“But what about the moon?” Elena asked.
Overhead, the moon had grown almost a solid bloodred, streaming fiery trails toward them.
Aunt Fila frowned and motioned Elena to lift one hand. The ruby hue of her Rose matched the color of the moon. “With the bridge open, energy bleeds from the Void to here.”
“But why?” Elena asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. Neither does Cho. It shouldn’t be happening. Cho is panicked. It is as if something has rent a huge tear in the fabric of her world. It bleeds into ours now.”
“What danger does that pose?” Er’ril asked.
The ghost of Aunt Fila shook her head. “If that energy reaches us, it could burn our world to a cinder, or warp the weave of our own existence.” Her gaze flicked to the tree. “The bridge must be severed.”
“But it’s almost over.” Nee’lahn said, stepping forward. “Already the last of the dark blooms brighten.”
Er’ril saw she was right. Only a handful of blooms remained dark, shining their fiery hearts skyward. Still, if the fate of the world teetered here . . .
He gripped his ax tighter in his hand.
“Can we block the Void’s energy?” Elena asked, clearly seeking an alternative to risking Rodricko.
“Not without knowing why this rupture occurred.”
“But if we don’t know what’s causing it,” Elena argued, “who’s to say that severing the bridge will stop what’s happening?”
Aunt Fila’s brows knit together. Elena’s question clearly disturbed her. “You may be right. That answer must be discovered first. I must consult Cho.” She turned away.
Elena glanced to Er’ril. He took her hand, but he kept his grip on the ax. A few steps away, Meric consoled Nee’lahn. Beyond them, a lone boy sang to his tree. For a moment, in the boy’s song, Er’ril felt the cusp of fate. For just this instant—with the tableau of players gathered here, the charged flows of power—Er’ril sensed that this very moment was ordained from the forging of the Blood Diary ages ago.
Where did the future go from here?
Finally, after a long silence, Aunt Fila turned back to them. Her eyes were again aglow with the icy fires of the Void: Cho was back. She turned those empty eyes toward Elena. “I have read the aether. Energy flows into the Void.” She pointed back to the tree, indicating the flow of spirits, then turned back to the crimson moon. “But something also draws it back out.”
Elena frowned. “Draws it back out?”
Cho’s moonstone face threatened to crack. She motioned with ghostly hands, trying to put into words something that had no words. “Two flows. One moving in, one out—all at the same place.” Again the flicker of her gaze to the moon. “Energy churns.” She wrung her hands for emphasis.
“A riptide?” Er’ril asked.
Cho cocked her head, as if listening to something inside her. “Tides . . . moon . . . riptide. Fila understands. Yes . . . riptides.”
Elena frowned. “But why? If the spiritual energy is going in, what’s drawing the Void’s energy out?”
Cho’s form shimmered, her features blurring. Er’ril had enough experience with the spirit to know when it was angered. “I know not!” she cried out. “But I will!”
“How?” Elena asked.
Again Cho cocked her head, but this time as if the question made no sense . . . or the answer was too plain to speak. “I return to the Void.” The moonstone apparition swirled upward.
“Wait!” Elena called out. “What do you mean?”
Cho half turned, shimmering between form and pure energy. “This desecration risks everything . . . myself, my brother, both our worlds. I must go.” The spirit swept toward the tree in a swirl of light, a woman-shaped comet. She spiraled up the branches and into the sky above.
“She’s floating in the river of spirits,” Elena said, staring up.
As Er’ril watched, the glow of Cho stretched toward both the tree and the moon, elongating into a shimmering cord. It seemed to hover there for an interminable time, trembling, threatening to break.
Then with a noise unheard by the ears but that vibrated the hairs on Er’ril’s arms, the cord snapped—and Cho was gone.
Silence hung like a heavy fog in the aftermath of the display.
Joach was the first to speak. “The koa’kona is spent.”
All eyes turned toward the tree. Er’ril realized the silence from a moment ago had been complete. Rodricko had stopped singing and had slumped to his knees before the tree. Er’ril studied the sapling. Each and every bloom now glowed violet, a spray of brilliant jewels in a sea of dark green. Not a single bloom remained dark.
“It’s over,” Nee’lahn said, shaking with relief. “All the trapped spirits have been set free.”
“But the moon still bleeds,” Harlequin said.
Er’ril glanced skyward. The moon indeed remained stained. The tear in the Void was still open. Elena had been right. Severing the bridge had not stopped the danger.
Elena suddenly gasped behind him.
He turned to her. She was not staring at the moon like the others, but down to the Blood Diary in her hand. The book hung open in her trembling grip.
“The pages . . .” she mumbled, holding out the tome.
Er’ril stared. Plain white parchment shone in the torchlight.
The Void had vanished from the book.
4
Deep in the castle, Kast hurried with Prince Tyrus. He had been urgently summoned away from his meeting with the Dre’rendi keelchiefs. Sy-wen’s note warned that Brother Ryn had discovered something about the ebon’stone egg, and they needed his immediate help. Tyrus had also been at the meeting to coordinate his pirate brigade, but he accompanied Kast now because of the man trailing them both.
“Xin, are you sure?” Tyrus asked again.
The zo’ol tribesman nodded. “I sensed a darkness, a well of sickness. A flicker, like a darkfire candle . . . Then it was gone. But it was no imagining. It was real.”
Kast frowned back at the shaman. The small man was bare-chested. A single braid of hair trailed over one shoulder, decorated with feathers and bits of shell. His dark skin glowed ebony in the dim halls, making the pale scar of a rising sun on his brow seem to shine with its own light. Kast knew the jungle shaman could read another’s heart; this empathy opened paths to others, even far away.
Tyrus pointed to the stairwell opening ahead. “We must let Elena and Er’ril know of this.”
Kast scowled. “I’ll see what Sy-wen has discovered and join you in the courtyard. Perhaps the darkness has to do with that tree.”
Tyrus turned toward the stairway, waving Xin to follow. Kast prepared to head the other direction toward the castle’s libraries, but a cry sounded behind him. He swung around in time to see the zo’ol shaman collapse. Both Tyrus and Kast went to his aid.
“What’s wrong?” the pirate prince asked.
Xin panted, his face contorted in pain. “The darkness . . . stronger . . .” He lifted an arm. “It comes from that way.”
He pointed not to the stairs, but to the passage Kast had been about to take.
Tyrus met his gaze. “Could it be the egg?”
“It must,” Kast said. Fear for Sy-wen fired his blood. He passed the tribesman to the prince. “Tell Elena.”
Tyrus nodded.
Xin shook his head, like casting out cobwebs. “It’s gone again . . . but . . .”
Kast hesitated. “But what?”
Xin glanced up to the two other men. “It . . . it felt familiar . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“And I don’t have time,” Kast said sharply, and set off down the corridor. He dared wait no longer. The library was on the other side of the castle, beneath the observatory tower. If Sy-wen was in danger . . .
“Be careful,” Tyrus called after him.
He increased his speed, running now. He pounded down the hall, careening around a series of bends, almost knocking down a cham
bermaid with an armful of folded linen. He had no time for apologies. He leaped a short flight of stairs, all but flying up them as if he already bore his dragon wings. The heavy oaken doors of the library were just ahead.
He reached the doors and pulled on the latch. It resisted. Locked. Panicked with imagined terrors, he pounded a fist on the door. “Sy-wen!”
There was no answer.
He pounded again, searching around for something to batter down the door.
“Kast?” Sy-wen’s voice called from beyond the locked library doors. His knees weakened with relief as he heard the lock’s bolt slide. Then the door swung open.
Sy-wen stared out at him. “What are you doing pounding—?” Then she must have noticed his panting breath and pale face. “What’s wrong?”
Kast pushed into the library, searching intently, breathing hard.
“Has something happened?” Sy-wen asked behind him, closing the door.
Down the aisle between the row after row of stacked shelves, a group of white-robed scholars crowded around a hearthside table. The entire library staff must have been summoned. One of the men glanced back to him and waved—Brother Ryn. Kast exhaled loudly, relieved. Nothing appeared amiss.
Sy-wen touched his shoulder. “Kast, tell me. What is it?”
He shook his head. “I . . . I thought something happened.”
Sy-wen frowned, moving next to him and walking him toward the other end of the library. “Why would you think that?”
“Your urgent note . . . something Shaman Xin felt.” He pulled Sy-wen closer to him and kissed the top of her head. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”
She placed an arm around his waist as they reached the scholars.
Brother Ryn waved him toward the table, bumping his colleagues aside to make room for the large Bloodrider. “You must see this. Extraordinary, really.” He pushed his glasses back from the tip of his nose.
Kast moved closer, but still it took him half a shocked breath to understand what he saw. Two oval bowls lay on the table. Each was jagged-edged and made of ebon’stone. Not two bowls, he realized, but two halves of the same shell. “You opened it!” he gasped out.
“It wasn’t hard,” Sy-wen said at his shoulder, her arm still around his waist. “It just took a little blood.” She pointed toward one of the scholars, a young acolyte from his yellow sash, slumped by the far wall. His white robe was a stained ruin down the front. His throat had been sliced. “Actually more than a little blood, before we were through,” Sy-wen said.
Kast jerked backward, but the arm at his waist locked around him, impossibly strong. He struggled harder, but other hands grabbed him from behind, clamping like iron. “What . . . ?” he finally managed to gasp out.
Brother Ryn stepped toward Sy-wen. “A dragon that is ours to command. You’ve done well, my dear.”
Sy-wen slipped her arm from around Kast’s waist, turning to face him while the others held him tight.
Brother Ryn lifted his hand. He clutched a gelatinous creature in his palm. Tentacles writhed over the man’s wrist and forearm. One stretched toward Kast, blind and groping. A suckered mouth at the tip puckered open.
Kast paled.
“Do you recognize this little creature?” Brother Ryn asked.
Kast had indeed heard stories of such monsters. Its ilk had possessed the minds of a shipload of Port Rawl pirates. Elena and her allies had barely escaped alive.
Ryn lifted his prize. “The Master has improved on their form. A new generation.”
“We’ve saved the last one for you,” Sy-wen said.
Kast strained to pull away.
“But there are another hundred eggs down under the sea,” Brother Ryn said. “Each a vessel for a score of these creatures.”
“And we’re going to fetch them for our Master,” Sy-wen said. “You and I.”
“Never,” he spat.
“You have no choice, my love.” She reached toward Kast’s cheek, her voice a mocking whisper. “I have need of you.”
Greshym stared at the bleeding moon, rivers of crimson flowing out and down.
Under its sickly glow, cries rose all around the lake. Bathers splashed toward shore. In the trees, torches flared brighter from lakeside camps, and the merry music died away. Sails fled the center of the lake. The waters were being abandoned.
Even Rukh was disturbed by the moon’s appearance. The stump gnome groveled and whined, digging troughs in the mud with his hooves and claws.
Greshym raised his bone staff, attempting to discern the danger to himself. Across the lake, the blood spell continued its course across the silver waters, continuing to absorb the moonlight trapped here. Eventually he would need to claim this energy for himself, but right now, he maintained his guard.
In the center of the lake, the reflection of the moon marked the brightest spot in the silver waters. Even this mirrored image bore the bloodred stain.
Holding his breath, Greshym watched the tide of his own dark magick encroach upon the marred reflection. He was not sure what would happen when the two merged. He sensed a vastness of power in those corrupted waters. The elemental properties of Moon Lake had absorbed even the energy of this strange phenomenon.
As his dark spell swept through the silver waters toward the crimson, a ghostly shimmer rose from the lake, an azure mist. Greshym frowned. What was this?
The mist swirled for a breath upon unseen winds, then wrapped down upon itself. The figure of a woman took shape at its heart, standing in the center of the moon’s reflection, in the heart of the ruby stain. Slowly she spun in place, studying the edges of the lake.
Greshym was not the only one to notice her appearance. “It’s the Lady of the Lake!” someone called out. Shouts of surprise followed this cry. Eyes turned toward the miracle. The panic from a moment ago died to awe and amazement. A hushed moment of expectation settled around the lake.
Was this truly the Lady of the Lake?
Greshym studied her as the tide of his own magick flowed ever closer to the crimson waters.
The ghostly woman swung to face in Greshym’s direction—and though the distance was far, he sensed her gaze fall upon him. An arm slowly raised, pointing, accusing.
Greshym lifted his staff, spinning it once, casting out a shield spell around both him and Rukh. He was glad he took the precaution: a moment later, his blood-borne spell struck the edge of the ruby stain, igniting a blinding explosion of energy. A storm of raging power blew outward in all directions. Greshym cringed with Rukh in the bubble of protection. He watched trees rip from their roots. A sailboat flew past overhead, tumbling end over end, followed by a surging wall of water twice the height of the tallest tree.
All this washed over and away from Greshym’s island of protection. He fed more and more of his magick into the shield and gaped at the display. Such power! He prayed his magick was strong enough to ride out this storm.
Through his shield spell, he heard a sound like no other, a howl of winds that had no place on this world.
As he searched for the source, a profound darkness swept over and past him. In a single heartbeat, Greshym sensed the world vanish.
His blood iced with terror.
He was in the Void.
Elena sensed the magickal explosion a moment before it hit. She tore her eyes from the Blood Diary’s blank pages and looked to the moon. The rivers of crimson corruption suddenly stopped their flows, freezing in place. She knew this was not a boon, but something worse . . . much worse.
“Er’ril . . . ,” she warned.
“What is it?”
She opened her mouth, but she found no words. She simply pointed to the skies.
The ruby stain on the silvery moon began to darken, then well upward, like a bubble rising from impossible depths.
“Run,” she whispered.
“Where? From what?” Er’ril grabbed her arm.
Elena yanked free. She shoved the Diary at him and grabbed up her wit’ch dagger. She sliced a deep w
ound across one palm, then the other. She felt none of the pain, only a growing panic.
Er’ril shoved the Diary into his cloak and reached for her. “Elena . . .”
Ignoring him, she raised both hands. She knew it was already too late. Soundlessly, the dark bubble exploded outward. Through spellcast eyes, she watched in horror as a flare of fiery energy raced toward them, chasing along the echo trail of spiritual energy left behind by the tree’s blooming.
“Run!” she screamed.
Before anyone could take a single step, the storm’s shock wave struck the courtyard like a great weight of water dropped from above.
Elena cast out the magick from both hands, but the energy from above snuffed through her effort and struck her with the force of storm-swept wave. The world vanished around her. Darkness without end consumed her.
Before a single thought could form, a tiny spark shattered the darkness, scintillating and bursting out in a dense tangle of threads and branches. The web swept over her, through her, around her. Her mind extended along the myriad threads, expanding out. She recognized the connection. She had experienced it before, whenever she had touched her magick at its most intimate depths.
It was the web of life, the infinite connection linking all life around the world. Voices filled her head. Images rushed by in a blur. Foreign desires, sensations, dreams swept through her. She fought to hold herself together, to keep from losing herself in this shining tangle of life.
She failed.
Elena tumbled toward the center of the web, a will-o’-the-wisp in a maelstrom. She had no anchor. As she fell, she sensed a greater presence filling her mind, something that was life, but not life. She suddenly knew she was not alone here. Deep in the tangle of the world’s lifeweb, something existed. She felt its attention slowly turn her way. It was immense, immutable, forever. It was the spider of this web, the weaver.
Elena struggled to flee. She knew she could not survive its gaze.