The pair passed other doors, but these openings had long been bricked closed and were ignored. Down and down they wound. Only the glow held Mycof’s attention. He licked his lips. Hunger grew in his belly like a flame.
By the time the twins reached the bottom of the stairs, they were running, breath rasping though clenched teeth. On this lowest level of the Bloody Pike, a thin sheet of black water soaked the stone floor, oily with mold and aglow with the reflected light from the cellar room ahead.
With their feet splashing in the water, soaking their expensive silk slippers, Mycof and Ryman rushed for the deepest room of Rash’amon and the secret it held. They dashed through into the dank cellar.
Here the floors were no longer stone; like all good cellars, this one had a dirt floor—or more precisely, mud. Over the hundreds of passing winters, the tower had settled into Shadowbrook’s water table, and the river now swamped the dirt floor.
Ryman reached the room first, immediately sinking to his ankles in the river-soaked muck. He had to pull each foot free to move forward from here. The filth made sharp sucking noises with each step as he moved toward his goal. He had already lost both slippers to the greedy mud, but he gave them no thought. They were easily replaced. Behind him, Ryman heard Mycof struggle along with him.
Both their eyes were on the object in the center of the room, half sunk in the muck.
Crouching naked, like a toadstool growing in a black cellar, was the object of their devotion. Its squat body was a lump of bone and muscle molded by a cruel artist into only a rough approximation of limbs and torso. Its hooked nose dropped like melted wax over its fat lips, and black eyes had sunk deep into the planes of its face. Before its belly floated a spinning sphere of black ebon’stone afire with ancient memories of blood-soaked Rash’amon. Their master’s bald, craggy features were aglow in the reflected bloodfire of the globe.
It was the seeker, he who had discovered the twins five winters ago and had gifted them with the Pack, a reward for swearing their service to the Black Heart.
Mycof and Ryman fell to their knees in the thick mud, ripping the silk clothes from their bodies. Their twin faces were contorted into spasms of ecstasy and savage delight. Their normally placid features were now storms of wicked emotions.
They bowed before their god, smearing their faces in the filth, and thus displayed their allegiance to Lord Torwren, the last of the foul d’warf lords.
ER’RIL PICKED UP the final juggling dagger and set the blade to the grindstone. He positioned himself near the shadowed doorway of the warehouse where Elena huddled with Mycelle. He had been shooed away by the tall swordswoman as she examined the girl. She seemed to know more about what had happened to Elena than he did, so for now he tolerated her orders.
Around Er’ril, the other members of the troupe were involved in their own chores as they closed down the circus for the evening: boxing their props, caging and feeding Meric’s sparrows, and sweeping up their corner of the town square. To the side, Kral grumbled as he wrestled the curtains back into the wagon. The twilight sky warned of rain, and the entire circus must be wrapped up. Only the wooden stage would be left on the square, since dismantling it would be too much work.
It cost an expensive tithe to keep their stage in place, but Er’ril had at least managed to barter for the fee to include the storage of their wagon and supplies in the nearby warehouse. The troupe itself was housed in a small inn on the north side of the square, the Painted Pony. It was a shabby establishment, but Er’ril knew that the more frugal their living expenses, the sooner they would earn enough for the barge passage down to the coastal city of Land’s End.
As the others busied themselves, Er’ril honed his dagger with swift strokes upon his grindstone—but his attention was not on his work. His eyes were fixed on Elena and Mycelle. After declaring the child bewit’ched, the woman had refused to say anything further until she questioned Elena more about the odd boy who had confronted her.
As Er’ril studied the two of them, the evening gloom and fog began to roll in from the river. He set aside his grindstone, satisfied with the blade’s edge. With the scrape of metal on stone finally ended, their voices carried over to him.
“Is this where the boy appeared from?” Mycelle said. “This doorway?”
Elena nodded. “I thought him only a lost child.”
As he eavesdropped, Er’ril polished his blade with a sheen of oil and stored the knife beside the six other daggers in the wooden case. The hilts were nicked and scarred from long use, but the blades were shiny and clean, as if newly forged. He knew the value in maintaining good weapons.
Mycelle finally straightened in the doorway, drawing Er’ril’s eye with her movement. “A lost boy—now that is just like her.”
“Like who?” Elena asked.
Mycelle did not answer. She only looked around the square with her head slightly cocked, as if she were keying on a sound only heard by her ears.
Both intrigued and suspicious, Er’ril snapped closed his wooden case and crossed to join them. “I overheard you,” he said. “Have you truly a suspicion who is behind Elena’s attack?”
The tall woman only glowered at him and motioned him to silence.
Er’ril continued. “What did you mean when you said Elena’s been bewit’ched?”
Mycelle stayed silent, still listening, then shook her head. She spoke slowly to Er’ril, as if speaking to a dolt. “Bewit’ched . . . it means a wit’ch has cast a spell on her.”
The tension thickened like a rolling fog between them.
Elena spoke into the strained silence. “But I thought I was the only wit’ch?”
Mycelle smiled at her. “Now who told you that?”
Elena glanced at Er’ril.
“Men!” the woman scolded, rolling her eyes skyward. “It looks as if I came just in time.” She sighed, then continued. “Elena, you’re the only true blood wit’ch. But a few women who bear strong elemental magicks have declared themselves wit’ches of the land. Sea wit’ches, forest hags, water wit’ches. I believe it was one of these land wit’ches that has done this to you.”
“Who?”
“I have a suspicion, but it’ll take more investigating.”
By now, Meric and Fardale had come closer. The two must have also overheard Mycelle’s words. The wolf sniffed at Elena’s hand.
Er’ril glanced to the streets to see who else might be listening. The square was empty of all but a few evening stragglers. Luckily, the threat of rain had kept even these last few hurrying to accomplish their final errands before the storm blew in. None glanced toward the circus troupe.
At his elbow, the elv’in asked, “Do you think the Dark Lord is involved in this?”
“No, I sense no corruption in this magick.” But Mycelle still seemed distracted, her eyes narrowed in concentration.
The woman’s edginess slipped into Er’ril. He glanced warily about the square. “Maybe it would be best to continue this conversation at the inn,” he finally said.
Mycelle nodded. “The first wise words I’ve heard you speak, Er’ril.”
With the circus locked down for the night, Kral and Tol’chuk hauled the wagon through the barnlike gates that led inside the rafted warehouse. Two pallets lay along one wall. Tol’chuk and Fardale had been spending their nights in the storehouse, both to guard their belongings and to keep suspicious tongues from wagging about the og’re and the treewolf.
Tol’chuk at first objected about being left out of the discussions, but some silent exchange passed between him and Fardale, and he grew silent. Mycelle also laid a hand on her son’s arm. “We’ll talk soon,” she said.
Tol’chuk did not answer. He simply turned away and went to care for their horses. The troupe’s mounts were also kept at the warehouse, corralled in a small yard behind the stout structure. It was cheaper to water and care for their own mounts than to pay an additional fee to stable them at the inn. Besides, the Painted Pony’s barn was riddled with rot, a
nd rats the size of small dogs rooted through the barn’s dingy hay.
Of course, their own accommodations were not much better at the inn. The rooms were small, dark, and reeked of the fish frying constantly in the inn’s kitchen. Being a river city, siltcod and mudfish were the staple of the inn’s dinner fare, and variety did not seem to be in the cook’s vocabulary.
Once the wagon was secure, Er’ril led the others toward the inn.
As they pushed inside the cramped common room of the Painted Pony, Mycelle had her own opinion on Er’ril’s choice of accommodations. “Yes,” she said, eying the three ale-stained tables occupied by a handful of sullen-faced dockworkers, “I do believe it is high time you began traveling with a woman.”
Two of the rough men glanced in Mycelle’s direction, their eyes widening at the fine sight of the tall blond swordswoman. As a leer crept into their expressions, Mycelle stared them down, her eyes glinting with steel. The dockworkers suddenly found their mugs of ale particularly fascinating and turned away.
“Where are your rooms?” Mycelle asked.
Er’ril led the way, stopping only to order a cold supper to be prepared. “At the top of the stairs,” he said. The crooked steps creaked under his weight. “I’ve hired two rooms.”
“How generous of you,” Mycelle said sarcastically as she followed with Elena.
Soon the six of them were crowded into the larger of the two rooms. Mycelle’s perpetual scowl deepened when she surveyed the room, but she kept her sharp tongue still. The chamber’s two beds were planked cots with the barest ticking to cushion a body. The single window looked out upon the inn’s courtyard and, though open, only seemed to draw the summer heat into the room rather than cool it. To add to the stifling quality of the quarters, the low ceiling seemed to press down upon them all. Kral had to lean to keep his head from striking the rafters.
“Let’s all get settled,” Er’ril said. “It seems we have much to discuss tonight.”
Mogweed and Meric claimed one bed, while Kral and Elena sat upon the other. Only Mycelle and Er’ril still stood. The two of them faced each other like two wolves about to fight for leadership of the pack.
Mycelle spoke first. “After examining Elena’s hand, I don’t believe the bewit’ching poses an immediate risk, but more dire threats hunt these streets. Shadowbrook is a danger to her.”
“I can take care of Elena myself,” Er’ril said. “I’ve got her this far. I’ll get her to A’loa Glen. Why should we trust you?”
Kral began to answer this question. “She is Tol’chuk’s—”
But Mycelle silenced him with a glance. “If you don’t mind, I’ll tell my own story.”
And she did.
Er’ril listened with little patience as the swordswoman told of her journeys from the Western Reaches and of her time with the og’re tribes. She stared Er’ril straight in the eye as she spoke, offering no apologies for her actions. Even Er’ril could sense the truth of her words. “After Tol’chuk’s birth, I was cast out and taken in by Elena’s aunt. It was Fila who taught me who I truly was, and about the special gift born in my blood. She explained why I was so unlike the other si’lura who were content in their forest home, how this gift had driven me to leave the Western Reaches for far horizons.”
“And what was this gift?” Er’ril asked.
She nodded toward the beds. “Like Kral and Meric, I was also born with land magicks in my blood. Kral is rich in rock magicks, and Meric has the gift of wind and air.”
Both Kral and Meric glanced at her uneasily, obviously sharing Er’ril’s own concern. “How do you know about them?” Er’ril asked.
“It is my gift. I am a seeker.”
“A seeker?”
“An elemental hunter. In each generation, there are a few who are born with a special empathy for elemental magicks, those who can read the land magick in others. I am one of them. The magick in others calls out to me like a silent song. It draws me like a lodestone. This is my elemental gift.”
“And Aunt Fila discovered this in you?” Elena asked.
“She was a wise and talented woman.” Mycelle bowed her head in memory. “Due to my skills, Fila invited me into the Sisterhood and taught me how to use my magick. She knew there would come a time when the elementals would play a role in either saving or damning our lands. She once told me, ‘The wit’ch is the key, but the elementals will be the locket in which the key is kept safe.’ Fila gave me a purpose to my life.”
“But what did Aunt Fila want you to do?”
Mycelle answered, but kept her eyes focused on Er’ril. “As a seeker, I was to journey the lands of Alasea, discover those gifted with elemental powers, and warn them.”
“Warn them of what?” Er’ril asked gruffly.
“To warn them that I was not the only seeker among the lands.” She let those words sink into them before continuing. “The lord of the Gul’gotha has recruited his own seekers. They, too, scour the countryside, searching for young elementals. Where I only warned, they would rape. Imbued with tools of the Dark Lord, his seekers could corrupt the gift in these youngsters and forge them into a black army, the ill’guard, a foul legion of the most dire black magicks.”
Er’ril’s eyes widened with her story. He pictured Vira’ni’s midnight hair and smooth skin. His face darkened with the memory. He saw the shock of recognition in the others’ eyes, too. “I think . . .” he mumbled. “I think we’ve already met one of these corrupted elementals.”
Now it was Mycelle’s turn to show surprise. “You faced one of the ill’guard and survived?”
“Barely,” Elena said softly.
“Of what use is your warning?” Er’ril said with sudden heat. “If any of these elementals are caught, they can’t resist the Dark Lord.”
Mycelle reached into a pocket. “No, there is a way to resist the corrupting touch of the Gul’gotha.” She removed a jade pendant carved in the familiar shape of a tiny vial.
Elena sat straighter on the bed. “That’s just like the one Uncle Bol gave me to talk with Aunt Fila’s ghost!”
Her words crinkled Mycelle’s brow. The woman obviously did not understand what Elena meant. “I did get this from your Aunt Fila,” she conceded. “One of the Sisterhood was skilled at carving jade. As I journeyed, I passed these vials out to the elementals I discovered. If ever confronted, swallowing the contents of the vial will keep one from falling prey to their dire magicks.”
“So there is a way to resist this corruption,” Er’ril said. This revelation wounded him. If only Vira’ni had met this woman . . .
Elena’s face, though, had brightened with hope. “Does the vial contain some sort of magickal elixir?”
“So I told everyone,” she answered. For the first time, her gaze lowered to the floor. “But I spoke falsely. The vials only contain poison.”
A shocked hush spread through the room.
Mycelle continued. “Death is the only way to keep the corruption from claiming you. The Sisterhood judged it better to die than to become a mindless creature of the Dark Lord. Once possessed, there is no way back.” Mycelle paused and took a deep breath. “However, we could not risk that this selfless choice would be made by all. So I spread both the poison and the lies to ensure this would not happen.”
Mycelle glanced up, then quickly away. The horror must have been plain on everyone’s face.
Mogweed was the first to speak, his voice incredulous. “You helped kill people.”
The swordwoman raised her head and turned to face each person in the room. Her eyes were bright with threatening tears, her voice sharp. “Do not judge me! I made my own choices—and I will not recant them. I have done things that have wounded my heart. I abandoned my og’re lover and my son. I shed my own si’luran heritage, forever trapping myself in human form. I’ve given poison to children while accepting thanks from their mothers. But I will not apologize for my actions.” She frowned at Er’ril. “This is the final war. If the curse is ever to be lif
ted from our lands, we must all bleed.”
Finally, her chest heaving with emotion, she closed her eyes and lowered her voice. “This silent war between myself and the seekers of the Dark Lord has been raging since before Elena was born. Without my efforts, there would be a wall of ill’guard between you and A’loa Glen. It was my lies and poisons that cut a bloody path for the wit’ch to follow.” She opened her eyes and stared at Er’ril with an intensity that iced his bones. “Are you now too timid to walk my path?”
Er’ril swallowed, unable to answer. He did not know who frightened him more—the ill’guard or this woman with a heart of ice.
Kral was the first to speak. “We’ve all made hard choices.”
“Yes,” Elena said timidly, “but we were given the choices. These deceived innocents, these elementals who go about with poison around their necks, have had the choices taken from them. They will end their lives by their own hand without even knowing it.”
“But which is kinder?” Mogweed asked. “Knowing or not knowing?”
Glances were exchanged.
No one had an answer.
Mycelle was the first to break the silence. “You may soon discover the truth of my sentiments. Here in Shadowbrook I’ve already sensed two of the corrupted elementals, a pair of the ill’guard who hunt this city. While you debate my morals, they will have your hearts roasting on their darkfire spits.”
Her words caught their attentions and awoke the fears that had been slumbering in all their breasts since their battle with Vira’ni.
“What should we do?” Kral asked.
“We do what we must to survive,” Mycelle said, her voice thick with venom. She pocketed her vial of poison. “It’s what I’ve done all my life.”
“RISE,” THE D’WARF lord intoned, his voice a coarse itch in Mycof’s and Ryman’s ears.
The twins raised their fouled faces from the mud. Mycof could taste the dank river sludge on his lips. It was the sweetest nectar, but Mycof knew there were finer tastes still to be appreciated this night. Kneeling beside him, Ryman’s eyes mirrored his own lusts.
Wit'ch Storm Page 24
