Elena stepped around Er’ril. “I will take on this task.”
“No.” He grabbed Elena’s arm. “You mustn’t risk yourself.”
She freed her arm, gently but firmly. “We will honor their custom.”
“Then let me be the one to be judged.”
Elena turned her back on the council, faced him, and stepped closer. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “Er’ril, I need to do this.” Her eyes were pained as she stared up at him.
He reached toward her cheek, wanting to soothe that ache. But he dropped his hand. He recognized the desire in her heart. Elena wanted to be judged. The sorrow and tragedy of the past half moon weighed on her, and here was a chance for her to lighten her burden, to gain acknowledgment that their cause was just, that the innocents lost in this battle had died for a true reason.
He took her hand instead. “Elena . . .”
“I’ll be careful.” She leaned into him. “And I’m not defenseless. My magicks have not been weakened by the nexus. Being blood-borne, my powers are still my own.”
He lifted her gloved hand and pressed it against her heart. “Still, remember where lies your greatest strength.”
She moved her hand to his chest. “How could I forget?”
Er’ril was overwhelmed by a desire to kiss the woman he loved. It took all his restraint to resist. A tremble passed through his form. His breathing grew deeper.
Elena must have sensed this war of emotions and broke the stalemate. She leaned up and kissed his lips softly, a mere brush of breaths, the touch of skin on skin. She spoke between their lips. “I’ll let nothing keep us apart.”
Her touch and words broke his control. He crushed her against him, turning a soft kiss into something deeper, a heat that spoke of passions yet unfathomed. But now was not the time to explore those depths. Both of them knew this truth and broke away at the same time. Only their eyes remained upon one another.
Harlequin mumbled, “Maybe a dip in that cool pool will do them both some good.”
Elena glanced to the small man, shattering the moment.
“If you’re ready,” the elder’root said, “the Spirit Root awaits.”
Elena nodded, but Er’ril caught her hand one more time. “Take care.”
She squeezed his fingers. “I will. I won’t forget my promise.” She turned and joined the elder’root.
As they walked away, Elena’s words echoed in his heart: I’ll let nothing keep us apart. He prayed it was a promise she could keep.
The group followed, but only Elena was allowed through the ring of council members. Once past them, she stepped to the edge of the pool. She turned to the elder’root as the shape-shifter closed the gap in the circle. “Show me what I must do.”
The council leader slipped a cord from around his neck. Hanging from the loop was a long splinter of white wood, polished to a sharp point. He handed it to her. “The syn, a sliver of the Spirit Root itself.”
Elena accepted the talisman.
“You must pierce a finger and mark the pool with your blood.”
“Blood? Why blood?”
“The Root must taste your essence to judge your heart.” The elder’root joined hands with his other council members, completing the circle. As he did so, the flesh of his hand melted into his neighbors’.
Er’ril saw this effect spread around the ring. Shape-shifter melted into shape-shifter, forming a ring of flowing flesh, connecting through their arms, encircling the pool and mystical tree.
Elena stared at the sliver of wood. “Perhaps we should choose another.”
“The circle is formed and cannot be broken,” the Elder’root intoned, his voice deeper, more resonant.
Elena’s lips thinned to hard lines. She faced the pool and stripped off a glove. With her back turned, no one seemed to notice the ruby hue to her skin.
Er’ril stepped closer, his own hands clenched into fists.
A voice spoke at his side. Thorn still wore a sour expression. “It is nothing to fear, plainsman. Ever since the quakes five centuries ago, the Root has grown sedate. It has been ages since the Root has stirred from the sacred pool.”
Er’ril prayed the huntress was correct. “Then tell me what happened here,” he urged. “What happened five centuries ago?”
Thorn glanced to her father as a chanting arose from the circle. She hesitated, then leaned closer. “The Root is the living heart of our people,” she said with a nod to the tree. “It has given guidance and foresight to our people for untold centuries. It speaks with the voice and wisdom of the ages. But after the quakes, the Root went silent. It would occasionally stir, but all communion with the elder’root, the one chosen by the Spirit Root to lead our people, ceased. The last time the Root even stirred was to select my father from the council to replace the last leader.”
“But what do Mogweed and Fardale have to do with all this?”
Thorn sighed, then spoke. “The last time the Root spoke, on the final day of the quakes, it communed with the elder’root of that age. The Root said that a dark time lay ahead, but that one day, twin brothers would be born amongst us. These twins would be known by their curse and would have to be sent blind into the world. The pair would mark either a new beginning for us or herald our end, depending on whether they ever found a cure.”
“And this newest twist of the curse upon the brothers?”
Thorn shook her head. “It bodes the end of our people.”
Across the way, the chanting ended, and the elder’root nodded from his position. “The moon nears its highest point. Let us begin.”
Elena turned. Within the circle of flowing flesh, she positioned the syn of the si’lura against a ruby finger of her right hand.
“Under this night’s moon,” the elder’root continued solemnly, “let the Root taste the blood of the accused!”
Elena pierced her finger with the splinter of white wood. The effect was immediate and dazzling. The syn burst into flame, flashing bright, then burned instantly to ash.
A stunned cry arose from the joined council.
Elena held up her empty hands as ash fell between her fingers.
“Blasphemer!” someone cried out from the council ring.
Er’ril started toward her, but a sudden upwelling roiled the pool’s waters. “Elena!” he called in warning.
She glanced back to him, her expression confused.
Behind her, the waters suddenly exploded upward. A giant beast shot out of the waters, drenched and slithering skyward. It was a monstrous white worm, draped with tentacles and writhing feelers.
“The Root!” Thorn gasped. “It wakes!”
With her words, Er’ril recognized his initial mistaken impression. The creature of the pool was not a worm, but a dripping length of white-barked root, trailing with squirming rootlets and fibers.
The shocked cry of the council turned to one of wonder.
“The Spirit Root has found you worthy!” the Elder’root shouted. “It stirs from its depths at long last!”
Elena had been knocked back by the sudden uprising of the living root. She crouched, swamped by the surge of water. “What am I to do now?” she shouted back to the council members.
“Nothing!” the elder’root said. “The Root acknowledges you! Your heart is judged pure. The trial is over!”
Elena backed away from the pool.
“It’s over?” Er’ril mumbled.
The joined council members began to separate, hands re-forming and letting go of one another. As the chain broke, the length of root began to subside back into the pool.
Thorn’s voice filled with wonder. “I had never thought to see the Root stir. This is a wondrous night. It gives us all hope.”
The elder’root echoed his daughter’s sentiment. “Perhaps all’s not lost.”
Elena turned to face the si’luran leader. She appeared still shaken. Her gaze brushed Er’ril’s. She silently nodded that she was fine.
The length of Root had sunk u
ntil only a few rootlets waved above the waters. But a sudden swirl closer to the bank caught Er’ril’s eye. A tangle of white roots burst from the shallows and grabbed Elena. In a heartbeat, she was jerked from her feet and dragged high into the air.
“Elena!” Er’ril shouted, leaping forward. The elder’root fell back from the attack. Thorn also seemed stunned. He ran past them both.
Trapped in the net of writhing roots, Elena struggled futilely. Her cry reached his ears. “Er’ril!” Then with the speed of a cracking whip, the tangle of roots jerked their captive into the pool and away. A loud splash marked the impact.
Er’ril slipped in the slick mud and slid on his knees to the edge of the pool. Water sloshed the banks, but grew quickly still. The moonlit pool, shaded by the branches of the giant tree, was as black as pitch. Nothing could be seen in its depths.
He shoved up, ready to dive in, but Thorn gripped his arm. “It is death to enter those waters. The pull of the current will drag you down, too.”
Er’ril knocked her hand away and faced the waters, searching, desperate, a prayer on his lips. “Elena . . .”
14
Writhing in the tangle, Elena held her breath in a strained panic. Her eyes were stretched wide, seeking some means of escape. Darkness enveloped her, and a chill reached down to her bones. The water’s pressure grew on her ears as she was dragged ever deeper.
Desperate for escape, she reached to the chorus of wild magicks in her heart and drove them toward her wounded hand. In the darkness, a crimson torch bloomed, blazing bright—her wit’ch fire, bleeding forth from her pricked finger. The mere touch had burned the si’luran talisman to ash. Perhaps it could free her now.
But a part of her balked from such action. She sensed she could burn her way out of this tangle, but if she attacked with her magickal fire, what would be the consequence? She pictured the entire tree falling to ash like the sliver of the syn. If the tree were destroyed, what of the si’lura? Could she risk an entire people? Was her own life worth such a price? She understood her role in prophecies and portents. She knew the fight against the Dark Lord overshadowed all. But here and now, the fate of an entire people hung in the balance.
The pressure continued to build in her ears. Tiny lights began to dance in her vision from the lack of air. If she were to free herself, she would have to act now.
She blazed the torch of her magick brighter. Don’t make me do this . . .
In the cold depths, nothing answered.
Her chest burned for air.
She closed her eyes and reached out with her wit’ch fire. Faces flashed across her mind’s eye: Fardale, Mogweed, even Thorn, the proud huntress standing before her father. She remembered Aunt My, a shape-shifter who had loved her like a daughter. And out amongst the forests, a milling throng yet waited. So many other stories, so many other lives. Was hers so much more important?
Elena curled her outstretched fingers into a fist, snuffing out her magick. There were some costs she wasn’t willing to pay. She stopped her struggles and gave in to the chill.
As she relaxed her panic, words quietly sifted into her awareness, spoken with a familiar voice: Child . . . of blood and stone . . .
It took her a moment to recall where she had heard those same words before. Her nose filled with the memory of woodsmoke. Her ears remembered the screech of a hunting predator. It was back during the orchard fire, the pyre that had marked the beginning of her long journey. She and Joach had sought shelter in the hollow husk of a great tree. She had given the giant a name: Old Man. The night they had sheltered there, she had heard this same voice. She remembered those words: Child . . . of blood and stone . . . a boon . . . seek my children . . .
Here it was again. Words filled her head. Child . . . of blood and stone . . . heed me . . .
Elena found it hard to concentrate. Her heart pounded in her ears. The dance of lights before her eyes grew more flurried as the lack of air swooned her. Nee’lahn had called these ancient, primitive trees the Old Ones. Was that ancient stump, the Old Man, one of these same trees?
Words formed in her head: Heed me . . . Breathe . . .
Elena had no choice but to obey. Her strained chest heaved. Water rushed in through her mouth and nose, choking, gagging, sweeping with a cold weight into her chest.
Breathe . . .
And to her surprise, she realized she could. The sense of suffocation dissolved away. She breathed in and out. It was a strange sensation, inhaling and exhaling the cool waters. The tiny sparks of light vanished from her vision.
Breathe the living waters . . .
The tangle of roots fell away, releasing her, a soft glow arose from the smaller roots, a pure white light. She did not need spellcast eyes to recognize the elemental energy here. The glow spread down the rootlets to the main taproot. A blaze of light grew under her, and with it came a deep warmth, driving off the water’s chill.
She floated in place. With her lungs heavy with water, her natural buoyancy seemed to be thwarted.
She spoke into the waters, another odd sensation with water moving through her mouth. The words were muffled to her own ears, but she sensed someone listening. “Who are you?”
We are the Guardians, the Old Ones, the Root of the world. You have been found worthy.
Elena’s brow crinkled.
You chose that which is greater than one’s own self.
Elena slowly understood. She had chosen not to burn the spiritual tree, protecting the fate of a people over her own life. This had been a test, one she had passed. Still, a bit of anger flared inside her.
Her emotions must have been sensed. You will be tested again, child of blood and stone . . . this we know. Next time it will be far worse.
Elena felt the truth of these words, and a shiver of fear traced through her. “Why am I here?” she asked. “What do you wish of me?”
Our children . . . the folk of flowing water and flesh . . .
“The si’lura?”
She sensed agreement. It is time for them to leave the forests. To protect their home, they must now abandon it.
“Leave? Where will they go?”
To where you take them.
Elena felt a surge of shock. “Where I take them?” She stared down at the glowing mass of roots. “Why me?”
Across the mountains, a dark root worms toward the world’s heart. To protect itself, the world pulls its reach back to its core, curling down upon itself.
“I don’t understand.”
The time of our guardianship is over.
The words grew fainter, the glow below her ebbing. Elena sensed that the Spirit Root must have lain dormant for centuries, storing its last energies for this final burst of communication. Now it was quickly fading.
She who came before you foretold your coming . . . foretold this dark tide . . .
“Who?”
The ancient speaker seemed to have grown deaf to her words. She waits for you . . . She knew you would come . . .
The glow of the Root flared brighter. Elena hoped it was a sign of renewed vitality, but the surge quickly faded again. Below her, something stirred, rising from the depths toward her.
She knew you would come . . . A twisting cord of root snaked upward. Something held in its glowing grip was thrust at her; she had no choice but to take it. She stared in horror at what lay in her hands . . . at the rose-carved handle.
Lead our children with this sign . . . The voice was a dwindling whisper. Take them where they must stand . . .
“Wh-where is that?” Elena pleaded.
To the Twins . . . the Twins . . . the Twins . . .
With each fading echo, the glow subsided, ebbing away into the waters until only darkness lay around her.
The Spirit Root had died—and with it, so did the magicks in the waters.
At that instant, Elena found it impossible to breathe. Her lungs, a moment ago filled with living water, now held only cold pond water. She choked and gagged; leaden limbs fought the pu
ll of the depths. She craned her neck and spotted the bare glimmer of moonlight, impossibly far away. She struggled, but the face of the moon grew smaller as she was sucked downward.
A blackness that had nothing to do with the depths closed around her.
Er’ril . . . help me . . .
Crouched at the bank, Er’ril stared into the sacred pool, his heart pounding in his ears. The others gathered around him—his own party and the council members.
Earlier, his desperate need to dive in after Elena had diminished as the waters had begun to glow. The shine from the deep had cast the surface of the pool to silver.
“Pure elemental energy,” Nee’lahn had whispered.
The elder’root had tears in his eyes. “The Spirit of the Root! I hear the echo of its voice.”
Thorn had taken her father’s hand in her own. “It’s a miracle.”
Er’ril had known that Elena was alive—but for how long? With his heart clenched like a fist in his chest, he had watched the waxing and waning of the pool’s glow, ready to leap at any moment.
And then the pool had gone dark and quiet.
Er’ril turned to the elder’root. “Do you still hear the voice of the Root?”
The stricken look on the man’s face was answer enough. The leader of the si’lura fell to his knees.
Thorn dropped beside him. “Father!”
“What is going on?” Er’ril asked. “What about Elena?”
The elder’root dug his hands into the muddy bank. “It’s gone,” he whispered.
Er’ril swung back to the pool. “No!” With panic tightening his chest, he dove straight into the depths. The water’s chill struck him immediately, but fear fired his blood. He kicked and swept his arms, driving down into the dark.
Elena . . .
He felt a tugging, toward the depths below, and hope surged in his chest. Was it some magick of Elena’s? Then the gentle pull became an inescapable drag. It was not her magick, he realized, but the pool’s current. He was trapped in the vortex. He fought the tide, but after a frantic moment, he let his resistance go. Elena was down here somewhere. Let the current take him to the bottom—that is, if there was a bottom to the endless pool.