She reached out a hand and brushed her fingers along the hard ridge between his nostril flaps. Responding to her touch, Conch nudged at her palm. Thank the Mother, he still lived!
Leaning closer to the boat’s edge, she saw the tether that leashed the dragon to the side of the skiff. Though he still lived, he was yet a prisoner of these fisherfolk.
The man named Flint must have read her thoughts. He spoke as Conch nuzzled her hand. “We mean no harm to your bondmate, child. He is gravely injured and needs a healer’s attention.”
She kept her gaze away from the men. “I can take him to our own healers,” she said, keeping silent about the incorrect assumption concerning Conch’s bonding to her. “The mer’ai are wiser in the ways of dragons than you lan’dwellers.”
“Perhaps,” he answered as the tattooed man looked on, “but I’m afraid Conch took a severe stab into his chest, puncturing his hind lung. He’ll not be able to submerge to a depth to reach your leviathan. His best hope to survive lies with the healers at A’loa Glen.”
Sy-wen crinkled her eyes at the mention of this city, distrustful. She had heard old stories of such a place, fanciful tales full of magick-wrought wonders and creatures from all the lands. Surely it was just an imaginary town.
Kast spoke from beside the rudder, his voice filled with bitterness. “A’loa Glen is a myth, Flint. What makes you think you could find a place that sailors have searched for for centuries without discovering?”
Flint nodded toward Sy-wen. “The seas hold many mysteries, do they not, Kast? How long has it been since one of the Dre’rendi has laid eyes upon a mer’ai?”
Kast lowered his eyes. “It has been many centuries . . . before the arrival of the Gul’gotha to our shores.”
“Yet, is she not flesh? Is she merely a creature of myth?”
Kast glanced at Sy-wen, then back to the old man. His eyes were hard. “But A’loa Glen has never been discovered. What makes you think you can find it?”
“Simple,” Flint said with a shrug. “It’s my home.”
Kast’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then lowered, bunching up upon his forehead like thunderclouds. “You’re daft, Flint. Your home is Port Rawl. I’ve been to your house by the Blisterberry Cliffs.”
“Ah, that’s just a place to dry my bones when I’m out of the sea.”
Sy-wen cleared her throat. She cared nothing about any of this talk. She had only one concern. “Can these healers of yours save Conch?”
“If we can get him to them alive, I believe they can.”
Sy-wen pulled her hand away from where Conch snuffled at it. Her palm was covered in black blood that blew from his wounded chest. She held the bloody hand toward the old man. “He will not live much longer.”
Flint’s eyes narrowed. The genuine concern in the old man’s face touched Sy-wen. He was truly worried about Conch, too. “I did not think his wounds were so deep,” he muttered, obviously shaken.
His concern loosened her own resolve. Her voice cracked with emotion. “Please,” she said with tears, “if you can help save him . . .”
He placed a warm palm upon her knee. “I’ll do my best.” He swung to face Kast. “We need to swing around the leeward side of the next island. Do you know the Arch of the Archipelago?”
Kast nodded. “I know the place.”
“That’s where we must go.” Flint glanced toward Conch. “And we need as much speed as you can beg from the wind.”
Sy-wen huddled on her blankets, a prayer on her lips. “Hurry,” she whispered.
Kast must have heard her. His gaze focused on her. “I will get your dragon to port alive,” he said with a rude sharpness. “The seas and winds are the heart of a Bloodrider.”
She stared back into his determined eyes, silent for several breaths.
Finally, Flint drew a hand between the two of them, severing their gaze. Once Sy-wen turned aside, the old man lowered his hand, seemingly satisfied, and nodded toward Kast. “Just make sure you keep that tattoo of yours covered.”
“Why?” Kast asked gruffly.
The old man turned his back on Kast and stared out over the water. “Old magicks, old oaths,” he mumbled, then waved away the question. “Now concentrate on the sails and rudder.”
But Kast had one more question. “If you’re from A’loa Glen,” he asked, changing the tack of the conversation as he worked the rudder, “why sign on as the first mate on the Skipjack?”
Flint still did not turn toward the other. “To keep an eye on you, Kast,” he said with a shrug, then touched his silver earring. “Your people will hold the fate of A’loa Glen in the bellies of your warships.”
LATE WITH GRESHYM’S evening meal, Joach raced down the deserted hallway, his footfalls leaving little puffs of dust as he ran. No one had been in this passage in ages. He clutched his map in one hand. Had he missed a turn? Breathless, he stopped at an intersection of halls and unfolded his scrap of parchment. With his heart beating urgently in his ears, his finger followed the charcoal lines that roughly outlined the hallways and passages of this level of the Edifice. “Curse this place,” he mumbled to himself as he realized his error. He tapped the intersection where he should have turned.
Slipping a sliver of charcoal from his pocket, he extended the detail of his map to this location. Error or not, he could not waste any bit of information he gathered on this place. Once done, he folded his map and wiped his fingers on his trousers.
He swung around and followed his steps in the dust back the way he had come. He frowned at the footprints. Perhaps he should whisk away the signs of his trespassing in these halls. Then he shook his head. Time was running short, and he still needed to reach the kitchens to collect the darkmage’s supper. Besides, no one had been this way in a long time, and Greshym would grow suspicious if he delayed much longer. For the past moon, Joach had been using the short space of time when he was sent for meals to do some exploring. But each time he had to hurry. He did not want the darkmage to grow wary if his meals came too late.
Joach reached the proper intersection and made the turn that headed toward the east staircase. He fled as fast as safety allowed, his ears pricked for any voices or the sounds of other steps. Too many denizens of the Edifice knew the addle-brained servant of Brother Greshym, and Joach could not risk anyone seeing him walk faster than his usual slow, dull-eyed shamble. Luckily, the halls remained empty, and he reached the stairs without encountering anyone.
He paused at the floor’s landing with his head cocked, listening to the stairwell. These stairs, spiraling down the inside of the easternmost tower, a tower named the Broken Spear, were seldom used. This section of the Edifice seemed to have been abandoned. Dust and debris cluttered the passages and halls. Still, Joach knew the value of caution and kept himself vigilant—and this time, it proved wise.
Faintly, he heard muttered voices echoing from far below. Someone was on the steps. Joach backed away, then shook his head and stopped. He could not wait for them to leave the stair. He had already delayed too long. So he slumped his shoulders and let a dribble of drool froth his lips. Sighing, he walked heavy footed down the stairs, practicing a stumble now and then.
He had perfected the manners of a simpleton. No one gave him more than passing notice. So he scuffled down the spiraling steps, again assuming his role of the doltish servant boy. As he progressed, the voices grew more distinct. The conversation sounded heated, angered, but the words spoken were unclear.
Curiosity perked in Joach. The brothers in A’loa Glen were always so calm and sedate, interminably cooperative with each other. Seldom were voices raised in anger. Occasionally Joach overheard debates concerning various esoterica of magick or a difference of opinion on the translation of a certain line of prophetic writing, but again discussions were always civil and respectful.
The voices on the stair, though, were anything but courteous. Maybe it was just two servants arguing over some trivial matter. The hierarchy of the servant class in the Edifice was f
ickle and often led to arguments, even the occasional fight.
Joach continued down the steps. Snatches of words began to reach him. Two distinct voices, one high and sharp, the other low and dour.
“You blaspheme . . . Such is not the way!”
“I heard it . . . Ragnar’k . . . truth in tongues of fire!”
“Ragnar’k . . . moves for no man . . .”
Joach rounded a curve in the spiraling stair and had to suppress an expression of surprise when he discovered two white-robed brothers on the steps below. They had their cowls lowered as was custom when brothers conversed.
Two faces raised to stare up at him. Joach’s left foot slipped, and he stumbled down a step. He caught his balance and kept his expression dull, incorporating his accidental misstep into his usual role. The two brothers were unknown to him. Joach was not sure they would recognize him, but he could not take any chances.
One of them nodded toward him as he shuffled down the remainder of steps. “It’s just that odd bird’s servant. You know, that old bent-backed brother.”
The other eyed Joach up and down. “Brother Greshym. I heard about his addled boy.”
The two brothers were a contrast in form. The taller of the two was massive shouldered and broad backed, with skin so dark he seemed a shadow in his robe. The other, skinny as a sapling, had skin so pale even his eyes and lips seemed bled of color. Both, though, had shaven heads and a single silver star adorning the lobe of an ear.
From the corner of his eye, Joach stared at the five-pointed stars. Perhaps they were the symbol of some chapter of the brotherhood. He had never seen their like before. As he continued down the stair, both men grew quiet. Their caution in speaking in front of him only heightened his curiosity.
Still, Joach did not stop when he reached the landing the two men shared. He did not have the time to dally and ponder these men. He still had to reach the kitchens. So he shambled past them without even a glance. Yet, as soon as he was a distance down the steps, out of the men’s direct sight, he heard their voices again.
The dark man spoke, his voice deep and more hushed now. “Brother Flint’s signal was spotted from the watchtower just after twilight. He should be arriving at the Grotto just after the sun rises tomorrow.”
Joach slowed his steps, listening.
“Then we should be off, Moris. Our time to act runs short.”
“Do you think the Praetor suspects?”
“If he does,” the smaller brother hissed, “we’re doomed, and A’loa Glen will fall.”
Joach stopped in midstep. Could it be . . . ? It sounded as if these two also knew of the evil that lurked within the walls of the Edifice. But were they allies or some competing menace? Joach chewed at his lower lip. Though his suspicions ran wild, he had grown to realize over the past moon that he needed help. All the maps and drawings he could muster would not save his sister Elena. He had to take a chance. He had to trust someone.
He turned and scrambled back toward the landing above. But when he got there, the brothers were gone. Joach checked the halls that led out into this level of the Edifice. Nothing. He listened for steps, both in the hallways and on the stairs above. It was as if the brothers had simply vanished.
He stood on the empty landing, frozen in indecision. He had no clue where the two had gone, and to search for them now would only delay Joach past the point of maintaining his ruse with Greshym. Cursing silently, he continued down the stairway toward the kitchens.
He would watch for those two men again.
ONCE THE BOY was gone from the landing, Moris pulled his eye away from the peephole in the hidden door. His large dark frame filled the tiny passage. “You were right, Geral,” he said to his small pale companion. “Your ears are sharper than mine.”
In the dim passageway, their white robes were like the lost shades of the dead. Moris could see his fellow brother turning to lead the way through the secret halls of the Edifice.
“I was sure I’d heard the boy stop after he was out of sight,” Geral said. “Who would have suspected the boy only played at being a dolt? A clever way of gleaning information. He almost exposed us. The dark forces grow more cunning here.”
Moris followed. “Do you truly think he is a tool of the Gul’gotha?”
“Of course. Why else would he maintain this ruse?” Geral glanced over his shoulder at his towering companion. “However, what it does make me wonder about is the loyalty of the boy’s supposed master, Brother Greshym. Has this revered brother also been lured to the dark magicks and do he and the boy work together, or has the boy been sent to spy upon our esteemed brother, to learn his secrets? It gives me much to ponder. I hate to think that someone named after one of our sect’s most gifted seers has given his heart to the Gul’gotha.”
“Hmm . . .” Moris considered his friend’s words. He was not as certain about the boy’s allegiance as Geral. He had seen the expression on the boy’s face as he had searched the landing. The boy was scared. It was not the face of a cunning creature of the Dark Lord, but only of a frightened child. Still he kept these thoughts to himself. Geral did not like his views questioned, and the two of them had already been arguing all day. Moris was tired of parrying words with his fellow brother. So he kept his silence on this minor matter.
“We must avoid this boy as much as possible,” Geral said.
Moris made a noncommittal grunt and fingered the silver star in his ear. In this matter, too, he disagreed. The boy deserved further attention. Moris could not so easily dismiss the fear he had seen in the lad’s eyes.
Geral continued speaking as he led the way to their concealed warren of rooms. “Our sect has kept its secret ways since before the fall of Alasea. We must be extra cautious during this pivotal time. All can be so easily lost from a loosely spoken word.”
“I know, Brother.”
Moris followed Geral’s narrow back down the winding stairs that led below the base of the abandoned tower. The stairs led deeper and deeper under the Edifice. A few flickering lamps marked their course. Soon the walls of the narrow stairway were no longer mortared blocks but simply plain rock hewn from the stone of the island itself. Eventually the stairs ended and a maze of corridors led outward.
Geral continued onward without pause. Around Moris, the corridors widened enough for his large frame to finally straighten, and the scent of mold and brine swelled in the passages. It was the scent of home.
They turned a sharp corner in the passageway, and a room larger than the Grand Ballroom of the Edifice opened before them. Even after his twenty winters as a member of this sect, Moris’ blood still thrilled at the sight.
The walls of carved rock spread like wings to either side. Imbedded in the stone were thousands of crystals, some the size of a bird’s eye, others as large as an og’re’s fist. Their facets reflected the flames of the sputtering torches to glow like a subterranean starscape.
Both brothers touched the silver stars in their ears and paused in the entryway. As impressive as the walls were, the true reverence of the room lay in the gnarled cord of root that ran from the distant roof of the chamber to the center of the floor. The knobby, crooked shank of growth, as broad as Moris’ shoulders, was the taproot for the ancient koa’kona tree, the true heart of A’loa Glen. Here was stored the last vestige of its Chyric energies.
Around the chamber, a handful of other brothers of their cryptic order had their heads bowed as they communed with the tree. Some had hands raised to one of the crystal stars on the walls, delving for prophetic visions.
Their sect, older than the Brotherhood itself and formed when Chi had still blessed the mages of the world with magick, had not abandoned their duties. They continued to work at unraveling the paths of the future through the search for prophetic visions. Long ago, their words had predicted both the disappearance of Chi from these lands and the rampage of the Gul’gotha. They had tried to warn their fellow mages, but their words were judged blasphemous. The others could not fathom that the
spirit Chi would ever abandon them, and so those of their sect were declared heretics and banned from the Order; they were exiled from the shores of A’loa Glen.
Hard truths are never easily accepted.
Yet, even the sect’s banishment had been foreseen by some members of their group. A small cadre of seers disobeyed the Order’s edict and vanished into the walls and secret corners of the Edifice. Over the hundreds of winters since, they had worked in secret. With or without the help of the Brotherhood, they prepared for the future dawn.
The sect of the Hi’fai would not abandon its duty.
Moris lowered his fingers from his silver star and stepped into the chamber. Long ago, their sect’s most powerful seer, the mage named Greshym, had spoken the vision that forged the Blood Diary. He had then sacrificed his life in the binding of the book, giving his blood to prove the validity of his vision. Could Moris offer any less?
Moris crossed to near the huge root and knelt. He himself had spoken the vision of this night—when once again Ragnar’k would move, when the blood of a dragon would mark the beginning of the battle for A’loa Glen.
Book Three
SHADOWBROOK
14
ELENA TRIED NOT to flinch as the daggers flew toward her. Two blades of honed steel flipped through the midday sunshine, reflecting sparks of brilliance as the twin knives tumbled over the heads of the onlookers. The knife thrower, Er’ril, stood on the far side of the town square, blindfolded. Even though Elena knew the fold of cloth binding Er’ril had been artfully slitted and impeded Er’ril’s sight only a bit, she still could not keep from holding her breath and squinting nervously at the descending daggers.
She heard the voice of one of the townsfolk raise nearby. “The boy’s daft! Standing there like a cow while someone throws knives at his head.”
Wit'ch Storm Page 21
