Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  “Well, with that royal blood in your veins, you’re certainly part elv’in. So I guess that makes you at least half married.” Aunt Fila smiled warmly, taking the sting from her teasing.

  The subject was a tender one. While traveling here, Er’ril had been overly formal with her, unusually awkward. Whenever she had tried to glancingly broach the subject or make some light remark about it, he would find some other task to occupy his time: building a fire, hunting for grouse, or checking with the d’warf scouts who watched the trails ahead.

  “Enough about my marital status,” Elena said, exasperated by the focus of her aunt’s attention. “I need your counsel on more important concerns.”

  Aunt Fila smiled. “Fine, my dear. What is it?”

  Elena sighed. “We’ve almost reached the valley of the d’warves, but we can’t find a way past a deep gorge. A molten river flows through it with no way across.”

  Aunt Fila’s shimmering face grew more sober. “What about the elv’in’s skiff?”

  Elena glanced down to the camp. “We considered going back for it. But we came close to crashing the boat to get as close to here as we did. Besides, the captain is gravely ill, poisoned by one of the foul plants here. We need some other answer.”

  “So you want to know if Cho has some magick to carry you all over to the other side.”

  Elena nodded.

  “I’ll allow her through, but I suspect she’ll not be much help.”

  “We’ll take whatever help she can supply.”

  Aunt Fila smiled, then closed her eyes. When next she opened them, Elena knew she was gone. Though the face was the same, the warmth had vanished from the figure, and in her aunt’s eyes now shone the Void of the book: cold, distant, dispassionate.

  “Cho, we seek your guidance,” Elena said softly.

  The figure seemed not to hear her, glancing over a shoulder. “I sense Chi is near.” The voice was as icy as her eyes.

  Elena followed Cho’s gaze. It aimed toward the d’warf kingdoms beyond the gorge. “We believe in that direction lies one of the Weirgates—one of the black shackles that holds your brother trapped. It must be destroyed if—”

  “The pain,” Cho interrupted. “I can sense his agony.” The figure turned back, and Elena recognized a bit of human warmth in her sorrowful expression.

  “We will find a way to help him, to free him,” Elena said. “This I swear, but first we must find a way across the flaming gorge.” She explained quickly about what blocked their path.

  “Fire can be fought with ice,” Cho said. “Thus it has always been. Stars burn and the Void freezes.”

  Elena frowned. She needed clearer answers. “Surely there is a bit of magick you can teach me to bring us past this gorge.”

  “Come to me,” Cho said, and waved a moonstone hand in her direction.

  Elena hesitated, then stood, carrying the book.

  “You have known me, touched me, shared my spirit. I am the ice of the Void, the flame of the Star, and the storm that rages between.” Cho stared hard at Elena as she approached. “But I am also the Spirit that walks unseen.”

  Elena knew she was referring to the various aspects of her magick: coldfire, wit’ch fire, stormfire, and ghostfire. “I understand.”

  Cho held out her arms. “Understand more.”

  Elena’s hands, bright with ruby magick, rose toward the figure, unbidden, uncontrolled. It was as if some unseen force had gripped her wrists. The Blood Diary slipped from her hands. Gasping, she tried to resist the pull, but failed.

  Her hands drew into and through the ghostly figure of Cho, passing as far as her upper arms. Elena gasped as she felt the familiar surge of renewing. But she was already ripe with power. Frightened by the strangeness, Elena dug her heels into the rock and leaned against the tidal pull coming from Cho. What was happening?

  Elena fell back as the control of her limbs returned to her.

  She fell hard on her backside, wisps of smoke trailing around her. She coughed and lifted her arms. The sleeves of her jacket had been burned away; the edges still glowed and smoked in the cooling evening. But it wasn’t the state of her jacket that made Elena cry out. Both arms, from her shoulders on down, whorled with blood magicks.

  Elena scrambled to her feet. “What have you done?”

  She heard footsteps behind her. “What’s wrong?” It was Er’ril.

  Instinctively, Elena tried to hide her transformation, lowering her arms out of sight. But her smoking jacket drew Er’ril’s eyes. He came around and saw her arms, his eyes wide with shock. “Elena . . . ?”

  “I don’t know what just happened,” she mumbled, eyes turning accusingly toward the apparition of Cho.

  “The bridge is open,” Cho said, as if this were explanation enough.

  Er’ril moved to Elena’s side. “Why have you done this?” he asked.

  “Fire can be fought with ice.” Cho glanced over again to the glowing eastern skies.

  Elena’s shock had faded enough for her to sense the magick in her arms. “It’s coldfire,” she mumbled. “It’s all coldfire. Both arms.”

  Er’ril glanced up to her as he retrieved the Blood Diary from the dusty ground. “What do you mean?”

  “My right fist was renewed by the sun. Ripe with wit’chfire. Not only has the amount of magick more than trebled, but Cho has transformed my fistful of sun magick back to the moon.” Elena stared at Cho. “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe we should talk to your aunt,” Er’ril said. “She may be able to translate the spirit’s meaning for us.”

  Elena nodded. “Cho, I’d like to speak to Aunt Fila again.”

  The figure turned back and nodded. “The one called Fila waits.”

  The transformation was immediate, as if a flame had swept into the moonstone sculpture. “Elena, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Cho would do that.”

  Elena lifted her arms. “What did she do?”

  “The bridge is open,” Fila said, repeating Cho’s earlier words. “In the past, Sisa’kofa could only link a small part of her body, her hands, through the meager connection of refracted light—but now the Blood Diary exists. It’s a portal to Cho, a direct well to the source of its nearly infinite power. When Cho chose you, a descendant of Sisa’kofa, she attuned herself to your spirit as surely as she is tuned to mine now. As she shares with me, so she can with you.”

  Elena rubbed her wrists, remembering the lack of control. It was as if something had taken control of her. This thought frightened her more than the well of power coursing through her veins.

  Aunt Fila must have sensed her distress. “I know this is disconcerting. It was the same for me when I first merged with Cho in the spirit plane, opening the bridge to the book. But it is not without its advantages. When the moon is full and the diary open, all Cho’s magicks are available—all forms, all depths. During these times, there are almost no restrictions to your magick. You become, in fact, Cho.”

  Elena’s eyes grew wide. She knew that her aunt was trying to comfort her, but this revelation terrified her. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if the coldfire in her limbs chilled her.

  Er’ril was suddenly there, putting his arm around her and pulling her tight against him. She melted into his warmth, needing his touch. “This much power . . .” he said. “It risks burning her spirit away.”

  “Indeed it does,” Fila said. “But I trust both Elena’s heart and your strength, plainsman.” She stared at them with an amused glint in her eyes. “And I don’t think it was just chance that the elv’in people joined you two in marriage. I believe there was more significance in that gesture than either of you understand—or are willing to admit.”

  Er’ril stiffened beside Elena. He gave her a final squeeze, then awkwardly extracted himself, clearing his throat. “About . . . about this coldfire business,” he said, changing the subject. “How can this help us cross the river of molten rock?”

  Aunt Fila frowned. “I’m not entirely sure. Cho sees th
ings on a larger scale than you or I. She moves between worlds. It’s hard for her, I think, to fully understand details. To her, it is fire that blocks you, so she grants Elena ice.”

  Elena rubbed her arms, sensing the coldfire beneath the ruby flesh. “Lots of ice.”

  Aunt Fila shrugged. “If there is an answer to crossing this gorge, I’d say to attempt it this very night. You only have another two evenings when the moon will be full enough to open the Blood Diary. Don’t waste them sitting here.”

  Elena nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Then Cho and I should return to the book. We must ration this moon’s magick so it lasts all three nights.”

  Elena bit her lip. She did not want Aunt Fila to leave.

  The apparition drew nearer to her. Her words were whispered for Elena only. “You’ll be fine, my dear. But remember what I said. Share your burden. You’ve a figure of Standish iron at your back. Lean on his support.”

  With these final words, Aunt Fila swirled away, returning to the open book held by Er’ril. With the glowing apparition gone and the book closed, the night seemed darker, more empty. Just Er’ril and Elena.

  “What did Aunt Fila say at the end?” Er’ril asked, holding out the diary.

  Elena accepted the book, her fingers brushing his. “Just to keep warm.”

  ON WATCH, TOL’CHUK crouched at the edge of the gorge, staring across the molten valley. The heat from below wafted like the breath of a fiery beast, but Tol’chuk did not seek the shelter of the cooler shadows. Beyond the lava river was the d’warf kingdom, and though he did not have the Heart of his people to guide him, Tol’chuk knew his goal lay out there. After hearing the tale of Mimblywad Treedle and the mines of Gy’hallmanti, Tol’chuk knew he had to reach those ancient tunnels. He had to honor the final plea from his father: to return the Heart to where it had been first mined.

  But why? What was so important? How could any of this help rid the Bane’s curse from his people? And what did any of this have to do with his ancestor, the Oathbreaker, the great betrayer of the Land?

  A rattle of rock alerted Tol’chuk to someone approaching. He glanced to the moon. It was too soon to be relieved. Maybe Elena had finished speaking to the spirits in the book. He prayed she had learned some way to cross this gorge. All his hopes depended on it.

  Out of the darkness, a small shape hobbled forward, breathing hard. A voice called out to him. “Lord Boulder, I see you’ve found a warm spot to wile away the night. Who needs a campfire when we have this impassable hearth to keep the chill from our bones?”

  Tol’chuk sighed. It was Magnam, the smallest of the d’warf party. “What be wrong?”

  Magnam shuffled up to join him, scowling at the gorge. “For once in this cursed land, nothing. As a matter of fact, that little frog-faced vorg was as good as his trade. The old healer says the captain rests well after applying that smelly poultice, and his fever seems to have broken, too. She’s drying the remainder of that green pond scum by the hearth.”

  “It be good to hear Jerrick fares better.”

  “Yes, I can tell from that grumbled tone that inside, you’re cartwheeling with delight.”

  Tol’chuk turned his back on the d’warf. “What do you want?”

  Magnam passed over a satchel. “A bit of warm meat and scrawny turnips.”

  Tol’chuk grunted.

  “You’re welcome,” Magnam said, settling beside him uninvited.

  Tol’chuk ignored the food and his guest and continued his study of the gorge.

  “So do you want to talk about it?” Magnam asked.

  “About what?” Tol’chuk grumbled.

  “Ever since we’ve set up camp, you’ve been as antsy as a pig in a field of nettles,” he said. “I came out here to make sure you weren’t trying to swim across the river by yourself.”

  Tol’chuk scowled at the annoying little d’warf.

  Magnam shrugged and leaned back on his hands. “I’ve been studying the maps. It’s just over yonder, if you want to know.”

  “What?”

  “Gy’hallmanti. Old Mad Mimblywad’s mountain.”

  Tol’chuk sat up straighter. “Where?”

  “Do you promise not to go leaping off this cliff and wading through that fiery river?”

  “Where?” he asked again.

  Magnam sighed and lifted an arm. “Just beyond that jagged point. Do you see that mountain shaped like a crooked fang?”

  Tol’chuk peered past the glare of the gorge. It was hard to miss. It was one of the tallest peaks, stretching high into the sky. The moon seemed to teeter atop its pointed summit. At last, there stood Gy’hallmanti, “the Peak of the Sorrowed Heart,” the birthplace of both heartstone and ebon’stone, and the cradle from which the Dark Lord first walked these lands.

  Tol’chuk stepped toward the cliff’s edge.

  Magnam frowned. “Remember your promise. No leaping to a fiery death.”

  Before Tol’chuk could respond, voices arose behind them—many voices, excited and talking rapidly. He turned and saw most of their party hiking up the slope toward them. In the lead were Elena and Er’ril.

  “I think you should consider this more fully,” Er’ril said.

  “The moon is near setting for the night,” Elena answered. “We’ve argued long enough. I say we attempt this now.”

  “But it’s untested magick. You’ve never tried to harness this much energy. Maybe you should start a little slower.”

  The pair climbed up to Tol’chuk’s watchpost, followed by Wennar and four other d’warves. Tol’chuk imagined Mama Freda was still overseeing Jerrick.

  As Elena stepped fully into view, Tol’chuk immediately saw the change.

  Magnam did, too. The d’warf gasped. “Sweet Mother, the lass is red all the way up to her pretty little chin.”

  “What happened?” Tol’chuk asked as the party drew abreast.

  “Coldfire,” Er’ril said with a scowl. “Enough, Elena believes, to freeze a path across the river.”

  “Why else would Cho grant me such a font of power,” Elena said, “unless it was to use the coldfire against the molten rock? You heard what Cho said: ice against fire.”

  Tol’chuk sensed this argument had been going on for quite some time.

  Magnam grumbled under his breath and shook his head. “That’s why I never got married.”

  Elena stepped to the cliff’s edge. “Power is power. I’ll unleash enough as a test. If it appears to be working, I’ll freeze as much of the river as I can until the magick ebbs, then renew while the moon is still up.”

  Er’ril shook his head, clearly accepting her judgment under protest.

  Elena nodded, as if satisfied, and turned back to the gorge. She reached to her belt and found her scabbard empty, clearly forgetting the vorg’s theft. Sighing, she turned to Er’ril. “Slice my palms.”

  The plainsman’s eyes grew round. He backed a step.

  Magnam stepped forward, offering his own dagger, hilt first. “My lady.”

  She accepted the weapon. “Thank you.”

  As the others looked on, Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, obviously centering herself. Her hands began to glow, rising quickly to a blinding hue.

  “Careful,” Er’ril said.

  Elena took another breath.

  Sharing the cliff’s edge, Tol’chuk saw her lips tighten as she forced the brightness back to a deep, rich glow. Once ready, she took the blade’s edge to her palms, slicing one, then the other. Wincing, she reached both hands over the yawning gorge. Slowly, the red glow of her hands developed an azure hue. Blood dribbled from her palms and fell down into the gorge.

  Tol’chuk’s sharp eyes followed the rain of drops until they disappeared into the fiery abyss. The reaction was almost immediate. The molten river exploded upward in a crown of fire, as if a boulder had crashed down from the cliffs. Near the edge, Tol’chuk suddenly remembered the attack on Stormhaven, how this corrupt land reacted to the touch of magicks. “Sto
p!” he yelled, and moved toward Elena.

  But it was already too late.

  From the molten river, a mighty bird shot forth, formed of molten rock and trailing flames. As it flew upward, its wings snapped wide, stretching from one side of the river to the other. Bits of molten rock were thrown from its fiery pinions, raining all around them.

  One of the d’warves screamed as he was struck in the face by a gob of lava. He fell backward, his hair on fire, and was dead before he hit the ground. Mayhem ensued as everyone sought cover. Both Tol’chuk and Er’ril dove for Elena, who still stood at the cliff’s edge.

  But neither reached her side. Elena’s arms shot upward, and both defenders were blown backward on icy gusts. Tol’chuk rolled to his feet, his skin half frozen.

  Nearby, Er’ril screamed, “Elena!”

  The firebird climbed above the canyon’s rim. Tol’chuk watched as a fiery talon snatched Elena from the cliff’s edge and flew into the air.

  ELENA’S FORM RANG with power. The heat of the firebird’s talons could not penetrate her cocoon of coldfire. The ice spell had snapped around her spontaneously, the wit’ch power instinctively protecting its host. Not even Elena’s clothes were singed by the molten talons’ grip.

  A trace of fear edged through Elena’s heart, but her wild magick thrummed in her veins, singing with immense energy. She stared up as the bird arced into the night sky. It was a dread sight: a molten statue flowing with the fire of the world’s core.

  The creature’s head cocked backward to study its captured prey. Flaming eyes stared down at her, clearly wondering why she had not been burned to a cinder in its grip. Its beak opened, and a gale of fire erupted. Elena’s arms sprang up and cast a shield of pure ice magick before her, blocking the fire from ever reaching her.

  Again it was an instinctive response, the wit’ch reacting without forethought. With so much magick flowing inside her, Elena had little control. She was but the tiller of a boat in a raging sea. This, more than anything, scared her. She had never felt so helpless. She fought against this chorus of the wild magick, this call of the wit’ch. But it was too strong. She was losing herself inside the magick.