Elena shook her head. “It is the darkmage’s staff. He may sense when it is near, especially if you call forth black magicks. You will draw the mages to us like lodestone to iron.”
“I can give it my blood. Transform it into the blood stave before we leave. Your wit’ch magick will keep the staff’s darkness hidden.”
Flint watched Elena’s mind try to fathom other ways around this problem. Flint ended her consternation. “Joach should come with us. His magick may help us forge a path to the book or cut a swath of escape. We dare not limit our protection.”
“For the same reason, I must also go with Elena,” Meric announced. “I will not let the last of our king’s bloodline end here. My skill with the wind will help keep her safe.”
“As will my strength of arm,” Tol’chuk added.
Elena stood, shaking her head. “No. Too many will draw attention.”
“To guard you, four is not too large,” Flint said softly. He could read the fear in the young woman—not for her own life but for the others. He recognized the look of hopelessness in her eyes. The death of Er’ril had struck her too deeply. Flint rubbed his eyes. Curse the man for weakening the wit’ch when her strength was most needed. Why had he challenged that foul statue on his own? Sighing, Flint lowered his hands and crossed around the table’s corner. He knelt beside Elena. “We offer our lives not for you, but for Alasea. You have no right to tell us to sit on our swords while others struggle to throw the yoke of the Gul’gotha from our necks. Four is not too large.”
“Neither is five,” a quiet voice said at the table. All eyes swung toward Mama Freda. She sat straighter in her chair. “My skill with healing may prove of more value than the sharp edge of a sword.”
Flint smiled and reached to pat the woman’s wrinkled hand. “I appreciate your offer, but I’ve seen you walk the deck with your cane. In this venture, speed will be vital.”
Mama Freda’s lips turned hard and thin. “Do not belittle me, old man. Here on this ship, I merely conserve my strength. But among my potions is a draught used by warriors of my home jungles to heighten their reflexes and stamina—an elixir combined from heartroot and hemlock with a pinch of nettlebane. Fear not. Its potency will keep me at your heels on any excursion.”
Frowning at her words, Flint nodded. He turned to Elena. “A healer would be of aid. It could make the difference in saving one of our team.”
Elena waved her arm in submission, but she was clearly not happy. “Fine. Let her come then.”
Flint settled back to his own seat. “With that settled, we should all get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a fateful day.”
“And let us pray,” Joach said as he scooted back the chair, “that Sy-wen and Kast were successful in their search for the Bloodriders.”
Flint watched the others mumble amongst themselves and drift away. Only Elena refused to move. She still sat hunched over the table. Flint studied her in silence.
Finally, Elena raised her face. “Have we lost already?”
“What do you mean?”
“Prophecies all said that Er’ril would be the one to take the wit’ch to the book—but he is gone. How can we succeed when even the tides of fate work against us now?”
Flint slid over to the empty seat beside her. “Only blind fools trust prophecies.”
Elena’s eyes grew wider.
He smiled. “I know. Strange words coming from a Brother of the prophetic order of Hi’fai, but true nonetheless. Most prophecies are not chiseled in granite. They’re often just the shadows flickering on the walls of caves, vague glimpses into possible futures. But the future is like ice. It may appear solid and unchanging, but with the slightest heat, it flows and pours into strange new channels.” He reached and squeezed Elena’s hand. “We are not without choices. It is our actions that will forge the future, not the words of some long-dead prophet. Only a fool bows his head to the fates and lets the ax fall—and you, Elena Morin’stal, are no fool.”
“But Er’ril—?”
“I know, child. He was a good friend of mine, too. But even he made his own choices when he decided to investigate the ebon’stone statue. Do not let his mistake take your future away. You are strong enough to forge your own path.”
“I don’t feel so strong,” she mumbled.
He tilted her face until she met his gaze. “There are depths to your heart that you are blind to, Elena, but that others can sense. That is why Er’ril cared deeply for you. You were more to him than just someone to guard.” The shock on her face drew a sad smile from Flint. “For those who knew how to look, his heart was plain—as is yours, young lady.”
Elena twisted from his grip. “I don’t know what—”
“Do not deny what your heart cries loudly. If you are ever to heal from this loss, you must admit its depth. Only then can you move ahead.” He patted her hand and stood. “It is late. Think on my words. Now is the time to grieve for all you’ve lost, grieve honestly. Only then will your heart be truly healed, only then will you be ready to move on. To forge a future, you must be staring ahead, not behind.”
Elena glanced up at him, tears moistening her eyes. “I will try.”
“I know you will. Like Er’ril, I too sense the depth of strength in your spirit. You will succeed.” With those words, he strode away, leaving Elena to tend her grief.
Elena felt numb, as if her body were not her own. The old Brother’s words burned in her mind. What had Er’ril truly meant to her?
In the past, she had refused to acknowledge her feelings. Even when his presence had fired her blood—the touch of his hand, the brush of his breath on her cheek, his crooked smile—Elena had dismissed her reactions as inconsequential, as something childish. How could Elena dare consider herself worthy of a man who had lived for over five centuries?
But Flint had judged her correctly; she could not deny her own heart. In the past, she had labeled her warm feelings toward the plainsman as merely the familial love for a father or a brother. But Er’ril had meant more to her.
Elena confronted her true heart for the first time in the empty room. “I loved you, Er’ril.” Her voice caught on his name, cracking. By speaking those words aloud, something in Elena broke. Tears flowed down her cheeks, and wracking sobs shook her frame. Elena collapsed upon the table, face cradled in her two gloved hands.
It was as if a dam had burst within her heart. Walled-off emotions flooded her: sorrow for never speaking these words while Er’ril was still alive, shame at her cowardice, rage at Er’ril for leaving her too soon. But mostly a profound sense of loss washed over her. She could now admit that it wasn’t just Er’ril who had died aboard the pirate’s ship, but the secret dreams of her heart as well.
Finally understanding the nature of the pain that had strangled her heart, Elena allowed herself to cry—not just for Er’ril, but also for herself. She hugged her arms around her chest, rocking slowly in her seat. Her sobs and tears flowed from her unchecked. She did not try to rein them in. For now, she let herself be weak.
The passage of time became meaningless as grief overwhelmed her. Her fingers found a pocket and pulled forth the length of leather cord. It was the scrap of dyed leather that Er’ril had once used to tie back his lanky hair. She pulled it to her lips. The scent of smoke and fire still clung to it, but under this reminder of his death there still remained a hint of Standish loam and the salt of his sweat. Taking the length of red leather, she slowly braided it into her long tresses. Silently, she said her good-byes.
It was time to release the ghost that had haunted her.
With her heart still bruised but healing, Elena wiped the last of her tears. She had lost any sense of the night’s passage. It seemed that dawn must be near, but she was not sure. Slowly she became aware of soft music wafting though the open doorway behind her. It arose from somewhere on the upper deck. Her spirit was drawn to the mournful chords. It spoke to her own loss.
Elena straightened in her seat as the music wrapped
around her. She knew the instrument that sang with such a sorrowful voice. It was Nee’lahn’s lute, carved from the last of the nyphai’s dying trees. Its notes reminded her of the other companions not here—Mycelle, Kral, Mogweed, Fardale. Without even knowing she had moved, Elena was on her feet. She was called toward the music like a moth to flame.
In the strum of strings and echo of wood, Elena heard the whisper of her deceased friend. Nee’lahn had given her own life, like so many others, to bring light back to Alasea, but death was not what the ghost mourned in the whisper of the strings. It sang softly of the wonders of life. It whispered of a cycle of death and rebirth. In the flow of chords, sadness and joy were mixed.
She stepped into the cool of a late summer night. The stars shone brightly, and the sails flapped sluggishly as they caught the occasional stronger breeze. Moonlight bathed the damp decks in silver. Near the prow, Meric sat, leaning against the rail, the lute in hand. He seemed to be staring up at the moon as he played. Near his feet, the young boy Tok sat mesmerized by the elv’in’s music.
Under the stars, the power of the strings and wood swelled. Elena was lost in the wonder of its song. Where the reminder of Nee’lahn’s death should have heightened Elena’s grief, the opposite proved true. Elena’s eyelids drifted lower. She let the music soothe her aching heart. Death was not an end, the lute sang, but a beginning. A picture of green life springing forth from seed bloomed in her mind’s eye.
The music guided her feet toward the ship’s prow. Tok mumbled something as she neared, but his voice could not break the spell. Elena soon found herself at the rail, staring out across the seas. In the distance, ghost trees seemed to sprout from the waves, as if the music had conjured a forest to appear.
Elena smiled at the sight.
Suddenly, under her feet, the decks trembled, and the ship lurched harshly. Elena came close to tumbling over the rail as the boat’s course abruptly slowed. She clutched the rail with a gasp.
The lute’s enchantment shattered as Meric flew to his feet. He joined Elena at the rail, searching the waters. He clutched the lute by its fragile neck and brandished it like a weapon.
Tok had clambered to the other side of Elena. “What happened?”
In the distance, the ghostly forest had not disappeared with the lute’s music. In the moonlight, it became clear that whatever lay ahead was as real as their own flesh. Elena stared at the tall boles sprouting from the seas. Their fronded tops waved in the silvery light. Thousands of trees filled the horizons. It was as if they were about to sail into some drowned forest.
By now, Tok had climbed atop the lower rail and was bent over the top rail to stare at the waters under the keel. “Look at this!”
Elena and Meric joined him. The boy pointed below.
“What is that?” Meric asked.
Elena shook her head. To either side of the ship, the waters were thick with a red vegetation. It seemed to choke the dark waters all around them.
Flint suddenly appeared behind them. “It is sargassum weed.” His voice was not fearful, but oddly bright. “It grows heavy in this region, trapping many a boat. That’s why few come this way. One must know the safe channels through the weeds or be forever lost.”
“So why are we here?” Meric asked.
Glancing over her shoulder, Elena saw Flint staring toward the ghostly forest. He seemed deaf to the elv’in’s words. His voice was far away. “Ahead lies the expanse of the sargassum forest. Only the foolhardy venture there.”
Elena’s eyes narrowed. “Where are we?”
Flint nodded toward the trees. “The Doldrums.”
AS HE RESTED in the dark corridor, Greshym cursed the loss of his old staff for the thousandth time this night. He leaned heavily on the oily length of his new poi’wood staff. The fresh stick was still weak in its power. He had been too busy to bathe the rod in virgin’s blood, sanctifying it for the blacker arts. Presently, it could hold only the mildest spells. The original, lost somewhere in the drowned bowels of A’loa Glen, had been honed for three centuries into a dire tool of black magicks, and over time, it had grown to be an extension of himself. Its loss wounded him deeply, as if one of his own limbs had been hacked off.
Scowling at the fates above, the bent-backed mage continued his trek through the crumbling heart of the citadel of A’loa Glen. He kept his route circuitous through its lowest levels. He did not care for prying eyes to know his comings and goings this morning. He had to be cautious, keep his true purpose hidden. But he was well accustomed to this game of masquerade. Just a moon ago, Greshym and Shorkan had disguised themselves in white robes and pretended allegiance to the Brotherhood hidden here. His centuries of subterfuge among those white robes would serve him well this morning among the black. Before the sun fully rose, he had two allies to meet; one who had already been forged to his cause and one who would still need convincing.
With his joints aching and his head pounding, Greshym finally reached the barred double doors that led to the Edifice’s row of dank cells. He paused to rest, studying the iron door.
While the Brotherhood had held the island, the cells had been seldom used. Only the occasional drunken cook would be locked away until he sobered. But after the Praetor had wrested control, the dungeon had been reopened in all its bloody glory. Shorkan had collected all the white-robed Brethren and corralled them into the cells. Then he had gone to work on them. The screams had echoed from these shadowy halls for almost an entire moon. Those who couldn’t be converted into ill’guard or bent to the Black Heart’s will were fed to the demon spawn or spent as fuel for the creation of black spells. It seemed there were never enough hearts for all the spells Shorkan wished to cast.
Sighing, Greshym tapped his staff on the iron door of the dungeon. A small peephole opened. Eyes studied him. Greshym did not bother speaking. He was well known by all the dog soldiers who manned the key stations of the keep. Greshym had made sure of that. He heard the scrape of a key in a lock and the shift of bars. The door swung open.
As he passed through, he waved his hand before the guard’s helmeted face. “Forget all who passed this way. None entered the dungeon this night.”
“None entered . . .” the guard repeated dully. The quick spell of influence would keep the guard forgetful of his movements. It was a crude spell, but Greshym had already primed and worked on the key guards so that a small push was all that was necessary for them to do his bidding.
Greshym continued down the short stair. Let Shorkan busy himself with the bigger schemes. Let him gather dire forces and work black magicks as he prepared for the arrival of the wit’ch. With the Praetor diverted, Greshym devised his own small magicks.
In only four days, the moon would rise full again and the plot to unbind the Blood Diary would commence. Greshym must succeed before that happened. When in the company of Shorkan or that nefarious boy Denal, Greshym continued to voice his eagerness for destroying the book. He wet his lips and plotted along with the others. But in the blackest corners of his heart, he knew he must thwart them. The book must not be destroyed—not until he gained the magick to return his youth.
Anger built up in his chest. Both the boy and the Praetor had been gifted with eternal vigor and vitality. Neither was marked by the passage of centuries, unlike Greshym. Though he could not die like ordinary men, his body continued to rot from his bones. He shunned mirrors to avoid glimpses of his wrinkled and bent form. He was no more than a walking corpse.
Greshym shook his head. Only the Blood Diary could correct this injustice. With the cursed tome in hand and wielding a spell he had learned from ancient scrolls, Greshym knew he could return vitality to his decaying body. But if the book was destroyed first—if it was unbound—all would be lost.
He must not let that happen. If it meant betraying the others, so be it. He would have his youth back.
At last he reached the bottom stair and spotted his first quarry of the night. The slim figure stood nervously under the single lamp in the dunge
on’s empty guardroom. His brown limp hair and small mustache were familiar, though now his eyes bore a hollowness that had not always been present. The poor golem had been sorely abused of late.
Greshym pushed into the room. “Rockingham. Did you have any trouble getting here unseen?”
“No.” Rockingham shifted his feet. He kept his arms wrapped around his chest as if his limbs alone could keep the Dark Lord from knowing of the treachery that was plotted here. Greshym knew the man was a dark conduit to the Lord of Blackhall. The golem had once carried foul creatures under his skin but had now been infested with an evil even fouler. In his hollow chest, the man’s heart had been replaced with a chunk of ebon’stone blessed with the magic of the Weir. This tiny Weirgate was too small to allow the Dark Lord himself to pass here, but it was large enough for his black spirit to enter the man and peer through Rockingham’s cracked ribs.
“Are we alone?” Greshym asked, nodding toward Rockingham’s chest.
“He is not with me for the moment.”
“Good,” Greshym said. “Now tell me what you reported to Shorkan.”
Rockingham’s pale face grew whiter. “You . . . you said you’d give me a sample of what you promised.”
“After you tell me what you know,” Greshym said as he leaned in closer. He had bought this one’s loyalty with a simple treasure. “What have you learned?”
“The few sea goblins who did not flee after the death of their queen succeeded in following the wit’ch’s boat. It has sailed south of the Archipelago’s islands.”
“Do they seek to flee?”
“I don’t know. Once they rounded the Blasted Shoals, the boat entered waters that even the drak’il fear entering, seas choked by a forest of floating vegetation.”
“Yes, the Doldrums,” Greshym commented. “Wise move. It would be hard to trace them through the sargassum forest. But what of the mer’ai and their dragons?”