As Er’ril passed another window higher in the tower, a flash of brilliance caught his eye and stopped his feet. What was this? Twilight had begun to settle over the seas. In the growing gloom, Er’ril watched as bolts of lightning struck out from one of the large flying ships. Lances and spears of radiance blasted amidst the warring boats and dragons, taking out ships and flocks of skal’tum. The ship glided languidly through the air, reaping a harvest of destruction from the enemy under its keel as it crisscrossed the battlefield. The rumble of thunder trailed its path.
Thanking these unknown allies once again, Er’ril allowed himself to imagine victory. The despair in his heart lifted slightly. He mounted the steps with renewed vigor and soon reached the top of the staircase. The doors to the Praetor’s tower chambers lay open. Er’ril slowed and clenched his sword tighter in his fist. He did not trust such an open invitation.
Cautiously, he slipped past the threshold into Shorkan’s study. It was empty, its hearth cold. Holding the blade before him, Er’ril crept through the neighboring rooms. The small bedroom was also empty, as was the bathing chamber. He sensed that neither had been used in a long time. Maybe Shorkan had not come here after all. Ending back in the central chamber, Er’ril studied the room. He paused in the middle of the bright rug and strained to listen for any sign of the darkmage.
He both saw and heard it at the same time. Along the floor, a section of the wall’s tapestry fluttered slightly with a whisper of bird’s wings. Er’ril crossed toward it, careful to keep his tread silent. He used the tip of his sword to shift the length of silk to the side.
Behind the fold of tapestry stood a small oaken door, partially cracked ajar. Through the narrow opening, Er’ril smelled the ocean and smoke. Pushing the door wider, Er’ril discovered a secret stair leading up toward a trapdoor overhead. Light trailed down. Er’ril knew where it led, and his heart thudded louder in his ears.
Not risking the creaky old hinges, Er’ril slid through the gap and mounted the stairs. He climbed one stair at a time, careful where he placed each foot. Overhead, a trapdoor lay flung open to the sky. Er’ril crept up to it and held his breath for a moment. Rolling the hilt of his sword in his right palm, Er’ril also loosened the dagger at his belt.
Once both fists were armed, Er’ril leaped through the trapdoor and rolled across the stone roof of the tower. He shouldered himself upright and jumped to his feet, quickly taking in the scene.
His brother, burned and blistered, stood on the far side of the tower. This high above the sea, the sun’s light still bathed the spire’s top. The stones of the parapet glowed golden, starkly outlining the ebon’stone statue from its perch behind Shorkan. Above his brother’s head, the ruby eyes of the statue glowed in the sun’s fire. Wings of ebon’stone rose to either side of Shorkan’s shoulders, as if the wyvern were about to take flight.
When his brother spoke, no fear etched his calm words. “Er’ril, it seems we meet one last time.”
Er’ril raised both sword and dagger. “It will be our last!”
Shorkan eyed his weapons with disinterest but cocked his head and glanced back and forth between Er’ril’s two limbs. “So that was the secret of the book’s protection spell. Flesh.” Shorkan shook his head. “I had never imagined old Brother Kallon could stomach such a sacrifice from you, Er’ril. No wonder it has confounded me for so long.”
Er’ril shrugged, circling around the trapdoor toward his brother. He eyed the wyvern statue warily. “What are you planning to do with the Weirgate, Shorkan? What is the Dark Lord plotting with the other statues?”
Shorkan’s brows rose as Er’ril approached. “It seems a little bird has been singing in your ear, my brother. You seek answers to questions that are beyond your ability to understand.”
“According to Greshym, the same could be said of you.”
Ire flashed in Shorkan’s eyes. “Since you are my brother, I will give you one answer—something to keep you up at night.” Shorkan waved his hand toward the wyvern statue. “The Weirgates pose more of a danger to Alasea than does the Black Heart. You fight the wrong enemy, Er’ril. You have all along.”
“You lie. Greshym already told me how the Weir is the Black Heart’s source of black magick.”
Shorkan shook his head. “You understand so little. It truly saddens me. Was this the paltry information for which you traded the Blood Diary? If so, Greshym bought the book cheap. But he will pay for his treachery.”
“Greshym doesn’t have the book,” Er’ril said, raising his sword higher. “It is on its way to the wit’ch as we speak.”
These words twitched the blackened skin around his brother’s right eye. “Then where is Greshym?”
“He’s fled.”
Shorkan eyed Er’ril’s sword as it flashed in the last rays of the sun. By now, Er’ril was only a few paces away. “Then so must I, my brother.” Before Er’ril could move, Shorkan reached behind him and touched the wyvern statue. A spatter of darkfire played about Shorkan’s fingers, and then the statue became a carving not of stone, but of shadows. Sunlight disappeared into its depths. Shorkan stepped backward between its wings and into its dark well. “Good-bye, Brother.”
Er’ril lunged after him, but he was blasted backward by a force that deafened him. Only the stones of the parapet kept him from a long fall to his death. His head cracked the stones with a resounding blow. Ignoring the pain and dazzle from his bruised skull, Er’ril rolled to his feet. He searched the tower roof. It was empty. The statue and his brother had vanished.
Standing, Er’ril crossed to the edge of the tower and searched the skies. Sunlight basked the towers of the citadel and a few of the tallest spires of the city. Where had Shorkan gone?
Then, in a blink, an inky stain appeared just an arrow’s shot off the western edge of the tower. It was the shadowy wyvern, alive and gliding toward the golden spires of the city below. Er’ril now understood how he himself had been transported here. Just the thought that he had once been swallowed and transported within that darkness shuddered his spirit.
“Curse you, Shorkan!” Er’ril called out to the retreating form.
Suddenly, as if his brother had heard his cry, the wyvern seemed to twitch in the air and bank sharply around. It dove back toward the castle, sailing closer to one of the sun-touched spires of the city.
Er’ril squinted to see what had so attracted Shorkan from his flight. Then he spied it, too: two small figures atop a spire nearby. Across the distance, Er’ril recognized the staff and the red-haired boy who bore it.
Joach.
As he recognized Elena’s brother, Er’ril’s vision suddenly twisted queerly; a strange sharpness tweaked his sight. This was Joach’s dream. He had thought that by leaving Joach’s side he could turn fate’s path. But even now, it was coming true.
Er’ril leaned both fists on the stone parapet. He studied the other figure atop the spire. From Joach’s description of his dream, it had to be Elena. But as Er’ril studied Joach’s companion, his heart climbed into his throat. It was no woman that stood beside Joach. He saw the way the man’s back was bent. Sunlight shone on his bald and leathered pate. But mostly Er’ril recognized the dark robe the man wore. “Greshym!”
Er’ril’s legs suddenly weakened under him as he remembered that he had left the Blood Diary with the boy! What was Joach now doing with Greshym? Had the boy been a traitor all along?
Er’ril stumbled away from the tower’s edge. Twisting around, he dove for the trapdoor. Something was direly wrong.
He had to stop them!
Er’ril tore through Shorkan’s study and flew down the tower stair. As he ran, he knew the fate of A’loa Glen depended on his speed, but he also recalled Joach’s other revelation from his dream weaving: Upon the tower, Er’ril was doomed to die in a blaze of darkfire.
Despite knowing his fate, Er’ril raced on.
It seemed destiny was not done with him yet.
IN THE COURTYARD of the castle, Elena clutched a h
and to her throat. A moment ago, a whooshing blast had drawn her eyes upward, and she had seen the wyvern statue vanish from its tower perch. Now it had reappeared, gliding and circling just past the walls of a castle.
What had Er’ril done? Was this his doing?
As her heart pounded in her throat, Elena could not help but remember Joach’s dream. Her brother had insisted his nightmare was a prophetic weaving, and from Joach’s description, the first part of his vision was of an assault by a black shadowbeast. Elena stared as the wyvern banked away.
The dream was coming true.
Somehow Er’ril had unleashed the beast. Whether he had triggered it with malice or by accident, Elena did not know. All she knew for sure was that Joach’s nightmare was beginning. She backed across the courtyard toward the entrance to the catacombs. She could wait no longer. She knew where she had to be. Fate called for her to fulfil her role atop the Spire of the Departed. She must be at Joach’s side.
Overhead, the wyvern beast opened its black beak in a silent scream and dove beyond the castle wall, disappearing out of sight.
It had begun.
Elena turned and ran as fast as her injured knee would allow. Though Er’ril was somewhere in the castle behind her, Elena knew she was not abandoning him. In a way, she was running toward him. They were fated to meet atop the neighboring tower, and she would not miss this rendezvous!
Joach’s dream played over and over in her head. She knew how it was destined to end: with the murder of Er’ril. Elena clenched her fist around the iron ward and ran harder. If their fates were set in granite, Elena meant to shatter that stone with her own magick. She would not let Er’ril be slain if he was still true of heart. This she swore.
As determined as she was, a part of her still quaked with fear. How would she know for sure? How did one judge another’s heart with certainty? Elena cast aside her doubts.
She must find a way.
26
JOACH STOOD AMIDST the sunset’s blaze. To the west, the skies were still awash in a final fiery display as the sun dipped below the horizon. As Joach watched from the parapet, the sights below the tower trapped his breath in his chest. The oceans beyond the city lay cast in deep shadow, a promise of the night to come. All around the island, elv’in warships glided above the seas. Occasional spears of lightning shattered the gloom, reflecting off the waves, highlighting the sails and rails of their many ships.
Meric had succeeded. He had turned aside his people’s attack on the island and directed their might to the war below. Upon the seas, victory was near. But what of the island itself?
This sobering thought drew his eyes back from the views. He found Elena staring at him. She eyed his staff. He knew what she must be thinking. According to Joach’s weaving of this day, his staff would protect her atop the tower. It was up to him to make sure Elena remained safe.
Even with her hands ripe with ruby magick, Elena was clearly too weak to defend herself. The climb up the tower stair had wasted her. He had never seen her so weak.
On the way here, he had been unable to get Elena to talk much. She refused to speak of what had happened to her after they had separated. It must have been horrible, and she was too raw to discuss it yet. Still, he had to ask one more thing of her.
“We need a signal, Elena,” he said as he crossed closer to her. “Do you think you have enough magick to blaze a sign for Ragnar’k?”
His mention of the dragon jolted her from whatever reverie she had fallen into. “No, not now.” She waved a hand limply at him. “Maybe your staff . . .”
“I dare not waste its magick,” he said. “You know of my dream.”
His words only seemed to raise a look of confusion on her features. She reached weakly toward his staff. “Let me try.”
Joach pulled away the length of poi’wood. “You are stubborn, El. You know this burden is mine.” He shook his head at his sister’s bravery and her willingness to sacrifice herself. This was her fourth attempt to take this responsibility from him. But he would not let her. It was his destiny.
Holding the staff in his bandaged hand, he ran his glove along its length and drew the magick to the wood’s surface with his touch. Trickles of darkfire ran in small rivulets along the staff. He must be ready. Again he scanned the skies. Still no sign of the shadowy beast.
From the corner of his eye, Joach saw Elena watch him manipulate the staff. Longing and anger were bright in her eyes. After wielding so much power, Elena clearly still refused to yield to the inevitability of fate.
Joach spoke in an attempt to distract her. “I know what distresses you, El.” He glanced at her, then away again. “It’s Er’ril. I know how much you wish him to be pure. But I met him.”
Elena startled beside him.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to tell you. You were so exhausted, and I had hoped to keep this from you. But maybe it’s better you know. Er’ril has been turned. He now serves the darkmages.” He swung to face her. “So when I kill him, do not grieve. The Er’ril you knew would rather die than harm you. It must be done.”
“Er’ril? You’ve met Er’ril?”
“Yes.” Joach hated to hear so much hope in her voice. He lowered his voice as he revealed his last. “And he has two arms. He even tried to trick me with a fake copy of the Blood Diary. He foolishly thought such a prize would blind me to his treachery.”
Elena stumbled toward Joach. “The book . . . ?”
Joach patted his shirt where the tattered old diary still rested.
Elena’s hand rose to snatch at him, but a keening cry split the skies. Joach swung around, shoving Elena behind him. She landed hard on her backside with a curse on her lips. He did not have time to apologize.
From behind the neighboring citadel, a monstrous black shadow swept toward him. He stared into the ruby eyes of his enemy. “Now it begins . . . and ends,” he said and stepped away from where Elena crawled toward him. This was not her battle. Joach lifted the staff over his head and called the magick in the wood to a full blaze. “Come to your death!” he screamed in defiance. “I will not let you near Elena!”
As the beast dove toward them, Joach saw the shape was indeed a wyvern. The black hooked beak, the glowing crimson eyes, wings of razor-sharp pinions. But he did not quail from the sight. He swung his staff and pointed its end at the streaking shadow. He recited the dream-cast words.
His lips grew cold with each utterance. As he spoke the incantation, traceries of frost skittered outward through his heated blood to reach for the wood in his gloved hand. As the last word fell from his lips, a shaft of darkness jetted out from the end of his staff. Balefire! Crackles of energy danced along this spear of darkness.
Joach grinned at the power. He would let no one harm his sister. He had given his promise to his father. He would not fail!
The lance of balefire struck the beast full in the chest, halting its dive, holding it in the sky above the tower. Its sharp cry changed to an almost human wail of agony. It writhed, impaled on Joach’s spear. The shadowy beast began to lose form; its edges blurred as the darkfire tore into it.
A harsh laugh exploded from Joach’s chest. He sensed when his magick was about to vanquish the beast, like a storm about to burst. Joach’s lips ached as they stretched into a wide grin. He had never felt such power.
Then something broke in the beast overhead. Joach sensed it.
In a blink, the shadowy wyvern became stone again, a statue once more. And like any stone, it plummeted toward the streets far below.
Joach dashed to the parapet to witness the end result of his handiwork. The statue tumbled toward the ground. “Die, demon!” he screamed after it.
But the monster held one more trick. Just before it struck the cobbles, a brief flash flared in the shadows at the foot of the tower, and the statue vanished. The streets below remained empty.
Pulling back, Joach raised his staff and searched the skies around the parapets, but nothing tried to attack again. In truth, he kn
ew he would not be assaulted by the beast again. Joach sensed that the wyvern had jumped far from here. But more significantly, in his dream, the beast had only struck the one time and was driven away.
“Joach?” Elena still crouched in the shadows of the parapet.
He recognized the relief in her voice, but he held up a hand to hush her. It was not over. There was one more participant yet to appear. Joach swung to face the tower door. He spun the staff between his fingers. With a smile of triumph and a heart iced by his taste of magick, he waited.
“Come to me, Er’ril.”
ATOP THE LONG stair inside the Spire of the Departed, Elena stood with her hand hovering over the latch to the tower door. She braced herself.
Earlier, while racing up the stairs, the screeches and the sounds of battle had echoed down to her from above, firing her urge for speed. She had been determined to burst through the doorway and face whatever was attacking the tower and her brother. But as she had climbed the last few landings, the sounds had suddenly stopped. Beyond the door, she heard nothing. Caution again gripped her heart.
According to Joach’s dream, she herself was fated to be beside her brother, not climbing these endless steps. So what had changed? Her hand touched the iron latch. There was only one way to find out.
Just before she shoved into the door, a hurried stamp of boots echoed up from below. She snatched back her hand and stared down into the tower’s gloom. She carried no torch or lantern. Only the occasional window along the staircase had lighted her way.
Sliding away from the door and down a few steps, Elena tried to pierce the shadows. But in her heart, she knew who came. She pressed herself against the far wall of the stairway and waited for Er’ril, holding her breath and clutching the ward between her breasts.
Up from the darkness below, like a rolling storm, he came. Er’ril clutched a long sword in his right fist. His breath gasped between clenched teeth. His eyes shone with anger; the muscles on his arms and chest bunched with suppressed might. He almost glowed with an inner rage.