Wit'ch Star (v5)

  Nee’lahn slowly shook her head. She had no answer to why some folks suffered so that others might live freely, why there was always a price in blood that had to be paid. “There is much guilt I and my companions bear. Over these last winters, we’ve stared too hard at the larger world and grown blind to those nearer at hand. Of that we are guilty. But there is a greater war that threatens not just portions of the Western Reaches, but the entire forest. It is a battle for the very heart of the Land.”

  A shimmer of doubt passed over Thorn’s features.

  Nee’lahn continued. “The world bleeds, not just here but across many lands. So while I’m sorry for the loss of your people and the wounded forest, I cannot apologize for the war we wage. Though the forest bleeds now, it will heal and grow stronger. But if the darkness claims it, nothing will survive.”

  Thorn turned away from her words. “You speak from your heart; this I can tell. But the elder’root of the si’lura has called for you and your companions to stand before the Council of Wishnu. His call must be answered.”

  Nee’lahn sighed. “I will not fight your father’s summons. And if I can explain to the others, neither will they.” She sensed it was time to face those who had been harmed in this war, to acknowledge their pain and sorrow. After Woodbine, she sensed Elena would agree.

  “Then I’ll let you speak to your companions. But if any try to flee . . .” A growl of threat flowed from the woman.

  Nee’lahn sensed the shaky balance achieved here. These lands belonged to the si’lura. Even with Elena’s magick, they would be hard-pressed to escape the forest. This summons to account for their actions here in the Western Reaches would have to be answered.

  Thorn turned and loosened the vine ropes that bound the nyphai woman, but did not free her wrists. Nee’lahn stumbled away from the tree. Thorn caught her elbow to help her keep her feet.

  Nee’lahn straightened. In the surrounding gloom, the flash of amber eyes flickered though the forest. She sensed the strained anger out there in the woods. It would be a hard wound to soothe.

  She turned to Thorn to thank her for this small amount of trust.

  The shape-shifter’s eyes remained wary, but the fury had dulled. In its wake, something else shone in her eyes: sorrow and loss. Clearly Thorn had lost someone close to her. Nee’lahn suspected it was this pain that had fueled the rage of a few moments ago.

  Nee’lahn repeated her earlier words. “I am sorry.”

  Thorn’s gaze hardened. “He should have been with you,” she mumbled under her breath as she guided Nee’lahn forward.

  Her strange comment mystified Nee’lahn. “Who?”

  Thorn’s lip edged into a snarl. “Fardale. He was with your party last winter as you traveled north. I tracked him myself.”

  Nee’lahn glanced to her. The two si’luran brothers had been banished from the forest due to their curse, ostracized by their own people. But she sensed something more personal in Thorn’s tones. “You knew Fardale?”

  The snarl deepened. “He was my mate.”

  Nee’lahn tripped over a stone.

  Thorn continued speaking through clenched teeth. “But he was cursed after our first union and forced to leave.”

  Nee’lahn sensed conflicting emotions warring in the si’luran woman: anger, pain, sorrow, and loss. And she now understood why it was Thorn who had hunted them all along. She saw the pained love in the other’s eyes. “He still lives,” Nee’lahn said softly. “He fights the darkness, as we do here.”

  Thorn turned away. “It doesn’t matter.” But from the way her voice cracked, the exact opposite was the truth. It was her next comment, though, that stunned Nee’lahn into silence. “I had just hoped Fardale could meet his son.”

  Elena stood with her back to the fire. The flames danced shadows among the trees, while hundreds of pairs of amber eyes stared silently upon them.

  “We must find Nee’lahn,” Meric insisted. His silver hair shimmered, moving to the unseen winds of his magick.

  “It is death to go out there now,” Er’ril warned. “Let us see how this plays out.”

  “What are the shape-shifters waiting for?” Harlequin asked. He bore two daggers, flipping them end over end, catching the handles deftly each time. They flashed in the firelight.

  The large trapper, Gunther, answered. “They seek to unman us. To make us run in fear.”

  “We’ll not run,” Elena said calmly. She clenched a fist, building her magick to a deep crimson glow. Wit’ch fire in her right hand, coldfire in her left. She kept her fingers tight around the rose-carved handle of her silver dagger, ready to bloody her hands and unleash the magick pent inside. The wild chorus sang in her heart as she touched that part of her that was Cho, a being of unfathomable nature.

  Bryanna gasped, staring wide-eyed at Elena’s hands. “What manner of demon are you?”

  Elena glanced to her face. “I am as much a woman as you.” She held up her hand. “Like the shape-shifters out there, I simply bear a unique gift.”

  “Do not listen to her,” a voice said coldly behind them. “She’s a wit’ch.” It was Greshym. The darkmage sat beside the fire, his elbows bound behind him. “She’ll kill you all before this night is over.”

  Joach cracked Greshym a blow to the side of the head with his staff.

  Er’ril stepped toward him. “Speak your lies again and I’ll remove your tongue.”

  Bryanna frowned at Elena. “Wit’ch?”

  Elena sensed the suspicion growing around her. One of the other trappers touched his forehead with his thumb in a warding against evil.

  “I bear magick,” she said. “But in my heart, I am a woman like any other. I—”

  “So you are a wit’ch!” Gunther blustered, his face growing as red as his beard. “A woman who bears magick! You admit it!”

  Tensions rose around the fire. Gazes shifted between the si’luran army in the woods and the strife within the camp.

  Amidst this strain, Harlequin suddenly laughed loudly, a bright sound accompanied by the jingling of bells. Eyes turned to him. “All of you strapping forest men frightened of this little slip of a woman,” the small man scoffed. “So what if Elena has a bit of magick? Don’t all women?” He eyed Bryanna up and down. “Something tells me a pretty lass like you has turned a man or two stone hard with nothing more than a smile and a wink. That’s what I call true magick!” The small man’s bells rang with amusement.

  Gunther growled at the implication.

  “You’re not helping, Harlequin,” Meric warned.

  “I will not suffer a wit’ch in my camp,” Gunther grumbled. “I’ll throw the lot of you to the shape-shifters.”

  Bryanna stepped forward. “Enough, Brother.”

  He opened his mouth again, but a glare from his sister silenced him.

  “I sense no evil from her,” Bryanna insisted, “only concern for their lost friend.” She turned to Elena. “Once this matter with the shape-shifters is finished, I would know more of these powers of yours.”

  Elena nodded gratefully. “It is a long story.”

  Bryanna turned to the forest, directing her arrow outward. “Then if we survive this night, I’d like to hear it.”

  “I give you my word.”

  One of the trappers who stood nearest the woods suddenly stumbled closer to the fires. “Someone comes!”

  Elena turned her full attention back to the forest. The legion of amber eyes remained steady, but the distinct sound of crunching leaves and the shuffle of steps sounded. Sword tips moved in the direction of the noise.

  Two dark shapes became distinct from the deeper gloom. One figure bore the amber eyes of the si’lura. The pair stopped just beyond the reach of the firelight.

  “Who’s there?” Gunther called out, stepping forward. “What do you want?”

  A voice called back. “It is I . . . Nee’lahn!”

  Meric gasped with relief.

  Gunther glanced back to their party. Er’ril nodded his confirmation a
nd moved to join the trapper. Elena followed him.

  The two figures in the woods continued forward again. Elena saw with relief that it was indeed their friend. Nee’lahn was paler than usual and a trail of dried blood marred her forehead.

  Meric hurried to her side. Nee’lahn allowed herself to be pulled into his embrace. “You’re safe.” Elena met Nee’lahn’s gaze over the elv’in prince’s shoulder. Her eyes denied Meric’s words.

  Firelight limned the second figure, reflecting from her snowy hair. There was a wildness about her that reminded Elena of Fardale. She stood straight and unafraid before so many blades.

  “Thorn,” Bryanna whispered with shock, naming this shape-shifter.

  “You know her?” Elena asked, raising an eyebrow.

  The trapper woman nodded. “She sold us the black stallion.”

  The shape-shifter turned her amber eyes toward them. “The stallion was bait,” she said simply, crossing her arms.

  “What do you mean?” Elena asked.

  Pulling from Meric’s arms, Nee’lahn answered. “The si’lura captured Rorshaf after the destruction of the Stone of Tor.”

  Thorn nodded and spoke coldly. “We searched the stallion’s packs for any clue as to why a nyphai and her companions would wreak such havoc to our forests. We discovered nothing of use, but kept the horse in case it was needed again.”

  “Then the si’lura heard of the devastation around Moon Lake,” Nee’lahn explained. “They planted Rorshaf in Woodbine, the closest village to the blasted region. They hoped whoever was to blame for the lake’s destruction would end up there and perhaps recognize the horse, linking the two events.”

  “But in the end, the horse was not needed.” Thorn glanced to Nee’lahn. “While spying in the town, I scented someone familiar.”

  Nee’lahn faced the others. “They hold us to blame for the destruction both here and up north.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Er’ril said.

  Elena touched his arm. “These are their lands, Er’ril.” She faced Thorn, recognizing the hundreds of eyes watching from the wood. “What would you have of us?”

  “The elder’root of our clan has called for you to stand before our council and explain yourselves. His summons will not be disobeyed.”

  “We don’t have time,” Er’ril argued. “We’ve a rendezvous.”

  Nee’lahn moved closer to them. “Calm yourself, plainsman. The Council of Wishnu meets just two days from here in the direction of the mountains. It would require no more than a single day to plead our case, and with the cooperation of the si’lura, we could make up this extra time.”

  “But we did nothing wrong,” Er’ril said.

  Nee’lahn raised one eyebrow. “Didn’t we?”

  Elena found Thorn’s gaze on her. The shape-shifter stood proud, her face unreadable, but in her eyes, a font of sorrow shone.

  “We’ll go with them,” Elena said finally, cutting into the dispute.

  Er’ril frowned and motioned her aside. “We know little about these shape-shifters. Over the centuries, they’ve had little contact with outsiders.”

  “But they’re also a people of Alasea, as much as any man. Their blood has been spilled to protect these lands, willingly or not. They deserve an explanation for the price they’ve paid and may yet pay again. These are their lands. I will not burn a path through them now for the sake of expediency.”

  Er’ril stared at her, his storm-gray eyes judging her resolve.

  A shadow of a smile came unbidden to her lips as she read the deep lines of Er’ril’s brow. He already agreed with her, but the guardian in him feared for her. She reached a hand to smooth those worried creases from the corner of his lips with the caress of her thumb.

  He covered her hand with his own. “Elena . . . ,” he whispered with a brush of breath.

  She stared into his eyes. “You say we don’t know these people. But we know Fardale, even Mogweed. At their core, they are a noble and just people.”

  “Fardale maybe,” he grumbled, “but Mogweed is cut from a different cloth.”

  “I think you just need to look a little deeper into that one’s heart. In many ways, he’s more sensitive than his brother.”

  “If you say so . . .” Er’ril sounded little convinced, but he pulled her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm. The warmth of his lips threatened to melt the strength from her legs.

  “I do,” she said, and reluctantly pulled her hand away, closing her fingers around the warmth of his touch, trying to trap this other magick within her heart.

  “So we go with the shape-shifters?” he asked.

  She nodded. “It is time we face the path we’ve left behind us.” She glanced to those gathered here, old companions and new. Her eyes found Thorn’s. “If we are to forge a future for these lands, we must not neglect our past.”

  Er’ril circled her with his arm. “But can we survive the present?”

  She leaned into him. “We can together.”

  Greshym rocked with the motion of the horse, exhausted and saddle sore. Daybreak neared. They had ridden all night. With the si’luran army as protectors, there was nothing to fear in the dark wood.

  They had set out into the nighttime forest, heading off the main trail. Greshym was quickly lost without his magick senses, and from the way Er’ril kept searching the stars and the woods around him, it seemed the plainsman fared no better.

  At first, there had been furtive whispers among the party. He heard snatches of familiar stories as Elena related her coming to power to Bryanna. He had listened with half an ear while pretending to drowse. Though he knew most of the story, some startling bits filled in gaps in his own knowledge. One point particularly intrigued him: She mentioned something about the ebon’stone transforming into heartstone.

  He pondered this throughout the night. He had never heard of such a property. He sensed a key to power lay in the answer to this mystery.

  Eventually, the entire party had grown quiet, too tired to speak. Only the plodding of the horses accompanied their progress. The shape-shifters out in the woods moved with uncanny stealth, lost in the gloom. But the party knew their captors were still out there, for the flash of amber eyes flickered periodically around them from the wood.

  Greshym studied the approaching dawn. They were to rest with the rising sun and set out again by midday. The shape-shifter named Thorn had said they’d reach the si’luran gathering place by nightfall.

  Greshym felt a noose growing ever tighter around his neck. The forest was thick with si’luran shape-shifters, and with each heavy plod of his horse’s hoof, he was one step closer to where Shorkan waited beyond the mountains. He had enemies on all sides.

  He reached to the tiny bit of magick remaining in his heart. It was nothing but the smallest drop, not even enough to loosen his bonds to relieve the chafing of the ropes. But it did allow him to sense a familiar heartbeat deep in the woods, a heart that had been bound to him before his magick had been evaporated. He sent a silent message to this other, encouraging his continued allegiance.

  Follow, Rukh. Follow and stay hidden.

  Through his connection, he felt the tiniest thrill of response.

  Greshym sighed. For now, it was all he could do. The stump gnome kept pace with their party, trailing by a full league so as not to be caught. At least Rukh had managed to collect the bone staff Greshym had abandoned in the mud beside Moon Lake. The stave was empty of any magick, but like the stump gnome, it was a tool that could prove useful.

  Narrowing his eyes, Greshym studied one other resource here, useless now, but full of possibility.

  He watched Joach hanging in his saddle, drowsing, half asleep.

  As the day brightened, so did Greshym’s hopes. A plan twisted slowly into place in his head. Only two things were necessary: patience . . . and a fair amount of blood.

  13

  Elena soaked her feet in the cool waters of a stream, her boots on a mossy boulder beside her. She stretched a cram
p in her back. They had traveled all the prior night and, after a short rest, a good portion of the day. She leaned back and stared at the sun shining through the branches. A fresh breeze swept along the stream, lifting the muggy air trapped under the dense canopy. Elena drew a deep breath. Summer was indeed upon them, but evening neared; the steaming sun would soon give way to the cool moon.

  The crunch of boots drew her attention as Joach limped toward her, a grimace of pain on his face.

  Elena scooted to the side and patted a seat. “Come soak. It feels wonderful.”

  Joach dropped to her side like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “I don’t know if I could get my boots off—my ankles have swollen tight inside them.” He shoved his feet, boots and all, into the water.

  Elena patted her brother’s gloved fingers, a small gesture of family. But he didn’t seem to notice. He simply stared at the sun-dappled waters, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

  “I used to ride the orchards all day,” he mumbled. “And still come home and run my errands.”

  “Once this is over, we’ll find a way to reverse the spell. I promise,” she said.

  But he seemed as deaf to her words as to her touch. “I can’t stand even looking at him, knowing it’s my own youth mocking me.”

  Elena glanced to Joach’s hand. His fingers, once strong from picking apples and weeding the orchard, were now just bone and withered skin under the thin riding glove. But as she listened to her brother, she sensed that more was stolen from Joach than just youth. A good portion of his spirit and heart had vanished, too.

  He slipped his hand to the staff across his knees; the foul thing now gave him more solace than his own flesh and blood. She studied the length of petrified gray wood, impregnated with jaundiced bits of crystal. She had put off a certain talk long enough. “Joach,” she began, “what have you done to your staff?”

  His eyes narrowed as he turned to her. “What do you mean?”

  Elena recalled the night of the last full moon, when they had all been transported here. In the courtyard, she had seen Joach’s staff aflame with elemental energies. But of more concern were the glowing strands of power that had linked her brother to the weapon. “I see you always wear a glove.”