Wit'ch Gate (v5)

  “What of your magick, my dear?” Aunt Fila asked.

  Elena had already tried freshening her finger wound and using the magick to shatter through, but this attempt had failed, too. The Weir was too large, and she was too small.

  “It won’t damage the stone,” she answered in a tired voice.

  “That’s not what I was asking,” Fila said. “I was talking about Cho’s magick that’s protecting you. It’s not inexhaustible.”

  Elena stared down at her limbs, noticing for the first time how much less her skin glowed. She lifted her arms. Her magickal armor was rapidly thinning. She stared out into the dark Weir.

  She knew once her magick was gone, so was her life.

  WRAPPED ONLY IN a cloak, Kral stared at the circle of faces. They were fewer in number than when they had entered the throne room. Fardale had vanished, and Mycelle lay cold on the stone, covered in Tyrus’ cloak, the family sigil of a striking snow leopard blazed on top. As Kral stared, he could read the distrust in their eyes, and he had no answer to their silent accusations, no way to ask for their trust.

  “How do we know you’re not still a pawn of the Dark Lord?” Meric finally asked. He pointed to the griffin, poised by the Ice Throne, its ebon’stone nails dug deep into the granite of the Citadel’s arch. Now wakened, there was no safe way to approach the beast. Any who neared was threatened with talons and fang. Meric continued. “You attack the griffin, fail, and it comes to life. How do we know you didn’t plan this?”

  Kral hung his head, his fingers in his beard. “You can’t.”

  Nee’lahn stepped to him, staring him hard in the face. She held her baby in her arms, rocking. “I don’t know,” she said.

  Mogweed hung back. “I say we just leave. Strike out now while we still can.”

  “You’re free to run,” Tyrus said, nodding to the open door. “You’ve regained your shape-shifting abilities. Go. Take your chances with the d’warves out there waiting to avenge their slain king.”

  Mogweed scowled but did not take up the man’s offer.

  Tyrus held his family’s sword pointed at Kral’s heart. “I, for one, don’t mean to leave until we do what your young wit’ch asked of us. We need to break this griffin’s hold on the north.” He glanced to Meric. “And I don’t care a broken copper if this man is tainted or not. As a pirate of Port Rawl, I’ve fought beside cutthroats and brigands, and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that as long as a man’s goal is the same as yours, then welcome him to your side, noble or not, tainted or not.”

  Meric seemed about to object, but Tyrus held up his free hand and continued. “I know Kral wants to rid the north of this evil as much as I. We are both men of stone—two sides of the same coin. I’m the granite wall. He’s the mountain’s root. If he says he can rid us of this cursed beast, then I say we give him our full support.”

  A silence descended after this speech. Then Nee’lahn finally nodded. “I think Lord Tyrus speaks wisely.”

  Meric sighed and shrugged. “I guess we don’t have much choice. Sunrise is not far off, and he’s the only one with a plan.” Meric stepped forward, knocking aside Tyrus’ blade, and offered his hand to the mountain man.

  Kral hesitated, then took it. “I’ll not betray anyone. Never again.”

  “What is this plan of yours?” Tyrus asked, his sword still unsheathed but no longer pointed at Kral’s chest.

  The mountain man straightened and faced them. “It was King Ry’s prophecy.”

  “My father?” Tyrus exclaimed.

  Kral turned to the hall, his eyes on the Ice Throne. “He predicted our victory in winning back my family’s throne.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “But have you forgotten the other part of the prophecy, words you told me on the docks of Port Rawl?”

  Tyrus shook his head.

  “You said I’d win back my throne, but I’d wear a broken crown.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Kral held back the pain in his heart. He was free of the ill’guard curse, but not of his own guilt and shame. Losing his elemental powers was a small price, hardly enough to wash away the deaths, the betrayals, and the countless lies upon his tongue. Though the Dark Lord’s taint was gone, Kral would be forever damned in his own eyes. He could still remember the rush of the chase, the taste of hot blood on his tongue, and the rip of life from a body. And free or not, a small part of him still thrilled to it.

  Kral closed his eyes and swallowed. “There is another prophecy among my own people. I told it to Er’ril when first we met in Winterfell.”

  “I remember,” Nee’lahn said. “You told us that the appearance of Er’ril, the Wandering Knight of legends, would mark the doom of your clans.”

  Kral turned to Nee’lahn, tears in his eyes. “Even then I was a coward. I didn’t tell you all. My distress at that moment was not all for my people’s future, but also for myself. The prophecy predicted that whoever met the Wandering Knight would bring about this doom.”

  Tyrus frowned. “I still don’t understand the point. Broken crowns, prophecies of doom . . . what does it mean?”

  Kral glanced one last time at his family throne. “By my own hand, I must break the crown of our people.”

  “What crown?” Mogweed asked. “Where’s it hidden?”

  Kral turned. “Our kings have never worn a crown. We have only the Ice Throne. The true crown of our people is here. You are standing in it. It is the arch rising from the waters of Tor Amon and reflected back in it—a circlet of granite and illusion. That is our crown.”

  “And you can break it?” Tyrus asked. “Bring down this arch?”

  Kral nodded. “There is only one way.”

  Nee’lahn spoke up. “And if you succeed, then the Griffin Gate will be severed from the font of elemental energy rising here.”

  Kral bowed his head. “So I pray. May this one act help in some small way in salvaging my family’s honor.”

  “Then let’s do it,” Tyrus said. “How do we begin?”

  Kral searched their faces. “We must first return to the arch’s reflection.” He turned his back on the Ice Throne and stepped to the far wall. “Here is where we came in; here is where we must leave.”

  “Can you still open the way?” Nee’lahn asked. “If your elemental power is gone . . .”

  “It is the arch’s energy that drives the transition. It is only my royal blood that is the key. And elemental energy or not, I am still Kral a’Darvun of the Senta Flame.” He held out his hand for them to link up.

  It gave him a small bit of solace when Nee’lahn took his hand without a second glance. The rest linked flesh to flesh.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Get on with it,” Mogweed snapped.

  Kral nodded, then turned to the wall, closed his eyes, and took a step of faith. For a moment, he feared the arch would reject him, but ever loyal to his family, it opened the way. Kral felt the familiar, head-over-toes disorientation; then they were through.

  The same throne room lay before them again, but the bodies of the dead were gone. Shimmers marked the torches’ positions in the real world, creating a dim glow. Across the chamber, the mirror image of the Ice Throne stood tall, and beside it, the black whorling vortex that marked the griffin’s shadow. Only now the black well had grown larger.

  “What now?” Tyrus asked. “What do you want us to do?”

  Kral walked toward the Ice Throne, keeping a wary distance from the vortex even though he no longer was an elemental. “I want you all to escape.”

  He reached the throne and sat down in it.

  Tyrus stepped toward him. “I don’t understand.”

  Kral pointed to the stairs. “Go down the way we came up. It should lead you back to the foot of the arch.”

  “But we can’t leave the reflection on our own,” Nee’lahn said. “Not without you.”

  “Yes, you can. When the crown breaks, so will the magick. You may get your feet wet, but you’ll be free.” br />
  “And you?” Nee’lahn asked.

  Tyrus answered instead. “He will win his throne but wear a broken crown.”

  Kral nodded. “Go . . . while you still can.” As they made to move away, Kral remembered one last thing. “I’ll need a blade—something with a fine edge.”

  Nee’lahn slipped a dagger from her belt, but Tyrus stayed her hand and unsheathed his own family sword. He crossed with care and offered Kral the hilt.

  “I can’t take your sword. Any blade will do.”

  Tyrus held the weapon at arm’s length. “It is for the honor of my people. They’re all gone. Mycelle was the last Dro warrior, and I’m the last of my line. Take my sword and accept a promise from me. Though this act will doom your people from ever returning to their ancestral home, I promise to seek your scattered clans and offer Castle Mryl as their new home. One granite castle for another.” He pushed the sword closer. “A pact sworn in blood.”

  Kral did not wipe the tears that flowed down his cheek and into his beard. He simply took the length of fine Mrylian steel in his palms. “Thank you, King Tyrus. May I be the first of my people to swear allegiance to you.”

  “I accept your word with honor.” Tyrus bowed, then led the group toward the stairs.

  Kral did not watch them leave. It was too painful. Instead, he stared at the handsome sword and closed his fingers around it, the ache in his heart suddenly lighter. He had a long wait in this cold seat.

  He listened to the footsteps of his friends fade to echoes, then away. And still he waited. He needed to give the others as much time as possible to climb out of the depths of Tor Amon.

  Yet he did not have forever. The edges of the black vortex continued to expand, stretching toward the neighboring throne. Kral knew he would have to act before that darkness reached the white granite. He could not risk losing this chance.

  As he watched the shadows encroach, a frightening sight took shape in the center of the vortex. The griffin began to push out of the whorling eye of the pool, as if it were merging between the two planes. Kral knew this was a bad sign. The corruption was beginning to wear through the veil between reality and reflection.

  He stared, mesmerized, as the griffin grew more solid in form: wings, claws, the bulk of the lion, and jaws that seemed ready to swallow the world.

  Kral knew he could wait no longer. “Godspeed, my friends.” He grabbed the steel sword in his bare fingers and slid his hands down the blade, slicing palms and fingers to the bone, wetting the blade with his own blood.

  Once done, Kral tilted his hands up and allowed his royal blood to pool in his palms. As he did so, he watched the griffin’s wings begin to spread. Centuries ago, Kral’s ancestor, defeated by the Dark Lord’s forces, had not been brave enough to destroy the Citadel. But where his ancestor had faltered, he would not. Ready, Kral slapped his bloody hands on the arms of the throne.

  Immediately, the ground trembled. A great quake shook upward, seeming to rise from the throne itself. Kral held tight to the arms of his throne, bearing final witness to the end of the Citadel.

  Off to the side, he noticed the strange change in the griffin, but he was beyond such mysteries any longer and entering a greater one.

  He turned his gaze upward, toward the world.

  “To’bak nori sull corum!” he called to his friends with all the breath in his lungs and closed his eyes at last.

  Until the roads wind us back home, you’ll always be in my heart.

  LOCKED WITHIN THE southwall, Joach knew he had no other choice. He had to return to the dream desert.

  “But Greshym is waiting for you down there,” Sy-wen argued. She stood beside her dragon, one hand touching his scaled flank to keep Ragnar’k from reverting back to Kast. They needed the dragon’s strength if any of the monsters attempted to attack from the tunnels beyond the basilisk’s chamber.

  Joach stared at the ebon’stone statue. No longer threatened, the basilisk had grown quiet again, coiled in place on the sand, content with its single meal. Joach turned away as tears threatened to rise. Kesla . . .

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Sy-wen asked. “You’ve already tried attacking the Weirgate with your dream-sculpted creatures, but they just fell to sand with the basilisk’s touch. What more can you do?”

  Joach had indeed thrown all his raw skill and power into sculpting something with which to attack the ebon’stone statue, but his forms were not strong enough. He needed to transform sand into stone—and he knew only one person with enough dark magick to accomplish this.

  “I must go to Greshym. He may hold the key to destroying the Weirgate.”

  “But he’s a creature of the Dark Lord. How can you trust him?”

  “Because I have something he wants.”

  “What?”

  Joach shook his head. Here was the crux of his own concern. What did the darkmage want with him in the desert? “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “But he’s our only hope.”

  “A very dark hope.” Sy-wen sighed. In her eyes, he saw that she grew resigned to his plan. What other choice did they have? The night wore thin, and daybreak was not far off. If they were to save the deserts, the risk had to be taken.

  Joach stepped into the open sand. “Keep a watch on the basilisk.”

  “Be careful,” Sy-wen said. “And wary!”

  Joach nodded and slipped a dagger from his belt. He slit his thumb, then held his wounded hand over the sand. Bright red drops fell and spattered into the sand. Joach closed his eyes, linking to the dreaming magick in his blood, and fell back away toward the dream desert.

  Be careful . . . and wary!

  He would be both. Joach pulled up short from fully entering the glowing desert of the dream. He hovered in the shadow between the real and the dream, where only true sculptors could walk. He saw Greshym waiting in the sands, his arms crossed, leaning on his staff.

  “I see you, boy. Have you come to honor your word?”

  “No, the bargaining is not yet finished.”

  Greshym unfolded his arms. “What bargaining? You swore an oath.”

  “I swore I’d return to the desert, but I didn’t say when.”

  Greshym’s one good eye narrowed. “It seems I taught you deceit too well.” The darkmage leaned forward. “What do you bargain for now? I’ve watched your little battle with the basilisk. Now you seek more answers? Must I do all your work for you?”

  Joach clenched his single fist. “All I ask is that you lend me your staff. Give me access to its dark magick so I might sculpt an arrow strong enough to shatter the basilisk.”

  “You want this?” Greshym held up his length of petrified wood.

  Joach stared at it, sensing the flow of dark energies. Already attuned to that tempting song, Joach knew the staff was not just dream, but real. Greshym had somehow brought its physical form into the dream desert with him.

  “If you want my staff,” Greshym said, stepping away, “you’re going to have to come get it.”

  Joach had expected nothing less of the darkmage. “And if I do, you’ll allow me to leave with it.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way. The staff is yours.”

  Sighing, Joach closed his eyes. He knew it was a trap, but he would have to risk it. In his mind’s eye, the length of petrified wood shone as a bright beacon. He must have the staff. Ever since first laying eyes on it, Joach had been fighting his lust for its touch. Now he used that sickness to give him the courage to step through the veil and into the dream desert.

  Joach shifted and felt sand under his feet. He opened his eyes and stared back at Greshym. “I’m here. I have met my end of the bargain.”

  “I hear such anger in your voice, boy. Don’t you trust me?”

  “You swore to relinquish the staff.”

  “It is yours.” Greshym held up the magickal length of wood. The darkmage’s hoary eyes glinted with amusement and something darker, feral: a black hunger.

  Joach knew this was the trap, but he could
not help reaching for the staff. His arm rose, and his fingers reached. In his mind, he reconciled the decision as necessity, but in his heart, lusts and anger merged to a burning flame of desire. He had watched Kesla die, her tiny flame of magick swallowed into the bottomless well of the Weir. He would see the basilisk destroyed, no matter the cost!

  His fingers wrapped around the petrified wood, and images flashed across his mind: Shaman Parthus grabbing the same staff, Greshym’s form molding to mimic the elder.

  Joach felt a jolt through his body. His vision grew dark. He felt the sands swirl around him in a whirling cyclone. His senses spun. Joach fought against a strange pull and dragged his awareness to the forefront. He and Greshym spun within a sandy cyclone, linked by the length of magickal wood—Greshym at one end, Joach at the other. Flames of darkfire raged along the staff’s length.

  As the twister spun faster, the darkmage’s laugh grew stronger. Drawn out by the force of sandy cyclone, Joach felt something vital pull from his body. He gasped. Across the way, the form of Greshym blurred. They spun so fast now that Joach’s image seemed to overlap Greshym’s, the two blending together. As he watched in horror, a savage jolt suddenly ripped through Joach’s body.

  He screamed—and it was over.

  Joach stood again in the sand, holding the staff in his grip, weak and dizzy.

  Greshym stood across from him, but the darkmage had changed. His skin was smooth; his brown eyes were bright and clear; and his hair—a thick, rich copper—trailed to his shoulders. The darkmage straightened, unbending the crook in his spine. A laugh, full of vigor and substance, flowed from him. “Thank you, Joach.” He released his grip on the petrified wood. “As promised, the staff—and all the magick in it—is yours!”

  “What—?” Joach lifted his prize. The wood was gripped by a hand he did not recognize—a withered and bony thing lined by purplish vessels. He looked down at himself. His legs shook, thin as reeds now. He planted the staff into the sand to keep from falling over. “What have you done?” His voice cracked.

  “A small price to save your world,” Greshym said. “I have not slain you or corrupted you, just stolen your youth!” The darkmage waved a hand, and the mirage of a mirror appeared. Joach found himself staring at a bent-backed elder leaning heavily on a staff, his white hair trailing to his waist, his face wrinkled and splotched. But Joach knew this was no stranger. Green eyes—eyes he knew—stared back at him from the mirror.