Cho leaned into her touch. It was as if Elena cupped a statue of ice, but she did not flinch. Instead she willed the magick in her heart to fill her hand. A ruby glow slowly grew, swelling out to warm the cold cheek in her hand. “I will not fail you, Cho. This I swear. We will find your brother.”
For the first time, a sad smile formed on the moonstone lips. “The one called Fila has told me much of you, Elena,” Cho said. “It seems she was not mistaken.” The figure straightened and stepped away. Her eyes grew glazed as if staring somewhere other than here. “She wishes to speak to you.”
“Aunt Fila?”
Cho nodded. “But I have heard you, Elena. For now, I will give you your lead. Fight this evil as you see best, but take my pain as your own. Find Chi. Find my brother.”
Elena bowed her head. “I will.”
Though the ghostly figure remained as solid as ever, the voice faded, as if drifting down a bottomless well. “I will give you power, Elena . . . and magicks never seen before . . .”
Elena shivered at these last words. What did Cho mean? In the moonlight, Elena glanced to her two hands, bloodred and ripe with power. Magicks never seen before. Elena’s hands trembled as they held the Blood Diary.
Then a voice drew her back to the rooftop. It was like a warm hug on a cold day. “Elena, child, it seems you’ve grown into the woman whose body you now wear.”
Elena glanced up. All traces of the Void were gone from the apparition. What was once carved moonstone had become a warm memory of home. Elena could not stop the tears. “Aunt Fila!”
“Child, dry those tears,” her aunt said brusquely, but her warmth and love could not be masked. Eyes that once held the Void now only shone with bemusement and concern. “Have you rested well since last we talked?”
“Yes, Aunt Fila,” Elena said, but from the stern tightening of her aunt’s lips, Elena knew she was not believed. Elena spoke quickly. “The lands ready for war. With the taking of the island, all look here for what we do next.”
“And what is that?”
Elena glanced over to Er’ril. The plainsman moved to her side. “So far, mostly arguing,” Er’ril answered sourly.
“Just like men,” Fila muttered. “Their tongues are always bolder than their arms.”
Er’ril ignored this rebuke. “But Elena has called them to task. She is to bring a plan to the war council tomorrow—a plan all will obey.”
Elena quickly added, “I sought your counsel here before making any decision. I know Cho wishes us to cease our fight against the Gul’gotha while we search for her brother Chi, but all will be lost if we ignore the Dark Lord.”
“I agree,” Aunt Fila said. “But sometimes two causes can become one.”
Elena nodded. She had said about the same thing to Meric just a moment ago. “But we’ve learned nothing of Chi. All our research suggests the spirit vanished from this world five centuries ago, when Alasea fell.”
“He did not vanish,” Aunt Fila said firmly. “My spirit mingles with Cho’s now. I sense what she senses, and I’ve felt the whispers of her twin brother. I have heard his cries echoing through the Void. He is here.”
“But where?” Er’ril said. “How do we even begin to look?”
Aunt Fila’s features grew thoughtful. “I have tried to trace Chi’s cries, but to no avail. All I perceive is pained emanations and an occasional snatch of tattered dreams—nightmares really. Strange beasts attacking and tearing at Chi. Creatures of twisted form and shape. A lion’s head on an eagle’s body. An og’re with a scorpion’s tail.” Aunt Fila shook her head. “Just nonsense. Nightmares.”
Er’ril moved forward, almost faltering a step. “A lion on an eagle’s body? A winged lion.” Er’ril glanced back at Elena. “A griffin!”
Elena gasped, eyes wide.
Er’ril turned to the apparition of moonstone. “Do you recall among these nightmares a large black bird, a winged lizard with a hooked beak?”
Aunt Fila’s brows drew together. “Y-yes. It was one of the strange beasts holding and ravaging Chi in his dreams.”
“Mother above, it was no dream.” Er’ril covered his face with his hands. “The answer’s been in front of me all the time.”
“What?” both Elena and Fila asked together.
Er’ril lowered his palms and faced them both. “The words of the darkmage Greshym, when he told me of the nature of the ebon’stone Gates.”
“What are these Gates you speak of?” Fila asked.
“Weirgates,” Elena said. “Portals of power.” She waved for Er’ril to elaborate.
He nodded. “The Dark Lord, with the aid of d’warves, sculpted four monstrous talismans. They were anointed in blood and had the power to draw magick inside them, willing or not. They could even draw in a person if his spirit held enough magick. One day, according to Greshym, something strange fell into one of the gates, but it was too large to be held by a single statue. So it spread to all four, both trapping itself and fusing the Gates together. Thus the Weir was created, the well of the Dark Lord’s power.” Er’ril squeezed his eyes closed, his face lined in agony. “It all makes sense now. The loss of Chi here in Alasea, and the rise in power of the Gul’gotha. We have been so blind.”
“What are you saying, Er’ril?” Elena asked.
Er’ril opened his eyes and stared in horror at her. “The Weir is Chi. They are one in the same. He fell in the Gates and was trapped. Now the Dark Lord draws upon Chi’s power like some foul leech.”
Elena felt the bones of her legs grow soft. “The Dark Lord’s black magick has been Chi all along?”
“Yes.” Er’ril could not keep the despair from his voice.
Too shocked to speak any further, Elena took a step away. The Blood Diary was still clutched in her fingers. She stared into the endless Void inside the pages of the tome. She could almost sense the tides of fate shifting under her. “Then it is clear what we must do,” she mumbled.
Er’ril moved to her side. She met his gaze and felt the eyes of the others upon her. But it was nothing compared to the tides of fate flowing around the book in her hand.
“It seems the two paths have truly become one,” she said. “To defeat the Dark Lord, Chi must be rescued.”
“But how do we accomplish this, Elena?” Er’ril asked.
“By doing what Nee’lahn asked,” she answered, turning to face the moon. “We find and break the cursed Gates.” She glanced over her shoulder at Er’ril. “All of them.”
THE CLOAKED FIGURE crouched motionless in the murk of the keep’s courtyard. Her slender form was but another shadow amid the piled rubble of stone and twisted iron. She had been waiting, motionless, since midnight, spying on the play of lights atop the wit’ch’s tower. She had watched the dragon alight on the stones of the parapet and vanish. Still she had not moved. Even when the glow of moonlight had faded from the tower heights, she remained frozen in her hiding place. Patience had been taught to her by her master. Those trained in the deadly arts knew that victory lay in the silence between battles. So she had remained throughout the night.
By now, drops of morning dew collected in the folds of her midnight green cloak. A cricket crawled across the back of her hand as her palm rested in the dirt. While she watched the castle battlements, she felt the small insect scratch its hind legs together, heard a whisper of cricket song. The promise of dawn. Now was the time. She moved smoothly to her feet as if she had only paused to pick a flower from the newly planted garden. Her motion was so swift and smooth that the cricket remained on the back of her steady hand, still playing his last song of the night.
She raised the hand to her lips and blew the surprised insect from its perch. If only her current prey were so unsuspecting.
Without pausing, she moved from her cubby of fallen stones and fled swiftly across the courtyard. None would know she had passed. She had been trained to run the desert sands without disturbing a single grain. The main doors to the central castle were guarded. She could see the ba
cks of the guards through the stained glass windows. But doors were for the invited.
As she ran, she flicked her wrist, and a thin rope shot out from her fingers and flew toward the barred windows of the third landing. The trio of hooked trisling teeth, fastened to the end of her rope, wrapped around the bars. Without stopping, she tugged on the rope and tightened her grappling. The rope was strong, woven of braided spider’s silk. It would hold her. She flew to the wall and up it. No one watching would have even suspected she was using her rope. The ancient stone was full of pocks and old battle scars; climbing was as easy for her as scaling a steep stair.
Without even raising a sweat on her brow, she reached the barred window of the third floor. From a pocket appeared a vial of black-fire. She smeared the oil on three bars, top and bottom. The stench of scorched iron wafted briefly, but no glow marked the work of the blackfire oil. Nothing must draw the eye: one of the first lessons taught apprentices.
She ticked off the time. At the count of ten, she grabbed the bars and yanked them free. The blackfire oil had eaten fully through. Carefully, she rested the freed iron rods on the window’s granite sill. She couldn’t risk someone hearing the clatter of iron on stone if she merely dropped them.
Reaching through the opening, she flicked her wrist, and a thin steel blade appeared in her fingers. She passed it through the window’s casement and slipped the latch. She tested the old window hinges. An immediate rasp told her this particular window had not been opened in ages. Frowning at even this tiny noise, she reached into a pocket and oiled each hinge.
Satisfied, she pushed the window a finger-breadth wide and used the polished surface of her steel blade to study the reflection of the hall. Empty. Without waiting, she squeezed through the narrow opening and rolled into the hall. She was on her feet and in the shadows within a single heartbeat.
Still she did not pause. She raced down the passage and slid down two staircases, never even leaving a footprint in the dust. Within a short time, she had reached her goal—the doors to the Grand Court. She crouched. A dance of tools and the lock was open. She cracked the door just enough to squeeze her lithe form past the threshold. At least these hinges were already well oiled.
Once inside, she hurried to the long ironwood table. At its head was a tall chair on a raised step. Its high back was carved with twining roses. As she approached, a trace of misgiving threaded through her veins. Here was where the wit’ch sat. Her feet slowed as she worked down the long length of the table and neared the seat of power. She could almost sense the eyes of the wit’ch upon her. She knew such thoughts were nonsense, but still she shivered.
Cringing slightly, she sidled around the table’s edge and stood at its head. With her back to the tall chair, she reached inside her cloak and withdrew her weapon. In the dimness of the hall, the long black blade almost glowed. Her hand trembled slightly as she held it. “Don’t make me do this,” she whispered to the empty hall.
But there was no retreat now. She had come too far, given up too much. If there was to be any chance, this cowardly deed must be done.
Raising the long black dagger high in both fists, she prayed for forgiveness and drove the dagger down into the table. Its sharp point pierced smoothly through the ironwood, as if it were only warmed butter. Still a shock spiked up her arms as the hilt hit the table. Gasping loudly, she pulled her hands free and ground her palms on her cloak, trying to escape the feeling.
She stared at the impaled blade. Its hilt protruded from the center of the handprint burned into the table—the handprint of a wit’ch.
As she watched, crimson blood welled up from the wood, spreading along the table’s surface. The pool ran over the table’s edge and flowed in rivulets to the stone floor. But that was not the worst. As she stood frozen, a distant cry of pain and shock rose from the spreading pool.
Raising a fist to her throat, the cloaked figure backed away. What have I done?
Turning on a heel, she fled out the door and into the maze of halls. But even the shadows could not hide her from the echoing cry of a wounded wit’ch. Gods above, forgive me!
3
WRITHING IN A tangle of bedsheets, Elena clutched her hand to her chest. Her palm felt as if it were on fire. Through the red haze of agony, she barely registered the loud pounding on her chamber door.
“Elena!” It was Er’ril.
His yell gave her an anchor to focus upon. She freed her hand from her sheets, expecting to see it wounded and raw. But in the room’s predawn gloom, her hand appeared unharmed. As the pain slowly waned, Elena rolled from her bed and staggered toward the door.
The pounding continued. A board in the door cracked as Er’ril increased his assault. “Elena! Answer me!”
Trembling, Elena unhooked the door’s latch and swung open the door. She found Er’ril disheveled and red faced. Over his shoulder, she spotted his blanket tossed and rumpled in the chair by the hearth. Last night, the plainsman had fallen asleep by the fire as the discussions of Weirgates and Chi had dragged well past midnight. Mama Freda had encouraged Elena to let Er’ril sleep where he sat. “Are you hurt?” he asked desperately, sword in hand.
With the pain now no more than a dull ache, Elena could finally think again. “I’m all right,” she said, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
“What happened?” Er’ril asked, his eyes wandering from her toes to her head.
Elena remembered she was only dressed in a long linen shift. Suddenly aware, she backed from the door to her wardrobe and slipped into her robe. “I don’t know,” she said. “I awoke with my hand burning in pain.” She shoved her arm through the robe’s sleeve to show Er’ril.
As her hand popped from the cuff, Elena gasped at the sight. With the light from the main room’s torches now illuminating her bedchamber, Elena saw her hand was not as unaffected as she had first thought.
Er’ril moved nearer, taking her hand in his. He inspected her palm and fingers. “I see no wound.” He met her eyes. “But what happened to your Rose?”
Elena shook her head. She had no answer. Freeing her hand from Er’ril’s grip, she lifted it higher in the flame’s light. It was as pale and white as the rest of her arm. The ruby hue had vanished. Her hand no longer bore the mark of the Rose.
Er’ril stepped more fully into her room, glancing all around.
“I don’t understand,” Elena said. “I cast no spells. Especially nothing so strong as to drain my magicks.” With her eyes, she urged him to trust her.
“I believe you. You’d have had to torch the entire tower heights to expel that much wit’chfire.” He stared up at the glow of dawn through the chamber’s high windows. “But when the sun rises fully, you’d best renew quickly.”
Elena nodded, confused and worried. She wandered from her room toward the red coals of the main room’s hearth, drawn by the warmth. She held her palms toward the soothing heat. Her left hand was still the crimson red of the Rose, but her right was milky white. What had happened? “Have you heard of anything like this, Er’ril?” she asked. “Of a mage’s power just vanishing?”
Sheathing his sword, he approached the fireplace and picked up his woolen blanket from the floor. “No. Even when Chi disappeared, a mage only lost his power as his stored magick was spent.” He folded the blanket. “I’ve never seen this happen before.”
She turned from the coals, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. “Could it be a trick of the Dark Lord? Has he found a way to steal the magick from me?”
Er’ril’s face grew clouded. “I don’t know. But whatever happened this morning was not natural. I suspect deceit.”
Before either could speak further, a knocking on the door intruded. Er’ril glanced to Elena and slid his sword out once again. “Stay behind me,” the plainsman whispered.
He crossed to the door. “Who is it?” he yelled through the barred door.
“It’s Joach! I’ve been sent by the castle’s chamberlain. There’s something Elena must see.”
Frowning, Er’ril shoved his sword away and hauled the length of fire-hardened oak from the brackets. He yanked open the door.
Elena stood at Er’ril’s shoulder. Her brother wore his usual finery, but he must have dressed in a hurry. His shirt was untucked, and he had missed buttoning his breeches properly. “What is it?” Elena asked.
Joach glanced between Er’ril and Elena, his eyebrows rising slightly in surprise at the sight of the two of them together so early. Elena glanced to her own bed robe and bare feet. She blushed slightly at what her brother must be imagining.
After clearing his throat, Joach said, “I . . . I think you should see this for yourselves. Others have already congregated at the Great Hall, and the lower halls are all abuzz with rumor. I had the chamberlain chase everyone out of the main hall and post guards at the door.”
“Why? What is going on?”
Joach shook his head. “El, you’d better get dressed. If nothing else, you need to make an appearance down there. All sorts of rumors are starting to grow.”
“What happened?” she asked.
Waving away her question, Joach pushed into the room. “Probably nothing. Just some drunken rouser making a bold statement about your diplomacy.”
“Speak clearly, Joach,” Er’ril growled, drawing the young man’s eyes. The plainsman moved to Elena’s side and lifted the cuff of her robe. He exposed her white hand. “Elena’s magick was stolen from her. Something foul is afoot, and I tire of your little game of mysteries.”
Joach stared in shock at Elena’s white hand. “Sweet Mother . . . Then it wasn’t just a prank,” he mumbled.
“What?” she asked irritably, pulling her arm from Er’ril.
“Somebody—nobody saw who—jabbed a long knife in the palm print you burned in the Great Hall’s table.” Joach could not take his eyes off her hand. “I’d figured it was simply a gesture meant to insult.”
Elena rubbed her palm with the fingers of her other hand. She glanced to Er’ril.