Kast hugged her tight. “Gods willing, I’ve no intention of ever leaving you again. But just where are we?” He pushed to his feet with Sy-wen’s help. Someone tossed a rough blanket over his shoulders, but Kast scarcely bothered to draw it over his nakedness. He was too stunned by the sights he discovered around him.
All about their ship, the seas bloomed with scores of white sails, spread from horizon to horizon. It was the entire Dre’rendi fleet! But the true miracle was what else shared these same waters. Among the many boats, hundreds of dragons plied the waves, like jewels strewn across the sea’s blue surface. In the distance, even the humped backs of the giant leviathans rose like living islands from the seas.
“We are only two days out from the Doldrums,” Sy-wen commented softly. “We should just make the rendezvous with the wit’ch.”
“You did it,” Kast said in hushed tones, still staring at the spectacle before him. “You brought our two peoples together. All the Dre’rendi. All the mer’ai.”
Sy-wen clung to his shoulder and pulled the blanket around them both. She burrowed tight to him, sharing her warmth. “Yes, but I’m more relieved to bring this one Dre’rendi and this one mer’ai back together.”
Kast grinned down at her upturned face. Their smiles melted away as they recognized the passion in each other’s eyes. He leaned down to her, his lips brushing hers. “I have need of you,” he murmured, then kissed her deeply.
Book Four
SARGASSUM
17
ELENA KNELT IN the hay. In the dimness of the ship’s hold, the gray mare seemed more ghost than flesh. After six days at sea, the horse was still skittish, shying from everyone. Elena held out a slice of apple. “C’mere, Mist. That’s a good girl,” she urged in soft whispers. The mare refused to step nearer, even for her.
Sinking into the hay, Elena knew why Mist still balked from coming closer. Elena had grown a head taller and fuller of figure. She was not the same girl who had combed and curried the mare since she was a foal. The abrupt change in Elena’s appearance and the strangeness of the boat all tweaked the small horse’s edginess. The mare panicked whenever Elena neared, refusing even to recognize her scent.
From the neighboring stall, Er’ril’s horse, the snow-dappled Steppe stallion, huffed and pawed at his hay. Of hardier stock, the larger horse had adjusted quickly to the roll and lurch of the Pale Stallion. And the tall beast knew that any apple refused by Mist would end up in his own feed bucket. So the stallion was more than happy to see Elena fail.
“I have enough for both of you,” Elena called out sadly to the other horse. Even her voice made Mist skitter back a pace. Elena sighed. For the sixth morning in a row, she had failed to coax the mare to her. Though she understood the horse’s trepidation, it still upset her. Mist was a member of her family, and to be shunned like this wounded her deeply. The mare had always been there to comfort her when she was in pain.
And now more than ever, Elena needed to be comforted. The loss of Er’ril was still as raw as the day she had awoken aboard the ship, a dull ache in her heart that made the sun less bright and food bland and unappealing. Others tried to help, but no one understood. No words could ease this pain. The others thought Er’ril no more than her guardian, some knight who was more sword than man. They thought she had only lost some weapon, not a man who shared her heart.
Also, the others were all too busy with their own activities to offer any real compassion. Flint was constantly harried with running the ship and directing his sailors, the dark-skinned zo’ol warriors. Meric, though not as busy, was distracted by the appearance of his queen’s sunhawk. His eyes were always on the horizon, and when Elena happened to catch his attention, he was stiff and formal with her. Even her brother, Joach, seemed more interested in discussing his staff’s magick than in understanding Elena’s pain. Only Tol’chuk and Mama Freda offered Elena any real warmth—but neither was family.
If only Aunt My hadn’t left on her own quest . . .
Elena could use the woman’s practical advice. Aunt My always knew what to say. For the thousandth time, Elena wondered how the others fared: Fardale, Mogweed, Kral. Now with Er’ril gone, too, it felt as if everything was falling apart.
Elena stared sadly at Mist.
The scuff of heel on wood drew Elena’s attention around. Beyond the stall’s gate, a short man stood, peering in at her. His eyes glowed in the single lantern hung on the stall’s post. Elena felt a flicker of fear, a shiver of tiny hairs. It was one of the zo’ol pirates assigned by their guild’s leader to man this boat. The dark-skinned sailor, his chest bare, wore only a set of knee-length breeches.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice sharp and curt as she tried to hide her nervousness. Besides the two horses, Elena was alone in the hold.
Without an invitation, he swung the gate open, slipped in, and closed the stall’s door behind him. Elena heard the latch click.
Quickly pushing to her feet, Elena brushed hay from her knees. With both her hands renewed with power, one from the sun, one from the moon, there was little she needed to fear from this man. She touched her magick, and it gave her the strength to straighten and face the intruder. “H-have you come to change the horse’s bedding?” Elena frowned at the crack in her voice.
The sailor held out an open palm. Elena backed a step away. Mist huffed at her movement.
Elena stared at the man. The zo’ol sailors understood her language but seldom spoke. He just stood there, arm out. The man had a shaven head, except for a tail of black hair that ran from the crown of his head down his back. Feathers of azure and rose adorned his hair. His eyes, lit by lantern light, shone a deep jade. But his most striking feature was the design of pale scars that crisscrossed his dark forehead. Each of the four black-skinned sailors were marked with a different design, their meaning known only to the zo’ol. This man’s symbol appeared to be the edge of the sun peeking above a horizon, or maybe an eye just beginning to open. Elena found herself staring at it, transfixed.
Motion drew her eyes back to his raised arm. In his palm, there now rested a bright red apple. Elena blinked at the sudden appearance. Where had it come from?
The zo’ol, still expressionless, stepped toward Elena.
She moved aside warily, but he passed her without a glance. The sailor approached the nervous mare, a whistling tune flowing from his lips. Mist pawed at the hay, clearly ready to bolt away. The man continued his approach, slightly more cautious but still whistling softly. Mist’s ears pricked at the tune, her head cocking slightly as if listening.
Soon the man had reached the mare and offered the apple. Mist sniffed at it, then pulled back her fat lips to nibble at the fruit. Elena could hardly believe the sight. No one had been able to approach the mare. Elena watched as the tension in the horse’s withers relaxed. Even Mist’s tail, which had been slashing back and forth, settled to a more contented swish.
The small sailor reached and rubbed the ridge between the mare’s eyes. It was Mist’s favorite spot to be scratched.
The man nodded for Elena to approach. She hesitated—not from fear of the man, but in trepidation at spooking Mist. Still, he persisted, his brow wrinkling with his demand.
Slowly, Elena drifted closer. One of the mare’s eyes rolled to watch her approach, but Mist made no motion to bolt. Elena reached the horse’s side.
The sailor shifted the apple toward Elena. Mist followed the half-eaten fruit with her nibbling teeth. He placed the apple into Elena’s hand, and Mist continued her meal. With his palm now free, the sailor took Elena’s other hand in his own and drew it up to replace the hand that scratched and rubbed the mare’s brow.
Once Elena had taken over his role completely, he stepped away. Soon the apple, core and all, was gone. Mist sniffed at Elena’s gloved fingers, looking for more. Elena glanced to the sailor. He indicated for her to remove her glove.
She did. Mist snuffled her bare palm. Then the mare seemed to tense. Elena braced for the horse to b
olt, but instead, Mist pushed her nose firmer into Elena’s hand. A soft whinny of joy flowed from the horse. Mist stepped into Elena, rolling her head into her chest, sniffing and rubbing. She was asking for Elena to hug her.
With tears rolling from her amazed eyes, a small laugh escaped Elena’s lips. She hugged her mare, arms tight around her neck. Elena buried her face against the horse. Mist had finally recognized her, remembered her.
Crying now, Elena hung on the horse, almost too weak to stand. As her nostrils filled with the scent of horse and hay, she was home again, at least for a brief moment. She rubbed and whispered nonsense to Mist, sometimes laughing, sometimes crying again. In her heart, the losses she had endured recently were still present, but a small bit of healing had begun. The ache could be shared in the warmth of the mare, in the remembrance of family, in the whisper of home.
Elena finally turned to thank the zo’ol sailor.
But the stall was empty. He had gone.
TOL’CHUK CROUCHED BY the ship’s prow as the sun crested toward midday. Salty spray misted over the bow as the Pale Stallion rode the waves. Once again he raised his heartstone toward the horizon. In the bright sunlight, the chunk of crystal radiated sharply, but little else. He frowned, baring his fangs, and pushed up with one of his long arms. He slowly turned a full circle, the heartstone outstretched in his other arm. Still the jewel failed to do more than glimmer handsomely in the midday sun.
Sinking back down to the deck, Tol’chuk studied the faceted stone. Ever since the Heart had led the og’re to Elena in the burning ship, it had begun to grow quiet—no, not just quiet, almost dead. Tol’chuk still sensed that the elemental power remained behind its facets, like the tremble in rock near an underground river. In the past, the stone had always guided him in some manner, given him some direction.
But now it was muted, dull.
Rolling the stone in his claws, Tol’chuk prayed to his ancestors for guidance. With danger all around him, why had the Heart grown so silent? Tol’chuk shook his head. Fingering open his thigh pouch, he began to burrow the stone inside.
“May I see your jewel please?” a voice said behind him.
Tol’chuk craned his head around to find the healer from Port Rawl standing at his back. The small gray-haired woman leaned heavily on a cane. The cool dampness of the ocean voyage did not seem to agree with Mama Freda’s joints. She kept to her cabin mostly, wrapped in warm blankets, and only braved the decks when the weather was bright, like now. Though, in truth, her isolation was not as complete as it seemed. Her pet tamrink, Tikal, could often be found scampering through the rigging, nagging the sailors with its constant mimic. Tol’chuk knew that Mama Freda was listening and watching through the beast’s eyes and ears.
“Please, may I just see your stone for a moment?” she repeated.
“It be nothing but a bauble to you,” he said with a trace of irritation. “Why wish you to see it?”
Mama Freda turned toward Tol’chuk. Her lack of eyes made the bristles on his back quiver. Tol’chuk turned his gaze to her true eyes—those of the tamrink. Tikal perched on her shoulder, his fiery cowl of fur framing two rich brown eyes. The pet blinked at him, tail wrapped tightly around the woman’s neck.
“Cookie?” it squeaked at him, digging at a large ear.
“Hush, Tikal,” the old woman scolded. “You’ve already eaten.” Mama Freda turned her attention back to Tol’chuk. “I would see your stone. I smell a corruption in it. As a healer, I find it draws me.”
Tol’chuk hesitated, then passed the stone to her. Perhaps the old woman might discover some clue to ridding the stone of the black worm in its heart. Tol’chuk explained the stone’s history to her and its purpose in helping guide the spirits of his tribe on to the next world. “But the stone be fouled by a creature called the Bane, a curse. The worm has trapped the spirits of my people and feeds on them to sustain itself. I go on this journey to find a way to lift the curse, to rid the stone of the Bane. Before rescuing Elena, the spirits in the stone guided me on my path, told me where I must travel . . . but . . . but now . . .” Tol’chuk’s voice trailed off.
Mama Freda had listened to his story in silence, turning the stone one way, then another. Tikal bent down from her shoulder to sniff and eye the crystal. “But what?” she asked, obviously wanting him to continue.
“But now the stone has grown silent. It guides me no longer.”
She nodded sadly and passed the stone back to him. “It is no wonder.”
Raising his eyes, his features tightened. “What do you mean?”
She patted his thigh and remained quiet for a moment. “I can sense traces of life force in the stone, but they are faint. The corruption—this Bane—fills almost the entire stone.” She turned away and shook her head. “I’m afraid that . . . these spirits of yours are almost gone.”
“What?” Tol’chuk clenched the stone as his own heart trembled. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He raised the stone in disbelief, but in his chest, he felt the truth of her words. In some small corner of his mind, he must have known this himself. It was what kept drawing him atop the decks to check the stone. With the healer’s words, Tol’chuk was forced to admit that the pull of the stone had been fading gradually over the past moon, ever since the trials in Shadowbrook. He could no longer deny it.
The Bane was growing stronger.
Tol’chuk stared into the stone. His own father was one of the spirits trapped within the crystal. If the old woman spoke truthfully, Tol’chuk’s father, along with the rest of his people’s spirits, was now fading, consumed by the worm.
Mama Freda turned back to him, her expression pained, her voice a whisper. “I had not thought to bring you such dire news.”
Tikal reached out a small paw and touched Tol’chuk’s cheek. “Cookie,” the beast said mournfully. “Bad cookie.” Tikal pulled back his paw and sucked his thumb, pulling tight to Mama Freda’s neck.
Mama Freda lifted an arm to comfort Tol’chuk, but something in his face must have warned her that no solace could ease this wound. “I’m sorry,” she said and turned away.
Tol’chuk remained on deck, hunched over his stone as the sun shone brightly. If the spirits were fading, who would guide him now? He glanced to the horizons. Was there even a reason to continue this journey? With the Bane near triumphant, was there any purpose?
He stared up into the merciless sun. Tears welled in his eyes. His heart was as hollow as his stone. He silently cursed the trio of ancient og’res, the Triad, who had sent him on this futile mission. Had he not suffered enough already—born a half-breed and cursed with shame of his ancestor, the Oathbreaker? Must he now bear the loss of his people’s spirits, too?
Tol’chuk raised the stone between him and the sun. He stared into the dark interior of the stone. Behind the glinting facets, he saw the true source of all his anguish—the slow churning of the black worm.
Growling deep in his belly, Tol’chuk squeezed the stone until its sharp facets cut into his palm. Blood dripped from his claws and down his arm to splatter on the damp deck.
Though no longer guided by the stone’s pull, Tol’chuk would not forsake his journey. Even if he should fail to rescue the spirits of his ancestors, he promised himself one thing: Before he died, he would find a way to destroy the Bane!
That he swore on his own blood.
“WE SHOULD REACH the Doldrums by the next morn,” Flint announced. He glanced around the table in the small galley, studying the faces of his companions. Each evening, they all met to plan and discuss the upcoming day. “I had hoped to hear some word already from Sy-wen and Kast, but we can only hope that they’re on their way to the rendezvous point with the ships of the Dre’rendi.”
Joach glanced to his sister on his right, then back at Flint. “What if the Bloodriders don’t come?”
“Then we will continue the journey to A’loa Glen with just the mer’ai.” He leaned both fists on the table. “We cannot wait. The Blood Diary must be r
etrieved before the Dark Lord gathers more forces.”
Elena spoke up. “But only Er’ril knows . . . um, knew where the book was hidden.”
“Not exactly,” Flint answered. “All knew the book was hidden in the catacombs beneath the Great Crypt, but the tome is protected in a spell of black ice that cannot be breached without the proper key. It is that key that Er’ril has kept an enigma.” Flint’s eye settled on the iron fist resting on the table. “But I can guess Er’ril’s secret. He placed much value on retrieving the iron ward. I believe its magick is the key to unlocking the spell that holds the book safe.”
“But you’re only guessing,” Meric said from the other end of the table, disdain ringing clear in his voice. “I say we wait until the queen’s armada arrives from Stormhaven. With the elv’in warships—”
“Your queen will be too late,” Flint answered, cutting him off. “Our best chance for success is a quick assault. We cannot let another moon pass, or the enemy will be firmly entrenched.” Flint drove his fist into the table. “Whether we gain the support of the Bloodriders or not, we strike now or lose any chance for success.”
Sitting opposite Elena and Joach, the og’re grunted his approval. It was the first time Tol’chuk had spoken during the evening’s discourse. “What be your plan, Brother?”
“A simple one. The mer’ai and their dragons will lay siege to the island, distract the eyes of the darkmages, while a small team slips past the island’s defenses. I know of a hidden way into the catacombs, a passage known only to my sect. Gods be willing, it should be unguarded.” Flint stared at the others. “But this night, we must settle who will accompany Elena and me to the island.”
Elena glanced around the table. “I see no reason we need any others. Flint will guide me, and my magick will protect us. The fewer who come, the better.”
“I’m going,” Joach declared sharply. He turned to face his sister. “Father told me to watch over you, and I will not let you walk into that nest of vipers without my staff to protect you.”