Shorkan waited no longer. Using the boy’s charred corpse like a bridge, he leaped across the wax ring. But even through this weakened section of the barrier, Shorkan did not escape unscathed. A scream shattered from his throat as he landed in a crumpled pile. His white robe, now just ash, clung to his seared skin. Yellow blisters and large swaths of burned skin covered his body. Even his hair and brows had been burned away, leaving him looking as old as Greshym.
But Shorkan still lived! The mage rose slowly to his feet, tottering on limbs that still smoked. He stumbled a few steps toward where Greshym and Er’ril stood stunned. Shorkan’s voice croaked at them. “I . . . I will stop you.” Twin spouts of darkfire erupted from Shorkan’s burned arms.
Greshym stepped forward and raised his staff, blocking the flow of force—but just barely. Er’ril saw how Greshym’s arm shook as he held out his talisman against the might of Shorkan. The length of wood steamed and smoked in the old mage’s grip.
Er’ril scooted away from the combatants to the full length of his chains. His bare back now touched the ice wall. He stared in shock at the show of force. For Shorkan still to be able to wield such strength after sustaining those burns spoke of the depth of his well of power. Er’ril’s fingers scrabbled to his neck. He fished free the shard of Greshym’s staff. If he was to help in this fight, he needed to be free.
Er’ril waved the sliver of wood over the locks that bound his ankles—but nothing happened. He even tried using the piece as a lock pick, digging at the keyhole. Still the irons remained bound as ever. Scowling, Er’ril straightened up. There was no magick in the shard of staff. It had been a trick. Greshym had played him well, giving him something tangible upon which to pin his hopes. Er’ril tossed aside the useless piece of wood and kicked at his chains.
Nearby, the spout of darkfire from Shorkan’s arms began to wane and was soon sputtering, finally revealing a bottom to his well of black energies. Shorkan’s arms dropped, and the flow ended. Using the last dregs of his power, he opened a swirling black portal under his feet and dropped away, but not before gasping out one final threat. “I . . . I will get my revenge . . . on both of you!” Then he was gone.
Greshym still held his staff before him in a warding gesture, but with the disappearance of Shorkan, the old mage suddenly sagged. His staff fell to ash in his grip, crumbling away. Er’ril realized Shorkan had come to within a breath of defeating Greshym. Now nearly spent, the old mage had to support himself against the wall of ice and shuffle toward Er’ril.
“The book . . .” he whispered through cold lips. “We must hurry.”
“Where did Shorkan go?”
Greshym shook his head and leaned in exhaustion against the ice wall. “I don’t know. Most likely to his tower. Or maybe he’ll just flee. He may use the Weirgate that delivered you here to escape back to Blackhall.”
“A Weirgate?”
Greshym waved his arm weakly. “That ebon’stone statue of a wyvern. It is a portal to the Weir. But none of that matters. Free the book!”
Er’ril knew now would be the only chance to gain information from this mage. He was weak and needed Er’ril’s help. “What is this Weir? And why were you transporting the statue to Winterfell?”
Greshym’s gaze became more solid. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It no longer matters. Free the book,” he commanded.
“Not until you answer my questions. As you said, time is running short.”
Greshym stared angrily at Er’ril, then sighed. “You ask for a quick answer to a long tale.”
“Just give me what you know.”
Greshym sighed, his breath foul on Er’ril’s skin. “As you probably have learned from your dealings with the ill’guard, small pieces of ebon’stone have the power to trap and corrupt spirits.”
“This I know. But what does this have to do with the Weir and Weirgates?”
“It’s complicated. When ebon’stone was first mined, four large pieces were sculpted by the d’warves into massive beasts: griffin, manticore, basilisk, and wyvern. These larger pieces of pure ebon’stone were found to hold an even greater power. They could trap not only spirits, but for those folks rich in magick, the ebon’stone could also trap the person themselves. This is what happened to you. Your ward’s magick activated the ebon’stone, and you were drawn inside the dark dimension of the Weir.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“The Weir has that effect unless you are prepared and trained. And even then it’s a danger. You can easily lose yourself in there. Even I wouldn’t risk entering one of those gates. But once you entered the Weirgate, Shorkan sensed you and called the wyvern back here, bringing you to us.”
“But why were you hauling the statue to Winterfell in the first place?”
Greshym frowned. “Some new plan of the Dark Lord. He had ordered three of the Weirgates—the basilisk, the griffin, and the wyvern—to different regions of Alasea. But I was not privy as to why. And no one questions the Black Heart’s orders. Shorkan suspected it had something to do with strengthening the Weir.”
“You keep mentioning this Weir. What exactly is it?”
Greshym shook his head. “I don’t even think Shorkan could answer that. All we know is that long ago something fell within one of the gates and became trapped, but it was too large to be held by any one gate. It spread to all four, linking them forever and trapping itself for eternity.”
“But what does the Weir do?”
Greshym glanced to Er’ril, cunning entering his eyes again. “Enough with this interrogation. I’ll answer this last question only if you swear to free the book next.”
Er’ril frowned.
“Trust me. You will want the answer. It is one of the most guarded secrets of the Dark Lord.”
Er’ril licked his lips. He knew he could not keep the darkmage talking for much longer. One more answer would have to suffice. “Fine. I swear to free the book. So what does this Weir do?”
Greshym leaned in close. “It is the well of the Dark Lord’s power, his sole font of black magick! The Weir is where he draws his power.”
Er’ril’s throat clenched. Here was the answer to a mystery that had plagued the Brotherhood for centuries—the source of the Black Heart’s strength! If only the Brotherhood had managed to obtain this information centuries ago, they could have perhaps devised a way to cut the Dark Lord from his magick. Greshym had not lied. This information was worth the price of his oath.
“Now break the spell and unleash the Blood Diary,” Greshym said eagerly, though he leaned heavily on the ice wall. The mage tired rapidly.
Er’ril nodded, still too stunned to speak. He twisted to face the wall of black ice and once again ran his hand along it. Finally he sensed the proper spot to unlock the barrier. Now to fit the key. Er’ril turned to lean his amputated shoulder against the ice one last time and faced Greshym. “I told Shorkan that the spell required more than just my blood and magick.”
“Yes, I remember your ruse.”
“It was no ruse. The price was high.” Er’ril pressed his shoulder firmly to the iced lock in the wall. “It also took my flesh.”
Searing pain shot into Er’ril’s shoulder as bone, muscle, and fiber found their old home. All around, the black ice melted from the walls and ceiling, shrinking down toward where Er’ril stood.
As the wall vanished under Greshym, taking away his support, the old mage teetered and fell to his knees, his eyes wide at the transformation as the spell ended. He stared up at Er’ril as the last vestiges of the magick melted away. “You were the key all along!”
Er’ril glanced to his scarred shoulder stump. An arm of muscle and bone now lay attached. It was no phantom arm, but his own, a limb he had sacrificed centuries ago to fuel the spell here. He bent the arm to his chest. Clutched in his hand was a book he had not seen in centuries, a battered black diary with a scrolled burgundy rose etched on its cover.
Greshym followed the book’s path. “The Blood Diary!”
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Er’ril kept it from the mage’s reach.
“We had a pact,” Greshym snapped. “You swore an oath.”
“I swore to free the book. I have done so.” He then stepped with a clink of chains and rolled the sliver of staff he had discarded a moment ago toward Greshym. “This is useless. You sought to betray me.” Er’ril ground the shard of wood under his heel. “So any other promises we once made to each other are now void.”
Greshym fought to pull to his feet, but without his staff and weak from his fight with Shorkan, the mage was slow.
Er’ril pulled the book farther away from Greshym, resting it upon his own rune-carved chest. With its touch, his sliced skin drew together, and the foul markings vanished. “You forget the book protects me—and not just with longevity.” About Er’ril’s ankles, his iron shackles clanked to the stone floor. Er’ril shook free of the chains and stepped back. Free at last.
Greshym raised an arm, ready to lash out with the remains of his black magick, but Er’ril lifted the book between them. “I think the magick in the Blood Diary will protect me, but if not, before your magick reaches me, it will destroy your only hope of ever obtaining your youth.”
The old mage’s arm slowly dropped.
“Besides, I would suggest you let us keep the book. Elena and I will need it to destroy the Dark Lord. And after your betrayal here, you had best hope we succeed, Greshym. I do not believe the Black Heart will look kindly on your actions this day.”
Greshym’s face paled as he realized the truth in Er’ril’s words.
With a final searing scowl, Greshym waved his hand and opened his own portal. As the old mage sank away, he spat out a final warning. “This is not over yet, Er’ril.”
Before Er’ril could answer, Greshym was gone.
Er’ril lifted the book before him. He didn’t know what shocked him more, the reclamation of the book or the return of his arm. He ran a finger along the limb. A shiver ran down Er’ril’s bare back, and gooseflesh pimpled his skin. After so many years, the arm seemed so unnatural, but at the same time, it felt like coming home. Odd memories returned, as if these recollections had been trapped in the stolen flesh and only now returned with his arm: memories of baling hay in the fields, swinging a scythe in a two-handed grip, even hugging his father good-bye when he left for the last time with his brother, Shorkan. All memories of a simpler time, a more generous life.
Er’ril shook his head. Unlike his missing arm, that past was lost to him forever. No magick could bring it back.
His eyes came to rest on the Blood Diary. So many lives destroyed for this old battered book. He opened the cover and read the only entry, words that had first appeared on that fateful night long ago:
And so the book was forged, soaked in the blood of an innocent at midnight in the Valley of the Moon. He who would carry it read the first words and choked in tears for his lost brother . . . and his lost innocence. Neither would ever return.
Er’ril closed the book and thought of his brother and of the path of centuries that led to this room. Then too there had been a ring of wax and the corpse of a boy. Er’ril shook his head and crossed from the room, grabbing the torch from the wall.
The book’s words had proven too true.
ELENA KNELT BY Flint. Naked except for her wit’ch’s dagger, she felt particularly exposed and vulnerable, though none could see her. She kept her eyes averted as she reached over Flint’s body. His face and neck were a cratered ruin. She touched his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and reached to a satchel at his waist. She felt like a grave robber as she fingered open the ties to his side pouch. From inside, she rolled out the small sculpted fist, the ward of A’loa Glen. The red iron glowed like fresh blood in the light from the discarded lantern.
Straightening, she weighed the fist in one hand and her wit’ch’s dagger in the other. She needed to choose which to take; she was skilled enough to hide only one object with her magick. According to Flint’s estimation, she would need the ward’s magick to free the book, but she hated to leave the knife, abandoning her only other weapon.
As she pondered her choices, a small noise startled her. She clutched the knife in fright, dropping the ward. Rolling around, she raised her knife in menace. But nothing was there. Then the noise repeated: a small mewling almost too soft to hear. The sound stretched long enough for Elena to follow it to its source. In the shadows near the base of the wall, Tikal’s crumpled form lay limp.
Elena crouched and slinked to the animal’s side. The tamrink lay on its back, its neck twisted unnaturally. As she watched, Elena saw its chest softly rise and fall. She reached with a finger and touched the beast. A moan answered her probing. Elena winced. The little creature still lived.
Glancing back to the discarded ward, Elena knew she needed to hurry, but Tikal’s small cries stirred an ache in her heart. She paused, unsure what to do. Elena clenched her fist around her knife and knew she could end Tikal’s suffering with one thrust. She even lifted the dagger, but then lowered it again. She couldn’t do it. Though her heart had grown harder on the journey here, it was not that hard. She had seen too much death these past days and could not slay this injured beast. But neither could she ignore it. Tikal was more than just a pet. He was also the eyes of Mama Freda.
Biting her lower lip, Elena made her decision.
She gently lifted the small tamrink, surprised at the softness of his fur. The cries worsened as she moved him. Cringing, she straightened his twisted neck. Bones grated. Tikal’s mewling changed in pitch to a sharp whimpering. Elena cringed at the noise but did not stop. To survive, pain was sometimes necessary. This was one of the harsh lessons she had learned.
Finally, Tikal’s neck was straight. Cradling the tamrink, Elena bloodied one of the beast’s tiny fingers; then she did the same with her own. She remembered her old lessons. She must let only a small amount of her magick flow into another. Taking a calming breath, Elena lowered her bloody finger to Tikal’s fresh wound. She kept her magick bottled inside her. She must let only a drop of her blood pass.
As her finger touched, Elena’s thoughts bridged to the creature’s for a brief moment. She merged with the beast, felt the raw ache in his neck, and sensed the dull awareness of the tamrink buried deep down. Then, for a single flash, she was somewhere else. She was stumbling in another’s arm, racing, joints protesting, confused and blind. Blinking, Elena pulled back her finger. She was back in her own skin. Elena knew that for that moment she had traveled along Tikal’s connection to Mama Freda.
The brief contact reminded Elena of her duty. The others fled to lead the ill’guard away, and she was wasting her time reviving an injured animal. Elena settled Tikal back to the floor. The tamrink breathed much deeper now, and as she watched, Tikal’s legs began to twitch and a small arm lifted to paw at an ear. From here, the tamrink would have to mend on its own.
Elena crossed back to the iron ward and retrieved it from the floor. This time she had no problem deciding which object to keep. She placed her knife near Flint and settled the ward in her right palm. After sensing the terror in Mama Freda, Elena knew she could face her own fears without her dagger. The ward was more important.
Decided, Elena stood straighter. As she paused, she heard the scuff of boot on rock. Swinging around, she realized it was coming from deeper down the catacombs. To confirm her suspicion, she saw light flickering from down the corridor. Someone else was coming!
Elena flattened herself against the wall. She pictured all manner of dangers: skal’tum, d’warves, ill’guard. What now? As she held her breath, the light grew. Shortly the flame of a torch came into sight around the curve of the passage. Elena tried to pierce the glare of the torchlight. The figure held the flame before him. Its brightness masked any details.
At least it was only one person. Still, she refrained from breathing, fearful of alerting the enemy to her presence. So when she finally caught her first glimpse of the newcomer’s face, a trapped
gasp escaped her. She could never mistake that sweep of black hair, the ruddy planes of his face, and those storm-gray eyes. It was Er’ril!
Elena stepped away from the wall. But, of course, Er’ril could not see her. Instead, his eyes fixed on the collapsed form of Flint in the hall, outlined in the lantern light. Er’ril hurried toward the body.
Raising a hand, Elena thought to call to him. Then Er’ril lifted his torch higher and wiped at his forehead with his other hand. Elena stumbled back, almost stepping on Flint’s body. Er’ril had two arms now! Nearly blind from shock, Elena dodged to the side as Er’ril rushed forward.
He tossed aside the torch and fell to his knees beside the dead man. His hands hovered over the corpse as if disbelieving what he saw. For the first time, Elena saw that Er’ril held something in his other hand: a tattered book. As he set the tome down, Elena took a small step forward. She spied the gilt-edged rose on its cover and blinked in shock. She covered her mouth to hold in a gasp. She recognized the book from Er’ril’s description.
The Blood Diary.
“Flint . . .” Er’ril’s voice drew Elena’s attention. He reached and carefully turned Flint’s head, exposing the silver starred earring. Er’ril covered his face with a hand, his fingers dark from the torch’s soot. “Flint, this is all my fault. I . . . I did this to you.”
Er’ril’s guilt confused Elena. He sounded so genuine and heartfelt, but why? How exactly was he to blame for Flint’s death? And what of those two arms? Joach’s dream played in her head: Er’ril, with two arms, hunting her down atop a tower with murderous intent. Dare she trust this man? After knowing Er’ril for so long with only the one arm, this man with two seemed a stranger, especially bare chested, like now. It changed his whole physique.