Wit'ch Fire

  He found Elena staring at him, her sadness palpable. She had lost much more to flame this past day. He touched the wick to his pipe and drew smoke into his chest. Its warmth and familiar taste melted the tension in his body, his knees almost weakening.

  “Sit,” Bol said, pointing to the only other chair by the fire. The old man remained standing near Elena.

  Er’ril dropped, sinking into the goose-down cushions. With some reservation, he removed the pipe from between his lips. “How do you know me? How did you know we would be arriving this night?”

  Bol nodded. “You ask questions of the end of the story. To understand the end you must understand the beginning.”

  “I’m listening.” Er’ril returned the pipe to his lips.

  “You have already heard me mention the Brotherhood. The Broken Brotherhood, I believe, is their full title. Let me start there.”

  “What is that?” Elena asked softly.

  Her uncle sent a puff of smoke from his chest, forming a perfect ring of gray smoke. As it wafted across the room on the waves of heat from the fire, a tiny smile formed on Elena’s lips. “Some of this you may not understand, sweetheart. But at one time in the land, there was an order of mages who wielded white magick. A spirit named Chi granted them this power, which was far stronger than the weak elemental magick inherent in the land. The Order used this power to build a wonderful civilization.”

  “That’s not the story I was taught in school,” Elena said doubtfully.

  “Not all that is taught is true.”

  “So then what happened?”

  “A long time ago, the magick suddenly vanished at a time when it was most needed. The lands were being invaded by the armies and monsters of the Gul’gotha. The mages and our people fought bravely. But without our white magick, we could not withstand the dark magick of the invaders. Alasea was defeated, its peoples subjugated, and its history destroyed.”

  “Where did our magick go?”

  Er’ril answered that question, spite thick in his voice. “It just abandoned us.”

  Bol nodded. “Only pockets and pieces of the magick still survived. The Order, without power, broke apart. But some of this group banded together to try to find and nurture the magick left in the lands. They had to do this in strict secrecy, since the Dark Lord of the Gul’gotha sought to wipe them out. So the Broken Brotherhood was formed.”

  “A secret society?” Elena asked breathlessly.

  Secret was too mild a word, Er’ril thought. To his knowledge only a handful of men still alive today knew of the cabal headquartered and hidden among the sunken remains of A’loa Glen. Few men even knew the lost city still existed, its approach guarded by the trace magick still held close to its heart. Many had sought the mythical city, but only a scant few discovered its whereabouts and dared enter. Those that did never returned.

  “But the Brotherhood made a crucial mistake,” Bol said.

  Er’ril’s eyes grew wider. What was this?

  Bol continued. “With their eyes so blinded by the powerful energies of Chi, they couldn’t appreciate the magick born to the land, even after the loss of Chi.”

  “But of what use are a few weak tricks eked from the elementals of the land?” Er’ril asked. “Of what use is that against the dark power of the Gul’gotha?”

  Bol turned to Elena. “Now you see why the Sisterhood was formed. Men see only degrees of power, while women see the warp and weave of strength’s tapestry.”

  “What is this Sisterhood?” Er’ril asked. “I’ve lived centuries and never heard a whisper of such a group. Who formed it?”

  “It is not an open group like your Brotherhood. One must be born to it.”

  “What?”

  Bol waved the tip of his pipe. “You asked who formed the Sisterhood. One person. You may even know her, or of her.”

  “Who?” Er’ril sat straighter in his chair.

  “Sisa’kofa.”

  The word was like a brick dropped into his gut. “The wit’ch of spirit and stone!” He remembered when last he had heard the blasphemous name spoken, by Greshym on the night of the Book’s forging. The one-handed mage had warned the Book would herald the rebirth of the wit’ch.

  “Yes,” Bol said. “She is my distant ancestor. Very distant. She was an ancient story even when you were a boy.”

  “You can trace your lineage to that foul wit’ch?”

  “There was nothing foul about her.” Bol’s cheeks darkened. “She was a woman granted powers equal to, and in some ways surpassing, those of men. She even bore the mark of the Rose. And men could not handle the thought of a woman wielding equal power. Lies were fabricated to discredit her.”

  Er’ril noticed Elena start at her uncle’s words, but his heart pounded too loudly in his ears for him to give her any further attention. “Impossible! Chi never granted his gifts to women.”

  “Who said anything about Chi?”

  “What? Are you suggesting elemental magick is the equal of Chi?”

  Bol blew out his cheeks, sending pipe smoke across the room. “At times, yes, I believe so. But it was not elemental magick that shared its power with Sisa’kofa.”

  “Then what?”

  “You are jumping ahead of the story again.”

  Er’ril bit his tongue to keep from rebuking the old man. Obviously Bol needed to tell the story at his own pace. “Fine. Go on,” he mumbled.

  “Near the end of Sisa’kofa’s lifetime, her magick left her, but not before promising to one day return to her descendant when most needed. Sisa’kofa was warned of a black shadow that would spread across the lands of Alasea. Just when this dark time would occur, she was never told. So Sisa’kofa formed a society of her female descendants. She taught them to prepare for her magick’s return. Sisa’kofa sensed the elementals would be critical to the eventual rebirth of light to the land, so she trained her Sisterhood in the use and respect for the elemental spirits.”

  “How do you know so much about the Sisterhood? You’re not a female descendant.”

  “I was born twin to a female, my sister Fila. Being the first male born twin to a girl, I was allowed into their secrets. My birth was believed to be a sign—that she who gave Sisa’kofa her power would be returning soon. So the Sisterhood prepared, studying all they could.” Bol swung his arm to encompass the stacks of scrolls and books. “They searched ancient texts and gleaned portents from the elementals.”

  “And what was learned?”

  “We learned the signs of her arrival and some of the key players—like yourself. We also knew the elementals would be involved. ‘Three will come’ it was written. But we knew not which ones or who. This Kral is obviously rich in rock magick. And Nee’lahn . . . She’s a nyphai, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Er’ril said.

  “She has the fire of the root strong in her. I could hardly take my eyes from her. But that last member . . . he, too, is steeped in magick, but I couldn’t tell how.”

  “Kral sensed a strangeness about him, too.”

  “He must be the third.” Uncle Bol drew on his pipe, his lids slightly closed, and sent wisps of smoke between his words. He scratched at his beard. “Though there was one oracular text that I thought spoke of the arrival of ‘someone from times past and lands lost,’ but I must have been mistaken. Unless they meant you, but I didn’t think so. Maybe I’m wrong. As I said, much that surrounds the Book is vague.”

  “You seem to know enough already. So when is this wit’ch supposed to return?”

  Bol’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, my, she already has. Didn’t you know?”

  Er’ril sat stunned.

  Bol pointed to his niece. Er’ril finally noticed how panicked the girl now appeared. “Born of the line of Sisa’kofa and birthed in fire. There sits your wit’ch.”

  22

  AFTER UNCLE BOL declared Elena a Wit’ch, silence hung like a stone over the room. Elena tried to worm deeper into the goose-down cushions of her chair. She watched the swordsman’s eyebro
ws climb higher on his forehead, his already ruddy complexion darkening further. His eyes settled on her with such force that Elena felt he peered through to her skin. Her arms rose and covered her chest in a tight hug.

  She shrank back from his eyes but raised her right hand to the firelight. “But I . . . I’m not a wit’ch any longer,” she said. “It’s gone.”

  Her uncle patted a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t work that way, honey.”

  Er’ril ignored their words. “She is just a child. How can I believe you speak the truth?”

  Uncle Bol crossed from Elena’s chair to the fire. Elena could tell from the limp in his gait and the way his shoulders hung low that her uncle neared exhaustion. But his voice remained strong. “Doubt? You have been on the road too long, Er’ril. Can you not sense the truth of my words? Why do you think that darkmage tried to snatch the girl? He sensed the power birthed in her.”

  “You ask me to use the actions of a man with a black heart as proof?”

  Her uncle warmed his hands for several long heartbeats and spoke to the flames. “You know I speak the truth.” He turned to face Er’ril. “We need the Blood Diary.”

  “So you know of the Book, too?”

  “Of course. How could we not? It’s the reason you are all here this night.”

  Er’ril’s pipe hung unused in his fingers, forgotten. “I came to return your niece. That’s all.”

  “No. The winds of fate blew you here where you were needed. The wit’ch and the Book share the same paths.”

  “My brother said nothing of this wit’ch. He said the Book had to be forged if there was to be any hope of ending this dark reign of the Gul’gotha. He knew not of this wit’ch.” He said the last word with such disgust that Elena’s cheeks reddened in shame.

  “We decided Shorkan didn’t need to know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Uncle Bol puffed on his pipe thoughtfully before continuing. “Where do you think your brother learned how to forge the Blood Diary?”

  “I don’t know. He mentioned something about old texts.”

  “The information was spirited to him from the Sisterhood. Unknown to Shorkan, we guided his hand.”

  “Impossible!”

  Uncle Bol shrugged, ignoring the swordsman’s doubt. Both men just stared at each other.

  Finally Er’ril broke the tense silence. “So my brother and I have been pawns in some game to return the heir of Sisa’kofa to the lands of Alasea. Is that what you’re hinting at?”

  “No, not at all. Your goal is the same as that of the Sisterhood: to bring the light back to our lands, to drive the Gul’gotha from our shores. But do you expect her—” Uncle Bol nodded to Elena. “—even with the Blood Diary, to be able to singly defeat the armies of the Dark Lord, let alone the Black Beast himself?”

  Er’ril’s eyes shifted to Elena. The anger in his eyes dissolved away to confusion.

  Uncle Bol continued. “It is time the Brotherhood and the Sisterhood united. The Brotherhood created and guarded the Book. The Sisterhood nurtured the elementals and prepared for the return of the wit’ch. Now is the time both must be forged into one cause and purpose—to defeat the Gul’gotha and free our lands!”

  Er’ril swung his eyes back to Bol’s wrinkled face. “How?”

  “The wit’ch and the Blood Diary must be joined.”

  “And what then?” Er’ril asked bitterly. “What have you foreseen?”

  Uncle Bol’s next words were whispered, edged with smoke from his pipe. “We don’t know. The Blood Diary is a potent talisman. Even its function is shaded in doubts. Portents swirl about it like a whirlpool, so violent that they become impossible to read. Beyond the union of wit’ch and book, nothing can be foretold. Some foresee salvation, others destruction. But most signs somehow point at both.”

  “If the future is so unclear, why chance bringing wit’ch and Book together?”

  “Because if we don’t, the oracles are all unanimous on the fate of Alasea. The land will continue following its dark path to a blackness that will swallow not just Alasea, but this world and time itself. The wit’ch and the Book must be united!”

  Elena cowered in her chair. How could she possibly be this important? She didn’t want to bear such a burden.

  Er’ril seemed equally unsure. “So where do I fit into all this?”

  “You are the guardian of the Book, the eternal watcher. Now you must extend your protection to include the wit’ch. You must guard Elena and take her to the Book.”

  “Why risk the child? Why not let me fetch the Book alone and bring it here?”

  Uncle Bol shook his head. “You will fail. It has been prophesied. For any hope of success, the wit’ch must be accompanied by the guardian and the three elementals here tonight; that we know. But be warned, even this path is shadowed, and success in reaching the Blood Diary is not assured. The journey ahead is fraught with many dangers.”

  “And I have no choice in this matter.”

  “Have you ever? Does this life of useless wandering hold such attraction for you?”

  Er’ril lowered his head. “I wish my own life back—before I ever stepped into that inn with Shorkan so long ago.”

  “That cannot be. But perhaps on this path you will find a way back to the man you once were.”

  Er’ril continued to hang his head. Elena, even though terrified by her uncle’s words, felt a twinge of sorrow for the swordsman. His very bones seemed bowed down with exhaustion and the weight of years.

  “Make your choice, Er’ril of Standi.”

  His words were whispered to the floor. “I will take her to where I hid the Book.”

  “A’loa Glen?”

  He raised his eyes. “Is there nothing hidden from you?”

  Uncle Bol shrugged. “I know only hints,” he said softly. “Words in books and scrolls. I know nothing beyond this door.”

  “The journey to A’loa Glen is a long one. And the city is guarded by sorcery. Before I can go there, I will need to retrieve the ward that unlocks the path to the city. I hid it here in the ruins of the old school. Near the—”

  Uncle Bol waved the tip of his pipe at Er’ril. “Do not tell me. The fewer who know the better.”

  A long silence followed these words.

  Elena squirmed in her seat. Her mind fought to absorb all she had heard, but most of their words made no sense. Only one thing was clear. Her own fears found voice, and she spoke, cracking the silence among them. “I don’t want to be a wit’ch.”

  Her uncle tried to smile at her in reassurance, but only succeeded in quivering his mustache. The profound sadness in his eyes shocked her. But instead of comforting her, Uncle Bol crossed in front of Er’ril, his back to her. “Earlier you asked for proof of my words.” He slipped something from inside his vest. “Do you recognize this, Er’ril?”

  Elena could still see Er’ril’s face. His mouth dropped open, and words tumbled out. “That’s Shorkan’s! Where did you find it?”

  Elena could not see what was proffered. She tilted her head, but her uncle’s back still blocked her view.

  “If you remember,” her uncle said, “Shorkan had given it to the boy on the night of the Book’s forging. When you fled with the Book after slaying the child, we retrieved it. The boy still had it clutched in his dead fingers.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “What I must.”

  Her uncle suddenly swung around and faced Elena. He held a dagger in his hand; the black blade glinted in the firelight. Tears were in his eyes. “I never wanted to do this, Elena.”

  He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand toward him. A small gasp slipped from Elena’s chest. What was he doing? She was too shocked to resist.

  “This is an ancient dagger used by the mages to consecrate the Blood Diary during its forging.” He dragged the blade’s edge across her exposed palm.

  Blood welled from the cut before the pain reached her eyes. A sharp cry e
scaped her throat. She stared in disbelief at the wound.

  He pressed the hilt of the dagger into her bloody palm. As the blood soaked the knife, the black blade burst forth with a single flash of white light. As the radiance subsided, the dark blade now shone silver in the firelight.

  Uncle Bol fell to his knees before her. “Now it’s a wit’ch’s dagger.”

  ER’RIL SAT STRAIGHT in his chair. His pipe had fallen to the floor from his limp fingers, scattering smoldering tobacco across the pine planking. Though he had sensed the truth in the old man’s words, to see it happen before him numbed his mind and limbs. Long ago, he had witnessed other initiates receive their first cuts from the masters of the Order, christening them to their magick. The same blinding light had marked their coming to power.

  Elena was a wit’ch!

  He watched the child drop the dagger to her lap and wipe the traces of blood from her hand. No sign of her uncle’s cut remained. It had healed without a mark.

  Her uncle still knelt beside her. “Forgive me, Elena.”

  “But I don’t want the stupid knife.”

  “You must take it. You will need it to draw on your magick.”

  She held up her right hand. “I already told you, it’s gone. See, my hand is normal again. The red color faded away.”

  Er’ril spoke up. He kept his voice small so as not to further upset the child; she seemed close to panic. “Your Rose has faded as you exhausted your supply of power,” he said. “You will need to renew.”

  “I don’t want to!” Tears rolled down her cheek.

  Her uncle placed his hands on her lap. “I know you’re scared, honey. But your aunt Fila is counting on you.”

  At her aunt’s name, her sobs quieted. “What do you mean?” she said between sniffles.

  Bol rolled back to his feet. “Come, let me show you something. Aunt Fila left a gift for you.”

  “She knew about all this wit’ch stuff?”

  “Yes, she did, Elena. And she was so proud of how strong you were growing.”