Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  Er’ril nodded. As much as he distrusted this d’warf, he could not fault his plan. It seemed sound. If anything lurked in the mines and valleys of the d’warf homelands, a more cautious approach was warranted. “I think we should consider Wennar’s plan. In fact—”

  Rrrippp . . .

  Er’ril turned to see the little tamrink, Tikal, snatch up a torn corner of the map and pop it into his mouth. The furry beast chewed its stolen prize with much gusto. Er’ril swung a backhand at it, but Tikal went hopping away. It dodged around the crouched figure of Tol’chuk and scrambled toward its keeper.

  “Tikal!” Mama Freda scolded with a snort. The old woman, who had been drowsing in the chair, pushed up. She scooped the fiery-furred tamrink and settled it into the crook of her arm. Her sightless face turned to Er’ril. “I’m sorry. He’s unduly agitated right now.”

  An explosion of thunder rattled through the ship’s bones.

  “I’m not surprised,” Elena said, her eyes glinting with worry. “The storm along the coast is piled high and dark.”

  Er’ril returned to his study of the map. “Queen Tratal will get us through safely. She said the storm is of no concern.”

  Mama Freda cleared her throat as Tikal whined in her arms. “I don’t know.” She cocked her head. Tikal mimicked her. “Something sounds wrong with this storm.”

  “What do you mean?” Er’ril grumbled, instantly suspicious.

  The old healer simply shook her head.

  Tol’chuk stirred, eyes slowly opening. “I should go and check.”

  “No need,” Mama Freda said. “Tikal is faster.” She bowed her face toward her pet, and Tikal jumped from her lap. The tiny tamrink scrambled out the door, running on all fours, a flash of fur.

  Er’ril straightened from the map table. The others stood silently.

  Mama Freda tugged her black shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Tikal has reached the middeck.” Her lips pursed as she concentrated. “The winds are strong. Angry black clouds surround the ship on all sides. The sky is afire with lightning.”

  To punctuate her words, a new volley of rumbling thunder echoed through the ship.

  “But . . . but the light is wrong. It’s too bright. Tikal is climbing the rigging to get a better view. I see Queen Tratal. She’s at the stern, full of power and crackling energy. She stretches for the sky, her toes barely touching the planks.”

  Mama Freda suddenly sat up straighter.

  “What is it?” Elena asked.

  “Other ships . . . I see smaller boats flanking ours.”

  Er’ril moved forward, a hand shifting to the hilt of his silver sword. “Attackers?”

  “I don’t think so. With Tikal’s keen eyes, I can spot elv’in in the other ship’ riggings.”

  “Elv’in?” Er’ril scowled. “From where?”

  Mama Freda frowned, holding up a hand. “The light . . . Sweet Mother, there’s sunlight ahead!” She burst to her feet, wobbling in her blindness, her vision fixed elsewhere. Elena hurried forward to steady the eyeless healer. “A city! There’s a city in the storm!”

  Er’ril unsheathed his sword and moved toward the door. “We’ve been betrayed!” Elena made a move to follow him, but he placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Stay here with Mama Freda. Tol’chuk and I will go and investigate.” He turned to the blind elder. “Mama Freda, keep your pet’s eyes atop the deck. Watch and be ready if there’s trouble.”

  Elena yanked off one of her gloves, then grabbed her wit’ch dagger. The small blade flashed in the lamplight.

  Er’ril blocked her dagger. “Be cautious with your magick. Even you can’t fly if the boat is burned out from under you.”

  She slipped her hand free of his, then flicked her blade across each fingertip. “Don’t worry, Er’ril.” Blood turned to tendrils of fire, rising from her fingers. He watched as she wove the flames into a rose burning in her palm. She stared tightly at him, her eyes bright with power. “The ship won’t burn.”

  Er’ril’s eyebrows rose at Elena’s mastery of her magick. With a nod, he swung to Tol’chuk, who waited at the doorway.

  Behind him, Mama Freda spoke urgently. “We fly toward the city’s gates. Hurry.”

  Er’ril raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. Tol’chuk followed. Er’ril burst out the door to the middeck, sword raised. The shock of the sight awaiting him stumbled his feet.

  Catching himself, he gaped at the spectacle. All about the ship, angry black clouds roiled, lit from within by flashes of lightning. Thunder rolled everywhere, and distantly he thought he heard the blare of hundreds of trumpets. But all this was nothing compared to the sight beyond the Sunchaser’s bow.

  Massive gates of wood towered a quarter league high into the sky. They lay open on a wondrous sight. Beyond the gates lay a vast sunlit city, resting atop the storm itself. Above the roofs and towers, the late afternoon sun hung clear, shining down upon this city in the clouds.

  Just beyond the walls lay a wide open space, a sheltered bay, where wooden docks and piers protruded into the air above roiling storm clouds. Er’ril spotted other ships moored there, of all shapes and sizes: sleek cutters, thick-bellied supply ships, even fanciful boats shaped like swans and eagles. Beyond the port’s docks, wooden buildings and shops climbed the clouds, spreading to the horizon. Some had chimneys leaking thin streams of smoke; others had small faces peering from windows. But all were brightly colored, like the plumage of a peacock. Instead of stone streets or muddy tracks, complex bridges and wooden spans connected the buildings together in a maze of rope and wood. Higher on the cloudy slopes, larger homes, towers, and steeples poked toward the sunny skies as the city spread far and wide.

  But all this was d’warfed by the lofty castle in the city’s center, its walls of solid iron glowing bright with the energy of the storm below. Beyond the wall, the central keep’s score of towers climbed to impossible heights. Clustered tight together, they appeared not unlike a gathered bunch of reeds.

  Tol’chuk stepped to Er’ril’s side, neck stretched as he gawked at the wonder. By now, elv’in sailors appeared from hatches and doors. Ignoring Er’ril and Tol’chuk, they swarmed up into the rigging and began to reef the sails.

  Er’ril turned away. He could guess the name of the sky city they approached: Stormhaven. In the past, he had heard Meric speak of the elv’in citadel in the sky. But what he did not understand was gates. Er’ril’s face hardened to granite. He knew one person who held these answers.

  “Come on,” Er’ril ordered. He led the way to the ladder up to the stern deck. Mama Freda had mentioned seeing Queen Tratal near the stern rail. The old woman was not wrong. As Er’ril clambered to the deck, he spotted the elv’in queen framed in crackles of blue energies, her arms raised high. Her silver-white hair was an angry cloud about her upturned face.

  “Tratal!” Er’ril barked. “What deceit is this?”

  The woman’s gaze slowly lowered from the skies. Her eyes flashed with lightning. “I will take the wit’ch to her true throne. Her blood will unite the elv’in’s past with its future. It is time Elena put aside her mud-wallowing, to accept her true heritage.”

  Er’ril kept his sword in hand. “I won’t allow you to kidnap her.”

  Queen Tratal’s heels settled to the planks as she lowered her hands. “And what do you think you can do?” She waved an arm as the Sunchaser swept through the gates, flanked by its escorts. “Our home flies leagues above the world. Beyond our walls lies only death. There is no escape.”

  Er’ril considered her words. In truth, there was no way down from the clouds without the cooperation of the elv’in. They were all dependent on their host’s good graces. Still, over the centuries, Er’ril had learned that another’s cooperation could often be bought at the point of a sword. He stepped forward, sword raised. With a queen as hostage . . .

  Tratal snapped her fingers, and a small bolt of lightning lanced from the energies about the ship. The blinding bolt struck Er’ril’s sword a
nd burned it from his hand.

  Er’ril gasped and shook away the burn. His sword clattered at his feet. Tol’chuk rumbled in menace, but Er’ril held him back.

  Queen Tratal remained ice. Retrieve your sword, plainsman. She turned her back on him, unconcerned by any threat he could offer. “It is time you accepted your fate as well.”

  Er’ril collected his sword. He held it a moment, then shoved it back into its sheath. “Elena will never cooperate with you.”

  Tratal swung around, leaning against the rail, oblivious to the energies racing along the wood. “She will when the fate of her dear friends is held hostage against her goodwill. She is a smart girl. Here all the wild magick in the world will not free her, only get you all killed.”

  Er’ril opened his mouth to argue, but he found no words. Elena would fight this imprisonment—but not at the cost of all their lives. Tratal was most correct. They were caught snugly in her icy web.

  Cursing his blind trust, Er’ril stared at the spread of Stormhaven as the flagship swept toward the docks. The vast elv’in city glowed under the golden sunlight. Already hundreds of residents flowed along bridges and appeared waving at windows. All had come to cheer the return of their queen. Trumpets blared, and drums began to beat cheerily. Several banners waved, bearing the sigil of an azure eagle against a silver background.

  Behind them, the mighty gates swung slowly closed, shutting out the storm beyond, cutting off any means of escape.

  “A handsome city, is it not?” Queen Tratal asked airily.

  Er’ril frowned at the bright citadel. “It’s as pretty a prison as I’ve ever seen.”

  ELENA FOLLOWED THE others along the wide bridge spanning the length of Stormhaven. Queen Tratal led the way, borne in a draped litter floating above the bridge. Energy crackled along the small vessel’s iron runners. The lithe woman lifted an arm and waved to her people as flower petals floated and swirled in the air, tossed from windows and doorways, scenting the thin air in sweet fragrances. Voices were raised in welcoming cheers, well-wishes, and song. Tratal acknowledged them all, nodding and waving.

  Elena scowled at the spectacle. Upon disembarking the Sunchaser, Tratal had invited Elena to accompany her aboard the cushioned litter, but Elena had refused. “I’ll walk with the other prisoners,” she had said coldly. Tratal had merely shrugged and climbed into the high seat.

  Upon first hearing of her imprisonment, Elena’s initial instinct had been to strike out, ripe with coldfire and wit’chfire. Who dared stand in her way? But Er’ril had talked her down from her sharp fury. Hers was a power of destruction and the laying of waste. Here, her magick would only lead to a tumbling death. Mama Freda had agreed with Er’ril, insisting that time and wise words might win, where sword and fiery magick failed. Elena had finally forced her bright anger down to a tight-lipped glower. With no other choice, she accepted her fate—for now. But as the parade led to the royal keep, Elena silently promised herself to find a way out of this gilded birdcage. The fate of Alasea depended on it.

  Er’ril marched at her side, keeping a watch on windows and doorways as they passed. Wennar and Mama Freda marched behind, flanked by a half dozen elv’in swordsmen. Tol’chuk and the other six d’warves of their party remained imprisoned aboard the Sunchaser, ransomed against their good behavior.

  So the group marched sullenly toward the spired citadel across the vast city. To either side, carefully crafted homes and shops lined the way. Lintels and beams were ornately carved. Windows were filled with colored glass. Everywhere Elena looked, the skills of the elv’in artisans were evident. The city was one extensive work of sculpted art. As much as her kidnapping rankled, she could not dismiss the wonder of the place.

  Children, barefoot and dressed in motley colors, danced on the ropes and thin spans bridging the skies. They raced and launched kites in various shapes and sizes, all creatures of the air, their shapes and colors both real and fanciful: sharp-eyed eagles, black-winged crows, osprey, terns, bats, butterflies, even colored clouds. The hues and shimmers flared in the bright sky, shining as brightly as the children’s songs and laughter.

  Unbidden, a smile came to Elena’s lips. One bold child ran up to her, dodging easily around Er’ril’s attempt to wave him off, he could be no older than five winters. He ran beside her, matching her stride, staring up at her with large blue eyes, his hair an unkempt gale of white-blond hair. “You don’t look like a king,” he said with a small frown. “Papa says you’re a king. Kings are supposed to be boys.”

  “I’m not a king, little one,” she said with an amused grin. “Just the grandchild of your ancient king.”

  He studied her with narrowed eyes, his mouth crooked as he pondered her words. “You still don’t look like no king,” he finally concluded, but he offered her his hand to take anyway.

  She accepted it. How could she refuse?

  He leaned a bit toward her, his eyes peeking past to Er’ril. “Papa says when I turn six, he’s gonna get me a sword for my birthingday party. Then I’ll guard you instead of him.”

  “I would be honored, little knight.”

  He nodded, satisfied with his future assignment. After a bit, he waved her down closer and kissed her quickly on the cheek. With his prize won, he ran away on light feet, singing at the top of his lungs. “I kissed the king! I kissed the king!”

  Smiling, Elena watched other children converge on him to hear his exciting tale. It seemed young ones were the same the world ’round. By now her mood had greatly improved. Still, she only had to look down to be reminded of her prison.

  Underfoot, the bridge was composed of slats of white ash. Each iron bolt in the wood glowed with the magick of the elv’in—magick keeping it afloat above the endless fall. Elena could smell the magick thick in the air—or was it just the scent of lightning? Below, between the slats, the storm roiled like a raging torrent. Lightning flared deep in its heart, thunder a constant rumble.

  Wennar moved up to her side. “Gul’gotha lies below.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  Wennar pointed to the north. Elena turned. Between a slate-roofed cobbler’s shop and a two-story chandlery, the view of the skies opened to the storm beyond the city’s towering walls. Thunderclouds churned and swirled. But this was not the sight that the d’warf leader indicated. Up from the whorling bank of black clouds, a solitary peak protruded, an island of steep cliffs and flinty outcrops riding an angry sea.

  “The Anvil,” Wennar said. “It’s a sacred mountain to our people. It is said in our histories that upon this peak, the first of our people were forged by the gods’ hammers.”

  Elena nodded. The peak’s flat summit did indeed appear like a giant’s blacksmith anvil. She watched as the storm swept up its slopes, the clouds trying to swamp the island in the sky. “We’re adrift,” Elena mumbled. She sensed no movement, but as she stared, the storm rode past the giant mountain. Stormhaven was on the move, passing over Gul’gotha.

  Er’ril moved closer. “How far are we from the coast?”

  “A half dozen leagues, I’d say.”

  “And how far from your homeland valley?”

  “A ten-day march. Fifty leagues or so.”

  As they continued following the queen’s litter, the view vanished behind a blue house trimmed in silver. Six leagues from the coast? The storm moved swiftly.

  Er’ril grumbled. “Then we’ll be over your valleys by morning.”

  “And well beyond after that,” Wennar added quietly.

  Er’ril glanced to Elena, his expression hard. She understood what was left unspoken. They must escape this very night, or they would be lost forever.

  Elena, her chest tight with worry, stared down between her boots. Deep in the whirling darkness, lightning lit the heart of the storm. How did one escape a prison in the sky? For the hundredth time, she wished she could consult her Aunt Fila and Cho. But the Blood Diary had been confiscated along with the Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder. Not that the book would be
any help. The moon would not grow full for several days. She would find only blank pages if she opened it now.

  As Wennar slipped back behind, Mama Freda took his place at Elena’s side. “I heard what the d’warf said,” the old healer whispered. “It leaves us little time to sway these cold-blooded sky dwellers.”

  “If we can’t sway them,” Elena said hotly, “I’ll burn their city from the sky.”

  Mama Freda glanced over at her. Though the lack of eyes made the woman’s expression difficult to read at times, now the healer’s shock was etched in every wrinkle. “You’d kill the boy who came a moment ago stealing a kiss.”

  Elena lowered her face with shame.

  Er’ril answered. “Elv’in only respect strength. Innocents are often killed in war.”

  “Perhaps.” Mama Freda’s next words were for Elena. “But can you slay them with your own hand, not accidentally, but willfully and with forethought?”

  Elena tightened her fingers into frustrated fists. “No,” she finally sighed. “No, I can’t.”

  “Good. I feared perhaps that I was aiding the wrong side in this war.”

  “It was just my anger speaking.”

  Mama Freda nodded and touched Elena’s shoulder. “Then heed me a moment, lass. There are ways to play this that don’t require fire and death.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tikal allows me to see and hear much that others would not wish known.”

  Er’ril stepped closer to Elena’s side, half huddling. “What have you learned?”

  “As we were off-loading from the Sunchaser, I overheard some sailors speaking privately. Rumors say that Elena will be forced to wed an elv’in prince as the moon rises tonight. Her bridemate will be announced at a feast with the sun’s setting.”

  Elena was aghast. Married? “I will never! I’ll refuse.”

  Mama Freda nodded. “I suspect that our lives and continued comfort will depend upon you acquiescing. Even words of marriage spoken under duress are recognized by the elv’in.”