She ducked back as the bird swooped at her. Elena gasped as its bright wings suddenly flashed wide. Its plummet ended as it landed gracefully on the ship’s rail. It perched, panting through its open beak, wings held slightly open to cool its flight.
The sharp fiery brilliance of its plumage faded enough to reveal the snowy white of its feathers. Its black eyes studied Elena, head slightly cocked.
“It’s the sunhawk,” Meric said, awe in his voice.
The elv’in stepped around Elena as she carefully stood up, cautious of any sudden movement in front of the huge bird. It had to stand at least four hands tall. “A sunhawk?” she asked. Elena remembered the smaller moon’falcon that had led Meric to her so long ago.
“It’s Queen Tratal’s bird,” he answered. “The herald of the House of the Morning Star.”
Flint had joined them by now. “But why is it here?” he asked.
Meric turned to them all. “She comes. The queen herself has left Stormhaven.”
“But why?” Elena asked.
He turned to her, his eyes full of worry. “She comes to reclaim the lands from which our ancestors have been banished.” He waved toward the bird. “The flight of her sunhawk heralds the eve of war.”
SENSATIONS RETURNED LIKE an old nightmare.
First, a whisper across his skin, a touch so cold that it felt more like a burn. Then sound: a chorus of wails, distant but also as near as a lover’s breath. The cries echoed inside his skull, begging him back to oblivion. He fought against this urge, swimming up from the drowning blackness. His reward for his effort was a final explosion of senses: a choking stench that reeked of death, and a burst of white light that shattered the darkness into fragments.
“He wakes,” a voice spoke from beyond the blinding brilliance.
Floundering in the sea of sensations, the drowning victim finally surfaced. Fragments of vision collected back together like a child’s puzzle. He lay on his back atop a slab of stone: hard, unyielding, as cold as the marble of a crypt. The brush of icy air across his skin revealed his nakedness.
As his head lolled to the side, he saw walls of stacked granite blocks. Slitted windows, high up the walls, brought in little sunlight, only cold breezes.
Again the coarse voice spoke from behind him. “He resists.”
Another voice answered. It was oddly familiar, a whisper from some long-dead past. “His magick still protects him. He’ll not be turned by the black arts.”
The listener fought to understand these words, but for now, he only lived in his senses; who spoke was of no concern. Even who he was himself was a question that had yet to arise in his fuddled mind.
“What do we do with him then? He should’ve died when he entered the Weir.”
“His iron ward,” the naggingly familiar voice answered. “The talisman had the power to open it. As to surviving that dark path, again the magick in the Blood Diary protects him.”
As the sleeper continued to wake fully, his mind began noting more than just smells and shivering skin. He began to focus again on more important concerns. Who were these others? His hand rose to touch his face, to run a fingertip over his lips. Who am I?
“Forget this new plan. We should just kill him,” the coarse voice insisted. The listener now sensed it was an old man who spoke, his voice harsh with many winters.
“No,” the other answered. This was a young voice, full of youth’s strength.
“Why? What difference does it make? The wit’ch will still come. She will believe him dead. Why not make it true?”
“Whether the child comes or not does not bear on my decision.”
“But Elena should be . . .”
Around him, the voices and room faded. One word rose to shine like a torch before his awareness: Elena. An image bloomed to replace the single word: eyes of commanding green, cheek and neck softly curved, hair the color of a fiery sunset. With this one memory, the rest began to return.
At first just a trickle of images: An iron hand raised toward a black sculpture . . . The rip of reality as the stone of the statue became a pool of black energies . . . His struggling body caught and dragged by a fierce tidal pull toward the pool’s black maw . . . Then . . . then . . . a darkness so deep and ancient that there were no words to describe it.
He shuddered against the memory, pushing it away.
As he did so, other memories rushed back in, a raging torrent of old faces, old tales. Five centuries of memories quickly refilled the yawning void in his awareness.
Mother above, what had he done?
Er’ril gasped as his thoughts were again his own. He struggled to sit up, anger and pain heating his naked skin. “Elena . . .” he mumbled in apology.
To either side of him, two figures stepped into sight.
He knew well the dark-robed elder, his hoary face ravaged by time, his eyes gone cloudy from centuries of passing winters. “Greshym.”
The old darkmage bowed his head mockingly and raised his stumped right wrist in a crude salute. “So I see your mind finally wakes, too.”
Er’ril ignored him and turned to the other man. Where the darkmage was bent-backed and crooked, this other stood tall, straight, and broad of shoulder. Under black hair neatly cropped, eyes that matched Er’ril’s own stared back at him. They were the gray of a snowy winter morn, the mark of a true Standi plainsman. But instead of finding the warmth of a shared heritage in the other’s gaze, only coldness and blackness shone forth, as if Er’ril stared into an open grave. Too shocked, he found no words to speak.
The other was not so incapacitated. “Welcome, dear brother,” he said, “it’s been a long time.”
“Shorkan,” Er’ril finally croaked out.
His brother’s smile held no warmth, only the promise of pain. “It’s about time we were reacquainted.”
Er’ril spat in his face. “You are not my brother, only a beast who wears his face.”
Shorkan did not bother to wipe the spittle from his cheek. He only sighed. “You will learn to love me again. That I promise.”
“Never!” he answered with a snarl.
Raising a hand, Shorkan signaled with his fingers. From behind Er’ril, a third spectator stepped forward, a spy who had so far remained silent.
As Er’ril recognized this other, the shock almost thrust him back into dark oblivion. “No!” he said, remembering that night in the inn so long ago, his sword thrust through the back of the boy, pinning him to the planks. “I slew you!”
The small lad shrugged, his eyes bright with a feral light. “Don’t worry, plainsman. I don’t hold it against you. It would take more than an ordinary sword to sever my ties to this world.”
It was Denal, the boy mage—and the third and final member of the coven who had forged the Blood Diary five centuries ago. Or at least it was what was left of him, the evil that had been freed by the spell. At the time, Er’ril had thought he had slain the boy’s evil half.
Shorkan stepped forward. “Now that we have all the parties reunited from that fateful night in Winterfell, we can proceed.”
Er’ril stared at the coven. “I will not let any of you harm Elena.”
“You mistake my intentions, Brother. With you finally here, the wit’ch hardly matters. If we succeed, she will be but a plaything of the master.”
“Succeed at what?”
Greshym answered, his voice cracking. “At correcting our mistake.”
Er’ril glanced around the group of heartless faces and brutal eyes.
Shorkan finished the explanation. “Together again, with your help, we mean to recast the spell and unbind the book. To destroy forever the Blood Diary.”
Book Three
DRAGONFOLK
13
DEEP WITHIN THE belly of the leviathan, Kast felt trapped. Living walls surrounded him. As he followed Sy-wen, he ran a hand along the twisting corridor. The sea creature’s leathery skin was drawn taut between struts of bone. Under his palm, he felt the tremor of the giant beast
’s heartbeat.
With a small shudder, he withdrew his hand. To live and make a home inside another creature was a concept too foreign for his Dre’rendi mind to fully grasp or accept. As a Bloodrider, the open air and the wide sea were his true home, not this world of cramped corridors and tiny cells burrowed under the skin of a gigantic beast that swam leagues under the sea.
Sy-wen seemed to sense his discomfort. She glanced back over a slim shoulder at him. Wiping back strands of flowing green hair, she spoke to him with a worried set to her lips. “It’s only a little farther. The council chamber is just ahead.”
Kast nodded, little comforted, and continued after the small mer’ai girl. Around him, the eternal soft phosphorescent glow from the walls had begun to strain his eyes with its weak light. Under his bare feet, the living floor yielded with each step, adding to his sense of disorientation and unease. It took practice to walk on this spongy footing.
As he concentrated on his steps, he noted that even the air felt wrong. It was too moist. He had learned that the giant leviathans somehow harvested fresh air from the sea’s waters and used it to fill these chambers and corridors they shared with the mer’ai.
Kast shuddered and closed the distance with Sy-wen. He sought to distract himself from these distasteful surroundings. “Do you think your mother will agree to your plan?” he asked as he reached her side.
Sy-wen shrugged. “It does not matter. Mother is just one of five elders. We must convince them all.”
“But if we could sway her, the others might come in line. She may be our best chance of getting a foothold in the council on this matter.”
Sy-wen’s pace slowed. “I fear my mother may be the hardest to convince. After I almost got Conch killed . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“But you also saved your mother’s dragon’s life.”
“No. It was the blood of Ragnar’k that healed his deep wounds.” Sy-wen stopped and turned to Kast. “Since I returned from A’loa Glen, my mother will hardly look me in the eye, let alone speak to me. Even though she and the council have agreed to help in the battle to come, she still bears a hatred for all things associated with the lan’dwellers—and now that includes me. She fears me lost to the world of rock and dirt. So do not place much trust on our blood relations to sway her opinion.”
“But she and the council did agree to join forces in the coming battle.”
“Yes, to honor our people’s ancient debts to the mages of A’loa Glen for aiding our escape from the Gul’gotha, not from any real feeling of loyalty or concern for the people of Alasea.” Sy-wen turned away and continued down the narrow corridor. “My mother bears no love for any lan’dwellers.”
They continued the rest of the way in silence. Kast did not know how to end this melancholy in Sy-wen. Ever since they had left the coast to search for the Bloodriders and their dragon-prowed warships, she had sunk into a deep somberness that could not be shaken. Kast could blame his own sour feelings on the surroundings; almost a moon had passed since he had last seen the sky, and he grew more and more anxious as each day wore on. But this was Sy-wen’s home. To be here should make her happy.
As Kast followed the young woman, his eyes traced the curve of her bare back and the smooth lines under her snug sharkskin breeches. He had yet to grow accustomed to the concept that he and this mer’ai girl were bonded. His fingers wandered to his cheek and brushed across the tattoo inked in magick and poisonous dyes that ran from neck to ear. He knew what lay there: a coiled dragon of black scale and red eyes, the seadragon Ragnar’k. Here was Sy-wen’s true bonded: the dragon that hid under his own skin.
Kast felt a slight warmth heat his skin as his fingers touched the tattoo. Emotions warred in his breast. A part of him raged against the curse that had been laid upon him—to be forever half dragon, half man. But another part only wished for Sy-wen to stare him in the eye and reach to his cheek, to once again feel the burn and ecstasy of her touch on his skin, to once again become her full bonded. But was this his own wish or the dream of the dragon Ragnar’k, striving to be released again?
Shaking his head, Kast followed Sy-wen. Dragon or not, he was also a man. And though his thoughts were swirled, one thing was clear. Since first they had met, his blood had stirred with the sight of her. Not from ancient blood debts or whispers of magickal bonds; it was as if a hole in his heart, an emptiness that he had never known was even there, had been filled. He knew in some way she completed him—and there lay most of his resentment for his curse. Kast did not want to share her with the dragon that hid inside him. But this, in turn, led to even more questions, worries that kept him awake long into the night as he tried to sleep: Just who was Sy-wen truly bonded to? Kast or Ragnar’k? And if the dragon was not present, would she still even acknowledge Kast or welcome him?
Kast sensed that these same worries wrestled in Sy-wen, too. He caught her sidelong glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her silver eyes appraising him. He also saw the confusion in her gaze. It was clear she mistrusted her feelings. How much of her desire for him was magick-born? And how much came from her true heart?
Kast wished he had the answers. But ever since their trials on the island of A’loa Glen, Sy-wen had kept a wary distance from him, refusing to discuss it. She was not ready to explore those answers yet.
“We’re here,” Sy-wen said, a flicker of anxiety in her voice. She had stopped and now pointed to where the passage ended. “The council chamber.”
Ahead, a mer’ai guard stood stiffly by a blockage in the corridor. Like Sy-wen, he wore only a pair of sharkskin breeches, his oiled and hairless chest almost aglow in the shine from the walls. His hair, a mane of light green with hues of copper, was loose and draped to his waist. In his hand, he bore a long spear of shark tooth.
As they approached, he spoke. “Mistress Sy-wen, welcome. Your mother and the others await you.”
The guard did not even bother to glance Kast’s way. By now, Kast was used to such an affront: the mer’ai had little warmth for those who lived above the waves. The name lan’dwellers was used as a vicious slur among these people.
Sy-wen, though, bristled at every barb thrown at him. Even now, her cheeks reddened and she stared the guard down, not acknowledging his greeting until he corrected this slight in courtesy.
Finally, through clenched teeth, the guard spoke. “And of course, Master Kast. The council awaits you both.”
Sy-wen nodded, unsmiling and cold. “Thank you, Bridlyn. If you would announce us to the elders—both of us . . .”
He bowed again and pressed the center of the flap of ruffled leathery tissue that blocked the way further. Instead of swinging clear like a hinged door, the way ahead opened like a puckered mouth, the thick tissue spreading open from the center to bunch along the walls and floor.
Though a common sight, it still made Kast queasy. There was no mistaking this passage as an ordinary corridor.
Stepping through the “doorway,” the guard led the way into the chamber beyond. Bridlyn made their formal introductions, but Kast was too stunned by his view of the room to even hear him.
The chamber, though relatively small, appeared huge. This illusion was created by the wall to one side. Here the leviathan’s skin was as clear as blown crystal. The deep blue of the ocean seemed to spread forever. Around and above, schools of yellowfin and waving strands of kelp swept past the slowly swimming behemoth. Below, the landscape of rock and coral was festooned with anemones like living jewels, some aglow with their own inner light. In the distance, Kast even spotted several mer’ai patrols atop their seadragons, mounts of every color: jade, alabaster, copper, gold.
The view trapped Kast’s breath. He did not even know his feet had stopped until Sy-wen touched his elbow and drew him down a set of bone stairs. Still he could only follow slowly, his eyes wide, drinking in the sights.
Once he reached the floor of the chamber, his initial shock faded to simple wonder. He found himself able to concentrate again on the c
onversations around him. Bridlyn was already heading back up the stairs; he wore a disdainful smirk at Kast’s reaction to the view. The guard’s scorn helped sober Kast further. Kast was done acting the awestruck child.
Turning his back on the window, Kast focused on the remainder of the chamber. Before him, seated along a curved table of polished coral, were the five elders of the council. Sy-wen already stood before the table, facing the elders.
Kast recognized Sy-wen’s mother among them, a stately woman with her daughter’s features. But the warmth and spark in Sy-wen’s eyes had long gone to ash in the gaze of her mother. “It was the death of my father,” Sy-wen had explained earlier. “Something in my mother died then, too.”
Even now, the presence of her daughter failed to bring any familial glow to the woman’s cold eyes.
Kast could sense Sy-wen’s hurt, the way her shoulders were not as straight and the way her hands, clamped behind her back, clutched with whitened knuckles. She refused to speak directly to her mother, instead speaking to the senior elder of the council, Master Edyll.
“We come with a request,” she stated briskly to the old man.
“So it would seem, child,” he answered her. Master Edyll was ancient for a mer’ai. His hair had gone to full silver, but there was no mistaking the sharp intelligence in his old eyes or the gentle humor in the bend of his lips. “But what has you so stiff and formal? Have you already forgotten how I once bounced you on my knee?”
“Of course not, Uncle . . . um, I mean Master Edyll.”
Kast stepped beside the now blushing girl and placed a hand on Sy-wen’s shoulder. He spoke into her awkwardness. “If I might speak . . . ?”
Some of the humor faded from the elder’s lips, but not all. “Please elaborate then, Master Kast.”
“Sy-wen and I request permission to leave the leviathan.”
“To what purpose?”
“The mer’ai legions have scoured the Shoals now for nearly a full moon. And as of yet, the Bloodriders escape us. Time runs short.”
Wit'ch War (v5) Page 26
