Contents
Title Page
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD TO WIT’CH WAR
Book One
TIDES AND TEARS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Book Two
OLD DEBTS
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Book Three
DRAGONFOLK
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Book Four
SARGASSUM
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Book Five
TIDES OF WAR
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY JAMES CLEMENS
TO LEARN ABOUT OTHER GREAT TITLES FROM BALLANTINE BOOKS . . .
COPYRIGHT
For Carolyn McCray,
for friendship, guidance, and the gift of dragons
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
No one writes in a vacuum. And I am no exception. This novel would not be possible without the valued and comprehensive assistance of many friends, colleagues, and enthusiastic readers.
Behind the production is one of the best editorial staffs in the business: Veronica Chapman, Jenni Smith, and Steve Saffel. I can’t thank them enough for their skill. Also my ardent and tireless agent, Pesha Rubinstein.
Closer to home, a group of friends and experts whose keen eyes honed the first draft of this novel: Inger Aasen, Chris Crowe, Michael Gallowglass, Lee Garrett, Dennis Grayson, Debbie Nelson, Jane O’Riva, Chris Smith, Caroline Williams. And a special thanks to Judy and Steve Prey, for leading us forward, and Dave Meek, for the long talks across the pool table.
And no one can write without a strong foundation: Thanks, John, for always being there.
Lastly, to all the fans who have sent me notes, both praising and critiquing: You are heard . . . and appreciated!
FOREWORD TO WIT’CH WAR
(NOTE: The following is an open letter from Professor J. P. Clemens, the translator of The Banned and the Banished series)
DEAR STUDENTS,
As the historian of this textbook, I welcome you back to this series of translated texts and beg a moment of your time to comment on my work and some of the rumors surrounding it.
As is well known, the original scrolls were lost to antiquity, and only crumbling handwritten copies discovered over five centuries ago in caves on the Isle of Kell yet remain of this most ancient tale. Because this language has been dead for over a millennium, hundreds of historians and linguistic experts have attempted to tackle the reconstruction and translation of these Kelvish Scrolls. Yet under my supervision at the University of Da’ Borau, a team of distinguished colleagues finally accomplished the impossible: the complete and truest translation of the tale of Elena Morin’stal.
In your hands is my life’s work. And I wanted to state that I believe my translations should stand on their own merits.
Yet, over my objections, my fellow scholar, Jir’rob Sordun, had been assigned to write forewords to the first two books, to warn readers about the devious nature of the scrolls’ original author.
Now were these doleful warnings truly necessary? As much as I respect Professor Sordun, I believe these ancient histories of Alasea’s “black age” do not need embellishments or extravagant introductions. Though this ancient age of our land is cloaked in mystery and muddled by conflicting accounts, any person of sound mind will know the tales herein are just the twisted fictions of some ancient madman. Do we really need Sordun to point this out to us?
Let’s look to the facts.
What do we truly know of this “black age”? We know Elena was a true historical figure—there are too many contemporary references to deny this—but her role during the uprising against the Gul’gotha is obviously a whimsical tale. She was not a wit’ch. She did not have a fist stained with blood magicks. I wager that some charlatans had painted her hand crimson and propped her up as some anointed savior, milking the simple village folk of their hard-earned coppers. Among this troupe of tricksters was obviously a writer of some modest skill who created these wild stories to bolster their fake leader. I imagine he regaled the farmers with these fabrications, which he passed off as real events—and so the myth of the wit’ch was forged.
I can picture the gap-toothed farmers staring slack jawed as the story teller related tales of highland og’res, woodland nymphs, mountain nomads, and silver-haired elv’in. I can imagine their gasps as Elena wielded her magick of fire and ice. But surely in today’s enlightened Alasean society, there is no need to warn readers so vocally that such things are fictions.
So with that said, I must make one confession. As I translated these series of scrolls, I began to believe them just a bit. Who wouldn’t want to believe that a young girl from some remote apple orchard could end up changing the world? And what she accomplished at the end—what the author claimed occurred—who wouldn’t want to believe that to be true?
Of course, being a scholar, I know better. Nature is nature, and what the author proposes at the very end of the scrolls is obviously a falsehood that can only weaken our society. For this reason, I have also come to accept that my translations should be banned and kept only for the few enlightened, for those who won’t be duped by its final message.
However, even with these tight restrictions, I’ve begun to hear absurd rumors surrounding the required fingerprint that binds each text to its reader. It is whispered in certain circles that some readers—those who have marked each of the five textbooks with their fingerprints and bound the compiled series in silk ribbon, or so the story goes—have found themselves beguiled by ancient magicks that have reached out from my translated words. I believe the fault for this ridiculous notion lies with the university press that produces this series. The requirement to mark each of the five volumes with the print from a different finger of the right hand only fosters such foolishness. For a publisher to require such a thing, especially when the story in these books suggests that powerful magick can be wielded by a wit’ch’s hand, is downright negligent on the part of the publisher.
Though I am flattered at such supposed power behind my work, I can’t help but be shocked and befuddled by such blatant foolishness.
So perhaps I judge too harshly my illustrious colleague. Maybe it is best after all to warn all potential readers.
So let me repeat Jir’rob Sordun’s final word of caution as printed in the foreword to the first text:
Remember, at all times,
in your waking hours and in your dreams,
The author is a liar.
Sincerely and humbly,
J. P. Clemens,
Professor of Ancient Histories
WIT’CH WAR
Heralded by a dragon’s roar
and born in a maelstrom of ice and flame,
this is the way the war began.
THROUGH MY OPEN window, I can hear the strum of a lyre’s chords and the tinkle of a minstrel’s voice rising like steam from the streets below. It is the height of the Midsummer Carnivale here in the city of Gelph. As the searing heat of the day winds down to the sultry hours of evening, townspeople gather in the square for the Feast of the Dragon, a time of merriment and rejoicing.
Yet I can’t help but frown at t
he gaiety of the celebrants. How much the fools have forgotten! Even now as I sit with pen and paper and prepare once again to continue the wit’ch’s tale, I can hear the screams of the slaughtered and the blood roar of dragons behind the music and happy voices outside my window.
The true meaning for this celebration has been lost over the ages. The first Midsummer Carnivale was a somber affair, meant to cheer the few survivors of the War of the Isles, a time for wounds to heal and for spirits torn by blade and betrayal to be restored. Even the meaning behind the ritual exchange of fake dragon’s teeth and baubles painted like precious black pearls has been forgotten by the present revelers. It was once meant to signify the bond between—
Ah . . . but I get ahead of myself. After so many centuries, with my head so full of memories, I seem constantly to find myself unhooked from time’s inevitable march. As I sit in this rented room, surrounded by my parchments and inks, it seems like only yesterday that Elena stood on the bluffs of Blisterberry and stared out across the twilight sea at her dragon army. Why is it that the older one gets, the more valuable the past becomes? What once I fled from is now what I dream about. Is this the true curse that the wit’ch has set upon my soul? To live forever, yet to forever dream of the past?
As I pick up my pen and dip it in the ink, I pray her final promise to me holds true. Let me finally die with the telling of her tale.
Though the day’s heat still hides in my room as the evening cools, I close my window and my heart against the songs and merrymaking below. I cannot tell a tale of bloodshed and treachery while listening to the gay strains of the minstrels’ instruments and the raucous laughter of the Carnivale’s celebrants. This part of the story of Elena Morin’stal is best written with a cold heart.
So as the Feast of the Dragon begins outside among the streets of Gelph, I ask that you listen deeper. Can you hear another sort of music? As in many grand symphonies, the opening soft chords are often forgotten in the blare of the horn and the strike of the drum that follow; yet this forgetfulness does insult to the composer, for it is in these calm moments that the stage is set for the storm to come.
So listen and bend your ear—not to the lyre or the drums outside my window—but to the quieter music found in the beat of a morning surf as the tide recedes with the dawn’s first light. There lies the beginning of the grand song I mean to sing.
Book One
TIDES AND TEARS
1
WITH ONLY THE crash of waves for company, Elena stood by the cliff’s edge and stared out across the blue seas. At the horizon, the sun was just dawning, crowning the distant islands of the Archipelago with rosy halos of mist. Closer to the coast, a single-masted fishing trawler fought the tide to ply its trade among the many isles and reefs. Over its sails, gulls and terns argued while hunting the same generous waters. Nearer still, at the base of the steep bluff, the rocky shore was already occupied by the lounging bodies of camping sealions. The scolding barks of mothers to their pups and the occasional huffing roar of a territorial bull echoed up to her.
Sighing, Elena turned her back on the sight. Since the seadragons of the mer’ai had left fifteen days ago, the routines of the coastline were already returning to normal. Such was the resiliency of nature.
As if to remind her further of the natural world’s strength, a stiff morning breeze tugged at her hair, blowing it into her eyes. Irritated, she pushed back the waving strands with gloved fingers and attempted to trap the stray locks behind her ears, but the winds fought her efforts. It had been over two moons since Er’ril had last cropped her hair, and the length had grown to be a nuisance—too short to fix with ribbons and pins, yet too long to easily manage, especially with her hair beginning to show its curl again. Still, she kept her complaints to herself, fearing Er’ril might take the shears to her once again.
She frowned at the thought. She was tired of looking like a boy.
Though she had readily accepted the necessity of the disguise while traveling the lands of Alasea, out here in the lonely wilds of the Blisterberry bluffs, there were no eyes to spy upon her and no need to continue the ruse as Er’ril’s son—or so she kept telling herself. Yet she was not so sure her guardian held these same assumptions.
As a caution, Elena had gone to wearing caps and hats when around Er’ril, hoping he wouldn’t notice the growing length of her locks or the fading black dye that had camouflaged her hair. The deep fire of her natural color was finally beginning to reappear at the roots.
She pulled out her cap from her belt and corralled her hair under it before hiking back up the coastal trail to the cottage. Why the appearance of her hair should matter so much to her she could not put into words. It was not mere vanity, though she could not deny that a pinch of pride did play a small role in her subterfuge with Er’ril. She was a young woman, after all, and why wouldn’t she balk at appearing as a boy?
But there was more to it than that. And the true reason was marching down the path toward her with a deep frown. Dressed in a wool sweater against the morning’s chill, her brother wore his fiery red hair pulled back from his face with a black leather strap. Reminded of her family by Joach’s presence, Elena was ashamed to hide her own heritage under dyes any longer. It was like denying her own parents.
As Joach closed the distance between them, Elena recognized the character of the young man’s exasperated grimace and his pained green eyes. She had seen it often enough on her father’s face.
“Aunt My has been looking all over for you,” he said as greeting.
“My lessons!” Elena darted forward, closing the distance with her brother. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“Almost?” he teased as she joined him.
She scowled at her brother but could not argue against his accusation. In fact, she had completely forgotten about this morning’s lesson. It was to be her last instruction on the art of swordplay before Aunt Mycelle left for Port Rawl to rendezvous with the other half of their party. Kral, Tol’chuk, Mogweed, and Meric were due to meet with Mycelle there in two days’ time. Elena wondered for the hundredth time how they had fared in Shadowbrook. She prayed they were all well.
As she and her brother marched back up the trail toward the cottage, Joach mumbled, “El, your head’s always in the clouds.”
She turned in irritation, then saw her brother’s quirked smile. Those were the same words her father had used so often to scold Elena when time had slipped away from her. She took her brother’s hand in her own. Here was all that was left of her family now.
Joach squeezed her gloved hand, and they walked in silence through the fringe forest of wind-whipped cypress and pine. As Flint’s cottage appeared on the bluffs ahead, Joach cleared his throat. “El, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Hmm?”
“When you go to the island . . .” he started.
Elena inwardly groaned. She did not want to think of the last leg of their journey to retrieve the Blood Diary from the island of A’loa Glen—especially given Joach’s own accounting of the horrors that lay in wait.
“I’d like to go back with you. To the island.”
Elena stumbled a step. “You know that’s not possible. You heard Er’ril’s plan, Joach.”
“Yes, but a word from you—”
“No,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to go.”
With a touch on her arm, Joach pulled her to a stop. “El, I know you want to keep me from further danger, but I have to go back.”
Shaking free of his hand, she stared him in the eye. “Why? Why do you think you need to go? To protect me?”
“No, I’m no fool.” Joach stared at his feet. He still would not meet her gaze. “But I had a dream,” he whispered. “A dream that has repeated twice over the past half moon since you arrived from the swamps.”
She stared at her brother. “You think it’s one of your weavings?”
“I think so.” He finally raised his eyes to hers, a slight blush on his cheeks.
Joach had discovered he shared their family’s heritage of elemental magicks. His skill was dreamweaving, a lost art preserved by only a select few of the Brotherhood. It was the ability to glimpse snatches of future events in the dream plane. Brother Flint and Brother Moris had been working with Joach on testing the level of his magick. Joach nodded toward the cottage ahead. “I haven’t told anyone else.”
“Maybe it’s just an ordinary dream,” Elena offered. But the part of her that was a wit’ch stirred with her brother’s words. Magick. Even the mere mention of it fired her blood. With both her fists fresh to the Rose, the magick all but sang in her heart. Swallowing hard, she closed her spirit against the call of the wit’ch. “What made you think it was a weaving?”
Joach scrunched up his face. “I . . . I get this feeling when I’m in a weaving. It’s like a thrill in my veins, like my very being is afire with an inner storm. I felt it during this dream.”
An inner storm, Elena thought. She knew that sensation when she touched her own wild magick—a raging tempest trapped in her heart screaming with pent-up energy. She found her two hands wringing together with just the remembrance of past flows of raw magick. She forced her hands apart. “Tell me about your dream.”
Joach bit his lower lip, suddenly reluctant.
“Go on,” Elena persisted.
His voice lowered. “I saw you at the top of a tall spire in A’loa Glen. A black winged beast circled the parapets nearby—”
“Black winged? Was it the dragon Ragnar’k?” Elena asked, naming the ebony-scaled seadragon who shared flesh with the Bloodrider, Kast, and who was blood-bonded to the mer woman, Sy-wen.