His words sank through the chorus of her power. Her gaze slowly turned, and she saw a fireball arcing directly at them. From the corner of her eye, she watched Jerrick fight his tiller. The captain must have been so fixed on her display that he had failed to notice the threat until it was too late. The boat could not move out of the path of the flaming boulder in time.
Though Elena should have felt terror, magick was too ripe in her. She rang with invincibility. Swinging her arms down from the skies, she separated her hands and flung a spray of pure coldfire at the magma ball, snuffing its flames and freezing it solid. With hardly a thought, she followed next with a blinding lance of wit’chfire, striking the boulder when it was less than a dozen spans from the boat. The frozen ball of magma exploded with its touch, shattering into dust that plumed harmlessly over the skiff, coating them all.
Once done, Elena sagged to her knees, her magick spent. Er’ril was there, tossing her cloak back over her shoulders and hugging her tight.
“Get us down into the valleys!” Er’ril yelled. “We can’t risk being shot at again.”
Jerrick dove the skiff at a steep angle.
Elena sank into her knight’s arms. Her bones felt like butter.
Er’ril squeezed and rubbed her arms. “The wards here must be attuned to magick, whether from the elemental energies or your own power.”
“I was foolish,” she mumbled. “I should have thought before acting.”
“You were following your heart,” Er’ril whispered.
Tol’chuk pointed behind the stern. “The woman in the clouds. She returns!”
Elena glanced skyward, staying in Er’ril’s arms.
Above and behind them, the storm churned and roiled with lightning. But there was no mistaking the gigantic figure formed of clouds and framed by lightning.
“Queen Tratal . . .” Jerrick said, his voice cracking. The elv’in woman floated along the tempest’s belly. As they watched, the storm grew thicker, its edges more substantial. The wide bank of clouds rolled more swiftly away from them, propelled upon unseen winds.
The figure in the clouds stared back down, a sad smile on her lips. Words swept toward them upon a gust of wind. “You’ve saved us.” The words echoed and faded away. “Saved us all.”
“Queen Tratal,” Elena murmured.
“Godspeed, Elena Morin’stal.” The woman dissolved back into the storm—but one final message whispered back to her: words only meant for Elena. “Remember your promise.”
Elena stared as the storm streamed toward the dark horizon. “I will,” she said firmly. And in her heart, she knew she spoke truly. In some distant time, some other place, the elv’in houses would be reunited again.
But not here, not now. That was another’s story, not hers.
Elena leaned to the rail and stared below.
The skiff glided toward the blasted landscape of Gul’gotha: a maze of craggy red mountains, deep-clefted valleys, stunted trees, and blighted streams that glowed a sickly green.
This was her future.
Book Five
BROKEN CROWNS
15
MYCELLE KEPT A wary watch on the dark forest around them, her breath billowing white before her. Nearby, Kral built a fire of deadfall wood to prepare their midday meal. Even the large mountain man’s fingers shivered as he struck steel on flint. The days since leaving Castle Mryl and the Northwall had grown more frigid with every step. The skies, what could be seen of them, were now a blank slate of gray, and last night, a gentle snow had sifted through the monstrous twisted branches. In the morning, the entire wood was dusted in white.
Mycelle stared around her. Normally a snow-cloaked forest held a certain calm beauty. But here in the Dire Fell, the sight was disheartening, like a frosted corpse, contorted by the ice.
The only warmth came from their own camp. Nee’lahn sat on a knobbed root of a tree and played her lute softly. The strings thrummed with hummingbirds and green leaves, ringing of soft-petaled flowers and long summer nights. It was no surprise that the Grim wraiths held back. It was the song of their True Glen, of the lost Lok’ai’hera. How it must pain them to be reminded of their past, here among the twisted boles and tortured branches of their ancient trees. Even Mycelle felt a twinge of the loss as she listened to the nyphai’s gentle playing.
Meric stepped up to Mycelle. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his bare fingers for warmth, but his eyes were on the sky. “It’ll snow again tonight.”
She nodded. The elv’in lord had a keen weather sense.
“We cannot keep going like this,” he continued, moving nearer and lowering his voice. “If and when we pass this sick forest, the cold and winds will only grow worse. We need to find warmer gear for the road ahead.”
“I know. I saw Mogweed eyeing Fardale earlier. He had a look in his eye like he wanted to skin his brother for his warm pelt.” Mycelle frowned. They each had thick cloaks and leather boots to keep the worst of the chill away, but they would need furs and warmer bedrolls to reach Tor Amon and the Citadel of the Mountain Folk.
“If only the Stormwing could have crossed the Wall,” Meric mumbled.
Mycelle sighed. It was a constant wish by them all. But shortly after escaping Castle Mryl, they had contacted Meric’s ship through the use of Lord Tyrus’ silver coin. Xin had reported that not only was the Northwall too tall to pass over, but even the breach in the wall was blocked by the monstrous trees. Any attempts they made to pass had triggered the forest to attack the ship with whipping, clawing branches, guided by wraiths perched in the trees’ limbs. The Stormwing could not fly high enough to escape their assault.
“We’ll manage,” Mycelle said.
“I hope so,” Meric said, and wandered back to the camp as Kral finally managed to coax the smoldering pile of dead leaves to take his flint’s spark. Tiny flames sizzled up, drawing all their eyes.
The tiny snap of a twig sounded behind Mycelle. She whipped around, swords in both fists. A dark shape slinked from the scrubby brush. It was Fardale, returning from scouting the forest; the broken branch had been his way of warning her of his approach. His amber eyes glowed toward her. The image of an empty path appeared in her mind’s eye, indicating the immediate region was clear of any wraiths.
“I’ll tell Nee’lahn,” she said. “Go warm yourself by the fire.”
Tongue lolling, Fardale padded past her.
Mycelle watched the huge treewolf with a worried narrowing of her eyes. Since entering the forest, his sendings had grown rougher, his responses now curt and often unintelligible. It would not be long until Fardale was lost completely to his wolfish nature. According to Mogweed, the twins were little more than a moon away from settling into their current forms. Time was running out for them both—as well as it was for them all.
Working around the camp’s periphery, Mycelle approached Nee’lahn. The small nyphai glanced up at her. Nee’lahn’s eyes were haunted, shadowed with dark circles. Day and night, she had been forced to play her lute to keep the wraiths at bay. Only when the woods seemed clear could the woman take short naps. The burden was taking its toll.
Mycelle laid a hand on her shoulder. “Rest. Fardale says the woods around us are safe for the moment.”
Nee’lahn nodded and eased her lute to her lap. She stretched her fingers, working free the knots and kinks from her cramped playing. Mycelle noticed her worn nails and the raw tips of her fingers. Nee’lahn searched through her pockets for the numbweed balm.
“How are you faring?” Mycelle asked. “Will your fingers hold out until we reach the end of the forest?”
Nee’lahn stared dully at the forest around her. “It is not the playing that wears at me.”
Mycelle understood. As much as her lute’s song pained the Grim, so the dark wood drained Nee’lahn’s own spirit. This had once been her home. Mycelle offered what consolation she could. “It won’t be much longer. From my calculations, we should reach the far edge of the Fell in another two days.”
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Nee’lahn did not react. She only stared toward the north.
“Come. Let’s get you some food.” Mycelle helped her stand and guided her toward the growing fire. By now, Kral had managed to work up a solid blaze.
Once Nee’lahn was settled beside Mogweed at the fire, Mycelle returned to her sentry duty. With the lute’s magick ended, the wood had to be closely watched against the encroachment of the Grim. During the first couple of days, any halt in the music had almost immediately resulted in their wailing assault. But now, several days deeper into the wood, the Grim were slower to respond. Either their numbers were not as great here or the music had by now succeeded in chasing the wraiths far from their path. Still, caution had to be taken. Eyes had to watch for shifting shadows, and ears had to remain pricked to the smallest sounds of the forest.
Mycelle nodded to Lord Tyrus on the camp’s far side. The two would watch the forest during this break in the day’s trek, circling around and around the camp until they were on the move again.
Mogweed came over with a tin plate of boiled roots mixed with roasted snails. Mycelle ate on her feet, picking through the thin fare with her fingers. Hunting was poor in the Fell. Few creatures still lived among its twisted roots and haunted bowers: bony rabbits, burrowing moles, a few rangy birds. But at least the waters were fresh. Streams and brooks were frequent.
Mogweed kept pace with her for a few steps while she ate. The thin man eyed the forest with clear trepidation. “I heard you tell Nee’lahn that we should be out of this cursed woods in a couple of days. Is that so?”
“If my maps are accurate.”
Mogweed chewed his lower lip, eyes narrowed. “And what then?” He lowered his voice. “Are we really going to try and sneak into Kral’s old home up in the northern mountains? I heard him say that the snows up there never thaw, not even in the summer. And if the weather doesn’t kill us, the d’warves surely will. It’s not like we can surprise them. The encampment in Castle Mryl will surely send a bird reporting our escape.”
Mycelle let the man drone on, then finally shrugged. “Who knows what we’ll face up in the mountains? But I suspect d’warves and snow will be the least of our worries.”
She could tell that her words did little to ease Mogweed’s mind. His eyes grew wider as he obviously imagined the horrors ahead.
Mycelle sighed. “Don’t fret so much about the future, Mogweed. It’ll come whether you’re ready or not. We’ll deal with the cold as best we can. As for the d’warves, I imagine they ‘ll think the wraiths have consumed the lot of us.”
He nodded, appearing slightly relieved by this small bit of reassurance as he stumbled back to the fire.
Mycelle shook her head. Despite her words, Mogweed’s concern had set a seed of misgiving in her own breast. What were they going to do?
Finally, with the hole in their bellies somewhat filled, the party broke camp and moved out once again. Nee’lahn took up her lute, while Fardale patrolled the near woods. The remainder of the group trudged after them. Slowly more leagues passed under their boots. Few words were spoken.
Kral hung back, watching their back trail. But as the afternoon wore on, his post seemed unnecessary. No sign of the Grim threatened. Not even a distant wail was heard. Kral moved forward to join Mycelle.
“I don’t like this quiet,” he mumbled.
Mycelle nodded, then frowned as the small snake that roosted around her upper arm squirmed and tightened its grip. After traveling for so long with the large man, she had come to notice his presence often aggravated the tiny beast. She had always attributed this response to the man’s strong elemental energies. The magick of deep caves and rock ran strong in Kral’s blood. But then why didn’t the snake respond to Meric or Lord Tyrus? Both were just as endowed in the Land’s gifts. With no satisfactory answer, she pushed her misgivings aside and concentrated on the more immediate threat.
“The Grim have been growing less bold for the past few days,” Mycelle said, staring out into the oddly silent forest. “Maybe at last Nee’lahn’s music has succeeded in driving them fully away.”
“What music?” Kral grumbled.
Mycelle opened her mouth to answer, then realized the mountain man was correct. The nyphai’s lute had gone silent. Mycelle glanced forward and saw the small woman standing far ahead, frozen atop a slight rise in the land.
“Something’s wrong,” Mycelle said, and hurried forward. Kral followed.
Mycelle closed the distance, collecting Meric and Tyrus en route. Neither of them had noticed Nee’lahn’s lapse either. All afternoon, her music had been slowing and drifting lower. When it had finally stopped, no one but Kral seemed to have been aware.
As a group, they jogged forward. Nee’lahn continued to stare forward, the lute hanging limp in her fingers.
“What’s wrong with her?” Tyrus whispered breathlessly as they reached the top of the hill. A light snow began to drift down from the gray skies. The sun was close to setting.
Mycelle glanced to the girl, then followed the line of her vision. In the hollow below, a small lake filled the lower lands, but what caught her eye was a huge tree on the lake’s far side. Its bole, as thick around as a small cottage, stood straight as a sword, cutting up from the tangle of twisted trees around it. Its branches, though bare of leaves, splayed out in gentle terraces, like a hand offered to a tired traveler. It seemed so out of place among its tortured brethren.
“Nee’lahn?” Mycelle asked gently.
The nyphai’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She licked her lips and tried again. “It’s my tree.” She turned finally toward Mycelle. Tears ran down her cheeks, streaming freely. Her voice became a sob. “It’s . . . it’s my home.”
NEE’LAHN FELL TO her knees. The pain in her heart was too much. She stared at her love, so tall, so stately. Though naked of its lush greenery and heavy violet flowers, Nee’lahn could never mistake its form. She had not thought to find her mate so untouched. It was as if it were only sleeping, not dead and lifeless. On her knees, her eyes drank in the sight of her spirit tree. She had not even meant to cross near its resting place, knowing the pain it would cause, but her tired feet must have led her here, drawn to the only home she had ever known.
Mogweed stepped to her side. “It’s so . . . so normal looking.”
Nee’lahn wiped at her eyes. “I know. I don’t understand . . . the Blight . . .” She waved an arm to encompass the rest of the forest.
“Come,” Mycelle said gently, and helped her back to her feet. “Do you want to go closer?”
Nee’lahn covered her face with a hand. She wanted to run as lithe as a deer, but she did not know which way—toward her tree or away. It tore at her heart to see her love again. But she knew that as much as it pained her, she had to go on.
Clutching the lute to her breast, she nodded forward. “I . . . I must go.”
Before a single step could be taken, Fardale came loping up the slope from the lake’s edge, tongue lolling. His amber eyes glowed. Mycelle matched his gaze. After a moment, she turned to the others. “Fardale senses someone hiding ahead.”
“One of the wraiths?” Tyrus asked.
“No . . . if I understand right, it’s a man.” Mycelle turned to Mogweed, clearly seeking to see if he understood his brother any better.
The small man shrugged. “He grows too close to the wolf,” he mumbled under his breath. “I can barely understand him any longer.”
“What’s someone doing way out here?” Kral grumbled. He unhitched his ax and slowly pulled the snow leopard pelt off its iron blade. “Anyone who can survive among the Grim is surely tainted by the Dark Lord.”
“Kral is right,” Meric said, his eyes narrowed. “We must proceed with caution.”
“Why proceed at all?” Mogweed said, stepping back. “Why not leave here, circle far around? Why invite danger?”
“Perhaps we should heed the shape-shifter,” Tyrus said.
“And put an unknown enemy at our back?”
Kral said. “I say we flush him out.”
Nee’lahn swallowed hard. “Either way, I must go. Even if it’s alone.”
Gazes swung in her direction.
Before anyone else could speak, her lute began to play softly. Gentle notes wafted out and upward. Nee’lahn lifted the instrument in amazement. Her fingers were not touching the strings, yet the music began to grow fuller. A chorus flowed forth, bright as a summer moon, while around them the snow began to fall thicker. As soft as the falling flakes, the music floated over the lake.
Kral growled. “Quiet the cursed thing before it gives us away.”
Nee’lahn pulled the lute away from him as he snatched at it. “No!”
Kral’s warning proved too late anyway. As the music reached the far side, warm yellow light appeared, glowing forth from several small square openings in the tree’s wide trunk.
Mogweed gasped and hid behind Kral.
“Windows,” Meric said with amazement. “Someone’s made a home inside your tree.”
“Fardale’s lurker,” Tyrus commented, his family’s fine sword in his grip.
“He must have heard the music,” Mycelle said. “He’s inviting us forward.”
Kral squinted his eyes. “More likely inviting us into a trap.”
“No, it’s no trap.” Nee’lahn stepped forward.
“How can you know that?” the mountain man gruffed.
“The music.” Nee’lahn lifted her lute. “The wood rejoices. There can be no danger.” And in her heart, she knew this to be true. She moved down into the hollow, meaning to follow the lake’s edge.
She heard the elv’in whisper behind her. “I trust Nee’lahn. As corrupt as these woods may be now, they were once her home. Come. Let’s see what mystery lies here.”
As Nee’lahn reached the lake’s edge, a bit of melancholy infused the lute’s song. She understood why. Once this small lake had teemed with fish and tadpoles. Fireflies had lit the boughs that overhung the still waters, reflecting their beauty, while around its banks, flowers had always been in bloom. But now the lake was black and featureless, edged by dank algae and clinging weeds. So much beauty lost.