Jaston leapt after the wolf, flying over the edge of the boat, his knife clamped in his teeth. The swamp man caught the vinelike appendage with both hands, then loosened one grip to snatch the dagger from his mouth. As his palms burned, he sawed at the limb, a scream frozen on his lips, until the appendage severed and both he and the wolf tumbled into the lake.
Elena knew this was just a test of their strength. She stared up into the night sky. The main bulk of the beast glided on its huge wings. Its pale eyes seemed to study the boat; then suddenly it focused directly on her. It was no dumb beast that hunted them. A malignant intelligence lay behind this creature’s dead eyes.
She knew the Dark Lord watched and guided this beast.
It studied her for a heartbeat more; then a scream of triumph burst from its throat as it dove toward her, wings tucked for speed.
“Everyone down!” Elena screamed, not bothering to see if she was obeyed. From here, she knew the battle was hers alone.
She raised her arms. Not just her right or her left—but both. She brought her two red hands together and entwined her fingers. This time she did not unite wit’ch and woman—but coldfire and wit’chfire!
She thrust her joined fists at the diving monster and let her magick rage forth. The power blew out from her with such force that Elena was knocked backward. She had to anchor her legs to keep her feet.
From her fists, a rage of cracking lightning, searing flames, and shredding winds swept out. The lake screamed with her magicks. Thunder boomed across the waters.
Elena knew the name of this awesome power.
Stormfire!
This new magick ripped into the beast, halting its dive. Like a fly in amber, it hung trapped as crackles of lightning danced across its flesh and savage winds tore its wings to shreds. Flame followed and laid waste to all it touched. The beast writhed within a ball of fierce energies, wailing and thrashing its appendages.
Elena poured every last dreg of her magick into the creature.
Finally its skin cracked, its tentacles curled and blackened, and its wings became bone and ash. It crashed into the lake with a final keening scream.
Waves and swells rocked the boat; everyone standing was knocked down. When the boat’s rocking finally calmed enough, Er’ril sat up and glanced to Elena to make sure she was safe.
She leaned up on an elbow and gave him a nod. No words were needed.
A voice called out from the lake. Mycelle crossed to the vessel’s edge and helped Jaston crawl into the boat. He dragged the sopping wolf behind him. Fardale’s fur was burned in thick swatches, but the shape-shifter lived.
Er’ril crawled over to Elena as the remaining swells died down. He helped her sit up. “What was that magick?” he asked.
“Stormfire,” Elena said breathlessly.
Er’ril stared at her, then took her hands one at a time and examined them. He had no qualms about touching her soft white skin, bare of magick. He glanced back to her face, wonder in his eyes. “How . . . ?”
“You told me mages in the past could only bear magick in one hand.” She squeezed Er’ril’s palm as emphasis.
Er’ril nodded and kept his hand in hers.
“But I can wield both,” Elena said. “And since no one but Sisa’kofa could wield two magicks at once, I knew the Dark Lord could not be prepared for such a united attack . . . so I took advantage of his blindness.” Elena smiled shyly up at Er’ril. “But even I didn’t expect such a show.”
Er’ril pulled her into his embrace and hugged her hard. “You continue to amaze me, Elena.”
She leaned into him, relishing his warmth and scent. She hoped this moment would never end.
Then the lake erupted in a huge wave and jarred them apart. The boat almost flipped with the force of the sudden surge. From the waters to the side of the boat, a huge head burst forth, burnt and scarred, borne on a long sinuous neck.
Its maw swelled open, lined with thousands of shredding teeth. Its blackened eyes searched the boat, blind but still able to sense its prey by scent. It struck at Elena.
She screamed and raised her hands, but no power lay there. Er’ril threw his body atop hers, knocking her down and protecting her with his own life.
Suddenly a second surge rocked the boat, knocking the vessel back from the beast. Er’ril pushed up to see. Elena followed.
Up from the lake rose a monstrous, scaled head, huge jaws hinged wide open. Its teeth, shining in the light, were as long as Elena’s forearm. With a whip of its huge tail and a clacking roar, it burst forth, snatched the Dark Lord’s creature by its long neck, and shook it savagely. The pale beast squealed its death cry, thrashing in the jaws of the huge swamp creature.
With the beast already weakened, the lake monster finished what Elena had started. It twisted and tore at the pale creature until the head of the burnt beast fell limp in its jaws.
The swamp reptile, still holding its prey clamped in its huge jaws, rolled a huge black eye toward the raft, then sank below the waters.
Jaston spoke from the edge of the boat. “A bull kroc’an.”
“Was it called up by Cassa Dar to save us?” Elena asked.
The swamp wit’ch’s voice rose weakly from the floor, just a whisper. “No. It was no magick of mine.”
Jaston stood at the boat’s edge, staring out at the black waters. His wet clothes clung to him. He turned to the others, no longer hiding his scars. “I know these swamps, and I know the kroc’an. That roar before the bull attacked was a cry of revenge.” Jaston turned back to stare at the lake. “These swamps are my home,” he said, his voice a blend of warmth and pride. “Out here, creatures know how to survive.”
Elena sensed he spoke of more than just the bull kroc’an, and from Mycelle’s sad smile as she stared at Jaston’s back, she knew her aunt must also suspect the extra meaning behind the swamp man’s words. Though still scarred, something vital had finally healed in the man.
Sighing, Elena stared out across the calming waters and remembered Mycelle’s words back at the Painted Pony in Shadowbrook: Not all wars are won with swords and magick.
Elena studied her white hands.
Somehow those words made her happy.
TWO DAYS LATER, it was still difficult to say good-bye. Even though the swamps had held such horrors, Elena would truly miss her new friends, allies forged in fire. But with their party’s wounds treated and their plans finally laid, they were ready to strike for the coast.
So, as the sun rose on the day of their departure, the party stood on an island at the edge of the large swamp lake. Er’ril busied himself with packing the boat while Fardale nosed the plainsman’s handiwork. Mycelle and Elena still faced Jaston and Cassa Dar, finishing their good-byes. From here, the wit’ch would guide them directly to the coast.
“You could still come with us,” Mycelle said to Jaston.
He shook his head. “I have the horses to attend to,” he said. Jaston was going to arrange to have their mounts, still stabled in Drywater, join a swamper’s caravan to the coast. Elena had insisted that Mist not be abandoned. The mare would not thrive as a swamper’s mule—loaded with gear, stopping every fifth step to chew razorgrass, and refusing to budge until her belly was full. No, Mist would not make a good workhorse.
Jaston stepped back from Mycelle. Their trials at Castle Drakk had revitalized the scarred man. He hardly seemed like the sullen man they had first met. He now held his back straight and spoke with good humor, unashamed of his scars. “Besides,” he said, “my home is here in the swamps.”
Elena saw how his words wounded her aunt, as did the brief glance Jaston gave the wit’ch as he mentioned his love of the swamps. Her face sad, Mycelle turned away and straightened her shoulders. Elena saw the resignation in her eyes. Some flames gone to ash could not be rekindled, even when a small spark was still left. “Then I guess we’d best be off,” Mycelle said with false cheer. As she walked away, her aunt held a hand to her side, where the poisons of the tentacles had burne
d deep. But Elena suspected it was more than just the wound that pained her.
So Mycelle and Jaston parted—more than friends, less than lovers—leaving only Elena to say her good-byes. She hugged Jaston and turned to Cassa Dar. The wit’ch had redonned her magickal garb, standing again as an auburn-haired beauty. Her slender hands reached to Elena’s gloved fingers. “You bear the heritage of Sisa’kofa. There is much power in your hands,” she said, then raised a palm and rested it against Elena’s chest. “But your true strength will always come from your heart. Remember that, child.”
Elena’s eyes misted up.
“And please . . . remember also your promise to me,” she continued. “You’re my people’s only hope.”
Elena nodded. “I will see to it that one day the Try’sil is returned to its rightful place.”
Cassa Dar smiled, and they hugged. The illusion of the wit’ch was so strong that even with her arms wrapped around Cassa Dar, Elena could not discern the ancient d’warf hidden within the moss magick.
At last they parted company.
Elena’s group climbed aboard the boat and settled in. With a soft bump, the vessel receded from the bank, moving on its own, borne away by Cassa Dar’s swamp magick.
Elena, sitting at the stern, turned for one last view of Jaston and Cassa Dar. The pair still stood on the mossy bank, arms raised in farewell. Elena noted how the wit’ch slipped her hand into Jaston’s as she waved them off. Elena smiled. So it seemed Mycelle was not the only one with an interest in Jaston.
This small display of affection by the wit’ch did not pass unnoticed by Mycelle either. Her aunt’s cheeks reddened, and her wave of farewell was perfunctory. She quickly swung back around to discuss some detail with Er’ril, bowing her head away from the scene behind the boat.
Elena was glad her aunt had turned away and missed what transpired next. Just as their boat disappeared around a bend, Cassa Dar raised a hand to the swamp man’s cheek. Where she touched, the man’s scars vanished, swept away by moss magick. Jaston examined his face with tentative fingers, wonder in his eyes. But as he turned toward Cassa Dar, Elena caught a glimpse of something more in his eyes—something that suggested Cassa Dar’s interest might not go unrequited.
Elena smiled to herself and twisted forward. Jaston had always said he loved the swamps. Now perhaps he’d have a chance to prove it.
From near the boat’s bow, Er’ril suddenly cursed as he rubbed a balm the wit’ch had given them on his raw neck. His skin lay blistered and red from where the poison tentacle had touched him. He then wrapped the wound with a bandage and settled deeper in the boat. “I’ll be glad to be rid of these poisoned lands,” he muttered.
“As will I,” Mycelle echoed, her voice a whisper as she glanced one last time behind them.
Elena placed a hand on her aunt’s knee. There was no medicinal salve that could soothe this pain. All Elena could do was offer Mycelle her support.
Her aunt gripped Elena’s hand and did not let go.
It would be a long trip to the coast.
30
SIX DAYS AFTER leaving Castle Drakk, Elena stepped on the first solid ground in what seemed like ages. Her feet were slightly unsteady after the many days of traveling through marshy soils and bobbing on rafts through swamp channels. She adjusted her pack to balance herself and tested the ankle she had twisted on the flight up the castle’s stairs. Only a dull twinge remained, like a distant memory of its former pain.
Beside her, Fardale stretched each of his legs, arching his back and relishing the release from the boat. The wolf clearly enjoyed the clean sunshine after the constant mists of the bogs. Elena studied the swaths of clipped fur on the wolf’s torso; his burns were scarring well. The swamp wit’ch’s salve was helping the others’ injuries, too.
Er’ril stepped next to her, wincing slightly as his pack brushed his bandaged neck. Mycelle walked carefully behind him. She had sustained the worst injuries. The poison ring around her belly still pained her often.
Luckily, the hike from here wasn’t far: half a day’s journey at most. Er’ril knew someone who owned a remote cottage among the bluffs, a place were they could hide and rest while their wounds healed.
It was the promise of the cottage—of real beds and hearth-cooked meals—that kept the party moving.
Yet the luxuries of a clean bed were not the only motivation for their hard pace. In less than half a moon, Mycelle would need to journey to Port Rawl and search for the other members of their party. Elena looked forward to seeing Kral, Tol’chuk, Meric, and Mogweed again. She missed them dearly.
With their boots on real ground, Er’ril led them on the last leg of their long journey from Winter’s Eyrie to the coast. As the sun climbed the sky, he guided them east toward the ocean, aiming slightly south.
The land rose gently higher as they left the marshlands and entered the rolling coastal hills. Birds called and rabbits bounded from their path as they left the poisons behind them. The air was scented with green meadowgrass and purple jonquils, while patches of honeysuckle swarmed with the buzz of bees. Summer claimed these hills, but the heavy milkweed pods that hung like the heads of drunken men warned of summer’s end.
By noon, they crested a large hill. Not far ahead, the ocean appeared. Elena stared at it, gawking. It was as if the world ended beyond the bluffs. From horizon to horizon lay the blue waters of the great ocean. Nothing interrupted the smooth expanse except for an occasional misted green island.
“The edge of the Archipelago,” Er’ril said, pointing toward the distant isles.
And, Elena thought wearily, their next destination. She sighed. But that was another day. For now, she would enjoy the sunshine and the scent of ocean breezes and forget for a time that she was a wit’ch. She refused even to glance at the two deerskin gloves that hid her ruby skin.
With the ocean in sight, Er’ril called for a meal break, passing out the last of their ration of dried meat and hard bread. It was a glum meal until Mycelle offered Elena a few berries that she had gathered from a small barbed bush nearby. Elena’s eyes widened. She knew those ripe berries. They were her favorite—blisterberries! Accepting them greedily, she popped them in her mouth. They were tart and sweet at the same time. Her mother had grown such bushes in their family’s garden, making the most excellent tarts from those few berries that Elena had not already picked and consumed by the time they were ripe.
Elena glanced around the hills. More of the small prickly bushes dotted the slopes. She grinned, her teeth stained purple. The journey from here didn’t seem so bad.
Mycelle spoke to Er’ril as Elena finished the last of the berries. “So this friend of yours out here in the bluffs,” she said. “Is he to be fully trusted?”
Er’ril nodded as he packed away their gear, then sat back on his heels to eye Mycelle. He rubbed absently at the stump of his arm. “He’s a brother of the Order. I have full faith in his loyalty and would put my life in his hands without any misgivings.”
Mycelle studied Er’ril a moment before speaking. “But it’s more than just your own life this time.”
Er’ril’s gaze flickered toward Elena and back again. “I know my duties,” he muttered, and returned Mycelle’s stare. “If you don’t trust this man, then trust my judgment.”
Mycelle stood up slowly, protecting her injured belly. “I do, Er’ril.”
The plainsman’s eyes widened slightly at her declaration. He covered his surprise by snugging his pack closed. “Then let’s be off while the daylight holds.”
With their meal finished, they moved on through the hills. After a time, they reached a rutted path that hugged the coastline and made their pace easier. The bluffs were lonely country. From the fields, a few curious sheep and sleepy-eyed cows watched them pass, and they met only a single wagon on the road, the driver tipping his hat. Unfortunately, the rig was heading in the wrong direction to beg a ride.
So they continued on foot. The hike stretched endlessly, and the day had t
urned to twilight by the time a small cottage appeared ahead. It stood atop a tall bluff overlooking the seas. Its thatched roof and hewn stone walls seemed the finest palace to Elena’s tired legs.
A dog barked and ran out to meet them as they approached. But when it scented Fardale, it grew less sure and backed away. A few goats also noted the passage of a wolf near their midst and bleated feebly and moved off. Only a gaggle of ducks actually waddled over to greet them, quacking for scraps of bread or seed.
Elena smiled at them.
Er’ril, though, shooed the fowl from underfoot as he led their party off the wagon path and across the yard toward the cottage. At the door, he rapped soundly.
At first, no one answered, and for a moment, Elena feared that maybe no one was home. But then the steps of someone sounded from within. Somewhere deeper in the cottage, a voice called out. “Git the door already!”
Er’ril smiled. “That would be Brother Flint,” he whispered to her. “Always in a foul mood, but with a heart as big as the sea.”
Whoever bore the brunt of this man’s rough affection finally opened the door. He stood just a little smaller than Er’ril. The plainsman nodded, not recognizing the red-haired young man—and for just about two heartbeats, neither did Elena. Then her eyes grew huge, and she shoved Er’ril aside. She flew at the man in the doorway and wrapped her arms around the shocked fellow.
“Um . . .” he said awkwardly, stiffening in her embrace.
Elena pulled back and looked him in the face. He had grown a head taller over the past year, and even a bit of red beard now sprouted on his chin. She grinned up at him, and tears of joy ran down her cheek. “Joach, don’t you even recognize your own sister?”
He blinked. “Elena?” he said, tentatively at first, then seemed finally to see past her dyed and shorn hair. “Elena!” He grabbed her up and hugged her so hard she thought her ribs would break, but she didn’t protest or urge him to lighten his grip. She just held him. In Joach’s arms, she rediscovered the strength of her father, and in his close warmth, the heart of her mother. United in tears, they were a family again.