Wit'ch Gate (v5)

“Joach was right earlier,” the plainsman said angrily. “We’d best see this for ourselves.”

  “What do you make of all this?” Joach asked.

  Er’ril’s gruff voice filled with anger. “It means we’ve been too lax, too trusting in our supposed allies. There’s a traitor amongst us—someone who’s been plying the dark arts in our very midst.” Er’ril stalked toward the door. “Let us go.”

  Elena remained standing. “Wait.” She turned toward her bedroom door. “I have something I must do first.”

  ER’RIL SHOVED BRUSQUELY through the crowd gathered outside the doors to the Great Hall. Elena strode in his wake, flanked by guards and dressed in a plain but efficient riding outfit of brown calfskin boots, black pants, and matching jacket. Her hair had been tied back in a severe braid that made the gold flecks in her green eyes stand out. To hide the change in her hands, she also wore a pair of brown calfskin riding gloves.

  Reaching the doors, Er’ril glanced approvingly at Elena. Back at the tower, she had been wise to ask for a moment to change. She had insisted that she present a commanding image, rather than her usual delicate wear. “If there is a traitor here,” she had explained, “I want them to wonder if his deceit worked. And even if the renegade has fled, it would be best to present a hard front to those who remain.”

  Er’ril held the door, then followed her into the nearly empty hall. The only occupants were the most trusted leaders of her allies: Kast stood with the high keel of the Bloodriders; Sy-wen stood beside her mer’ai elder, Master Edyll; and Meric stood with his mother, Queen Tratal of the elv’in. Elena strode to the head of the table, Er’ril in step beside her.

  The gathered folk remained silent, wearing worried expressions.

  Elena glanced to Er’ril, then bent to study the knife.

  The long hilt of the knife thrust up from the table. Elena leaned closer, studying the sculpted hilt. Er’ril knelt down and peered under the table. The blade of the knife jutted from the underside. It was the same material as the hilt. Er’ril straightened. “This dagger is carved from a single black stone,” he mumbled.

  Elena reached tentatively toward it, but Er’ril stopped her with a touch to her elbow. “For now, we’d best leave it be until we know more about it.”

  “Is it ebon’stone?” Meric asked, approaching the table.

  Elena shook her head. “No. The stone here is translucent, almost like a black crystal.”

  Er’ril moved around Elena to get his own view of the carving. Perched atop the hilt was a wingless dragon or lizard, its long tail wrapped along the length of the hilt, holding it in place. A fanged mouth was open in a hiss. Er’ril leaned closer. He could just make out the tiny collar of feathers around its neck. “Sweet Mother . . .” Er’ril groaned.

  Eyes swung toward him until the high keel strode forward and spoke. “I know this crystal,” he said gruffly.

  Er’ril straightened and faced the broad-shouldered man. “What is it?”

  “The fleets of the Dre’rendi have traded in treasures from all the lands of Alasea. It is nightglass. Very prized. Shards of it trade for a mighty price. Something of this size and sculpted with such artistry could be bartered for a small ship.”

  “But where does it come from?”

  The large man scratched his head. “If I remember right, it comes from the desert of the Southern Wastes. Mined from the Scoured Sands around the Ruins of Tular.”

  “Tular?” Elena asked.

  Er’ril answered, unable to keep the strain from his voice. “An ancient keep, abandoned for ages, so old no one knew its history even in my time. Its crumbled rooms and halls hide in the shadow of the Southwall itself.”

  Elena’s eyes grew wide at the mention of the Southwall.

  Er’ril could read the suspicion in her gaze. First a danger arising near the Northwall, and now omens from the Southwall. “That’s not all,” Er’ril mumbled to her.

  “What?”

  He nodded toward the lizard carved on the hilt. “There lies the ancient crest of Tular. I’d forgotten until now.”

  “What is it?”

  Er’ril stared at her, unflinching. “A basilisk.”

  Elena gasped, stumbling back from the table.

  By now, the other leaders had gathered closer. “What is the meaning of this?” Queen Tratal asked, storm winds sounding behind her stern words.

  Er’ril turned to Elena.

  She nodded. “Tell them. I was going to make the announcement soon anyway.”

  Bowing his acknowledgment, Er’ril explained the portents from the night, of the Weirgates and their significance.

  Queen Tratal turned to Meric. “So, my son, you intend to take a ship and search for this Weirgate in the north.”

  He nodded. “Yes. With your approval, I would like to leave before the sun sets this evening.”

  Queen Tratal turned to Elena and Er’ril. “I will allow it. But what of this?” She waved long fingers toward the imbedded dagger.

  Elena took a deep breath, composing herself. “I think the signs are too clear to ignore. If the Dark Lord positioned a Weirgate near the Northwall, there is a certain symmetry that he’d position another at the Southwall.” She indicated the dagger’s hilt. “We cannot dismiss this omen—a basilisk like one of the four Gates. It must be investigated.”

  “I can spare one other ship to aid you in your quests,” the elv’in queen stated coldly. “No more.”

  “But the Southern Wastes are vast and endless,” Er’ril argued. “With more ships involved in the search—”

  “No,” Queen Tratal said, her silver hair crackling with elemental energy. “I cannot weaken our fleet.”

  Er’ril frowned, but from the ice in the woman’s gaze, he knew she would not budge.

  “Then I would go with them,” Kast said, lifting his head from where he had been whispering with Sy-wen. He drew the others’ attentions. “The dragon Ragnar’k can add his keen eyes to this search.” Kast put his arm around Sy-wen. “We will accompany the elv’in ship.”

  Er’ril nodded, satisfied.

  The high keel wore a broad grin, puffing with pride. “If Kast goes, I would like my son, Hunt, to accompany them. The Dre’rendi will help in this search.”

  “Thank you,” Elena said. “Thank you all.”

  Master Edyll spoke for the first time. “If the griffin is hidden somewhere in the north, the basilisk perhaps in the south, and the wyvern has been taken to the volcanic lair of the Dark Lord by the darkmage Shorkan—” Edyll eyed them all with his wise gaze. “—then where is this fourth gate? This Manticore Gate.”

  No one answered.

  “What do we know of it?” Edyll asked. The elderly mer’ai leaned on his cane, but mostly for effect. He had been free of the sea for almost a full moon and hardly needed the cane to walk on hard land.

  Er’ril shook his head. “The spirit of the book mentioned it. An og’re with a scorpion’s tail.”

  “Nothing else? No other clue?”

  Elena began to admit their ignorance when the creak of hinges from a side door interrupted. Their faces all turned. A guard, spear in hand, stepped forth cautiously. With clear nervousness, his eyes took in the assembled crowd.

  “What is it?” Er’ril asked.

  The man’s eyes drifted to the plainsman. “I . . . I came to announce . . .” He waved his free hand toward the opening.

  A large shape climbed awkwardly through the narrow doorway. Hunched, the massive og’re pulled himself up to face the others. His large amber eyes, slitted like a cat’s, studied them.

  “Tol’chuk?” Er’ril said, brows pinched. Lately, the og’re had made himself scarce, retreating to deserted sections of the castle. From his expression now, clearly something was troubling him. His craggy features were a carving of hopelessness and despair.

  “What’s the matter?” Elena said, stepping beside Er’ril. “What’s wrong?”

  As answer, the og’re moved near them and raised a clawed fist. In his
grip was the chunk of precious heartstone, the Heart of his Tribe. The torchlight glinted off its facets, but its usual glow was absent. “They be gone,” Tol’chuk grumbled, struggling with the common tongue of Alasea. A large tear rolled down one cheek. “All my people’s spirits. The Bane has consumed them. The Heart be dead.”

  Elena crossed toward the large creature. She reached and touched his hand with her gloved fingers. “Oh, Tol’chuk, I’m so sorry.”

  Er’ril also moved forward to console him, but Tol’chuk pulled free of Elena and turned slightly away, hunching his back toward them. “I don’t deserve your words of peace. I have failed my people.” He seemed to hunch even farther in on himself. “And now I must fail you all, too, my friends and brothers.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Er’ril asked, not unkindly. He reached and gripped the thick shoulder of the og’re.

  Tol’chuk flinched at his touch. “I must leave you.”

  “What?” Elena gasped. “What do you mean?”

  Er’ril understood the girl’s shock. The og’re had been their companion since the very beginning.

  “The shade of my father appeared to me,” Tol’chuk mumbled gruffly. “He has given me one last task—a way to revive the Heart.”

  “How?” Er’ril asked softly.

  Tol’chuk would still not turn. “I must return the heartstone to where it be first mined.”

  “Back to the mountains or the Teeth?” Er’ril asked.

  “No.” Tol’chuk turned and faced him, his face a mask of pain. “To Gul’gotha.”

  Elena backed a step away. The others were too stunned to speak.

  Tol’chuk’s shoulders hunched farther. “I cannot refuse my father.”

  Er’ril glanced around. First Meric called by Nee’lahn, and now Tol’chuk sent a message by the shade of his father. Both companions called away by the words of the dead. Er’ril frowned at the coincidence.

  Master Edyll noted another coincidence. “The og’re is summoned to another shore. Does anyone else find this significant?”

  “What do you mean?” Elena asked.

  “We seek the hiding place of the fourth Gate—a gate sculpted like an og’re with a scorpion’s tail. And now comes an og’re with a calling to cross the Great Ocean to the lands of Gul’gotha. Could this be the sign we were looking for?”

  “I do not understand what you speak,” Tol’chuk answered. “I go at the bidding of my father, to find a way to free my people’s spirits from the Bane.”

  “And what is this Bane?” Master Edyll said. He held up his hand when Tol’chuk began to answer. “I have heard your tale, Master Tol’chuk. What I mean is what exactly is this creature in the heartstone?”

  Tol’chuk held the stone up toward the light. “I don’t know. It has changed, grown as it’s fed on the last spirits.”

  “May I see it?” Master Edyll said.

  Tol’chuk glanced to Er’ril and Elena. Elena nodded, her face curious.

  Tentatively, the og’re relinquished the chunk of heartstone to Master Edyll. The elder had to hold the large stone in both hands. He moved to one of the torches in a wall sconce. Straining slightly with the weight of the stone, Edyll held the crystal up to the flame, peering inside. The Heart glowed brightly with the firelight. The old mer’ai leaned closer, grimacing slightly. “Hmm . . .”

  “What?” Er’ril asked.

  “Just as I thought.” Master Edyll stepped to the side, still holding the crystal near the torch. He nodded to the far wall.

  Er’ril and the others all turned. The refracted firelight spread to the distant wall, bathing it with a ruby glow. But at the center was a darkness. It was the shadow of the Bane cast on the wall for all to see.

  Gasps spread all around. Er’ril took a step nearer.

  As they watched, the shadow shifted, uncurling, as if it sensed their gazes. Black claws spread out, scrabbling on the wall. A spiked tail rose from the heart of the shadow, poised in threat.

  “A black scorpion,” Elena said, a clenched fist at her throat. She turned to Tol’chuk. “The Bane is a scorpion.”

  JOACH WOUND HIS way down to the lowest level of the castle. His stomach growled in complaint at his missed morning meal. Elena had rescheduled the war council meeting for midday. After the revelation of the scorpion, she had said she needed to ponder all she had learned. Before she left, Joach had watched Elena bow her head with Er’ril’s whispering something to him. The plainsman’s expression had darkened at her words; then the two had whisked out together, wearing almost matching stern expressions. Neither had bothered to include him in their plans.

  With the remaining folk in the Hall talking within their own groups, Joach had found himself ignored. With no one to talk to, he had quickly become aware of his empty stomach. Seeking food, Joach had left the Hall and now worked his way down the last staircase toward the castle’s kitchen.

  In truth, it was not just his stomach that urged him toward the kitchens. In his mind, he pictured a serving girl with eyes the color of twilight and hair the color of spun gold. His lips breathlessly formed her name: Marta.

  Joach’s feet sped faster down the steps. Again, as he entered the lower level, he was instantly assaulted with the rich odors and cheery sounds of the kitchens. Joach glanced down at himself and straightened the lay of his jacket and shirt, then marched with forced casualness into the kitchen heat. He would not let his feet betray his heart.

  As soon as he entered, his eyes quickly scanned the bustling servants and kitchen help. So intent was he on peering through the crowd that he failed to see the discarded ladle on the floor. His heel struck it with a loud clang, and his leg went out from under him. Eyes turned his way.

  Flailing, Joach fell forward. Grabbing for a table’s edge to keep from falling, he missed, and his palm struck the edge of a large bowl of corn porridge. He twisted just before hitting the floor, taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulder. With the breath knocked from his lungs, he gasped and rolled to his back—just in time to see the large bowl of porridge topple over the table’s edge and dump its contents over his head.

  The warm corn porridge splattered him from crown to shoulder, blinding him, filling his open mouth. Thank the Mother, it was just the remains from the morning meal, left cooling on the table. If it had been steaming hot, he could have suffered a severe burn. Even so, his cheeks were aflame with embarrassment. Sputtering and pushing to his elbows, Joach spat out a mouthful of porridge, choking.

  “Watch it, you fool!” a voice scolded.

  Joach felt a cool, wet rag begin to wipe his face, first his lips and nose so he could breathe. Embarrassment made his voice meek. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t see . . . I tripped . . .”

  The cool rag moved to wipe the porridge from his eyes. Joach, humiliated enough, sat straighter and took the rag in his own hand. “I can manage,” he muttered, heat entering his words.

  He wiped brusquely at his eyes and face. Finally, he could see again. He glanced up to thank his benefactor and found himself staring into midnight blue eyes. Framed in golden hair, her bronze skin shone in the heat of the kitchen’s hearths. “Marta,” he gasped.

  With his face now almost cleaned, Joach saw Marta’s eyes grow equally as wide as his. She bowed her head quickly. “Prince Joach,” she mumbled.

  Joach had noticed the trace of panic and fear in her eyes just before she had turned away. “It’s all right, Marta. It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was stepping.” He did not want her sharing any guilt for his own clumsiness.

  “I’ll get you more rags,” she muttered. “You’d best give me your jacket. I’ll soak it in cold water before any stain sets in the wool.”

  Joach wiped the rest of his face clean. “No need. I can manage on my own. But thank you all the same.”

  He stood and finally noticed the entire kitchen crew gaping at them. Joach’s cheeks grew hot. He raised a hand and found his hair coated thickly with porridge. Frowning, he stepped to a washbasin and s
hrugged off his jacket. Before cleaning his clothes, Joach dunked his entire head into the deep washbasin. For a moment, he thought of drowning himself to escape his embarrassment. But he could not stop a small smile from forming on his lips as he worked the porridge from his hair. So much for his casual entrance.

  Pushing up from the basin, he shook his hair free of the water. He found Marta at his side, a clean towel in hand. Joach accepted it with a shy grin. He was surprised to see a matching expression on the young woman’s face. “I came down here for a quick breakfast,” he said as he toweled his head. “But I didn’t expect it that quick.”

  Marta smiled at his attempt at a joke. “I’ll get you a proper meal.” She nodded him to a table and waved another servant to take his jacket. “Take a seat, Prince Joach. The head cook is at the Great Hall arranging for the midday repast, but I’ll find something for you to eat.”

  “Just not porridge,” he said as she stepped away.

  She glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you something special.”

  He watched her move confidently through the kitchen, ordering the younger help around. One of the other servant girls whispered something in Marta’s ear, then darted away when Marta snapped a rag at her. The girl ran giggling away, but not before giving Joach a knowing wink.

  Joach shook his head and hid his grin as he used the damp towel to wipe his shirt down and clean behind his ears. Before he had even finished, Marta returned with a stoneware plate and a fork. The plate steamed with a mix of braised meat over a bed of shredded potatoes. As she set the plate down, Joach smelled rich spices unlike any he had ever smelled before. The odor slightly burned his nostrils:

  “It’s a morning dish of my people,” she said. “It is made to wake the tongue to the morning’s sun.”

  Joach forked a piece and brought it to his lips as she spoke. As he tasted it, his brows rose in appreciation. A full and rich spice accented the meat perfectly. “What is this?” he asked, lifting a second chunk of meat.

  “Sand shark,” she said meekly, “A delicacy from the Southern Wastes—my homeland.” She poured him a mug of cold ale. “You’ll need this.”