Wit'ch Storm

  Joach snatched up the knife and spoke clearly. “Brunt, if you ever touch me again, I’ll cut your manhood from you and feed it to Snell.”

  Joach’s sudden words seemed to shock Brunt even more than the pain from the broken nose. The realization that he had been duped bloomed in Brunt’s expression, and the boy’s eyes grew red with rage. “Let’s see you try, fool,” he spat. “C’mon, Snell, it looks like the game’s getting a bit more interesting.”

  Without a word, Snell ran down the stairs, abandoning Brunt. The boy’s hurried footfalls faded to silence as the two remaining combatants stared each other down.

  The betrayal of his companion did not seem to faze Brunt. He just shook his head and faced Joach. A hand reached into a second pocket and removed another knife. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m gonna end it.”

  Joach backed a few steps up from the landing.

  Brunt followed. “I’ll make you scream before I’m done with you.”

  Joach continued to retreat as his mind fought for ways to deal with this situation. If Brunt vanished, Snell would likely stay silent, fearful of being tied in any way to the disappearance. Joach fingered his knife. With Brunt gone, Joach could again resume his role as the dullard without worry of exposure.

  With a sudden growl on his lips, Brunt rushed up the steps toward Joach, his jagged-edged knife raised. Taught the ways of sword and knife fighting by his father, Joach recognized that Brunt held his weapon too high, leaving his belly exposed. Brunt had more fury than skill.

  Crouching swiftly, Joach jabbed at Brunt’s soft midriff with his own knife. But at the last moment, Joach turned his wrist, driving his fist rather than the blade into the boy’s belly.

  Stunned, with the breath knocked from him, Brunt made a half-hearted slash at Joach, but Joach easily caught his wrist with his other hand and bent it savagely back. Pain numbed the boy’s fingers, and his weapon clattered to the stone steps.

  Joach twisted Brunt around until he held the boy tight, the blade pressed to his scrawny throat. With Brunt silenced, Joach’s masquerade could continue. His hand trembled as he held the knife.

  “Do it, coward,” Brunt choked out. Tears ran from his eyes.

  It was instinct that had caused Joach to turn the knife from Brunt’s belly a moment ago. He was not a killer. But now he had time to ponder his leniency. Brunt would surely expose his charade if he were left alive, so any hope of helping his sister lay in this boy’s death.

  Joach closed his eyes.

  He had no choice. He shoved Brunt away from him.

  He was not a cold-blooded killer—not even for his sister. “I’m sorry, Elena,” he whispered to himself.

  The boy stumbled down the steps to the landing below, falling hard on his knees. Brunt twisted to face Joach. “I’ll tell everyone!” he screamed up at him. “They’ll all know you’re a fake!”

  Joach did not answer.

  “You’ve ruined yourself!” Brunt yelled as he pushed to his feet. “I’ll tell!”

  Then, behind Brunt, a section of the landing’s wall swung open. The brush of air must have alerted the boy, drawing his attention to the huge white-robed brother who filled the doorway.

  The dark-skinned man threw gray dust into Brunt’s red face. “You’ll tell no one,” the large man said softly. “Now sleep.”

  Brunt waved the cloud of dust from his face, then slumped to the floor limply. With a thud, his head struck the stone.

  The brother ignored the unconscious boy and stepped over him. He stared up at Joach, his silver earring flickering in the lantern light. “Come down here, young man. It’s time we talked.”

  AS DAWN NEARED, Kast leaned hard into the rudder. Salty spray bathed his face as he brooded in silence, his lips narrow and bloodless. Flint still refused to explain the meaning of his earlier words from the prior night. How could the fate of the mythic city of A’loa Glen lie with the Bloodriders? He had never set eyes on the island and doubted it even existed.

  Kast shook his head and swung the sails to help turn the boat. Responding to his skilled touch, the skiff curved into the narrow channel between the twin islands of Tristan and Lystra. The islands’ two volcanic peaks towered to either side, the rock of their mountaintops aglow with the sun’s first rays.

  A gasp of wonder arose from the mer’ai girl as she stared forward.

  Kast knew what triggered her response. Directly ahead, a towering span of weathered stone bridged the narrow channel between the islands, a sweeping arch of volcanic rock carved by wind and rain.

  “It is called the Arch of the Archipelago,” Flint said to the girl, sliding closer to her by the prow. “Have you heard any of the songs about it? Songs of the doomed lovers Tristan and Lystra?”

  The girl shook her head and turned toward the old man.

  Kast could tell from Flint’s worried glances toward the seadragon that he was trying to keep the child distracted from the failing health of her beast. The dragon could barely raise its snout above the waves; its eyes had dulled and its wings fluttered weakly as it struggled to keep even with the boat.

  “At one time,” Flint continued, “the two islands were joined as one. Only a small river valley divided the two mountains.” He pointed to the northern island. “The young man, Tristan, lived among the clans that claimed the slopes of that peak, while Lystra was the daughter of the clan leader who declared the southern peak as his property. Their two peoples were often at war.” Flint shook his head sadly.

  “What happened?” Sy-wen encouraged him.

  “One day, while out hunting, Tristan found Lystra bathing in the river between the two peaks. She sang so sweetly as she swam that in a single breath, he fell in love with her. Hiding in the tree line, he added his voice to hers, singing his love to her. Enchanted with his music, Lystra’s heart was swayed, and she called Tristan to her. Within the river, the two lovers embraced, lingering in each other’s arms until the men of each clan dragged them apart.” Flint leaned close to the girl and lowered his voice. “But their love could not be denied. In midnight trysts, they would meet by the river, their love growing ever deeper.”

  By now the girl’s eyes had grown large.

  “Then their forbidden love was discovered, and they were once again torn apart. Lystra’s father cast a spell that called the sea to swell up and separate their two peaks and keep his daughter forever from the son of his enemies. Unknown to her father, the night the spell was cast, Lystra and Tristan had met for one last kiss by the river. As the spell took hold, the young lovers refused to break their embrace as the sea rose between them. While the swelling waters tugged them apart, they still tried to hold tight. With arms reaching for each other, they sang of their unending love. Their music and pain flowed up to the gods themselves, who took pity on the young lovers and changed them to stone so Tristan and Lystra could be forever united, forever embracing across the channel between the islands.”

  Sy-wen sighed and glanced toward the span of stone.

  “To this day, the Arch is a special spot,” Flint finished. “In boats adorned with flowers, lovers come to recite their vows of love and be united under the Arch. In the hearts of these fresh lovers, the ancient song of Tristan and Lystra can still be heard.”

  “How beautiful,” Sy-wen mumbled.

  Kast had heard enough of this nonsense and cleared his throat. “It’s just stone,” he said sourly. “Just rock carved by wind and rain.”

  Flint groaned. “Does a Bloodrider’s heart have no room for romance?”

  Kast ignored the question and nodded ahead. “We’ve reached the Arch, as you instructed. What next?”

  But Flint would not let his words pass so easily. “You think the Arch is mere stone, nothing more?”

  Kast just stared straight into the old man’s eyes.

  Flint waved toward the Arch. “Then sail on through it.”

  Kast adjusted the spread of the sail and straightened the rudder. He aimed for the channel that passe
d under the Arch. He had traveled this path a few times with boats of the fishing fleet. The Arch marked the end of the chain of islands and the beginning of the Great Ocean itself. It was the gateway to the open sea.

  Sy-wen made room as Flint slid toward the prow of the skiff. From inside his sealskin jacket, he removed what looked like an ivory knife. As he held it up toward the cresting sun, Kast saw that it was not a blade but the tooth of some large beast. It was a handspan long, slightly curved, with a chipped, serrated edge. Kast could not imagine what manner of beast the tooth came from.

  “What’re you doing, Flint?” Kast called to the man.

  “Just trying to remove the scales from your eyes,” he said.

  Kast now had the boat squarely pointed toward the center of the Arch. The edge of the sun lay directly ahead, just peeking up from the curved blue horizon.

  “Look!” Sy-wen suddenly called out, pointing ahead.

  Kast had already seen them. In the open waters beyond the Arch, a group of familiar boats rounded the cliff head of the Isle of Tristan and bore full sails toward them. It was Jarplin’s hunting fleet. Kast had thought he had lost the boats by skimming through a network of channels too shallow and too narrow for the larger ships. Whether through dumb luck or skill, the fleet had found them again.

  “They must’ve been circling the deeper channels around the Archipelago hunting for us,” Flint commented.

  Kast bore down on the rudder, trying to make a sharp turn before reaching the Arch. Maybe they had not been seen yet.

  But Kast’s hope was short-lived. Across the far waters, raised voices echoed to them. They had been spotted.

  At the prow, Flint swore. Kast thought he was mad that the fleet had cut them off, but his next words made the focus of his anger clear. “Damn it, Kast!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Straighten this boat around. We must cross the Arch.”

  “We’ll end up smack in the middle of the fleet,” he argued. “Is that what you want? Stealing Jarplin’s dragon will not make us welcome guests aboard his ships.”

  “Just do as I say, Bloodrider!” Flint glanced at him, his eyes hard. “If you’ve ever trusted a man, trust me now!”

  For a flash, Kast pictured his teacher, the blind seer of the Dre’rendi. Then it was his turn to swear loudly, his voice pained as he made his choice. Why was he always a fool for a madman’s words? He hauled on the rudder and yanked the sail, and again the skiff sped straight toward the span of volcanic stone.

  Kast stared ahead as spray spat at him from the waves, mocking him with salty stings. Past the Arch, the seas filled with the billowing sails and sharp prows of the fleet. As he aimed the skiff toward them, Kast wondered who was the real madman on this boat.

  “Hurry!” Flint called out. “We must reach the Arch before they do!”

  Kast swung the sail, seeking stronger breezes, tacking with the skill of his people. But the bigger boats had the better winds and swifter speed. The fleet bore toward the Arch like a surging storm of sail and rigging. Kast struggled with the skiff, but they would never win this race. And he knew why. “The dragon slows us too much,” he mumbled to himself.

  He had meant his words only for himself, but the girl heard him.

  She turned hard eyes toward him for a heartbeat, then swung to the starboard rail. Lowering a hand to the water, she sang out across the black waters. Within a moment, a nose reached toward her from the water.

  She leaned over the rail. “Conch, we must be swift to escape these sharks.” She nodded toward the rolling fleet.

  Though unfamiliar with seadragons, Kast recognized the pain in the creature’s black eyes. The Bloodrider also saw the understanding.

  Conch puffed explosively and nudged Sy-wen’s hand aside. His body heaved in a huge swell beside the skiff and dove forward. In humps of undulating muscle, he swam to the front of the boat, now dragging the skiff behind him.

  Kast fell backward as the skiff jumped forward.

  Flint, at the prow, finally realized what was happening. “No!” he yelled. “The exertion will kill him. That must not happen!”

  Sy-wen answered him. “He will die anyway if captured again. This is his only chance, and he knows it. Conch would rather die in the sea than in the nets of the hunters.”

  Flint’s lips were tight as he considered her words. He turned forward.

  Silence descended upon the skiff. The seas ahead were a wall of gnashing prows. Kast used all his hard-earned skill to tack with the wind, trying his best to ease the dragon’s burden. Yet his efforts seemed minuscule compared to the power of the seadragon. Kast’s long braid of black hair now waved behind him as the skiff sped across the waters.

  Sy-wen cowered near Flint, her eyes fixed on the other ships cutting through the waves to intercept them.

  “Almost . . . almost . . .” Flint intoned at the prow.

  The sea channel beyond the Arch was now so crammed with boats, Kast did not know if even the small skiff could maneuver between them.

  Ahead, as the dragon crossed the Arch, Flint leaned over the front of the boat, one hand holding him from toppling into the sea, the other extending the long white tooth forward like some miniature battering ram before the prow. “Godspeed!” he yelled.

  The man was surely mad.

  Then the skiff, dragged by the dragon, reached the Arch—and time slowed to a thick syrup. Kast saw the tip of Flint’s tooth pierce the space under the span of rock. And where the tooth touched, the view through the Arch changed! Like a drop of dye dripped into water, this new image spread out from the tip of the tooth. It grew large enough to swallow the skiff as it sped through the Arch.

  Once they passed under the stone vault, Kast released the guide rope, and the sail fluttered slack to the single mast. The skiff slowed its glide across the waves. Kast stood up near the boat’s bow. This cannot be!

  He searched around him, his eyes wide, his lips parted. Mindless of the boat’s balance, he swung in a circle. The Arch was gone! Jarplin’s fleet was nowhere in sight. Around him, very distantly, he could make out other islands of the Archipelago. He would swear to the south of them stood the Isle of Maunsk, but that island lay a thousand leagues away from their last position.

  Kast swung around to stare astern. The sun now rose behind the boat, not in front of it. His legs began to tremble.

  “Sit down, Kast,” Flint said. “You’ll capsize us.”

  His legs, weak already, obeyed. Kast sat down and found Flint’s eyes upon him.

  Sy-wen sat straight backed in her corner of the skiff, her green eyes large and moist as she too searched the waters around her. The blanket over her shoulders had fallen away, exposing her bare chest.

  Kast glanced quickly away. “Wh-where are we?” he asked.

  Flint pointed to a large island directly ahead of the skiff’s prow. Kast had been through these waters before and did not remember this island. Squinting, he peered at it.

  It was shaped like a large horseshoe, its curving shore open like inviting arms. Three mountains marked its silhouette, one at each end of the island and the largest in the center. Yet as unique as this island appeared, it was what sprouted up from the centermost peak and spread outward toward the other mountains that captured Kast’s gaze. Hundreds—no, thousands—of towers and domed buildings sprouted and dotted the island. Near the shore, the broken tips of some spires rose from the sea itself, like some man-made reef.

  “Is it . . . Is it . . . ?” Kast could not find his words.

  “It is,” Flint said with a nod. “There stands A’loa Glen.”

  Sy-wen tested the name on her own lips. She was obviously stunned, too. “A’loa Glen . . . ?”

  Kast’s mouth was too dry, his tongue stuck in his throat. “How did we . . . ?” His next words had an edge of anger in them. “I’ve been through these very waters!”

  “Yes, of course you have,” Flint said. “But the island is cloaked in sorceries. Its shores can only be seen or approached via three paths, and eve
n those secret ways require certain keys.” Flint held up the curved tooth.

  Kast could not tear his eyes from the sight of the mythic city. “The . . . the Arch . . . ?”

  “And you thought it was mere stone,” Flint said with a tired smile. “Now if you two are done gawking, maybe we can sail to port and get some help for this child’s wounded dragon.”

  Sy-wen jumped slightly and leaned over the boat’s edge. She blushed, obviously embarrassed at having forgotten her friend in the excitement. “Conch?” she called in a worried voice, a hand reaching toward the waves.

  With a huff of expelled air, Conch’s flared nostrils rose from the water, but he was too weak to reach her palm, exhausted by his run for the Arch. “He’s in poor shape,” Sy-wen said, stating the obvious.

  “We’re almost to safety,” Flint consoled, but his worried brow weakened the reassurance in his words.

  Kast took a deep breath, then reached for the sail’s rope. The simple routines of sailing always calmed his heart. As he worked the ropes and rudder, the sail caught the wind again and swelled out. With the skiff under way, he found his tongue again. “Flint, you said the Bloodriders would judge the fate of the city. What did you mean by that?”

  Flint turned toward the sunken towers of the city. “You’ll find all your answers at A’loa Glen,” he said, then lowered his voice to a cryptic mumble. “But I hope you know the right questions, Kast.”

  JOACH SUPPRESSED A shudder as the stone door swung shut behind him. He was now trapped within the narrow, dimly lit passage with the large, white-robed brother. The dark-skinned man had introduced himself as Brother Moris and, after hauling the snoring Brunt under one muscled arm, he had waved for Joach to accompany him inside the secret passage.

  For a moment, Joach regretted accepting the brother’s invitation. He pushed one hand against the door behind him. It was snugly locked. The tunnel ahead of him was blocked by the large man, now burdened with Brunt.

  “What . . . what are you planning to do with the kitchen boy?” he asked, shying around the bigger questions for the moment.