“Are you all right, Joach?” Sy-wen asked.
“You aged a hundred winters right before our eyes.” Kast stepped aside.
Joach caught his first sight of the basilisk. He frowned. It still bore the same shape: a feathered serpent with the head of some foul carrion bird. But it was no longer sculpted of black ebon’stone. It now glowed with a soft ruby light, reflecting the torchlight.
“Heartstone,” Joach mumbled.
Kast straightened and glanced to the statue. “It happened not long after you aged.” He turned back to Joach. “What happened?”
Joach shook his head. He held an arm up for the Bloodrider’s help in climbing to his old legs. Bones creaked, and flares of pain lanced his joints; but he bit against the pain and stood. He took a step and tripped over something in the sand.
He glanced down.
“What’s that?” Sy-wen asked, and reached for it.
“Don’t!” Joach snapped harshly, frightening her back with his tone. Assisted by Kast, he bent down and retrieved the length of wood. “It’s mine.”
Joach had paid a high price for his prize. He was not about to give it up. He lifted the staff from the sand and leaned on it, not even hearing his own sigh of relief. With care, he hobbled toward the statue.
“Be cautious,” Sy-wen warned.
With his back toward them, Joach lifted a corner of his lip in a silent snarl. His fingers sensed the small amount of dark energy coursing through the wood. Empty before, the petrified wood must have absorbed the power from the black sands after he’d tossed the staff aside. Joach lifted it now and pointed it at the statue.
“Joach!” Sy-wen called with warning.
He ignored her. He reached to the magick in the staff and spoke the spell of balefire, a spell as familiar as his own name. His lips grew cold, and the tip of the staff bloomed black. He finished the last words, and a spear of darkness shot out and struck the bright stone, shattering the basilisk and spraying the far wall with thousands of ruby shards.
Joach lowered his staff and leaned on it as he turned.
“What happened to you?” Kast asked again.
Joach simply nodded toward the tunnel leading out of the chamber. “I’m done with deserts.”
ATOP THE PALM of the manticore, Er’ril stumbled out of the shards of broken stone and carried Elena free. Weak with shock, he fell to his knees before the apparition of Fila, holding Elena’s body in his arms. “She doesn’t breathe,” he struggled out, his throat clamped tight. “I feel no heartbeat.”
Fila knelt in front of him. Her hands reached and passed through Elena’s form. “No, Er’ril, she’s still alive, only weakly so. The Weir has touched her and driven her far.”
Er’ril sagged with relief. “She’ll live. She’ll recover. The healing properties of the Blood Diary . . .”
Fila frowned and glanced to where the book lay open on the granite arm. “I’m not so sure. This is no bleeding wound or sick bowel. Her injuries go much deeper. Displaced so recently by Cho’s merging, Elena was especially fragile, her ties to herself weak. The Weir may have permanently ripped her from her moorings.”
“Elena’s strong,” Er’ril began. “She’ll fight back.”
“I don’t know if that is something she can do alone.” Fila stared back at him. “There are bonds between you two that go unspoken.”
Er’ril closed his eyes, hiding his shame.
“With her own tethers burst, she needs those bonds now. Your bonds. Something to help her find her way back.”
“I don’t understand.” Er’ril lifted his face.
Fila shook her head. “Men,” she sighed. “You must—”
In a whisk of light, Fila vanished. Er’ril turned to the book. It was still open, but the Void was gone, replaced by plain, blank white pages. He glanced to the sky. The moon had set, ending the book’s magick for this night.
Er’ril was alone with Elena. He swung to Magnam. “Go fetch Mama Freda.”
The d’warf nodded and dashed away.
Tol’chuk appeared at his shoulder. “The healer will never arrive in time.” The og’re knelt beside Er’ril. “And what ails her won’t be cured with herbs.”
Er’ril did not answer Tol’chuk. He knew the og’re spoke the truth. He simply nodded and waved the og’re away.
Er’ril bent over her body. There are bonds between you that go unspoken. He touched her face, not caring who saw. Something deep inside him finally broke. The Standish iron in his heart melted, running hot through his blood. He could not hide his feelings any longer. He yielded to his grief. Tears flowed and fell from his cheek to hers. His throat choked as he leaned closer. “If you can hear me, Elena, come to me.”
He bent and allowed his lips to brush against hers. “Hear me; come back to me.” As he hovered over her, he felt the slightest brush of breath flow between her lips, the barest flutter.
She needs those bonds now. Your bonds.
He lifted Elena in his arms, wrapping her tight to him. He hesitated, then pressed his lips to hers. She was so cold, but he did not pull away. He warmed her with his breath, with his touch, with his tears. “Come back to me,” he whispered between their lips.
SHE HUNG IN darkness, lolling, without a name, without substance. She had no knowledge of a past or a future, just the endless moment of now, hanging in the cold abyss of nothingness.
Then a single word rang through to her. “Elena.”
It held no meaning.
She ignored it.
But soon a wave of warmth wafted through the darkness. And more meaningless words. “Come to me.”
She pushed these aside, still far from understanding, and followed the river of warmth. A basic instinct: to warm oneself. She swept along and found the cold fall away from her. It was good.
As she sailed toward this pleasure, additional feelings swelled into existence, substance forming out of darkness. She allowed these new sensations to wrap around her, to become her. She learned she had an outer being, defined spaces—and she was rewarded. Warmth turned to heat, and it pressed against her, bright and hot.
In this moment, one word crystallized—not a name, but a word she fought to understand.
Iron.
She wanted more of it. She wrapped it around herself. She pulled it closer and allowed it to move through her. With each touch, she understood more of herself: lips, skin, touch, moisture, breath, heat, and a scent that was musky and familiar.
“Elena.” That word again flowed to her.
She felt her newfound lips moving. “Er’ril . . .”
The heat around her surged stronger, everywhere, all around her. Encouraged, she repeated the name. It was a name! “Er’ril . . .” She wanted to say more but could find no other words. She needed words! Panic allowed the coldness to seep back in—but then he was there, calling to her, touching her, warming her.
“Elena, come to me.”
“Yes.” She spotted a brightness in the dark abyss and fled toward it. The voice came from there. Er’ril.
She dove into and through the light. Words and memories flooded—too much, too bright, too fast. Darkness threatened at the corners.
“Elena, come back to me.”
And with a final spasm of light, sound, and memory, she did.
Elena opened her eyes, knowing who she was again. She found herself wrapped in strong arms, being kissed. Startled, she broke away.
Staring up, she found Er’ril, his eyes full of tears and something much deeper. “I love you, Elena,” he said, his voice hushed and pained.
Elena met his eyes and reached a trembling hand to touch her own lips.
The shine in Er’ril’s eyes dimmed. “I . . . I’m sorry.”
He moved to release her, but she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned up to him. She kissed the lips that had saved her, tasting the salt of his tears. “No,” she whispered, and melted into him.
He closed his arms around her.
Here was where she belon
ged.
25
ELENA HURRIED DOWN the hall, the hem of her green dress sweeping through the rushes that lined the castle’s stone floor. She was late. The others should already be gathering in the Grand Courtyard.
She passed a mirror and brought a hand to her hair. After being burned away by Cho’s assault, her fiery curls had grown out to the length of four fingers. But they were still as short as a boy’s. She sighed. Mama Freda had done her best. Two combs of silver and pearl and her dress’s high neckline detracted from her boyish hair. She looked at least presentable for the ceremony.
At last, she reached the restored glass-and-gilt doors that opened to the courtyard. Two d’warves armed with pikes stood sentry, but upon seeing her, they moved from their positions to open the tall double doors. Elena stared as morning sunlight poured through the panes depicting two roses twined together, the petals of heartstone, the leaves of emerald.
As the doors opened, the Grand Courtyard spread before her in all its spring beauty. While she had been away, the repairs on A’loa Glen’s castle had continued. In the yard, there was little evidence of the recent war.
Beds of roses and snow-white poppies filled the space, while rows of trimmed holly bushes lined paths of crushed white stone. Along the wall, saplings of dogwood were in bloom, their soft petals drifting on gentle sea breezes. Even the walls had been repaired, and veins of green ivy already climbed their surfaces. The only clear sign of the War of the Isles was the eastern tower called the Broken Spear. Scaffolding and piled bricks encircled its ruins as work continued.
Elena crossed through the doors to the steps. A small group gathered in the central circle of the courtyard. Er’ril noticed her and raised a hand in greeting, but she knew that exasperated set to his lips: she was late for the ceremony.
Hiding her smile, she climbed down the stairs, lifting the skirted edge of her dress, and headed across the crushed stone paths. This was the first time everyone had gathered in one place since Meric’s group had returned from the north. The party that had sought the Griffin Gate was the last to arrive back at A’loa Glen, coming almost two moons after Elena had returned and one moon since Joach had.
But everyone was here . . . finally.
As Elena crossed toward them, she remembered her own journey back. She had left A’loa Glen in early winter and had returned with the first buds of spring. The return journey had been arduous. With the Manticore Gate destroyed, they had set off overland back to Jerrick’s skiff. The going was slowed by their injuries and their load of heartstone from the broken Gate. Tol’chuk had insisted they haul it out with them. “Mad Mimbly claimed it could destroy the darkness,” he had said. Elena hadn’t argued. The og’re and his heartstone had saved her.
Still, loaded or not, the true delay in reaching A’loa Glen had proven more ominous. Upon reaching Jerrick’s skiff, it was discovered that the elv’in had a harder time controlling his small boat. They had to make short hops with rest breaks in between, slowing their progress. There was no way they could cross the Great Ocean in such a state, so they worked their way overland to the coastal township of Banal and hired an ordinary ship with a few pieces of heartstone.
At first, Elena had attributed Jerrick’s weakness to his recent poisoning, but upon reaching A’loa Glen, she had learned it was a generalized ailment. A good part of the remaining elv’in fleet now rested atop the sea. And this malaise was not limited to the elv’in. All those with elemental gifts found it harder to touch their inner magick and exhausted more quickly. It seemed that, though the destruction of the three Weirgates had managed to thwart the Dark Lord’s design, damage had still been done. The Land had been weakened by the near-fatal assault, crippling the magickal gifts of all elementals.
Yet, despite this, one significant gain had been made.
As Elena reached the central circle of the courtyard, she spotted Wennar, outfitted in polished armor, with Magnam at his side. The breaking of the Manticore Gate had freed their people, shattering the Dark Lord’s yoke upon them. Meric had returned with several d’warves in tow. He had met these stragglers on his return journey, and he promised that legions more were already en route to help bolster A’loa Glen.
All in all, it was a bittersweet and costly victory. The Dark Lord had been thwarted, but Chi remained a prisoner, shackled by the last remaining Weirgate. And in addition, many good friends had given their blood to protect the Land: Mycelle, Kral, Richald, Queen Tratal. The list stretched even longer, with losses among the d’warves, the elv’in, and the desert folk.
Then again, it seemed no one who had ventured out on these journeys had returned unscathed. She stared around the circle of friends gathered here.
Meric stood on the far side. His eyes were still haunted, grieving for the loss of his mother and brother. Each day he sent birds out, seeking some word of what had become of the refugees of his shattered home. But none ever returned. The fate of the denizens of Stormhaven remained unknown.
Beside the elv’in stood Lord Tyrus, dressed in black finery, both prince and pirate. He had offered her his allegiance and had already succeeded in rallying a rather unsavory lot from Port Rawl. The prince refused to return to his empty castle in the Northwall until the Dark Lord was defeated. “The Grim wraiths are gone from the Fell, but Mryl will never truly be secure until the Black Beast is driven from our shores,” he had told Elena.
At the prince’s shoulder, Fardale wore Mogweed’s face. Elena had learned of their strange transformation, two sharing one body. The “pair” made her uncomfortable. She always sensed the extra eyes staring out of the amber glow. Still, they had proven their loyalty. The two were simply wounded like so many others, and Elena would do her best to seek a cure. In turn, they had pledged their shape-shifting talents to her cause.
Crossing the stones, Elena stepped beside Er’ril. The back of her hand brushed his, and their fingers instinctively sought one another, wrapping and twining together. Er’ril squeezed her hand. On the long journey here, they had both decided to take their relationship slowly, one step at a time. They had not shared a bed, but only tentatively sought to know each other in the quiet hours alone. And for now, that was enough.
“You’re late, wife,” he whispered teasingly.
“And you don’t have layers of petticoats and fancy dress to attend to, husband.” Elena hid her smile while shifting an imaginary lock of hair from her face.
Er’ril nodded to a shaded corner of the courtyard. A figure sat upon a bench staring toward them. “It’s good to see Joach abandon his books and scrolls for a short time.”
Elena’s smile dimmed. Of all those who had returned from the various lands of Alasea, Joach was the most changed—not just physically aged, but also harmed in unseen ways. She had heard the tale of Kesla’s death from Sy-wen. Deep inside, her brother’s heart had been wounded past repair. Upon returning, Joach had been clearly happy and relieved to see his sister safe and alive, but otherwise he kept to himself, locked in the castle’s library, reading ancient texts for spells that might cure him. Some nights Elena had spied him in the training yards, practicing some arcane magick.
Er’ril scowled. “I just wish he’d left that cursed staff in his rooms. It shouldn’t be here.”
Elena agreed. The sight of it made her stomach churn: its petrified wood was the gray of a corpse, and the tiny green crystals imbedded along its length reminded her of pus from a festering wound. It was a corrupt instrument, and she wished Joach would simply destroy it. But she also understood her brother’s obsession. The staff had stolen his youth, so it might still hold the answer to returning it.
Er’ril sighed and returned his attention forward. “The staff, the age-ravaged body, even the stumped wrist—it’s as if he’s becoming the same darkmage he despises.”
Despite the day’s warmth, Elena shivered.
Er’ril glanced to her. “I’m sorry. This is a joyous moment and shouldn’t be marred by such dark thoughts.” He pulled her closer to hi
s side. “Such matters can wait till another day.”
She leaned against him. “Where’s Nee’lahn anyway? I thought I was the late one.”
Er’ril straightened. “We were waiting on you.” He raised his other arm, signaling Kast, who stood a few paces off with his mate Sy-wen.
The Bloodrider lifted a horn to his lips and blew a single long note. It was a bright and triumphant sound that echoed far out to sea and served to drive away the bit of melancholy from Elena’s heart.
Rising on her toes, Elena craned for a better view as the small western gate of the courtyard swung open. Tol’chuk stepped forth, leading the diminutive form of Nee’lahn.
The og’re wore a huge grin. It was one of Tol’chuk’s last acts before leaving for his homelands in the mountains. He would be returning the Heart of his people and seeking the counsel of the Triad. There was a mystery yet to be solved: the strange connection between ebon’stone and heartstone. The two crystals—one bright, one dark—had been mined from the same mountain. There was some dark link between the two, and even the spirits of the Blood Diary sensed an answer must be sought out. Tol’chuk hoped his own tribal elders might hold some piece to this ancient puzzle.
But even this mystery could wait. Today, Tol’chuk had been granted the honor to lead Nee’lahn forward, a giant leading a child.
Nee’lahn stepped to the crushed white stones, dressed in flowing silks that seemed to catch the breeze with each step, a petal in the wind.
As Tol’chuk led her, so Nee’lahn led another small figure. Her fingers gripped the hand of a child. The boy appeared no older than three, but Elena knew that the nyphai did not age like humans. When his seed was still attached to his belly, dormant and waiting, he had appeared no more than a babe. But a moon ago, when Nee’lahn had first set foot upon the shores of A’loa Glen, the child had shed his seed. From that moment on, he had grown rapidly, from babe to toddling child in only a single moon.
Upon landing here, Nee’lahn had taken the dropping of the boy’s seed as a harbinger of hope—and on this spring day, she was responding in kind, taking a chance.