Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  Elena passed the Diary to him in exchange for the dagger, but Er’ril kept his grip on the knife. He stared hard into Elena’s eyes. “Be careful,” he warned under his breath.

  She nodded grimly at him as he relinquished the blade. Next, Elena knelt beside the throne. She took Queen Tratal’s hand and bloodied a finger with the tip of the dagger. A drop of blood welled up on the queen’s skin. Elena glanced nervously to Er’ril.

  He touched her shoulder, striving to instill his own strength into her.

  Taking a deep breath, Elena pierced one of her own ruby fingers. Against the dark crimson stain, it was hard to say if blood had been drawn, but Er’ril saw Elena stiffen slightly—not with pain, but with the release of her pent magick. Her eyes closed narrowly, lips parting. A breath escaped her throat.

  She leaned closer to the queen, but before she could mix their blood, a loud crash echoed through the hall. The floorboards jarred. Elena grabbed the throne to keep from tumbling.

  Behind the throne, Er’ril saw the cause of the interruption. A large boat had slammed broadside into the edge of the Storm Gate. Elv’in scurried at the opening, tossing ropes, shouting orders. Smoke and steam billowed from the beaten craft, but Er’ril spotted the large bulk of Tol’chuk near the stern.

  Prince Typhon called out to them, hauling on a rope as the winds tore at the rocking boat. “The skiff is docked! We must load up your gear!”

  Er’ril spotted Wennar already hurrying toward the crates. The d’warf could not handle the stack by himself. He stepped in the d’warf’s direction, but stopped, hesitating.

  “Go!” Elena said. “Get everything aboard. I will attempt this, then we must be off.”

  “We don’t have much time.”

  “Then don’t argue. Go!”

  Er’ril paused a moment, locking eyes with Elena. She met his gaze. Her stony demeanor softened as she understood his consternation. “Go,” she said softly but firmly. “I’ll be fine.”

  Er’ril turned away. He had won her hand in marriage, but Elena was forever her own woman—and if truth be told, he would wish it no other way.

  Tucking the Blood Diary inside his shirt, he hurried to join the others by the boat.

  ALONE NOW WITH Queen Tratal and Mama Freda, Elena returned to her duty. She lifted the queen’s hand and positioned their two bloody fingers near one another. The dagger’s slices still bled freshly from both wounds.

  Mama Freda hovered at her shoulder. “Careful, child.”

  Elena barely heard the healer’s words, turning her ear instead to the song of her own magick. After practicing her arts, Elena understood the flows of her own power, but in this matter, sending a part of her magick into another, control was critical. Too much energy and she could burn Queen Tratal into a smoking cinder.

  Taking a steadying breath, Elena lowered her finger to the queen’s.

  Instantly Elena’s mind snapped away, flowing down the blood link into the queen’s prone form. Elena had done this before—with Uncle Bol, with Flint, with Er’ril—but nothing had prepared her for what she discovered inside Queen Tratal.

  Storm winds tore at Elena’s mind, threatening to tear her away from her own body. Elena struggled to hold her place, drawing more of her own energy to define herself in the maelstrom. Around her, dark clouds swirled; lightning flashed in silver streaks of fire. In that moment, Elena realized she was not inside Tratal—at least not in her body of flesh and blood.

  Instead, she had entered the storm beyond the city. The queen and the storm had become one—and Elena had joined them.

  She wrapped her magick around herself like a cloak, struggling to hold herself in place. She could not stay long. It was hard even now to discern the tenuous connection back to her body in the throne room. It was a mere thread in the whirlwind.

  As she floated, anchoring herself in the storm, she sensed even fainter threads spreading in an infinite web around her, stretching out in all directions. The overall effect was one of interconnectivity. She knew what she was sensing out here in the middle of the storm. It was life—every living thing connected together in an endless web of energy and power. Elena longed to follow it outward. It called to her from countless throats. But even she did not have that much power. She would be lost in that infinite maze, a mote in the vastness of life.

  So instead she concentrated on the one single thread near her—that which connected the storm to the queen’s body.

  As she did so, Elena felt eyes turning in her direction, a familiar icy stare. Queen Tratal. She must have sensed Elena’s presence. Words formed in the howl of winds around her. “Go, child. This is my battle.”

  Elena recognized the figure of a woman, formed of clouds and energy, swirling around her. “You’re dying,” she yelled into the howling winds.

  “So be it. Death is not an end, and by using my spirit to fuel the storm, giving myself fully to it, I can save more of my people.”

  Images formed in Elena’s mind. A woman of clouds wrapped around the ravaged city, holding it to her breast, speeding it faster over the volcanic peaks, making the city a harder target. Elena understood. Queen Tratal intended to give her own life so more of her people might escape.

  “I can help,” Elena argued. “You do not have to spend all your life’s energy. Use my magick!”

  A tired smile formed in the clouds. “You are truly King Belarion’s child.” The thin thread back to the queen’s body and the throne room blazed brighter. “But the path here is too fragile. Enough energy to make any difference would burn away this conduit, trapping you forever in this storm with me. I will not allow you to risk yourself.”

  Elena sensed the truth of her words. Even the bits of energy she used to define herself here threatened the weak connection. “But what of you?”

  “Away, child. This is my battle.”

  Winds buffeted Elena, shoving her back along the thread. For a moment, she fought, refusing to give up. But the energy to resist frazzled the connection, thinning it to the faintest strand. Realizing the futility of her actions, she yielded to the storm, surrendering herself to the winds.

  Elena felt herself pass through Queen Tratal’s body. As she did so, she sensed the thin thread connecting the queen here to the storm snap away. Elena heard the last beat of Tratal’s heart as she fell back into her own body.

  Elena sagged, slumping backward, suddenly weak.

  Mama Freda caught her. “You’re safe, child . . . safe.”

  “The queen . . .?” she asked faintly.

  “Gone.”

  Elena grabbed the throne’s arm to pull herself up. In the seat, she found Queen Tratal’s shift crumpled on the cushions—but nothing more. Her body had vanished.

  Typhon suddenly stumbled up to the other side of the throne, falling to his knees. He stared at the empty seat, tears running down his cheeks. He moaned. “She’s given herself fully to the storm.”

  Elena nodded. “She means to use her energy to speed the city over the lands of Gul’gotha, to buy more time for her people to escape.”

  Wennar appeared behind Typhon. “Then we must hurry. We’ve already flown past the home mines of my people.”

  Mama Freda helped Elena to her feet.

  “All the gear has been stowed,” the d’warf captain added, stepping away. “We must be gone.”

  Typhon stood, wiping tears from his eyes. “I will captain the skiff myself. I know the queen’s will in this matter—to get you safely to your destination.”

  From behind the prince, a tall elv’in man strode forward and rested a hand on the prince’s shoulder. Er’ril was with him. Elena recognized the stern newcomer from the Sunchaser. It was Captain Jerrick. His face was smeared with soot, his hair and clothes soaked with rain. “No. I’ll not allow it, Prince Typhon. Your place is here.”

  “But the queen’s command . . .”

  “The queen is no longer. And with her sons gone to the far corners of the world, you are the next in line to the throne. You must serv
e as regent until such a time as one of them returns.”

  Prince Typhon’s eyes grew huge with horror.

  Jerrick gripped his shoulder tighter. “You must lead our people from Stormhaven.”

  “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  “You will.”

  Elena understood his pain and shock—the sudden thrust of power, the burden of responsibility.

  “Take your Lady Mela,” Jerrick continued, “and lead as many away as you can. They are seeds cast to the wind. You must find them all a safe place to land.”

  “But what of Elena and her companions?”

  “I will take them myself. That is my duty as ship’s captain. Your duty is here.”

  Elena saw the young prince bow under the heavy mantle of leadership. For a moment, she thought he would break, but slowly he stood straighter. Pain and sorrow shadowed his eyes, but he nodded. “Take them to the skiff. I will see to our people.”

  Captain Jerrick nodded once, then lifted an arm to direct them to the ship. “We must hurry,” he said.

  Er’ril stepped beside Elena, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. Are you all right?

  She leaned into him. “I’m fine.” She glanced behind her to see Prince Typhon standing stiffly beside the empty mahogany throne. He’ll make a better leader than I, she thought, and wished him strength for the hardships ahead.

  At the gate, the winds had grown harsher. The small skiff bounced and rattled against its moorings. Elena saw that a burned hole in the sail had been hastily patched with a bit of tapestry ripped from the throne room’s walls. A sailor with a long needle was repairing the last rent as their group reached the gangplank.

  Captain Jerrick yelled into the storm’s winds. “Clear off! Be ready to loose the moorings on my command!”

  Elv’in scurried to obey, leaping from the rail or swinging on mooring ropes. Soon the deck was clear of all but Elena’s party. The wit’ch crossed to join Tol’chuk, nodding to the gathered d’warves, who looked like a gaggle of drowned geese in their drenched clothes.

  Elena moved to a spot near the stacked crates, seeking shelter against the wind. She was still dressed only in her nightclothes, but Er’ril joined her with a fur-lined cloak under each arm.

  “This should could keep you warm until we can get to your packed clothes.”

  Teeth chattering, Elena accepted the cloak and wrapped its thickness around her. Warm gear was passed to the others. Soon they were all huddled under cloaks and blankets.

  Captain Jerrick took his place near the skiff’s tiller. “Ready to cast off!” he yelled to the elv’in manning the gate.

  Knots were tugged loose, and the skiff lurched forward. Elena bumped into a neighboring crate.

  “Keep low!” Jerrick ordered, his words directed at the skiff this time. The mast’s boom swept by overhead, and the craft turned smartly in the wind. “It’s going to get rough from here!”

  Elena sighed. Doesn’t it always . . .?

  The skiff circled out from the palace. By now, four of the building’s twenty spires had fallen away, and another three burned, casting flames high into the air. Below, the city fared worse. Fully three-quarters of it was lost to the fires or destroyed by the rain of fireballs. But for the moment, there seemed a respite from the attacks. The night sky was empty of flaming juggernauts. It seemed Tratal’s efforts had not been in vain. The elv’in queen must have succeeded in accelerating the city’s flight—but for how long?

  Overhead, other elv’in ships, crowded with peering faces, trundled past, many heading toward the walls of the ravaged city. A handful of others patrolled the lower city, searching out those still living, offering one last lifeline.

  “What of those still in the palace?” Elena asked, glancing back to Jerrick.

  “Stormhaven takes care of its own,” he answered cryptically.

  Elena turned to stare back at the retreating castle as the skiff drifted downward.

  “Where are you heading?” Er’ril asked.

  Jerrick pointed to the deck. “Straight down through the heart of the storm.”

  “Is that safe?” Er’ril said.

  Jerrick wiped soot from his eyes. “Is anywhere safe?” he mumbled. But after Er’ril’s expression darkened further, he added, “I’ll get us through. Don’t you worry. I’ve plied the storms since I was a boy.”

  Elena watched the elv’in citadel fade behind them, then gasped as all the remaining towers fell away like toppling sticks. “Oh, no! Prince Typhon . . . the others . . .”

  But she need not have worried. A wondrous sight appeared. The walls of the central keep shed away, revealing the hidden heart of the castle. A gigantic ship rose from the wreckage of the palace, lifting atop an iron keel that glowed with the light of a rising sun. Slowly sails unfurled and caught the tempest’s winds, billowing out. The ship hove gracefully away, leading the myriad scores of other ships, both large and small, away from the burning city.

  Then the sight vanished as the skiff swept into the storm’s edge.

  “Hold tight!” Jerrick called out.

  The bow end of the craft dipped steeply as the captain dove the skiff into the storm’s depths under the city. Instantly winds tore at the craft. The sails whipped and snapped. Rains sluiced across the deck, soaking them to the bone. But Jerrick seemed little fazed by the bucking skiff. He manipulated his tiller, and energy danced along his hands as he touched his own magick.

  As they fled through the clouds, lightning chased them. Thunder roared and pummeled the skiff. But the captain rode the storm’s lines: coursing swiftly along downdrafts, banking steeply through eddies and rapids.

  Elena held white-knuckled to the rail, while Er’ril did his best to shelter her. Overhead, the sail’s patch began to tatter, its rent edge snapping in the winds. Jerrick’s lips drew tighter, bloodlessly thin, but he continued to work his tiller.

  Elena turned forward just as the skiff suddenly bucked, coming close to spilling end over end. Er’ril clutched hard to her as her knees lifted from the planks. Then the skiff slammed back to an even keel. She and Er’ril fell with a hard bump back to the deck.

  “We’re through,” Jerrick said simply, as if they had been merely gliding along a calm stream.

  Elena pushed up and was immediately struck by the heat. After the endless chill, the air was stifling, reeking of sulfur and molten rock. She stared past the rail and saw the spread of dark peaks under them, aglow with the infernal light of volcanic cones. It was a sight to burn away her resolve. How could they hope to survive down there?

  “A loathsome place indeed,” Mama Freda mumbled.

  “It wasn’t always this way,” Wennar said. “The land grew sick with volcanoes and quakes only after the Nameless One corrupted our people. It was once a green and hale place.”

  Searching below, Elena could never imagine that to be true. She turned her face away.

  Overhead, swirling dark clouds swept past. Distantly, Elena saw bits of the hidden city fall through the storm’s belly to litter the landscape below. Off to the side, a section of a building tumbled from the clouds, hit the peak of a mountain, and disintegrated into an explosion of broken planks. Elena stretched her neck and searched for escaping ships. There was no sign.

  “Stormhaven slows,” Jerrick said, noticing the direction of Elena’s stare.

  Elena realized he was correct. At the edges, the storm was fraying. Clouds drifted away. The queen’s energy must be fading.

  “Gul’gotha will again sense Stormhaven’s passage,” Jerrick said dourly. Punctuating his statement, a volcanic peak exploded a league away, belching out another fireball. The flaming shot of magma arced brilliantly, disappearing into the storm front with an immense hiss.

  “The attack renews,” Er’ril said.

  The captain’s face became lined with worry as he returned his attention to the skiff. “My people’s ships and boats will not have enough time to escape safely.”

  As the skiff spun in a slow spiral tow
ard the cursed landscape, Elena stood and tossed off her wet cloak. “I’ll not let that happen.” She slipped free her wit’ch’s dagger.

  “Elena . . .” Er’ril warned.

  “If it’s energy the storm needs, then it’s energy I’ll give it.”

  She sliced the meat of both thumbs, releasing coldfire from her left hand and wit’chfire from her right. Inside the swirling clouds, Tratal had warned her that passing magick into the queen’s body would only burn away the tenuous tie between the woman and the storm, but Elena saw no such risk now. Tratal was gone from this world.

  Elena studied the swirl of clouds. She did not know how much of Tratal still rode the storm, but there was one energy that the storm should be able to feed upon.

  Lifting her right hand, Elena formed a fist and called for the power of the sun—touching its heat and fire. Energy built to a feverish blaze inside her clenched palm. Her hand grew to a bright ruby blaze. Elena next raised her left fist and summoned the magick of moonlight—cold and ice. Her fist grew to match the other; the only difference was a slight azure hue to the ruby glow.

  Power sang in her blood and heart, rejoicing, crying for release. Elena was well-used to the song of the wit’ch and ignored the chorus of chaos and wild magicks. Instead she brought her two fists together, knuckles to knuckles. The trapped energy shook her very frame. Finally, when she could hold it no longer, she shoved her arms toward the sky, unfolding her fingers like an opening rose. A rage of energy blew skyward, a mix of wit’chfire and coldfire, the two becoming one in a blaze of stormfire.

  Magick shrieked skyward, a tumble of ice and fire.

  Elena gasped, her back arching as energy spasmed out of her.

  Her stream of stormfire struck the storm and disappeared into it. Lightning radiated from the point of impact, like spokes on a wheel. But as she fed more and more of her power into the dark clouds, the lightning forked and forked again, becoming a blazing net of energy spreading through the entire bank of clouds.

  “Elena!” Er’ril screamed into her ear, but she hardly heard him. Magick sang through her blood. “Elena! Look to the left!”