Page 44 of Wit'ch Star (v5)


  In the center of the glade, his pack still lay where he had left it. The ebon’stone bowl rested atop a small rock. He trembled in the chill of the thin night air. He had failed to destroy the Spirit Gate, but so had the demonic spirits of the Triad.

  Mogweed closed his eyes. After the battle, exhausted, he had fallen into that restless slumber inside Fardale’s skull, only to awaken with the setting sun. He found himself lying with Thorn, his arms around her naked form. She had been asleep as he slipped away. It seemed she and his brother had not only made peace with their shared pasts, but they had also renewed their former passion. He had crept from the furs with distaste. He remembered the depths of their union, mind to mind, in the tunnels; he was glad he had slept as their bodies mirrored the same union.

  With his arms wrapped tight around his chest, Mogweed stared down at the ebon’stone bowl. If he ever hoped to be free of Fardale, he would have to brave the darkness cupped in the bowl of black stone. He knelt. From a pocket, he removed a soiled bandage. Nee’lahn had used it to bind a cut on her forearm, a wound from the Spirit Gate battle. With the miraculous healing afterward, she had had no further need for it. Mogweed had watched through Fardale’s eyes as she disposed of it. Upon awakening, he had fetched it from the refuse. Her elemental blood should awaken the bowl’s magick.

  Still, he hesitated. He closed his eyes. He had no prickling sense of someone staring at the back of his neck. Good. Fardale still slept, clearly sated after his rutting with his wolf-mate.

  Dream while you still can, Brother. Now it’s my turn for a tryst in the dark.

  He dropped the bandage into the bowl, then sat back on his heels. As he waited, he felt the chill of the night creep through his cloak. He shivered. Then slowly the air grew frigid as an icy tomb. A stench of rotting entrails and festering wounds filled the space, and a dark mist rose up with the howls of the damned.

  Mogweed scuffled a step away as his bowels clenched and bile rose in his throat.

  A voice as dark as the stone bowl and as cold as the blackest pit rose from the mists. “You call again, little mouse, you who have failed us.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Mogweed fought his frozen tongue. “There was nothing I could do.”

  Tendrils of dark mist sailed out from the bowl. Mogweed scrabbled away, but the arms of mist sailed out and around him, circling him. He cowered in the center, knowing that even a glancing touch of that black fog would suck the life from his bones.

  “I will teach you the price of failure.”

  Mogweed crouched tighter. Things stirred in the mists, creatures darker than the blackest fogs. He squeezed his eyes closed—the sight of these lurkers would surely drive him mad. Yet he could not escape their gibbering cries. The sounds ate at the wall of sanity around his mind.

  “Stop,” he shouted. “I have information to pay for my failings!”

  The hoary voice cut through the beasts in the mists. “Speak now, or lose all!”

  Mogweed opened one eye. The mists held back, but he was still cocooned in the dread fog, held at its hollow heart. “I . . . know when the wit’ch will attack . . . I know their forces . . . their numbers . . .”

  Iced laughter met his offer of betrayal. “Little mouse, don’t you think we know all that happens in those mountains? We wait for her even now—a trap from which none will escape.” Laughter again, and the gibbering rose as the mists stirred anew.

  Mogweed knew he was a breath away from being blown out like a candle. “Ly’chuk!” he called out in desperation, using the Dark Lord’s real name.

  The thread of amusement that had been fading into the ebon’stone bowl abruptly cut off. The voice boomed back at him, sounding as if it came from all around. “Never speak that name!” A lash of mist whipped out and struck his cheek.

  Pain exploded across his face, as if his skin had been flailed from the bone and acid poured in the wound. With a cry of agony, Mogweed fell on his side. He clutched his wounded face. He found no injury. He was undamaged, but the pain persisted, fading too slowly.

  Mogweed fought to speak. “Th-they know all about you, not just your true name.”

  “It matters not.” But for the first time, Mogweed heard a trace of doubt in the demon’s voice. Mogweed pushed up from the mud. He himself lived in a world of fear, hesitancy, and doubt. This was his own territory; he knew its terrain better than any, how such qualms could be fanned.

  “They know all about ebon’stone and heartstone,” he lied. “The wit’ch in the Gate revealed all. They know what you did at the Gate on the eve of your oath taking.”

  Silence met these words. Mogweed sat straighter. He knew the power of secrets exposed, even if they were only suspected. Since a child, Mogweed had held his heart closed and tight, his inner thoughts his own. He knew how it felt when such hidden trappings were exposed for all to see—whether you were king, demon, or simple man.

  He pressed his advantage. “For bringing you such critical information, I simply ask a boon.” He bowed his head. “Forgive my past failings and allow me to serve you. I will be your eyes and ears among the others. I know their strengths and weaknesses . . . as they now know yours,” he added, plying his trade with deft skill. “Let me show you their hearts. That is all I ask in trade for my freedom from this crowded prison of flesh.”

  The silence stretched, but Mogweed knew he wasn’t alone. Finally, the voice returned, laced with hoarfrost and ice. “Then prove your words. Tell me where the heart of the wit’ch is most weak.”

  Mogweed thought quickly. He needed a convincing answer. And though he’d rather trade in lies, he knew he would now have to barter in a bit of the truth. “She is weakest where all women are most tender,” he said after a moment. “To damage her the most foully, seek not to harm her directly. There is a spot where she can be shattered with an easier touch.” He held his breath, pausing.

  “What?” the voice asked acidly.

  “Do we have a pact?” Mogweed pressed. “My secrets for my freedom?”

  “First a taste of your ware, mouse. Answer my question; then we will barter. What is this weak spot in the wit’ch?”

  Mogweed hesitated for a breath more—not for show this time, but in concern for the line he was about to cross.

  “Speak or die now! What is her weakness?”

  He bowed his head. “Er’ril . . . the Standi plainsman. He is all that stands between her and defeat. Destroy him and you’ll wound the wit’ch beyond healing.” Mogweed felt something black settle in his chest—not from the Dark Lord, but of his own making. He knew that he had crossed a line from which he could never return.

  “My lieutenant’s brother . . . ,” the voice hissed from the mists.

  Mogweed frowned, then remembered that the demon-mage Shorkan had once been the plainsman’s brother. “That is a taste of the knowledge I can bring you,” he continued. “Proof that eyes and ears close to the wit’ch can be of advantage.”

  The mists parted around him, drifting back into the well of the ebon’stone bowl. The voice spoke again. “You’ve given us something worth pondering. For that, you will be allowed another day of life. But for your freedom of the flesh, a higher price will need to be paid.”

  Mogweed silently cursed. “What?” he spoke aloud. “Anything.”

  “You must not only be our eyes and ears . . . but also our hands.”

  Mogweed’s brow crinkled. “How so?”

  As answer, from out of the darkness over the bowl, something black entered this world. Mogweed stared at it with horror. A single black orb rested in the basin, an egg in a most foul nest. It was the size of a doubled fist. Veins of silver forked over the orb’s polished surface. Ebon’stone.

  Mogweed knew what lay in the bowl. He had heard the stories of the ebon’stone eggs seeded at A’loa Glen, of the sick clutch that had hatched in the dungeons of the castle, of the contamination of Sy-wen and Hunt. Here was a smaller brother of the others.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” he asked
the empty night.

  Words rose from the bowl, muffled now by the egg. “Take this seed and plant it where we tell you.”

  Mogweed suspected, from its tiny size, that this egg contained only a single one of the tentacled beasts. Or maybe it contained something even more foul. He shivered at the mere sight of it. Who was this meant for? When last he had communicated with the demon in the bowl, Tol’chuk’s life had been the price for Mogweed’s freedom. Would it be again? “Where do you want it planted?”

  The answer rose from the bowl.

  Mogweed gasped, cringing back. The answer chilled him to the marrow of his bones. He wished now it had been Tol’chuk. “Why?” he asked. “It makes no sense.”

  “It is not your need to know why, little mouse, but to scurry and do our bidding. Only then will you find your way to freedom.”

  Mogweed balked—but he had no choice. He nodded. “It will be done.”

  “Fail a second time, and your torment will know no end.”

  Mogweed fingered the trace of a burn on his cheek. He knew such threats were not idle. He had barely escaped with his life this night. But he had won another chance to shatter the shackles that bound him to his brother. He would not fail this time. He dared not.

  As he crouched, a great weight lifted from his shoulders, and warmth filled the void left behind. Mogweed stared at the bowl. The Dark Lord was gone. The doorway between their worlds had closed again.

  Sighing with relief, he sagged before the ebon’stone nest. What was asked of him would not be easy, but it had to be accomplished. If he ever wished to be free of his brother, he would simply have to harden his heart against the fears rooted there.

  With care, he collected both bowl and egg into his pack, burying them among his personal items. With a final breath to steady himself, he stood and left the tiny copse of woods.

  Once free of the trees, he heard raised voices echoing from the entrance of the og’re cavern. He strode quickly, ready for the warmth of the caves and the brightness of the hearth fires. As he neared the yawning opening, he saw Elena and Er’ril, along with most of their companions, gathered just inside.

  Meric spotted Mogweed and waved him over. Frowning, Mogweed obeyed. They were all gathered around Joach. Sounds of amazement rose from the crowd.

  “You look five decades younger,” Harlequin muttered, walking in a circle around the boy.

  Joach smiled. “And I feel even younger than that.”

  Mogweed put on a mask of surprise. He had already witnessed the transformation. But for now, he kept up a pretense of shock.

  Er’ril wore a scowl. “And Greshym’s death brought this boon upon you?”

  Joach shrugged. “I can only suppose so.” The boy pointed to a bier that bore the slack body of the darkmage, guarded by two og’res. “I can’t imagine the two are not related. My youth, his death.”

  Mogweed stepped to the corpse’s side, gaping in shock. The darkmage’s face was blue, eyes glassy and blind. No, this can’t be . . . He turned to the others. “When did he die?”

  Elena answered. “He was discovered by Joach just a short time ago. There was no mark on his body.” Her eyes flicked toward Joach. “It seems his heart simply gave out.”

  “Like he had a heart,” Magnam mumbled at her side.

  But Mogweed caught the suspicious glance shared by Elena and Er’ril. They suspected foul play here, perpetrated by Elena’s own brother—murder for the sake of youth.

  “You’d best cut the body into bits,” Harlequin said. “Bury the parts in separate unmarked graves. From the stories, the dead of the Dark Lord don’t always stay dead.”

  Er’ril nodded. “With the dawn’s light, it will be done.”

  Joach stood among the others: hale of limb, straight of back, his face unlined. He met Mogweed’s eyes for a moment, then glanced away. But in that tiny moment, Mogweed sensed something in the other’s eyes: something dread unspoken.

  Mogweed remembered the exchange by the horse corral. The elv’in sailor had touched Joach, transforming the bent-backed elder into the young man before him now. Then the sailor had ridden off, not toward the elv’in ship, but into the woods.

  Mogweed studied Joach. It seemed there was more afoot here than was spoken. Before he could ponder it further, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to find Tol’chuk beside him.

  “Strange night,” the og’re mumbled.

  Mogweed bobbed his head, not trusting his voice. Tol’chuk didn’t know half how strange this night truly had been. The pack he carried hung hard on his shoulder, and his duty even harder on his heart. What am I to do now? Why hadn’t the Dark Lord known of his minion’s death?

  Tol’chuk gave his shoulder a squeeze, then stepped away. “The fires be stoked by the hearth. The furs should be warm. Go and rest yourself.”

  Mogweed was tempted, but all thoughts of rest were driven away by the sight of the bier. With Greshym dead, how was he to finish his assignment? It was not the og’re for whom the egg had been intended—but Greshym. Why the Dark Lord sought to possess one of his own made no sense. Perhaps the egg contained a means of escape for the mage? He shook his head. Once again, due to no blame of his own, Mogweed had failed the Black Beast. He had come too late.

  What do I do now? He dared not contact the Dark Lord again this night. It would surely mean his death.

  A burst of laughter from Joach drew his attention. The boy was full of mirth, his voice loud with youth and vigor. Mogweed studied the lad, a master of dream and illusion.

  He again pictured the elv’in touching Joach, transforming him, then riding off. Where had the elv’in gone? And why? It made no sense.

  Mogweed glanced to the cold corpse, then out to the night beyond the cavern entrance. His mind ran along strange paths. A master of illusion . . . He turned again at a bark of laughter from the boy. His eyes narrowed.

  What have you done, Joach?

  The boy’s eyes swung toward Mogweed. But before anything could be said, a commotion erupted near the entrance to the cavern. A trundling of og’res burst into the cave, armed with clubs—sentries. They grumbled in their native tongue.

  Tol’chuk bouldered through the others and spoke to the guards. “They’ve spotted the winged child,” he reported.

  “Cassa!” Jaston exclaimed. “Is she all right?”

  The other si’luran scouts had returned at sunset. Only the swamp child had remained out searching the lower hills. Earlier, when Mogweed had slipped from Thorn’s furs and left the caves, Jaston had been pacing a rut in the stone floor.

  Tol’chuk nodded. “Fear not. She comes.”

  They all followed the trio of sentries out into the open meadows. Mogweed searched the night skies. It seemed impossible to spot anything in the gloom; even the moon had set. But from his experience with Tol’chuk, he knew an og’re could see in the dark.

  One of the sentries pointed his club. After a short time, Mogweed spotted a small flitter against the starlight. He watched the shape grow and sweep toward them.

  Jaston stepped to Mogweed’s side. “It’s her!” the swamper exclaimed with joy. Mogweed caught the glint of unshed tears in the man’s eyes; he scowled and crossed his arms.

  The child flew over the meadow and down toward the gathered group. From the tumbled flight and dogged beat of her wings, she was clearly exhausted. She landed in the grass, her face ashen against her dark hair.

  Jaston hurried forward. “Cassa!”

  The child lifted a hand of restraint. The voice from the figure was faint, thready with spent energies. “I . . . I have found the last Weirgate!”

  22

  Elena awoke in her cabin aboard the Windsprite, surprised by the knocking on the door and doubly surprised that she had fallen asleep. Light streamed through the thin window. She rubbed her eyes. It must be well past midday. Why had Er’ril let her sleep for so long?

  Of course, she knew the answer. After Joach’s miraculous rejuvenation and the arrival of C
assa Dar’s swamp child, the remainder of the night had been lost to discussions and final plans. She’d had no sleep. Only after the armies had rallied and were under way with the rising sun had Er’ril managed to herd her to her cabin for a short rest.

  The knock sounded again. “Mistress Elena.”

  She threw off the blanket. She was still in her clothes from last night. “Yes?” she answered.

  “Master Er’ril requests you join him in the galley.”

  Elena rolled to her feet and slipped into her boots. “I’ll be there momentarily.” She crossed to a washbasin and gilded mirror. She fixed her hair back with a sweep of her fingers and a silver pin. She met her own eyes in the mirror, seeking some sign of the strength she would need in the next days. But all she saw was a girl with shadows under her eyes and lines of worry etched at their edges.

  Sisa’kofa’s words still echoed to her from the core of the world: Elena Morin’stal, descendant of wit’ches and elv’in blood . . . You will hold the threads to the world’s fate.

  Elena shivered. How could that be? How could she hold the world in her hands? She lifted her two ruby palms. It was scant magick for what would be asked of her.

  She sighed. Ever since picking that apple in her family orchard, she had begun a long road that led full circle back where she started. She had learned much about herself, about the hearts of men and women. She had made good friends and lost many. There had to be some purpose in walking this long road, but what? It couldn’t just be power and magickal skill. Sisa’kofa had said that she had best look to her own heart and those around her. Elena sensed that an answer lay hidden somewhere in the steps she had taken to get here—an answer she would need to discover too soon.

  She stared into the eyes of the mirror. All she saw was a stranger. “What do you know?” she whispered.

  The stranger remained silent and unhappy.

  The knock sounded again.

  Elena closed her eyes, breaking her reverie. Er’ril was right; she had needed the sleep.