Wit'ch Star (v5)

  Joach found himself growing breathless, as if the air were suddenly too thin. “What will it cost me for this knowledge?”

  “Nothing, my boy. All I ask is my freedom, and I’ll be on my way. I won’t even ask you to destroy your sister’s precious book.”

  He could not hide his surprise.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Joach. I realize that you can’t or won’t betray your sister. So be it. All I want is my freedom.”

  “How can I trust you?”

  Greshym shrugged. “With the book still bound, I’ll have no magick, not until I’m well away from its reach . . . at least five leagues, I believe. So if you let me go and I haven’t kept my end of the bargain, then there is nothing stopping you from catching me again. I can’t be more fair than that.”

  “What of the war? Your knowledge . . . ?”

  The darkmage rolled his eyes. “You know these highlands better than I. I’ve told you all I know already.”

  Joach searched for a trick. “For your freedom, you’ll give me the secret of life and half my years back.”

  Greshym nodded.

  Joach could not bring himself to make this pact. He stood, still holding the rose. “I’ll need to think on it.”

  “Don’t think too long, my boy. Once this final war starts, I expect the iron plainsman of Standi will find me more a risk than a boon to the cause. If you wait too long, you might find both your youth and my secrets spilled upon the ground at the point of his sharp sword.”

  Joach knew these words to be true. If he was to make this bargain with Greshym, it would have to be in the next day.

  He slipped the rose into a pocket of his cloak. “I will give you my answer by nightfall.”

  Greshym watched the boy stalk off. He had noted the care with which the boy treated the rose. All Joach’s hopes for his love were wrapped in that little flower.

  You’ve already given me your answer, Joach.

  He leaned against the cliff wall. The midday sun heated his face as he closed his eyes. He searched out with his mind, but if Rukh was out there with his bone staff, the gnome was still too far away to be felt.

  You’d better be out there, my dogged friend. If my plan is to succeed, I’ll need that staff.

  He sighed. He would keep his bargain with Joach—give him half his youth back and teach him the trick to bring life into his art. But he wasn’t going to leave. Freedom or not, he needed one other item.

  Shadowsedge.

  There was no more powerful talisman in all the world. Even the Dark Lord himself could not withstand the magick of that sword. Sisa’kofa had chosen wisely to hide her weapon in the energy-dampening nexus of the Western Reaches. Otherwise, the Black Heart would have smelled such a tool from across the world and hunted it down.

  But now it was within his own reach! And he was not leaving without it.

  Greshym soaked in the sun, content that this was his last day of captivity. He again pictured Joach pocketing his precious rose.

  You’re mine again, boy, and this time, you’ll dance your way to your own doom. Whether you want to learn it or not, I’ll enlighten you on the most powerful black magick of them all: the corrupting power of love.

  Er’ril stood before Tol’chuk unable to believe what he was seeing. Impossible, he thought. The og’re held the Heart of his people—there was no mistaking its shape and size. But it had gone black with corruption, lined by streaks of silver.

  “It’s ebon’stone!” Elena gasped.

  Tol’chuk kept his back to the cavern, hunched over the stone. Almost all the war council members had abandoned the Chamber of the Spirits. Even Hun’shwa and the elder’root had left to discuss how best to scout the highlands around Winter’s Eyrie. Jaston had gone with them, offering the use of the winged swamp child to aid in surveillance. The only ones left were members of their immediate party: Nee’lahn, Meric, Harlequin Quail, Fardale, Thorn, and the d’warf Magnam. They clustered around the og’re.

  Still, Tol’chuk kept his voice low. “The blood of Vira’ni corrupted the stone. I dare not risk opening the Spirit Gate. The taint of the stone might spread.” Tol’chuk had already explained about the ring of heartstone at the core of the Northern Fang and the spirit found bound to it: Sisa’kofa.

  “None but a handful know of the Heart’s corruption,” Tol’chuk finished.

  Elena stepped forward and studied the stone, careful not to touch it. “If it changed once, there must be a way to change it back.”

  Nee’lahn joined her. “The blood of an ill’guard transformed it. Maybe that is a clue.”

  Meric nodded. “Tainted elemental blood corrupted the stone . . .”

  Nee’lahn straightened. “Then mayhaps pure elemental blood could purify it!”

  Er’ril narrowed his eyes. Could the answer be that simple?

  “I’ll try,” Meric said.

  “I don’t know,” Elena warned. “Ill’guard are created by ebon’stone. Its touch might harm you. Remember the ebon’stone Weirgates were capable of sucking the spirit from right out of your body.”

  “But this is much smaller,” Meric said, growing excited. “Besides, I don’t have to touch it. I can just drizzle blood over it.”

  “It’s worth trying,” Nee’lahn added quietly.

  Er’ril turned to Elena. “What do you think?”

  Elena sighed. “Here is a heart of a mystery. Ebon’stone and heartstone. If we can discover the answer, it may help us in the war to come. We still have another Weirgate to destroy to free Chi.” She faced Meric. “Perhaps it is worth the risk.”

  The elv’in prince nodded and slipped a dagger from his belt.

  Tol’chuk carefully laid the chunk of ebon’stone on the cavern floor and backed away. Biting his lip, Meric took his place before the Heart. He lifted his eyes to Elena, who nodded. Then he glanced to Nee’lahn. The nyphai stood with both fists clutched to her chest.

  Meric grabbed the blade of his dagger, squeezing. The only sign of the pain was a slight squinting of his eyes. Blood flowed from his closed fist. He lifted it over the Heart and bathed the black stone with his own blood.

  The droplets struck the crystal and simply disappeared, sucked away into oblivion.

  Meric frowned and tightened his fist, increasing the flow. “Maybe it takes more,” he mumbled between clenched teeth.

  They all waited. Blood streamed into the stone, while some drops splattered on the stone floor. But the ebon’stone remained as black as ever. Only the silver veins in the stone seemed to glow as the foulness fed on Meric’s blood.

  “Stop!” Elena said. “It’s clearly not working.”

  Meric did not argue; the truth of her words was plain. Nee’lahn crossed to his side with a strip of linen from her own shirt. She helped wrap his hand.

  Harlequin Quail shook his head. “Any other bloody ideas?”

  Magnam grunted. The d’warf had stood with his arms crossed the entire time. His eyes flicked between Tol’chuk and the stone. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong. We’re not thinking large enough.”

  “What do you mean?” Meric asked, his voice bitter with his defeat.

  Magnam unfolded his arms and began to pace. “I’m not sure. But I think you were on the right path. Ebon’stone is heartstone tainted by the touch of an ill’guard’s blood. But what is an ill’guard?”

  “A corrupted elemental,” Er’ril snapped. “What are you getting at?”

  “Let me talk it out. Ebon’stone is to heartstone as an ill’guard is to an elemental.” Magnam continued to stalk. “So what is an elemental?”

  “A person gifted with a bit of the Land’s magick,” Nee’lahn answered, straightening at Meric’s side.

  “And what about heartstone itself?” Magnam continued. “Old Mad Mimbly said it’s the Land’s own blood.”

  “I don’t see your point,” Er’ril said.

  Meric answered. “Elementals bear the gift of the Land’s magick. Heartstone is the Land’s blood. The corruption o
f an elemental is not a corruption of his blood; it’s a corruption of the Land’s magick inside him!”

  “So?”

  “It’s not my blood that can purify the stone! It’s the Land’s blood!”

  “Which is heartstone,” Elena cried, her eyes going wide. “Are you saying heartstone can cure ebon’stone?”

  The d’warf shrugged. “According to Mad Mimbly, heartstone was essential to staving off the darkness that was to follow. We d’warves thought him addled, but maybe instead he was speaking the plainest truth.” Magnam turned to Tol’chuk. “And we saw Lord Boulder here demonstrate this very truth—when he freed you from the Manticore Weirgate, shattering you free with the chunk of rock at our feet.”

  “And the Weirgate changed into heartstone!” Elena said.

  “But it be the magick in the Heart that freed her,” Tol’chuk said. “Be this not so?”

  Magnam shook his head. “That’s what we all thought. But now I wonder otherwise. In Gul’gotha, the Heart was empty of your people’s spirits. Did you not yourself declare the stone dead, just plain crystal? There was no extra magick in the Heart. It was simply heartstone, the Land’s own blood . . . but that was apparently magick enough.”

  A stunned silence followed. If Magnam was right, the answer lay before them.

  “Could this be true?” Elena asked, hushed.

  “I remember something else,” Tol’chuk mumbled as he lifted the Heart from the floor. “In the cellars below Shadowbrook, the ill’guard Torwren feared the Heart. He fled from it. I thought he feared the magick in the stone, but maybe he merely feared the stone itself.”

  Er’ril spoke into the silence that followed. “We all know how to find out if this cure will work or not.”

  Their eyes left the ebon’stone Heart and focused on him.

  “We test it,” he declared. “We see if the ring of heartstone can purify the Heart.”

  Tol’chuk glanced to the tunnel. “If it fails, we risk the entire Gate.”

  “I say we must attempt it,” Er’ril said firmly. “If it’s proven true, then we’ll have a real means of thwarting the Black Heart.”

  Elena stepped to Tol’chuk’s side. She touched his elbow. “I agree. And I think you sense the truth of Magnam’s words.”

  After a reluctant pause, Tol’chuk nodded, then turned to lead the way. “I will take you all to the Gate, but I pray we be correct.”

  Elena met Er’ril’s gaze. He could read the worry in her eyes. It was a significant risk.

  Meric and Nee’lahn followed Tol’chuk, with the others in tow. Er’ril followed with Elena. As they neared the tunnel, her hand slipped into his. Her fingers trembled. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Could this have been the answer all along?” she mumbled. “If heartstone could purify ebon’stone, could it have been used to cure the ill’guard, too—Vira’ni and Kral, and so many others? If we had only known . . .”

  He squeezed her fingers. “It’s certain doom to stare behind you and wonder at the paths you didn’t take. There is only one path anyone needs to walk, and that’s straight ahead of them.”

  From a few steps ahead, Harlequin glanced back to them. He must have heard their words. “This is our only path? Great. I heard what Tol’chuk calls this passage.”

  “What?” Elena asked.

  Harlequin nodded to the tunnel ahead. “The Path of the Dead.”

  “Oh . . .” Elena’s footsteps faltered.

  Er’ril pulled her more snugly against his side. “It’s just a name, not an omen.” Still, like her, he knew what lay at the end of this tunnel. Either they would corrupt the Gate or open it—but which outcome was worse?

  Both Elena and Er’ril had heard Tol’chuk’s story earlier. They knew what awaited them beyond the ring of heartstone at the core of the world. But neither of them wished to speak that name aloud.

  Sisa’kofa.

  20

  From the dark cell of his imprisonment, Mogweed stared out through Fardale’s eyes. All day long he had watched and listened . . .

  And now they were headed to the Spirit Gate!

  Now he studied the path they followed. He had tried these past many days to convince Tol’chuk to show him the arch of heartstone, but the og’re had refused, too wary of letting the chunk of ebon’stone near the Gate. Now, at long last, they were going there, but he was trapped in Fardale’s head, unable to act.

  He cursed his luck.

  At hand was the key to unlock his prison. He recalled the message from the Dark Lord, echoing out from the ebon’stone bowl: You must destroy the Spirit Gate . . . It must be shattered with the blood of my last seed! Mogweed stared past Meric and Nee’lahn. Tol’chuk strode with a torch raised before him, lighting the way.

  It was Tol’chuk’s blood that could free Mogweed. All he had to do was slay the og’re at the Gate—then the Dark Lord would break the curse upon him. Of course, there was one more price to be paid for his freedom.

  We will burn the wolf from your heart . . .

  That was the final cost—Fardale’s life. According to the Dark Lord, only one could survive the breaking of the curse. One body, one spirit.

  But could he take that step, too? The dilemma had weighed upon him these last days. Suddenly he was not so displeased with his current imprisonment. Chained up in Fardale’s skull, the choice was taken from him. For now, he would simply spy, and plot his victory for a later time, when his heart was not so conflicted.

  Content in this realization, Mogweed allowed his attention to focus back to the world beyond Fardale’s eyes—even though his brother spent most of his time casting sidelong glances to his snowy-tressed companion.

  Thorn, the daughter of the elder’root, moved with easy grace down the tunnel. Mogweed could sense the wolfish lusts of his brother, the slight widening of his nostrils as he took in her scent, the thudding of his heart and drum of his blood.

  Thorn, a wolf herself at heart, sensed Fardale’s attention. She slowed her pace to match his. Her eyes glowed with something unspoken. Then words filled his head, reaching both their minds. I must speak to you . . . I must tell you something . . .

  Mogweed became lost in the mix of her emotions: fear, anger, shame, heartache, and a trace of the lust that matched Fardale’s own.

  “What is it?” Fardale asked aloud, his words clipped and short. His brother’s anger clearly blinded him to the depth of Thorn’s emotions.

  Mogweed smiled at the two former lovers, unable to speak their hearts. He enjoyed their torment. Fardale still anguished over his exile from the Western Reaches, by edict of Thorn’s own father. Fardale had begged her to come with him, but she had turned her back on him, refusing.

  Thorn caught the edge of Fardale’s anger, and it plainly flared her own. Her eyes grew brighter in the dark tunnel. She continued to mindspeak. There is something I should have said before. You deserve to know.

  Fardale remained silent. Anger bolted his tongue, while heartache kept him from reaching out with his inner thoughts.

  Thorn continued. There was a reason I did not go with you from the forest. She suddenly glanced away and spoke aloud. “I wanted to . . . I truly did . . . but you left me no choice.”

  “I?” Fardale’s outburst drew Meric’s attention. The elv’in glanced back. Fardale lowered his voice. “I begged you on my knee. I would have done anything to keep from leaving your side. How did I leave you no choice?”

  Fury rose in the glow of Thorn’s eyes . . . and a fierce pride. “You left me with child.”

  Mogweed flinched in surprise—and whether it was his own shock or Fardale’s, the pair tripped in the tunnel, catching up against one wall. Fardale straightened. He met Thorn’s gaze fully. A child? he sent.

  She nodded, keeping their eyes locked. An image formed: A wild babe running through the woods, his head covered by a crown of feathers, flagging a furred tail behind him. Thorn spoke aloud. “I named him Finch. He’s back in the forest, with the other children and the
infirm.”

  “I have a son . . .”

  Fardale’s shock was no less than Mogweed’s. A son . . . from the union the night they were cursed!

  But Fardale’s surprise tilted and fell into a well of anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t know . . . not until after my father passed judgment upon you.” She turned from the hurt on Fardale’s face. “Then it was too late. You had to leave the forest. I knew if I told you of the child that you’d refuse to go. And I could not go with you . . . not with a growing belly and soon a child to care for.” She glanced back to Fardale. Her eyes shone with shame.

  Fardale finally recognized her pain. “And you were scared,” he mumbled. “For yourself and your child . . .”

  “And you,” she added in a whisper. “I knew you couldn’t stay, or you’d be lost to the wolf, settled into a wild beast with no memory of your heritage. But how it ached my heart to see you leave while knowing your baby was in my womb . . . especially when I could not say a word.”

  Fardale went to her. Mogweed sensed their two hearts seeking each other. Images fluttered between them, too fast for the mind to follow, but not the heart, a lifetime of joys and sorrows shared in a moment. This was the greatest gift of the si’lura: to commune so intimately, through thoughts, memories, emotions.

  Mogweed floated above these deeper sendings. He could not reach that far into his brother’s spirit. But still he sensed their thoughts, a barest flicker of a richer flame.

  Mogweed found he had been jealous of his brother before—but never as much as now. He retreated from their union, not to give them privacy, but from shame and a nameless pain that welled through him. He turned his back upon the fire of their passion and sought the oblivion of cool darkness.

  And as the walls of his cell closed around him, Mogweed stoked fire inside. He knew there was only one true way to escape this prison. No matter what the price in blood . . . I must break free.