Nee’lahn interrupted. “The flowers bloom!”
Elena’s attention shifted back to the tree; she would question Joach later about this strange play of power.
At the sapling, a miraculous transformation was under way. Elemental fire flared between boy and tree. Rodricko was consumed in this blinding fire. From the lack of response in the others, Elena guessed she was the only one to see the flow of magick here. Even Nee’lahn knelt in the boy’s shadow, tense and fearful.
Rodricko continued to sing, cupping the flower. Between his raised palms, the single bud began to peel its petals back, blooming in the moonlight.
Each flower on the tree followed suit, and plumes of elemental energy flowed out of the dark petals, vibrating with the boy’s song. Elena could almost hear another voice, singing in harmony. Treesong, she realized with amazement.
“The flowers glow,” Er’ril murmured at her side.
Elena forced her own vision to see past the flames of silvery energy. The dark blooms were indeed glowing in the night. Black petals had opened to fiery hearts, red as molten rock.
Cries, first low, then louder, rose from the tree. But they weren’t screams of pain, but of release and joy.
“What’s happening?” Er’ril said, the guards behind him holding the pitch and torches ready.
Using her spellcast sight, Elena watched as bursts of energy shot forth from each bloom, spheres of azure brilliance, sailing up into the air, different than the silvery elemental energy of root and loam. This was something new. And the echoing cries were coming from these shining orbs.
Nee’lahn answered the plainsman’s query. “The blooms . . . they’re casting forth bits of lifeforce. I can hear the song of the living set free.”
“I see it, too,” Elena said. “Energy being cast toward the full moon.” She watched the flow of energy sailing toward the face of the full moon, a river of lifeforce.
“It’s from the Grim,” Nee’lahn whispered, hushed. Her words were not spoken with horror but with awe. “It’s all the lives that my sisterhood consumed, set free at long last.” Her voice dropped further. “No wonder Cecelia fought so hard for her son—she must have known. A small way to make peace with the evil sown by the wraiths.”
The streaming flow of glowing orbs wound toward the evening skies.
Meric helped Nee’lahn to her feet. The pair drifted closer.
Elena joined them in observing the spectacle, quiet celebrants as the spirits were set free. She watched with two sets of eyes. One saw the tree, blooming and aglow. Another saw the sapling ablaze with energy, twined with Rodricko, while overhead a river of spiritual power sailed skyward.
“The flowers are changing,” Er’ril said at her side.
As each bloom cast its last azure energy toward the moon, the blossom’s petals softened in color, fading from midnight black to violet—the true color of a koa’kona bloom. Only their hearts remained fiery red, both a reminder of and testimony to the penance done here this night.
With relief, Elena watched the silvery river flow into the night sky, sung skyward by the boy.
Harlequin cut into her wonder, his voice sharp with concern. “The moon—what’s wrong with the moon!”
Sy-wen sat across the library table from Brother Ryn. The white-robed monk crouched over the ebon’stone egg, a pair of tiny spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. Still he squinted through a chunk of lens in his hand. “Most strange,” he muttered. “Come see, lass.”
She moved to his side. The pair had spent the afternoon in the castle’s main library, searching the dusty scrolls and rat-nibbled tomes for any mention of such stones, but they had learned little that they did not already know. The stone fed on blood, powering some ancient magick that was poorly understood. It was not elemental energy, but neither was it Chyric, like the Weir.
After their long search, they decided to concentrate their energies on the egg itself. The captain’s logbook still rested by the library’s hearth, drying. The library’s chief caretaker warned against opening the sodden book. “The ink’ll smear for sure. She must be dried first, cover to cover, before risking a reading.”
Sy-wen glanced to the logbook. It rested on a rack beside the hearth, not so close as to risk burning, but near enough to dry. “The morning at the soonest,” the caretaker had warned before leaving. “Perhaps not even then.”
That left only the egg itself as a source of information.
As Sy-wen joined Brother Ryn, he rubbed a palm over his shaven head. “There is still too much we don’t know about its substance, this black stone. But see,” he said, and passed his flat disc of magnifying crystal. He pointed to the egg. “Look here. Closely.”
She bent with the crystal before her eyes. “What am I looking for?”
Brother Ryn traced a finger along a vein of silver. He did not touch the stone itself—neither of them dared. During their earlier examinations, they had shifted the loathsome thing with copper tongs from the tools by the hearth. “Notice this line of silver here.”
“So?” Sy-wen did not understand the significance. The ebon’stone was jagged with veins of silver that forked across its smooth surface like lightning against a night sky. “It looks like all the others.”
“Hmm . . . look closer, lass. From the side, if you will.”
She shifted slightly, glancing at the egg from a different angle. Then a gasp of surprise escaped her: This vein was not flush with the stone’s surface, as the others were. The silver thread was imbedded slightly deeper. “What is it?”
He leaned nearer. “See how this vein runs in a complete circle around the egg? Other lines jaggedly cross its path, attempting to deceive the eye. But this main line zigzags around the egg’s circumference—one unending circle.”
She followed his finger. He was right! “What does it mean?”
He straightened, accepting back the glass from her. “I’d say that we’re looking at the way to open the egg—the proverbial crack in the shell.”
Sy-wen cringed back. “A way to open it?” She could not even imagine what horror might be hidden inside, what sickness could be germinating. She suddenly wished Kast were here. But he had left with Hunt and the high keel, to begin the plans for the coming assault.
Brother Ryn glanced to the book drying by the hearth. “If only we had more information about this cursed thing.”
She nodded. “Like a way to destroy it.”
The old scholar turned back to the egg. “Or to judge the danger it poses.”
“The only way to know that would be to open it—and we dare not do that.”
Brother Ryn glanced to her. She read the burning curiosity in his eyes. “We can’t face what we don’t know.”
She bit her lip. There were another hundred of the horrible things near the dock of A’loa Glen. Before they chanced moving the wreck, they had to know what was at risk. “But we don’t have a clue on how to unlock the stone.”
Brother Ryn voiced it aloud. “The stone feeds on blood. Blood must be the key.”
Her attention on the dark stone, she sensed the truth to his words. “But the key to what?”
Greshym stood under a maple tree near the water’s edge. Ahead, the great expanse of Moon Lake stretched to the horizons, a dark mirror reflecting the rising full moon. Already hundreds of celebrants lined the banks, waiting for the moment when the moon would reach its highest point and shine down into the center of the lake.
For as long as Greshym could remember, the ritual of the First Moon had been performed here, a custom that dated back into Alasea’s distant past. No one knew for sure how or why this observance had first started. The accounts of the origin were as many as they were varied. But one common thread ran through all the stories: On the first moon of summer, the face of the Mother above would appear in the waters and grant wishes to those who bathed in the lake and were true of heart.
And that was the catch, Greshym thought sourly: to be true of heart.
Each c
elebration, scores of participants declared their wishes granted, beating their chests and dropping to their knees. But Greshym suspected all were lying or deluded. Who would be foolish enough to claim their wish wasn’t fulfilled, lest their own heart be questioned? So each year, the hordes came with their aching joints, their ailing spouses, their secret loves . . . all to jump in a cold, mossy lake.
“So much foolishness,” Greshym mumbled, for only he knew the true secret of the lake. And he meant to have his own wish granted, even if it meant the death of every person here.
Behind him, he heard Rukh stir from his hiding place in a scrabbleberry bush. The stump gnome was growing as impatient as its master.
Tinkling music wafted over the waters as a flotilla of sails drifted past on the calm lake, bearing those few whose purses bulged with gold. Past his spot, one of largest barges floated, decorated with fanciful carvings, silk sails, and lanterns shaped like the moon in all its phases. It seemed only the rich were granted such close communion with the mysterious lady of the lake.
But this was not a night for only those with money. All around the shoreline, torches and colored lanterns brightened the water’s edge, lighting the way for the other celebrants. A few children already splashed in the shallows, too excited to wait. Their calls echoed like sharp bells, ringing out with joy and delight. The smells from the hundreds of cooking fires filled the crisp summer night with the aromas of charred meats and fragrant stews.
Greshym straightened, knowing his long wait was almost over. The moon was near its highest point. “Rukh!”
The stump gnome crawled on his belly out of the bush.
They crossed the short distance to their lone stretch of beach. Greshym had assured their privacy with a small repulsion spell attached to this spit of land extending out into the lake.
He used a small dagger to dig out the dried clay that plugged the top of his hollow bone staff. His lips moved in a silent spell. He touched the magick in the newborn’s blood, the babe’s innocent lifeforce. It was his to command.
Around the lake, a hush fell over the crowd. Somewhere in the distance a baby wailed. Did it sense the blood of its brother?
Greshym held out his staff, pointing the open end of the bone toward the wide lake. Upon the water’s surface, the moon’s reflection continued to glow, but as the moon reached its highest point, the magick of this night began. The reflected face of the moon began to shine brighter, almost blinding to stare upon. Its glow spread to cover the entire lake, turning dark waters to silver.
A cry rose from the crowd. As one, the celebrants cast themselves into the waters: some naked, some clothed, the young, the old. Some went silently, some with pleas shouted to the skies.
Greshym simply smiled—and spoke the last part of the enchantment.
He lowered the tip of his staff to the lake and spilled the spellcast blood upon the bright waters. The stain spread out from his spit of land. No one noticed the blasphemy to the ceremony. All were too busy with their own heartfelt wishes.
The wash of blood expanded, sweeping toward the center of the lake.
What none of the folk here knew was that the waters of Moon Lake were steeped in the elemental magick of pure light, making it a potent well that filled only this one night when the moon was in the perfect position for the waters to absorb its silvery magick. The lake became a font of immense power, energy from the Void itself. The sense of contentment felt by the bathers was nothing more than the intimate wash of this energy over their bodies, mixing their lifeforces with the energy of the Void.
But with the dawn, the effect would quickly fade. Moon energy could not withstand the burn of the sun. And Greshym would not let this font of energy go to waste, not when he had such powerful enemies.
He touched the tip of his staff to the stain in the waters, speaking the spell to draw the lake’s power into the hollow bone. As the staff filled with strength a thousandfold, the stain continued to spread over the lake. It would take most of the night to siphon off all the power here.
Greshym’s lips split into a hard smile as he worked.
Off to the left, a group of boisterous bathers failed to notice the dark stain sweeping toward them. As the silver waters turned black around them, song and merriment turned to wails and cries.
Greshym watched as the lifeforces of these folk, submerged in the elemental power of the waters, were ripped from their racked bodies. For the briefest moments, their life energy could be seen trying to escape: Ghosts of azure light skated across the dark surface before being sucked away, drowned in the spellcast waters.
As Greshym continued to draw off this energy, other bathers were caught in the wave of darkness. The stain overtook the moon-lantern barge. A cry of distress arose from the captain of the doomed vessel. His wards, already enjoying the waters, were deaf to his calls. They were consumed by the darkness. Even the boat began to sink, its hull no longer adrift on plain water, but sliding under a sea of dark magick.
Deep laughter flowed from Greshym. He appreciated the hearty sound of his own mirth. With the power here, no one could thwart him.
A sharp cry sounded from far across the lake. “Look to the moon!”
Greshym glanced up to the night skies, and his smile screwed down into a frown. The face of the full moon shone as bright as before, but now a crimson scar marked its center, streaming outward in rivulets.
“The moon bleeds!” someone shouted.
Greshym watched the stain begin to stream down toward the lake.
“What is this magick?” he mumbled. It was no effect of his spell. And if not, then whose? He remembered Shorkan’s mirth. “The bastard . . .”
He pulled his staff from the waters, readying himself to either fight or flee.
All around the lake cries echoed, “The moon! The moon!”
“What’s happening to the moon?” Er’ril asked. He stepped close to Elena, watching her frown as she gazed up into the evening sky.
She leaned near. “I don’t know. “
Directly overhead, the full moon bled streams of fiery crimson. The trails seemed to flow toward them.
“The corruption seems to be flowing down the stream of spirit energy rising from the tree,” Elena said. “Back toward us.”
Meric stood with Nee’lahn. She cradled her lute to her chest, face staring upward with horror. Harlequin and Joach joined them, frowning at the night skies.
The only one oblivious to the spectacle above was little Rodricko. He continued to sing to his tree, while the glowing blooms continued to shed their darkness and shine with a pure violet brilliance.
“Is it something the boy is doing?” Er’ril asked. “Should we stop him?”
Nee’lahn heard his question. “No. He must finish the ritual.”
“This can’t be the boy’s fault,” Meric said. “Something else is amiss here.”
“What?” Er’ril asked.
“I know a way to find out,” Elena said, shifting around. She tugged at the satchel over her shoulder. “The Blood Diary.”
She pulled the tome from the bag. The gilt rose on its leather cover glowed bright silver, matching the moonlight. She prepared to open the book.
Er’ril reached out, placing a palm atop the shining rose. “The Blood Diary is tied to the moon, and now the moon bleeds. Perhaps we should think before opening the path to the Void.”
Elena looked him in the eye. “Whatever evil arises here, it has something to do with the moon. If there are answers, Cho may be the only one to divine them.”
Er’ril slowly nodded. “Be careful.” Ever since the events in Gul’gotha when Cho had possessed Elena, he had been wary of the book’s spirits, fearing that Cho had neither Elena’s nor Alasea’s best interests at heart. The spirit’s single-minded pursuit of Chi, her spiritual twin, overwhelmed any concern for this land or its people.
Elena squeezed Er’ril’s hand, silently thanking him for his concern. For a moment, he felt the power coursing under the ruby skin of
her palm—energy from Cho. Then the young woman broke contact, turning away.
Elena lifted her book, took a deep breath, and opened the leather cover. Neither of them were ready for the explosion of light that followed. Elena was knocked back, but Er’ril caught her. He managed a glimpse of the book’s pages. Instead of white parchment, the book was a window into another existence. Beyond the Blood Diary, stars blazed against an inky darkness. Clouds of radiant mists glided around orbs churning with the energies of the endless Void.
Elena regained her feet. The plume of light from the book sailed high, then arced and landed on the courtyard path beside them. The figure of a woman quickly took shape, sculpted of light and energy. Clothed in glowing moonstone that swirled with energies not of this world, the woman turned her face toward Elena. Burning suns raged behind her eyes. “What is this desecration?” Cho cried out.
“We don’t know,” Er’ril answered, trying to match her stern tone.
“It is why we called you forth,” Elena added.
Cho stared up to the skies, then down to the tree. “A bridge,” she said, her anger still bright. “A new spirit bridge has opened!”
The others in the courtyard gathered near, silent witnesses.
“A spirit bridge?” Er’ril asked.
Elena stepped free of his arms. “Maybe we should speak to Fila,” she suggested, referring to her own aunt. Er’ril understood Elena’s request: her aunt’s ghost was also a bridge between worlds.
Cho glanced once more at the moon, then, without even moving, she seemed to melt. Her shoulders relaxed, and her movement as she turned back to them was more natural. The shine of the Void was gone from her eyes.
“Child,” she said warmly, “how do you fare?”
“Aunt Fila . . .” Elena’s voice caught in her throat.
Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder, supporting her. “What’s happening to the moon?”
The ghostly figure glanced across the courtyard. “Cho was right. The release of spirits from the tree has formed a temporary link between the Void and this world. It is the same as my spirit, a connection between two planes.” She turned back to them. “But the link here is not fixed, the way I am fixed to the magick of the Blood Diary. Once the flow of spirits from the koa’kona ceases, the bridge will end.”