He cursed under his breath as he struggled down the stair. So why had he lied to Shorkan about his real reason for his interest in the Diary’s destruction? It was not, as he had explained, to keep the wit’ch from gaining it. No, he wanted the book destroyed for his own selfish reason.
He spat on the dusty floor. He had lied because Shorkan would never understand. The fool seemed content with his wounded spirit. And why shouldn’t he be content? Shorkan had everything. Not only did he have boundless power and the freedom of an unlocked heart, but he also had something Greshym did not: youth.
Shorkan never aged. He appeared the same black-haired young man as when the book was forged, still vital with youthful energy. The passing of winters had left him untouched. Whereas, due to some trick in the magicks, Greshym’s body had continued to age. His joints grew hoary with pain, his eyes bloomed with cataracts, and his hair fell from his wrinkling skin.
Whenever Greshym saw Shorkan standing tall and handsome in his tower room, his heart burned with the injustice. This disparity wore on him as his body declined. Like water dripping on rock, it dug a well of discontent deeper and deeper into his spirit.
He had been treated most foully and was determined to reverse this injustice. Over the centuries, he had studied the black arts in secret—reading texts bound in runes, practicing on small animals and children—until at long last he had come upon a method to regain his youth. It could work, but it first required freeing his spirit’s other half—and to do that, the book must be destroyed!
To this end, he would let nothing stand in his way. He cared naught for his allegiances to the Dark Lord, nor for his promises to Shorkan. His unfettered heart felt no compulsion to obey these two who thought themselves his masters. The book had freed him to act on his heart’s desires, and in this matter, too, he would do as his spirit willed.
Greshym continued through the halls of the sprawling Edifice, striking the oak of his staff hard on the stone.
Let all who stood in his way burn!
He stopped at the crossing of two halls and leaned heavily on his staff as he glanced down each hall. As he stood, breathing harshly through clenched teeth, his shoulder was bumped from behind, almost knocking him down. Twisting around, he swung on his assailant.
It was only the cursed boy. He snapped his staff forward and struck the boy across the ribs. “Keep back from me,” he hissed.
Unfazed, the boy did not even blink, just stumbled a step away then stood staring at him with that omnipresent glaze in his eyes.
Greshym swung back to study the hallways. The boy was like a rash on his skin: always there, a constant irritation. He shook his head, dismissing the irritation, and considered the choice of halls. His hips ached, and the thought of his soft bed tempted him back to his cell, but if he was ever to regain strength and vigor in his limbs, now was not the time to listen to complaining joints.
With the wit’ch under way, he must delay no further. Who knew how long before she came knocking on the door to the Edifice? If he was to succeed, he had to begin now. Decided, he set off down the hallway to the right.
“Follow,” he called to the boy, “but keep one pace away from me!”
The hall led away from his room and toward the Grand Courtyard. Greshym scowled at the thought of crossing the decaying park contained within the walls of the courtyard. While he reveled in its rotted wood and brine-choked roots, its occasional cluster of thriving green leaves or single bright blossom always reminded him of its former grandeur. These shards of past glories galled him and sickened his belly with old memories. Yet this was not the real reason he detested the Grand Courtyard. In truth, a small part of him feared the place. Traces of Chyric magick, sustained and preserved over the centuries, still lay like pools of poison among the gardens.
The Grand Courtyard, nestled in the center of the Edifice, had been the nexus of Chyric power for the entire city. It was the root from which all of A’loa Glen grew. Though the city itself was now long dead, echoes of its magicks still whispered along its garden paths.
Greshym pulled his shoulders tighter together. He hated the place. Yet, this day, he had no choice but to walk its paths. The only way to the catacombs was through the courtyard.
He continued down the long hall with the boy in tow. Footsore, his ankles throbbing, his heart beating like a scared rabbit in his chest, he finally reached the gilt-and-glass doors that led to the courtyard.
The two doors towered twice the height of a man and contained an inlay of stained glass and crystal that formed a pair of the entwining branches of a rose bush, its thorns glistening in the afternoon sunlight. The roses themselves were crafted from ruby and heartstone—the twin symbols of the Order. Whole townships could be bought for the price of one of those roses.
Flanking the doors, two guards bearing long swords stood to either side of the threshold. One stepped forward and swung open the door for the white-robed brother.
Nothing was denied a brother of the Order.
Greshym bowed his head in thanks and passed through the portal into sunlight. The boy followed in his usual shambling gait. Squinting, he looked into the Grand Courtyard and remembered another reason he hated the place. Speckled like white mold on an old corpse, others of his white-robed brethren moved through the relic of a garden. He had forgotten how crowded the courtyard could be, especially when the sea mists lifted and the sunlight shone brightly.
He suppressed a groan and stepped farther within the garden.
“Brother Greshym?” A voice rose to his left. He heard the scrape of loose rock as someone stood up near the edge of one of the graveled paths. “How delightful to see you up and about! The sun has been drawing out everyone today.”
Greshym turned toward the speaker, but he kept the edge of his cowl tilted down to partially hide his face. How had the cursed fool recognized him? Then he remembered the boy. Of course, everyone knew his doltish servant. Even now he saw the man glance pitifully at the spell-cast boy.
“Why, Brother Treet,” Greshym answered, attempting to squeeze the irritation out of his voice. “A truly handsome day it is. How could I resist? My old bones were craving warmth and dragged me down here.”
The pudgy man, his cowl thrown open to the sunshine, smiled. Hair the color of dried mud lay sparse on his exposed pate, and his eyes were too far apart. He looked like a surprised cow, Greshym thought.
Suddenly the balding man’s eyes widened. “Oh! Then you haven’t heard!”
Greshym inwardly groaned. Gossip ran like wild dogs through the halls of the Edifice, thrashing all in its path. He did not have time for this nonsense and pretended not to hear the man’s words. At his age it was easy feigning deafness. “I . . . I should be going before my ol’ legs give out on me. This winter’s damp still has a grip on my creaking knees.” He leaned heavily on his staff in emphasis.
“Why then, a little walk in the gardens is just what you need,” Brother Treet said consolingly. “I’ll come with you.”
“How kind, but there’s no need. I have my boy here.” He began to turn away.
“Nonsense. I must take you to see the koa’kona tree. You can’t miss this.”
Greshym almost cringed at his words. “I don’t have time—”
“Ah, then you truly haven’t heard, have you?” The glee of someone with a secret to reveal was rich in Brother Treet’s voice. “Come. Come see. It’s wondrous. An omen of good fortune.”
As much as Greshym balked at stepping within a stone’s throw of the monstrous dead tree in the center of the gardens, Brother Treet’s excitement piqued his curiosity. What was the daft man spewing about? “What is this talk of good omens?”
“I won’t ruin the surprise. You must see for yourself.” Brother Treet led the way down a gravel path, his sandals crunching loudly in the quiet garden.
Greshym followed the pudgy man. Hiding his scowl, he waved the boy to stay near his heels. Of all the traces of ancient Chyric magicks, the koa’kona tree at the gard
en’s heart was the most potent. Its limbs had once stretched far into the sky, higher than any of the city’s spires. Before dying, its trunk had grown so thick that ten men with linked arms could not circle its girth. The mighty tree had once shaded the entire garden under its green-and-silver leaves, and at night, its purple blossoms would open and begin glowing like a thousand sapphire stars.
To the people of A’loa Glen, the tree had been the living heart of the city.
Yet, as majestic as the tree appeared, it was nothing compared to its roots, poking like massive gnarled knees near its base. The roots dug deep into the island and spread like a web under the city. To those in power, here lay the true heart of the city. The old mages of A’loa Glen would concentrate their magick into the tree’s roots, creating a living nexus of energy. Then the roots’ thousand branches, crisscrossing and winding under the city, would spread the magick throughout A’loa Glen, sustaining its spell-cast spires and other impossible wonders.
But that was long ago.
As he marched after his fellow brother, Greshym stared up at the long-dead tree and felt a twinge of sympathy. Time had been no kinder to the tree than to Greshym. After the fall of A’loa Glen, the tree had succumbed to the ravages of passing winters and the loss of sustaining magick. Now the tree was a skeleton of tiered branches, most of its limbs long rotted and fallen to decay. Occasionally though, like a dying man opening his eyes to peek one last time at the world, a few leaves would grow in small clumps on one branch or another. But it had been ages since even that had occurred.
The tree was now just a lifeless monument.
But dead or not, Greshym still shied from its presence. Whispers of ancient magicks seemed drawn to the tree, hanging about its branches like moss. Though these traces of ancient magicks were weak, there was still danger. It was an intricate weaving of black magicks that kept death from Greshym’s heart, a fine web of power and blood, and even a passing drift of Chyric magick could unravel or weaken a part of the complex black spell that sustained him.
So Greshym had learned to walk with care among the decaying gardens of the Grand Courtyard, especially near the koa’kona tree. But this day, he did not have much choice. Though his mission to the catacombs required traveling the edges of the courtyard, it was curiosity that drew him toward its heart. He knew better than to risk such a path, but when his blood developed a desire, Greshym was not easily dissuaded. So he followed Brother Treet deeper and deeper into the gardens, passing other brethren along the way.
Greshym noted that as he neared the tree the number of white-robed brothers who gathered there grew, becoming a solemn pilgrimage to the tree. Some brothers led others, heads bowed in whispers, while others walked singly, eyes raised toward the barren branches. What was luring such numbers of his studious brethren?
With each labored step, his curiosity grew. Why hadn’t he heard of any of this? Anger became mixed with curiosity. He stared at the sheer number of white robes descending on the tree. Why had he heard nothing?
As if reading his thoughts, Brother Treet answered. “It just appeared this morning. But news is traveling fast.”
“What?” Greshym snapped, no longer capable of feigning an affable good nature.
Brother Treet glanced toward him at his sharp retort.
Greshym collected himself and waved the man on. “I’m sorry, Brother Treet. It’s my old joints complaining and being testy. I’m afraid this trip may not have been a good idea.”
His words seemed to console his guide. “No worries, Brother. We’re here.” Treet turned forward and gently pushed the gathered men aside. “Make room,” he scolded. “Let an older brother through.”
The sea of robes parted. Brother Treet stepped aside to allow Greshym to pass forward. “It’s a sign, an omen,” he said breathlessly as Greshym limped past. “I just know it!”
Greshym feigned a misstep, crushing Brother Treet’s foot with his staff as he struggled among the gawkers. Only the sinking gravel kept the man’s toes from breaking, but the pain purpled his pudgy face. Greshym continued on as if unaware of the harm he had caused. He finally reached the shadow of the tree’s trunk.
Around him hushed voices whispered in prayer and astonishment. Just overhead—Greshym had to crane his neck backward—a low-hanging branch ended in a small cluster of green leaves.
Greshym scowled. It had been almost two decades since the tree had sprouted any growth. A stray breeze fluttered the patch of leaves, their silvery undersides flashing and dancing in the sun. The crowd murmured in awe at the sight.
Is this what drew them all? From within his cowl, Greshym grimaced his disdain. A handful of leaves!
He was about to turn away when brightness caught his eye. Buried within the cluster of leaves, a spark of color flashed—a sapphire blazing in a fluttering sea of green and silver. A purple blossom! Curled and closed in slumber, it rocked gently on its branch.
Greshym stared in shock, his bleary eyes struggling to understand. The koa’kona had not bloomed in over two hundred winters! Yet there it was! Hanging and rolling in the sea breeze, a lone jewel from the distant past.
He backed a step away. He suddenly felt it: like a chill that passes down a spine, raising the smallest hairs. He backed another step, bumping into the boy who stood ever present at his shoulder. Too stunned to scold, he just herded the boy behind him as he retreated. But the chilling sense of danger crept after him. He recognized his unease—and its source. It was Chyric power, white magick, flowing out from the single bright blossom. He had not felt its touch so strong since ages long lost.
His eyes wild, his staff knocking knees and shins, he stumbled back as the crowd surged forward, their voices suddenly rising loud with astonishment.
“Sweet Mother!” someone called at his shoulder.
“It is a miracle!” another exclaimed in wonder.
All about him, voices echoed these words. Somewhere a bell began ringing.
Greshym’s heart clamored in his breast; his breath choked him. He stared in horror.
Overhead, the blossom’s petals slowly opened. A gentle light glowed from their heart, brightening the petals with a soft azure luminescence.
Greshym recognized this gentle radiance.
It was the glow of Chi.
JOACH STUMBLED BACKWARD as the darkmage herded him away from the tree. If not for the press of the other white-robed brothers, he would have fallen over his own tripping feet. His legs felt numb and tingled with tiny pinpricks. He reached out and clutched at the sleeve of a neighboring brother to secure his stance, but even his fingers, numb and tingling, failed him, and cloth slipped from his palm.
A choking gasp escaped his throat as he realized what was happening. Thankfully, the rattling noise was lost in the commotion of raised voices around him. No eyes looked in his direction. His vision squeezed toward darkness as he moved one limb, then another. First, he took a step back, then raised his hand before his face and clenched his hand into a fist.
Free! Sweet Mother, he was free of his prison! His body was once again his own.
The tingling in his flesh quickly faded to echoes along his bones as the spell of binding unraveled. Unsure what had freed him, Joach continued to retreat through the crowd, the darkmage backing with him. So far, Greshym had failed to notice the change.
A skinny white-robed brother turned in his direction as he bumped past. Eyes wide with wonder, the man’s voice was dazed, his words breathless. “It’s a miracle. Can you not feel the magick?”
Joach did not know what the fool was talking about. He tried to flee, but the man had gripped his arm with excited fingers. “Look,” the brother said, pointing with his other hand toward the huge tree’s limbs. “Its flower blooms in daylight! It’s a sign!”
In reflex, Joach’s eyes drew to where the man pointed. He spied a drooping purple flower buried within a cluster of leaves. The petals appeared to glow from under the shadows of the wide leaves—probably a trick of light.
Yet, as his eyes settled upon the flower, a calm overtook his hammering heart. Like the touch of a summer sun on his cold skin after diving deep into the chilly waters of Torcrest Pond, it warmed through his body. Somehow Joach understood that here lay the key that had freed him from prison. He did not understand how or why, only that some magick in that glowing flower had broken his bonds.
With this thought, as if to confirm this supposition, the petals of the flower broke apart and drifted like purple snowflakes toward the ground, their duty done. A sigh of regret rose like a mist from the crowd around him. Clearly some momentous event had been anticipated, and with the fall of petals marking the end of the miracle, disappointment rang clear in their voices.
“It’s over,” said the man beside Joach. The brother’s fingers fell from the boy’s arm.
Greshym’s voice suddenly rose from near his shoulder. “Leave my boy be,” he snapped at the skinny robed brother, but the darkmage’s voice lacked its usual fire, sounding more distracted, almost fearful. His eyes stared at the falling petals for several heartbeats. Finally turning, he waved the tip of his staff, and his gaze flashed over Joach, hardly seeing the boy. The edge had returned to his voice as the last of the petals settled to the dirt. “Leave the poor boy be. He doesn’t understand all this.”
“Well, neither do I,” said the other man. “You’re the oldest of the Order, Brother Greshym. What do you make of these events?”
“Just echoes of the past,” he mumbled harshly. “Some memory in the dead wood, like a dream coming to the surface. Nothing to get stirred up about.”
Wit'ch Storm Page 17
