With shivering hands, Joach reached across his sister’s prone form and bobbled the tiny iron fist atop the book’s cover. It kept rolling off until Joach found the right balance. Once done, Joach leaned back. “Now what?”
“We wait.”
And so they did. The passing of time grew agonizing. All they could do was watch Elena’s breathing grow more and more shallow. Er’ril noticed Joach eye his sister’s hands. Both were as pale as her arms now. Neither man spoke of it.
As they waited, the moon continued to rise, full and bright.
Once the moon crested the parapets and the light shone fully on the book, the fist began slowly to open, like a midnight rose basking in the moon’s glow.
Joach glanced to Er’ril and held his breath. Er’ril found himself doing the same, afraid to disturb what was happening.
Soon the fist had opened fully and rested palm down on the gilt rose. Er’ril remembered how, long ago, the three mages had placed their palms upon the book, just as this iron hand did now. Er’ril could almost hear a whisper of chanting from far away. It was not just one voice but three.
Winds kicked up around the tower. The book trembled slightly.
As Er’ril watched, eyes unblinking, the small fist began dissolving away, sinking into the book. As it did so, the winds picked up, and the book’s trembling worsened. The chanting grew louder. Er’ril met Joach’s gaze over Elena’s body. He willed the boy to be ready. Joach seemed to sense his thoughts and nodded his head once, very slightly. Both feared to move.
Soon the ward was but a vague outline, a ghost hand; then it disappeared completely. No sign of the iron fist remained. Denal had joined the book.
With the act complete, the book settled on Elena’s chest, and the winds died. Er’ril’s brow crinkled. Was that it? He continued to wait, but nothing happened.
Joach finally released his trapped breath in a moan of sorrow.
Then, as if this were some mysterious signal, the book suddenly jumped from Elena’s chest to float a handspan above her blackened skin.
Joach tumbled back upon his rear. “Sweet Mother,” he swore.
Its covers split open, revealing the empty pages within. From the white parchment, a blaze of brilliance shot high into the night sky. Er’ril glanced away from its blinding radiance. He was sure it lanced high enough to strike the moon. Under his knees, the tower shook.
“Er’ril?” The boy’s voice was edged with fear.
“Now’s the time, Joach!” Er’ril commanded sternly. “Grab your sister’s wrist and bring her hand to the book!” Er’ril demonstrated with Elena’s right limb, while Joach matched the movements with her left.
The two brought her arms under the book, palms toward the covers.
“On my count, we use her hands to close the book. Then make sure you get clear.” Er’ril recalled the last time he had performed this act. It had thrown him across the inn’s room.
Er’ril counted, and on three, they slapped the book shut with Elena’s palms. Both men quickly rolled away. They were lucky they did. The blast that followed split the night. Er’ril was thrown into the tower door, while Joach was tossed to the stones of the parapet. The boy ended down on his belly, his arms over his head.
Er’ril did not hide his face. Rolling to one elbow, he saw Elena lifted from the stones of the tower. Still limp and unmoving, she hung in the air, bathed in a light that stung the eyes. It came from the book still caught between her two palms, a star fallen from the night sky. Elena blazed in its glory. From such a height, the sight would be visible all the way to the coast.
“Joach! See this!”
Slowly Joach lifted first his head, then his body. He sat up to bask in the glow.
Elena’s form slowly twirled in the brilliance. As Er’ril watched, he saw her stir. One hand moved from the book to rub at her face, as if she were simply awakening from a nap. Slowly the glow receded into the book. Elena’s legs drifted lower until her toes touched the tower’s roof. She settled to her heels, pulling the book to her chest in wonder. Her eyes were wide and reflected the remaining glow of the book. They were so alive! Even her hair was a drape of fire down her back.
Er’ril had never seen her so beautiful.
Elena turned to him, her lips curving in a gentle smile of relief and welcome. She lifted the book in both hands. The gilt rose on its cover still blazed sharply, but even this was fading. “The Blood Diary.”
Er’ril bowed his head slightly, crossing his arms on his chest in the ancient honor of a liegeman for a mage. “The wit’ch and the book are united at last.” For all his postured reverence, he could not hold back a grin.
To his delight, Elena matched his expression.
As she lowered the book to her side, Er’ril’s smile faltered. The blackened circle of charred skin remained on her chest. His gaze drew Elena’s eyes. Frowning slightly, she fingered the damage. It came apart under her fingers, flaking away to expose soft and perfect skin.
“I’m healed,” Elena said in amazement.
“The book will protect you from here,” Er’ril said softly, not able to completely hide his regret. Mixed emotions stirred his heart. Though he would not change anything, Er’ril knew that from here Elena would no longer need him. Er’ril’s honor to her a moment ago was also his good-bye. From this day onward, Elena would not age, while he would. The passing of the book marked the end of Er’ril’s immortal life.
As Joach moved forward to greet his sister and offer her a thin blanket, Er’ril raised his hands before him. He stared at the bones and veins of his hand. Already he could almost feel the weight of time descending on him.
As brother and sister reunited, he hardly heard their whispered apologies and absolutions. Tears glistened on both their cheeks. Joach hugged his sister tight, needing to heal as badly as Elena—and Er’ril knew the boy would heal with time.
Er’ril lowered his hand. Time. From here on out, his own was no longer limitless. He would age like any other man. After five hundred winters, he had no right to complain of time’s inevitable march. Still, as Er’ril stared at Elena, she met his gaze and smiled at him in the moonlight.
And for once, Er’ril prayed that time would stop.
ELENA PULLED FREE of Joach’s grip and handed him the book. With her arms free, she took the thin blanket from her shoulders and wrapped it around her torso, tucking and cinching it in place. Elena felt foolish with this bit of modesty after running throughout A’loa Glen as naked as the day she was born. But as the fire of their trials died down, she sensed both Joach’s and Er’ril’s discomfort at the sight of her bare skin.
Once she was done, Joach offered her back the Diary, but she shook her head. “Could you hold it a moment more?”
“Are you sure?” Joach asked doubtfully, holding the tome out as if it were a poisonous snake.
“I trust you, Joach,” she said with a slight laugh.
He returned her smile, then studied the Diary’s cover. The golden rose still glowed softly in the night. “When do you think we should open it?”
“Later. Another day.” Elena had had enough magick and surprises for two lifetimes. “We should wait until everyone is gathered. It’s something they all deserve to share.”
Joach nodded and carefully tucked the book under his arm. He crossed to the parapet to watch the end of the war below. Elena stared out at the seas for a moment, too. With the darkmages gone, the island’s defenders fled from all fronts. The remainder of the fighting was more housekeeping than battle. By sunrise, the War of the Isles would be over.
Turning her back on the sight, Elena found Er’ril studying the moonlit skies and city, wary of any new threats. Always the guardian. In the moonlight, shirtless still, he seemed a bronze sculpture.
She crossed and stood beside him, silent for a breath. “Er’ril,” she said softly.
“Hmm . . .” He did not turn, keeping up his vigil.
Elena reached and touched his bare right shoulder. She did what s
he had wanted to do in the catacombs while following him. She traced the tanned line where his restored arm met his shoulder, where the new Er’ril merged with the old. She knew that from here, nothing would be the same between them. He had completed his task, and she sensed that in the future the book’s power would grow between them. Her heart ached at such a thought. Was there not some way to keep the new Er’ril and still not lose the old?
The plainsman shuddered under her touch.
Elena lowered her hand to grasp his wrist. Gently she turned him from the parapet.
“Elena?”
“Shush,” she scolded him. Taking his left wrist in her other hand, she lifted his palms toward her. She studied them for a moment, like an oracle in a village fair seeking some vision. Here were the new and the old. But they both looked the same. Who was he really?
Er’ril turned his wrists in her grip and held her hands now, gently, tentatively. “I . . . I thought I had lost you.”
“And I feared the same for you.” She leaned toward him, tears in her eyes.
Always her protector, Er’ril slid his hands up her bare arms and wrapped her into his warm embrace, two arms circling her, holding her against the horrors of the day. She leaned against his broad chest. As her cheek touched him, Er’ril tensed for a moment, still a sculpture in bronze; then she felt him relax against her, melting into just a man. They held each other silently, both knowing that their embrace meant more than mere consolation but neither speaking of it, fearful of ruining the moment.
Elena sank into his warmth, wrapped in both his arms, and she knew here was her answer. Two arms circled her completely. She could not say where one started and another ended. In his embrace, there was no new or old Er’ril. There was only one man. And she would not lose him—not even for the book’s promise of immortality.
Er’ril held her tighter.
Thoughts of war and wit’chcraft seemed far off as she listened to the beat of his heart. Time slowed to a stop at that moment. The stars halted their endless dance; the moon froze in the night sky. For now, there was just the two of them. And for the first time since leaving her family’s orchard, Elena knew she was home.
Suddenly, from behind them, a roar shattered the peace of the moment. Elena and Er’ril twisted around, still in each other’s arms. A black winged shape skated from below to rush overhead.
Across the roof, Joach swung to face them, his eyes bright with excitement. “It’s Sy-wen and Ragnar’k! The blaze of the book must have summoned them!”
Elena and Er’ril slowly pulled from each other’s embrace. The world beyond called for them, trumpeted from the throat of a dragon. But before Er’ril turned away, Elena touched his chin, stopping him. She leaned and softly kissed his cheek, where once a single tear had glistened.
She raised her face to his. “Thank you.”
They turned together and watched the dragon circle above. With the war ending here, Elena’s thoughts turned to those friends unable to share this victory: Mycelle, Kral, Mogweed, Fardale. How did they fare this night?
Elena stared at the stars, praying they were safe.
AS THE SUN’S last glow faded to the west, Mycelle led her gelding down the final switchback of the mountain pass. The others in her party were draped along the trail behind her, moving slowly along the slick rocks. The Pass of Tears had been named for the glistening droplets sprayed on the boulders alongside the path from the nearby cataracts of the Mirror River. The rumble of the river had been a constant song for three days and nights. By now, the noise had set Mycelle’s teeth to aching. Even the tiny jungle snake around her wrist seemed agitated, writhing in slow circles around her wrist as if it sought some escape from the rumble.
She soothed the paka’golo with a finger as her gelding, Grisson, cautiously traversed the rocky terrain. Ahead, the forests of the Western Reaches spread across the landscape, stretching from horizon to horizon, an endless sea of green. As foreboding as the dark wood appeared, it was still a welcome sight. Not only did Mycelle look forward to leaving behind the roar of the mountain pass for the quiet of the forest, but those woods had also once been her home. Lost under the green bower were many strange creatures and odd folk, including her own people, the si’lura.
Mycelle held up a hand and willed her flesh to flow. Her fingers responded, spreading and twisting in the moonlight like the tendrils of some nocturnal vine. With her shape-shifting abilities returned, she felt a renewed kinship to her own people, and it soothed her heart to know that she was about to reenter her forest home. But a homecoming with her tribal clans would have to wait. First, she must honor her oath and join Tyrus in his fight against the Grim. Only after Castle Mryl was recovered would Mycelle’s oath and debt be paid. Willing her hand back to its previous shape, Mycelle lowered her arm.
Once they reached flat ground, Mycelle kicked her mount to a faster clip toward the woods. Though night had descended, Mycelle refused to set up another camp within earshot of these roaring cascades.
She scouted ahead of the others. Fardale kept her company, loping through the brush and scrabble like a dark shadow. Behind her, Mogweed rode alongside Prince Tyrus. Kral and the trio of Dro women guarded their rear flanks. Their party had spoken little since passing the wellspring of the Mirror River. After the many days of hard travel, everyone was saddle sore and exhausted; tempers were short and attitudes sour.
Except for Prince Tyrus.
The former pirate seemed little fazed by the long trek. Even now, Mycelle could hear his laughter echoing down the trail. While the others were worn down, the man seemed to thrive on the hardship of this march. His spirits seemed to grow with each league that brought him closer to his ancestral home, Castle Mryl, overlooking the Northwall.
Scowling at his bright merriment, Mycelle snapped her reins to move Grisson faster. The mount rounded a section of cliff face, and it was as if she had entered another world—a world of whispers and hushed noises. Blocked by the cliff, Tyrus’ laugh and the falls’ roar were instantly muffled. Mycelle sagged in relief. She let Grisson slow to a leisurely walk. Fardale wandered closer to the edge of the forest, leaving Mycelle a moment of rare solitude.
As she enjoyed the peace, Mycelle drifted away from the wolf. She encouraged Grisson to follow the wood’s edge. Oaks and alders predominated here, a mixture of mountain and valley trees. A few maples were even scattered among them. Mycelle drew in a long breath, taking in the scent of the forest: loam and leaf, bark and moss.
Her eyelids slipped closed as she inhaled. Lost childhood memories returned, buoyed by these smells of the forest. As Grisson walked, tears flowed down Mycelle’s cheeks. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, surprised by the depth of her reaction.
Then, from somewhere ahead, a whisper of music arose. It took a moment for the sound to reach her consciousness. It seemed to sing more to her heart than to her mind, wrapping its notes and chords around the ache in her spirit, drawn to the pain of her lost childhood and home. Mycelle cocked her head, unsure for a moment if the soft sounds were real or merely old memories. As she listened, straining for the melody, Mycelle seemed to recognize this mournful tune.
But where had she heard it?
Grisson continued along the forest’s edge. Around a corner of the forest, Mycelle found her answer. Standing in a small glade, outlined in moonlight, was the singer. Cloaked and hooded in a patchwork of hues, the figure stood as still as the trees. Only the sweet voice rising in song from inside the shadows of the hood suggested life.
Mycelle knew this figure. She had encountered the singer once before, in the coastal wood on her way to Port Rawl. Mycelle knew that it was no man or woman who sang from within that motley cloak, but some shade or ghost.
Slowly, Mycelle slipped from her saddle and waved for Grisson to remain. She feared startling this apparition away. She wanted to discover why this ghost haunted her. As she slipped into the moonlit glade, the figure finally shifted in her direction with a rustle of leaves. As it kept its head
bowed in shadows, a single arm lifted toward Mycelle, beckoning her.
Near enough, Mycelle saw that the cloak was actually an intricate patchwork of green and autumn leaves. Even the shade’s hand was gloved in foliage. Not a speck of skin showed. But Mycelle knew no skin could show. Under the leaves was nothing but a hollow shell.
Suddenly, from behind Mycelle, a low whine arose. She glanced over to find Fardale standing at the glade’s edge. His amber eyes were huge and aglow with an inner light.
The melody of the song ended.
Mycelle swung around, fearful that the wolf’s appearance had chased the apparition away. But she found the singer still standing in the glade’s center, silent now, but with an arm still stretched toward Mycelle, palm up as if begging for a copper.
Unsure what to do, Mycelle turned to instruct Fardale to fetch the others. But instead she found Fardale wagging his tail with a strange whine flowing from his throat. Mycelle stared into the wolf’s amber eyes and opened her mind to him. She begged Fardale to tell her what his wolfish senses perceived. He might have some clue as to why this ghost persisted in haunting her trails.
She only received one mental picture from the wolf: a black acorn. She blinked at this response, remembering the sprouting oak seed she had found in the discarded piles of leaves after she had first met the singer. Was the wolf trying to tell her that the apparition wanted it back? Frowning, she turned to find the singer still frozen with an arm outstretched.
Fardale whined again, deep in his throat.
Mycelle backed to her horse, refusing to look away. “Fetch the others,” she ordered the wolf.
Fardale hesitated, then spun away.
Mycelle searched her pack. How did Fardale or this apparition know she had not discarded the acorn? Mycelle had thought of doing just that many times, but the tiny green shoot peeking from under the acorn’s cap had always stopped her. It was a living thing, and Mycelle could not simply cast it to the stone or into the trash.
But where was the cursed seed now?
As Mycelle searched, she kept glancing back at the leaf-shrouded figure. The mysterious singer had not moved.