“We are Cho,” the figure said, cocking its head and studying them as some bird might examine a spider for a meal. “The void has been opened,” she stated with a nod toward the book in Elena’s hand, “and the bridge has been sacrificed.” Her other hand indicated the form she wore.
Elena raised a fist to her throat. “Who are you? What have you done to Aunt Fila?”
The apparition bent its head. “We are Cho. We are Fila.” The words were spoken with finality, as if this should be clear enough. Then the woman cocked her head as if she was listening to something from far off. “We understand.”
Somehow Elena knew this last statement was not meant for her. As she watched with Er’ril at her shoulder, the carving of glowing moonstone seemed to relax, almost as if something warmer had entered the sculpture.
When the apparition next spoke, Elena knew it was her dead aunt. Even Fila’s familiar tired smile appeared. The eyes wandered up and down her niece’s form. “Elena, honey, you’ve grown since last we talked, but you’ll have to explain how that happened later. Right now, I must be quick. Healing you earlier took most of this moon’s power.”
Elena shook her head, trying to shake one of the thousand questions loose from her skull. “What . . . ? Who was that other?”
As usual, Aunt Fila sensed her confusion. She raised a hand. “Calm yourself. Not even I can explain everything yet. But I can answer your question. Cho is the being who has granted you your power. She is a creature of neither form nor substance. She is light and energy, magick and power. As we live on this world, she lives in the void between stars and travels among them.”
Elena’s eyes grew wide.
“I will give you more details later, my dear. For now, I must be brief. The book is your only link to communicate and understand Cho. And my spirit is the bridge between the Blood Diary and this being. She shares my spirit and uses it to travel from the stars to the book. But there are limits to even this, rules you must follow.”
“Like what?”
“First, you ignited the book under a full moon, so the path can only be opened during one of the three nights when the moon is most ripe. Otherwise, during the day or any other night, it is only a font of power. It will help protect and heal you, but only to a point. It is not limitless. Even on the night of a full moon, it takes power to maintain this connection. For this cycle, we used much of it to heal you, so now we must be brief until the next cycle of the moon. In the coming moons, Cho and I will use these nights to teach and train you for what must come next.”
“And what is that?”
“For now, just rest. You have done much. Use the autumn and winter moons to firm this foothold in the Black Heart’s domain. It will be needed.”
“But what is to come after that? When do we take the fight to Blackhall and the Gul’gotha?”
Aunt Fila glanced around the room at the gathered forces. Elena sensed that she was leaving much unsaid, especially in front of so many eyes.
“What is it, Aunt Fila? What are you holding back?”
“There is much I still don’t understand. Cho has just joined me, but she is so foreign that not all is clear. When she thinks about Chi, there is much I don’t understand.”
Er’ril stepped forward, his voice bitter. “What of Chi? What have you learned?”
Aunt Fila squinted and scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. “It’s confusing. Cho and Chi are somehow partnered. They are familial, like brother and sister or husband and wife . . . but then again not. They are also opposites. Man and woman, white and black, positive and negative. It’s all very strange.” Fila glanced to Er’ril. “All I know for certain is that Cho returned to this world to find Chi. It took her five hundred of our winters to return here after first sensing Chi’s disappearance.”
Er’ril scowled. “Then she came a long way for nothing,” he commented sourly. “Chi is gone.”
“No, Er’ril. One thing is clear from Cho: Chi never left. He is still here somewhere. That is why Cho has returned and why she has granted Elena her power. The wit’ch was forged to be Cho’s warrior upon this world, while the Blood Diary is Cho’s eyes and ears.” Aunt Fila’s shade blew forth with a fiercer light. “This is Elena’s true purpose! Not to fight the Dark Lord, but to find Chi!”
Elena shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand. How—?” Before Elena could question the woman further, Aunt Fila’s form began to dissipate into a fog.
“I can speak no longer. The connection wears thin for this cycle.” Aunt Fila reached to Elena. “You have done well, child. Rest now until the next moon. We will talk more then.”
The shade of Aunt Fila became mist and seeped back into the book. The glow spread over the Blood Diary, obscuring the view into the starry landscape. As the light faded, Elena found herself staring at blank pages in a tattered book. She closed the tome, flipping the cover up. Even the rose on its cover was dull, no longer shining with any inner fire. It was just plain gilt, flaking at its edges.
Elena turned to Er’ril. The plainsman’s face had grown pale. “How are we supposed to find Chi?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “We’ll ponder such mysteries later, Elena.” He waved to the crowd. “For now, a party awaits.” The banquet minstrels began tentatively to strike up their instruments.
Elena frowned. Right now she wished nothing more than to be left alone. Too much had happened, too much to digest. Still, she took Er’ril’s arm. Duty called to her even this night.
AS MIDNIGHT PASSED, Er’ril stalked down the crowded passageway outside the great hall, searching for Elena. She had slipped away from him and vanished while he was momentarily distracted by a toast. But Er’ril could guess where she had gone. After the endless stream of courses during the feast, the hall had grown stifling. He had noticed how flushed and melancholy Elena had grown by the time dessert was served. Maybe she had sought fresh air.
Finally reaching the renovated doors to the central courtyard, Er’ril pushed through. It was a warm evening, but after the press of bodies, the open air still felt refreshingly cool. Er’ril searched the court. Though the worst of the debris had been cleared from the yard, it would be a long time before even a glimmer of its former beauty could be restored. In a corner lit by torches, a foursome of minstrels played quietly. Since the residual reek of smoke in the yard was too potent a reminder of the war, the musicians had only one listener in attendance.
Er’ril approached the single spectator. His large bulk appeared like a boulder fallen from the castle heights. The og’re did not turn as Er’ril approached, but he did speak. “If you be looking for Elena . . .” He pointed an arm toward the westernmost tower. In his raised claw was his tribe’s heartstone talisman. It shone like a faded rose in moonlight.
Tol’chuk lowered his arm, cradling the stone again in his lap. From the og’re’s slumped shoulders, Er’ril sensed his melancholy. He knew the source of the og’re’s distress. All the past day’s victories—winning the war, recovering the book, retaking the island—had failed to help the og’re in his one goal: to free the Heart of his people from the Bane. His people’s spirits continued to fade in the stone.
“Tol’chuk . . . ?”
The og’re turned more of his back toward Er’ril. “I be fine, but she needs you, Er’ril. Go to her.”
Er’ril glanced to the tower’s parapets. Far above, moonlight outlined a small figure leaning on the stone’s tower. “She shouldn’t be up there alone.”
Tol’chuk grunted, half in amusement. “You don’t need an excuse, Er’ril.”
He blinked. “Wh-what do you mean?”
Tol’chuk just shook his head, exasperated. “Humans.” Tol’chuk waved an arm. “Go!”
Er’ril’s feet were already moving. He needed to make sure she was safe. He reentered the castle and wound his way toward the western tower.
As he climbed the long stair, he thought back to the last time the two had been atop a tower together. He recalled the long em
brace they had shared and cursed himself. He shouldn’t have let his emotions rule him then. Er’ril touched the hilt of the silver sword in its new filigreed sheath. This is all he should be to her—her liegeman and nothing more. It was time to dig out these other feelings that had taken root in his heart. They were weeds that would weaken him, choke his ability to protect her.
He must be her sword, nothing more.
With this new determination in his heart, he followed his way to the tower’s roof. The trapdoor was open. He paused before stepping out. A sharp breeze flowed down the throat of the staircase. Er’ril took a moment to appreciate the fresh air. From the tower’s height, the winds carried no smoke or banner of war. Er’ril closed his eyes and allowed the winds to rush over him, cleansing him.
Once ready to face Elena, Er’ril climbed the last steps to the roof. Elena did not hear him. She just stared out to the skies beyond the parapet. Moonlight bathed her in silver, while starlight danced along her gown.
Er’ril suddenly could not breathe.
Sadness and loneliness shone from her as bright as the moon.
His heart ached. At that moment, he knew he could never be content with being just her sword. He wanted to be her moon and stars, her sun and sea. He wanted to be everything to her.
Er’ril gazed at her in wonder, and he knew he must lock away these desires forever. Elena had the weight of worlds on her small shoulders. He could burden her no further. But from here, he could no longer deny his own heart either. He loved her. It was that simple.
Though he would never speak of his deeper feelings, he would strive to be more than just her sword, her liegeman. He would do his best to protect her—even from the despair he saw in her now.
STILL DRESSED IN her finery, Elena stood atop the tower once called the Praetor’s Spear. Already it had been renamed the Wit’ch’s Sword after the sole occupant of its highest chamber. Overhead, elv’in ships glided silently by, blocking the stars, then moving on. She stared at the sky. The moon was on its descent. Midnight was well past.
Still, the sounds of revelry echoed up to her from the streets and castle below. The whole city was in celebration and would be until dawn. She eavesdropped on the merrymakers: the strike of drum, the strum of lyre, the bawdy songs of men glad to be alive. But under it all, there remained a vein of sorrow. The laughter from below had a strained edge to it. Even the calls of the celebrants were often tearful.
Done with her duties, Elena had retreated to her rooms as soon as possible, taking the Blood Diary with her. She needed a moment of quiet to contemplate Aunt Fila’s story of the twin spirits, Chi and Cho, whose destinies intersected with her own. She shook her head. It was too much to ponder for one night. She would simply take Aunt Fila’s advice to rest and wait for the next full moon. Hopefully then she would learn more.
Glancing at the Blood Diary in her hands, she traced a finger along the twisting stem of the rose to the warm blossom in the center. So many lives had been lost for this.
A voice spoke behind her. “Elena?”
She turned to find Er’ril standing behind her. How long had he been there? He still wore the earlier fineries of the evening, but his eyes shone with a new light, something she could not name. The breezes atop the tower had loosened his hair, fluttering it over his face.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, his voice quiet. “But Tol’chuk noted you from the courtyard below. It’s not safe to expose yourself alone to the night like this.” He moved near her. “As your liegeman, I should always be at your side when you venture out.”
Sighing, Elena turned away. She glanced to the stars. “Can’t we ever have a normal moment, Er’ril?” she asked sourly. “Listen. Music is playing, and the night is bright. Must we always act as if we are about to be attacked? Can’t I just have a moment to pretend I’m not a wit’ch? Pretend that the fate of Alasea does not depend on where I take my next step?”
She turned to find him staring sternly at her, all iron and solidity. Under his gaze, she instantly felt like a churlish child. What right did she have to complain when so many others had lost so much more? She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry . . .”
He simply stepped toward her and held out one arm.
She was unsure what he was offering.
“May I have this dance?” he whispered softly to her.
Elena failed to hide the surprise on her face. Only then did she hear a familiar Highland tune rising on the winds from street minstrels below. It was a common dance from her own lands.
A smile haunted Er’ril’s lips as he suddenly recognized the tune, too. “It seems Tol’chuk sensed the heaviness of your heart, too.”
Elena’s cheeks flushed as the plainsman stepped nearer. Er’ril stood over her, arms out. The night’s breeze carried his scent to her, warm and familiar. Before she could balk, Er’ril took her hand in his. He guided her gently into his arms. Tentatively, they began to move to the music. The first few steps were awkward as they danced cautiously across the stones.
Soon, though, they found their rhythms and began to move in step, quicker and more joyous now. Elena allowed herself to be led, circling and turning in unison with the larger man. Er’ril’s palm blazed like a flame at the base of her back as he guided her, teasing her to keep up.
As he pulled her into a tight spin, a small laugh escaped her lips. The sound surprised her.
“For a wit’ch with the fate of Alasea riding on your next step, you’re awfully light on your feet,” he said with a sly grin.
Soon Elena could not stop laughing in his arms. They spun and spun with the stars whirling overhead. The world beyond the parapets faded away. There were just the two of them, the music, and the moon.
Then, after a final giddy twirl, with both dancers breathless, the music’s cadence slowed to something more languid but no less passionate. Elena’s laughter quickly died.
Er’ril still held her, but again the awkwardness rose between them.
He began to step back, but Elena tightened her grip on him. She did not want him to step away, not this night. He relented and moved nearer.
As the music grew, Elena reached and pulled the pins from her hair. She shook out her fiery curls. For this one night, she no longer wanted to be a wit’ch or a savior. She let all this drop away with the pins to the floor. She would just be a woman.
Er’ril pulled her near, and they slowly swayed to the music from below. Elena did not know when she began crying, but Er’ril offered no words. None would have helped. He just held her close to his heart as the music played long into the night.
AND SO AS Er’ril and Elena slowly dance toward dawn, I must end this section of her story. With the War of the Isles won, it is time for the land to heal and prepare for the coming days of darkness—and, trust me, those days will come.
So allow our friends a moment of well-earned peace. Pick a partner. Stroll the streets. Raise a mug of ale to their victory, and join the celebration. For it won’t last long. Soon the dogs of the Black Heart will be loosed from their ebon’stone shackles to ravage the land.
And the gods themselves will learn to scream.
James Clemens was born in Chicago, Illinois, in 1961. With his three brothers and three sisters, he was raised in the Midwest and rural Canada. He attended the University of Missouri and graduated with a doctorate in veterinary medicine in 1985. The lure of ocean, sun, and new horizons eventually drew him to the West Coast, where he established his veterinary practice in Sacramento, California. He is the author of Wit’ch Fire, Wit’ch Storm, and Wit’ch War. Under the name James Rollins, he is also the author of the national bestseller Subterranean.
Don’t miss the next thrilling chapter of James Clemens’ acclaimed epic, The Banned and the Banished.
WIT’CH GATE
One girl remains her realm’s only hope against the forces of darkness.
Turn the page for a sneak peek . . .
The cloaked figure crouched motionless in the murk of the keep?
??s courtyard. Her slender form was but another shadow amid the piled rubble of stone and twisted iron. She had been waiting, motionless, since midnight, spying on the play of lights atop the wit’ch’s tower. She had watched the dragon alight on the stones of the parapet and vanish. Still she had not moved. Even when the glow of moonlight had faded from the tower heights, she remained frozen in her hiding place. Patience had been taught to her by her Master. Those trained in the deadly Arts knew that victory lay in the silence between battles. So she had remained throughout the night.
Drops of morning dew collected in the folds of her midnight green cloak. A cricket crawled across the back of her hand as her palm rested in the dirt. While she watched the castle battlements, she felt the small insect scratch its hind legs together, heard a whisper of cricket song. The promise of dawn. Now was the time. She moved smoothly to her feet as if she had only paused to pick a flower from the newly planted garden. Her motion was so swift and smooth that the cricket remained on the back of her steady hand, still playing his last song of the night.
She raised the hand to her lips and blew the surprised insect from its perch. If only her current prey were so unsuspecting . . .
Without pausing, she moved from her cubby of fallen stones and fled swiftly across the courtyard. None would know she had passed. She had been trained to run the desert sands without disturbing a single grain. The main doors to the central castle were guarded. She could see the backs of the guards through the stained glass windows. But doors were for the invited.
As she ran, she flicked her wrist, and a thin rope shot out from her fingers and flew toward the barred windows of the third landing. The trio of hooked trisling teeth, fastened to the end of her rope, wrapped around the bars. Without stopping, she tugged on the rope and tightened her grappling. The rope was strong, woven of braided spider’s silk. It would hold her. She flew to the wall and up it. No one watching would have even suspected she was using her rope. The ancient stone was full of pocks and old battle scars; climbing was as easy as scaling a steep stair.