darkmage sighed. “So be it.” He turned to Joach. “It will just take a touch—like the rose, earlier.”

  Joach held out his new hand.

  Greshym placed his palm atop Joach’s. “Be ready . . . It may be jolting.”

  Joach braced, but the sensation was nothing for which he could have prepared himself—nor would he have wanted to. A warm wash of pleasure flooded into his palm and up his arm. It welled out in shuddering waves, as if fueled by a beating heart. Filling his legs, it swamped up his torso and over his head. There was a momentary sense of drowning; then his vision, blurred by the event, sharpened again. Greshym pulled his hand away. Joach stared at the darkmage, looking through the illusion of the elv’in to the man hiding inside. Greshym had aged from a young man to someone in his midwinters. His brown hair had gone to balding at the corners and appeared more drab than its coppery hues earlier. But still Greshym was far from an old man.

  “How do you feel, boy?” Greshym asked sourly. He was slightly unsteady on his feet. What had wonderfully filled Joach had clearly drained the darkmage.

  Joach lifted his arms, amazed at the strength he found there. He straightened the aged crook from his back and lifted one hand to feel his face. It was smooth, the skin clinging instead of sagging. A laugh tumbled from his lips, bold again, not raspy. He took a deep breath, appreciating the swell of his chest. “I’m young again.”

  “Younger,” Greshym said. “You look a man of thirty winters.”

  Joach didn’t care. Compared to a moment before, he felt as young as a newborn babe. Laughter again rose unbidden.

  “Am I free to go now?” Greshym asked.

  Joach thought of betraying the man and dragging him back to his cell; but Greshym had kept his word, and so would he. “Go, begone from here. None will look for you.”

  Greshym unhitched the corral gate and fetched one of the horses, a roan gelding. It was unsaddled, but the darkmage grabbed a bridle and reins from a hook and deftly fitted the bit. “What of your new form? Won’t the others be suspicious?”

  “It’s why I created the dead golem of your form to leave behind. Not only will it keep anyone from looking for you, it supplies a reason for my returned age.”

  Greshym used a rung of the stockade to hoist himself bareback atop his mount. He walked the horse out of the corral.

  “I see. You’ll claim some of your stolen life automatically returned to you with my death. How convenient.”

  Joach shrugged. “Do not come back.”

  “Fear not in that. I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome as it is.”

  Greshym glanced back over at Joach. “Oh, one other thing—Enjoy your youth while you can.”

  “What do you mean?” Joach felt a trickle of dread cut through his joy.

  “If you wish to bring Kesla back, it’ll take everything I just gave you.”

  Joach clenched a fist. “What—?”

  Greshym held up his one hand. “I am a man of my word. I’ve given all I said I would. You’ll be able to bring her back; then you’ll return to th
e age you were a moment ago—an old, bent-backed graybeard. But Kesla will live.”

  Joach relaxed his hand. As much as it galled him, he knew the darkmage was right. As long as he could bring Kesla back from her sandy grave, what did it matter? To give up these years in trade for her life was a small price.

  Greshym sighed. “I truly hate to see you so miserable. For your help, I’ll grant you a final bit of knowledge for free. There is a way you can have both: Kesla and your youth.”

  “How?” Joach stepped closer.

  “Think, boy. Why did I pursue your sister so ardently?”

  Joach frowned.

  “The book! The Blood Diary! It grants Elena immortality, a font of lifeforces without end. You must merely destroy the book and absorb those energies yourself. You’ll have more than enough to both grant Kesla her life and maintain your youthful vigor.” Greshym turned and legged his horse on. “You’ve grown, my boy! Don’t stop when you’re halfway to everything you dream!”

  Joach watched him ride off. He didn’t know whether to thank him or curse him. Instead, he simply turned and walked back to camp. He had much to ponder, but as he did so, he appreciated the length of his stride, the sureness of his step, and the strength of his joints.

  He had indeed much to ponder.

  From the edge of a copse, Mogweed watched Elena’s brother stride away from the horse corral. What had he just witnessed? He kept crouched until the elv’in on the horse had vanished into the rimwood forest to the west. Then he rose and stared back toward the og’re caves.

  What magick was this? The elv’in had touched Joach, and the man had grown younger before his eyes, his back straightening, the winters falling from his features like leaves from a tree. Even his hair had darkened from a silver-gray to a rich auburn, a match to his sister.

  Mogweed frowned. Perhaps it was some illusion. Elena’s brother was skilled in dream magicks, though he never suspected the man of such skill. Even Joach’s stride as he left the corral was sure and firm. Could mere illusion quicken an ancient’s step?

  He shook his head; it was no concern of his. He had come here with the rising moon, but he had not yet built up the steel in his veins to do what had to be done. He dared wait no longer. Mogweed slipped back into the darker shadows under the trees.