Wit'ch Star (v5)

  “So? It helps my grip. I have little strength anymore.”

  She knew Joach well enough to tell when he was lying. “I saw how you were linked to the staff,” she said. “It was like when I bonded you to the poi’wood staff aboard the Pale Stallion. You’ve created a blood weapon, tied your spirit to the wood.”

  He remained silent for several long breaths. When he spoke, it was a strained whisper. “I have lost everything. My magic is all I have left, my only hope. I linked myself to it so I could wield it better.”

  “Joach . . .” Warning filled her voice. “Er’ril told me how such weapons, forged in blood and spirit, can become living things without conscience or mercy. Blood weapons can grow to corrupt their wielders.”

  Joach shook his head. “I won’t let that happen. I only need the staff long enough to break this curse upon me. After that, I’ll burn the foul thing myself.” He lifted an arm and shook back his riding cloak to reveal his stumped wrist. “But before that happens, let me show you what it’s capable of achieving.”

  Light shimmered over the end of his arm; then a hand bloomed into existence, appearing out of nothing. Elena stared in shock as he flexed the new fingers. The hand appeared as real as his other. The only difference was this one was smooth and unlined, a conjure of youth.

  Joach picked up a rock, then lobbed it downstream. The splash dislodged a few frogs, sending them plopping into the creek. He held up his hand. “It’s a dream sculpted into reality.”

  It took half a breath for Elena to find her voice. “Joach, you shouldn’t have risked such dangerous magick.”

  “I had to.” Bitterness lay thick on his tongue. “I’ve lost too much.”

  “But forging yourself into a blood weapon is not the answer. Why did you do this? Do you hope to conjure yourself a new body?”

  Joach scowled. “That would be mere illusion. I’d still be aged and bent-backed behind the glamor.”

  “Then why? I said before, we’ll find a way to regain your youth. I’m sure—”

  “It’s not just my youth,” he interrupted. Tears misted his eyes. His face tightened as he held back a deeper emotion. He finally spoke in a strained sob. “It’s Kesla . . .”

  Elena sensed that there were words her brother had put off speaking. She remained silent.

  “She was so beautiful.”

  “I remember.”

  “But it was more. The way she laughed so brightly. The heat of her touch, as if she always walked under the desert sun. And her eyes . . . They were the violet of a bottomless moonlit oasis.”

  “You loved her.”

  A tear rolled down his cheek. “But she was nothing.”

  Elena frowned at the sudden bitterness of his words.

  “Nothing but a figment.” He lifted his conjured hand and waved it away, casting it back to dream. He lowered his stump and turned again to his staff. “No more real than my hand.”

  Elena allowed him a quiet moment, then spoke firmly. “You’re wrong. She wasn’t mere dream. She lived, like any woman lives.”

  Joach shook his head, turning away and refusing to hear her.

  “Who can say where any of us comes from?” she continued. “When our flesh is born of man and a woman, how does our spirit infuse our bodies? Or do you think we’re all just so much clay?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I met Kesla. She was not just sand and dream. She had as much spirit as any of us. And if her spirit was real, then so was she, no matter how she was born.”

  He sighed, clearly unsure.

  Elena reached and grabbed his real hand, placing it between her two palms. “You loved her. Kesla could not have touched your spirit unless she was more than dream, unless she had the true spirit of life.”

  He pulled his hand away. “But does it matter anymore? She’s gone.”

  Elena spoke softly. “As long as you remember her, her spirit will live through you.”

  Joach sagged. “How long will that last? With this aged body . . .” He shook his head.

  She patted his knee. “We’ll find a way through this, together.”

  He showed no response to her words, sinking again into his private thoughts.

  Voices rose in argument nearby. Elena glanced over a shoulder. Er’ril marched with Harlequin toward them. She pulled her feet from the stream and grabbed her boots. Standing, she touched Joach on the shoulder.

  He mumbled under his breath. “Go. I’m fine.”

  She heard the lie behind his words, but time would have to heal his heart. She turned to the others and crossed quickly in their direction, cutting them off. She did not want Joach disturbed. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Er’ril’s face was flushed with anger. “Harlequin snuck off and spied upon Thorn and her people.” He glared down at the small man. “He was caught.”

  Harlequin shrugged. “It’s hard to sneak up on a people with all the senses of the forest’s creatures.”

  “I warned you against aggravating them.” Er’ril clenched a fist.

  Harlequin rolled his eyes. “I don’t remember bending my knee to you, plainsman. It’s my hide, too, that’s at risk here; I have the right to protect it as I see fit.”

  Elena held up a hand. “What happened after you were caught?”

  Harlequin cast daggers with his eyes at Er’ril. “Nothing. They sent me back with my tail tucked, that’s all.”

  Er’ril scowled. “Thorn was furious. She was shaking with anger.”

  “That’s the way she always looks,” Harlequin mumbled.

  “What did she say?”

  Er’ril sighed. “Nothing. She just strode back into the wood.”

  Harlequin shrugged his arms with a jingle of bells. “So no harm done.”

  “You don’t know that,” Er’ril spat back. “The si’lura are angry already. Provoking them—”

  “I didn’t provoke them. I just watched them.”

  “Enough,” Elena declared. “What’s done is done. Harlequin, in the future, I’d ask you to respect my liegeman’s wishes. He speaks with my authority. And as I recall, you did bend your knee to me.”

  The small man bowed his head. “Yes, milady.”

  Er’ril crossed his arms.

  Elena turned to him. “And Er’ril, when compared to the destruction of their forest home, I doubt Harlequin’s spying will significantly slant their animosity one way or the other. And if he had learned anything of value—”

  “He didn’t,” Er’ril interrupted.

  “I never said that,” Harlequin said innocently.

  Both Elena and Er’ril focused on the man. “You heard something?” Elena asked.

  “It wasn’t much. They speak so much through their eyes, but Thorn was still in her woman’s shape. And a comely shape, she has—that long white hair, the shape of her bare backside. I wouldn’t mind—”

  “Get on with it,” Er’ril shouted.

  Harlequin lifted an eyebrow. “What? Am I not allowed to appreciate the shape-shifting artistry of our captor?”

  Er’ril glowered, his ruddy face growing darker.

  “Please go on,” Elena said.

  Harlequin straightened the fall of his motley jacket. “As I was saying before being interrupted, Thorn still wore her womanly form. I guess some messages could not be readily exchanged from woman to deer. The antlered fellow needed plainer speech.”

  “What did she tell him?” Er’ril asked.

  “She instructed our cloven-hoofed shape-shifter to run ahead and alert the council to our approach—and to let her father—the elder’root—know that neither Mogweed nor Fardale were with us.”

  “Mogweed and Fardale?” Er’ril crinkled his brow. “What do they have to do with any of this?”

  “That’s the strange part. She told her messenger to inform her father that, with the brothers missing, any hope of saving the forest’s root was doomed.”

  Elena crinkled her brow. “Saving the forest’s root?” She stared at the tall tree
s around her. Since they had left the trails, the woods had grown denser, thicker, older. The very air was heavy with the odor of loam and scent of green life. Nothing seemed amiss. And if something had been, Nee’lahn would surely have sensed it.

  “What do Fardale and Mogweed have to do with any of this?” Er’ril asked.

  Harlequin shrugged. “That’s all I learned before being spotted.”

  “It makes no sense,” Elena said.

  “Maybe not, but—” Harlequin glanced over a shoulder, then dropped his voice. “—it does suggest that these si’lura have intentions that go beyond what they speak aloud. Secrets meant only for their own people. And if those shape-shifting brothers are somehow key to this . . .” Harlequin raised an eyebrow.

  Elena frowned. “I don’t understand the concern.”

  Er’ril’s face grew grim. “To keep their secret, the si’lura might not let us go.”

  “They’d imprison us?”

  “If we’re lucky,” Harlequin said. “There are more permanent ways of silencing us.”

  Elena’s eyes widened.

  Er’ril stared out at the shadowy woods, where a dark army waited. “We’d best tread lightly from here.”

  Trailing the others, Meric rode beside Nee’lahn through the dark forest. Night had fallen, and the moon had yet to rise. A single torch lit the way under the arched bower, carried by Thorn atop one of the trappers’ horses. The forest around them had grown taller, spearing skyward in a tangle of branches. The stars were barely visible.

  “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Nee’lahn whispered, drawing him back from the skies. “What an ancient growth of forest. Perhaps as old as all the Western Reaches. Some of these trees are found nowhere else in the world.” She pointed to a tree with a trunk that rose in a straight spiral, throwing out branches at regular intervals. “That’s a giant gnarl. They were thought to have vanished ages ago, but here one grows.”

  “I’ve seen old-growth forests like this before,” Bryanna intruded, riding on the other side of Nee’lahn. She glanced behind them, at the empty path. Her voice filled with dread. “They dot the Reaches, but the si’lura guard such places. Trappers know better than to enter these lands. In the past, loggers have attempted to plunder the rich woods, but all who tried were slain by the shape-shifters. It is death to walk these lands.”

  Meric kept one hand on his reins and another on the hilt of his slender sword, but the cold touch of steel offered no reassurance. The si’lura had not bothered to take any of their weapons—which disturbed him more than if their captors had stripped them all bare.

  “This grove here is one of the largest I’ve ever seen,” Bryanna said in hushed tones. “It must stretch a full league in all directions.”

  “And it stretches even farther under the soil,” Nee’lahn said, wonder still shining in her words. “The ancient woodsong here echoes up from depths beyond anything I’ve heard. It rivals Lok’ai’hera and grows richer with each step. It must reach the core of the world itself.”

  She was silent for a long moment, then spoke in heartfelt tones. “How I wish Rodricko could see this, hear this song.”

  Frowning, Meric appreciated none of her wonder. Shadows flowed to either side. Within this dark tide, flashes of amber revealed the continued presence of the army around them.

  From up ahead, voices suddenly rose. Meric swung his attention forward. Their guide’s torch had stopped at the bottom of a tall, forested hill. Horses and men gathered around the torch; then one broke away, traveling down the line as Harlequin trotted his horse back to them. “We’ve reached the council site,” he said, pointing back to the hill. “Beyond the rise. We’re to walk from here.”

  “Walk?”

  Harlequin nodded, his gold eyes shining angrily. “We’re to leave our gear with our mounts, including weapons. If anyone is caught with a blade at the council gathering, they will be slain upon the spot.”

  Meric gripped his sword hilt more tightly.

  Harlequin must have noticed his motion. “Thorn says the valley beyond is sacred ground, and none must walk it armed.”

  Meric scowled and released his grip. He slid from his saddle, bristling with elemental energy. They might take his blade, but he was not going defenseless. He helped Nee’lahn down as the trappers also dismounted. Everyone loosened swords, axes, and bows from their bodies, cinching them to their mounts. Meric lashed his sword to his saddle.

  Nearby, Harlequin remained on his horse. “You’re also supposed to leave your boots here and walk the hill barefoot.”

  “What?” Meric asked, shocked by the strange request.

  “Like Thorn said . . . sacred ground.” Harlequin shrugged. “These are their rules, not mine.” He kicked each of his own boots from his feet with deft moves, catching them in each hand, then leaped from his own saddle.

  “We should respect their wishes,” Nee’lahn said, stepping to a boulder to sit.

  Meric grumbled under his breath but obeyed. Still standing, he used the toe of one boot to hold the other’s heel. He pulled his foot free and placed it down. As his foot touched the soil, he suddenly felt as if someone had mounted a pack full of stones on his back. His balance teetered. Swinging his arms, he half stumbled, hopping back onto his booted foot. Standing on the one boot, the sudden weight lifted from his shoulders.

  “Meric?” Nee’lahn asked, noticing his dance.

  “I’m all right. Just dizzy from the long ride, I guess.” He placed his foot back down, and the weight suddenly crashed upon his shoulders again. He grunted but kept his balance this time.

  With concern on her face, Nee’lahn rose. But as she stood, she gasped and clutched at her chest.

  “Nee’lahn!” He stepped to her, struggling under the weight.

  She stared up at him, her face stricken. The glow of her skin had faded. Her honey-colored hair had become simple straw, her skin now more ashen than snowy white. It was as if her vitality had been drained away. “I . . . I can’t hear woodsong anymore,” she cried softly.

  Meric sought to combat the extra weight on his shoulders by calling up his elemental magick, but he found the well of wind energy impossible to touch, though he sensed it was still there. He turned to the others around them. They stared at the pair with wrinkled brows.

  “What’s wrong?” Harlequin asked.

  Meric had a suspicion. He lifted his foot from the ground, balancing on his one boot. He lifted an arm, and crackles of energy danced among his fingers. He again felt light on his feet. The power of wind and air was his again.

  Then he brought his bare foot back down. As it touched the soil, the energy cascading about his fingers snuffed out, and the weight returned to his shoulders. “The land here . . . it somehow cuts us off from our elemental powers.”

  Nee’lahn had regained her composure, her eyes widening. “Meric is right.”

  “No wonder they want us to walk barefoot onto their sacred lands,” Harlequin said. “No magick.”

  “They mean to take all our defenses away,” Meric said. He stood on the strange soil. Was this what it felt to walk as an ordinary man? He took a few steps, struggling under the weight.

  Nee’lahn joined him, reaching out with a hand. He took it, each seeking solace in another who could understand this plight.

  “I’ve never felt like this,” she whispered. “I can feel the vigor of root and loam in my heart, but I can’t bring it forth into my blood.”

  “I know. It’s like my magick is locked in a vault, and I’ve lost the key.”

  A call arose from up ahead. “We’re being summoned,” Harlequin said.

  Meric spotted the torch borne by Thorn. Their guide had started up the slope. They were on the move again.

  With a shudder, he shook out of his other boot. Once barefoot, Meric and Nee’lahn followed, hand in hand.

  Reaching the foot of the hill, Meric spied Joach without his staff, half carried between Elena and Er’ril. A step behind them, Gunther climbed with Gre
shym locked in one of his meaty paws. The darkmage’s wrists had been bound behind his back.

  Meric began the long climb, struggling under the extra weight. He had never imagined how much his magick had been part of his body. Without it, the pull of the world upon his limbs seemed to have grown tenfold.

  Nee’lahn breathed hard, as if trying to draw strength from the air. “I cannot hear even the faintest whisper of treesong. A moment ago, it filled the entire world. How could I be so deaf to it now?”

  “It’s the land here. It must dampen our elemental abilities, as Cho did to Greshym’s magick.”

  “I’ve never heard of such an effect.”

  Meric nodded to the glowing torch. “It seems the si’lura are good at keeping their secrets.”

  Further talk was silenced by the climb. It took all their efforts to plant one foot in front of the other. Soon they lagged behind the others. The faint light from the torch vanished as Thorn crested the hill and continued over the rise. The woods grew darker around them. Only the moon, shining its gibbous face down upon them, lit their way.

  “Only a little farther,” Meric muttered. Nee’lahn nodded. Panting and sweating in the cool air, the pair followed the last of their party over the hill. At last, Meric saw what lay beyond.

  “Sweet Mother,” he exhaled. From the height, he could see leagues ahead. It wasn’t a hill they had been climbing, but the lip of a gigantic bowl. Spread before them lay an oval valley, forested with trees that made the giants from before seem like mere twigs. Their branches were decorated with lanterns, as if the stars had fallen from the skies and scattered in the deep forest here. Larger fires also dotted the forest floor, shining up from below.

  Nee’lahn gripped Meric’s upper arm, fingers digging deep. “It cannot be! The trees . . .”

  Meric shook his head. “I don’t recognize them.”

  “How could you?” she mumbled, falling to her knees despite the grip on his arm. “They are the Old Ones.”

  He knelt beside her and studied the closest specimen. It rose from the valley floor and climbed high above the rim. Its bark was white, like a birch, but each wide leaf was the color of burnt copper, as if autumn had come early to this summer valley.