Er’ril grabbed a fistful of the young man’s hair and yanked his head up, baring his neck toward the queen on her dais. Er’ril brought the dagger’s sharp edge to the prince’s throat. His own hot blood dribbled from his sliced arm, soaking the silver-blond hair of the defeated prince.
Er’ril turned to those gathered at the high table. The hall had grown silent. Er’ril stared hard at Queen Tratal. “I have defeated the suitor to Elena’s hand in honest battle. I have bloodied your champion. Do you accept my claim upon Elena now, or must I slay the blood of your kin? Must this young one die because of your pride?”
Queen Tratal still held her scepter aloft, energy crackling along its length. Her eyes were ice, her face unreadable.
Elena spoke up. “By your own law, Er’ril is the victor here. Please release him of the need to slay Prince Typhon. I can tell the prince’s heart has already been claimed by Princess Mela. Do not add sorrow atop sorrow.”
The energies began to die along the length of the queen’s scepter. “I cannot lose the king’s line.”
“And you will not. The king lives both in my brother and me—and will again in our future descendants. In exchange for the prince’s life, I give my word and promise that sometime our two family lines will be joined. The two royal houses will be one again.” Elena touched the queen’s arm. “But not today . . . not this night.”
The queen lowered her scepter. Energy faded from its red iron surface. She stared down at Er’ril. “By elv’in law, I declare the trial of ry’th lor to be ended. Er’ril of Standi is the victor. The hand of Elena Morin’stal is now claimed and sealed by blood.”
Er’ril bowed his head, accepting his victory. He climbed from Prince Typhon’s back and helped the young man stand. “Well fought,” he whispered in the prince’s ear.
Prince Typhon rubbed his neck where the dagger had been pressed and the fate of his life had hung. Er’ril tossed aside his dagger and offered his hand to the young elv’in. The prince stared blankly at Er’ril’s open palm.
In the past, Er’ril had seen many a defeated man unable to accept his opponent’s good graces, too prideful and angry.
But Typhon slowly lifted his good hand and took Er’ril’s grip. He bowed his head. “It seems I’ve much still to learn.”
Er’ril shook the man’s hand. “As does every man.”
Typhon released his hand and stepped aside. Er’ril moved toward the dais. The entire matter had yet to be completely resolved. He spoke for all the hall to hear. “With Elena’s hand now free, I ask that you let us forego the marriage and allow us passage to Gul’gotha below.”
Queen Tratal glanced down to Er’ril with confusion. “It seems you’ve misunderstood the trial of ry’th lor. You offered the challenge. Elena accepted it. You’ve proven the victor. As I said a moment ago, the seal has been forged in blood. It cannot be sundered.”
“What do you mean?” Elena asked, mirroring Er’ril’s own bewildered expression.
Queen Tratal stared back and forth between the two, then slowly sat down, shaking her head in defeat. “In the eyes of the elv’in, you’re already married. You’ve just had your ceremony.”
Elena turned, stunned, toward Er’ril.
Typhon clapped Er’ril on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”
WITH DAWN NOT far away, Elena stood at the balcony overlooking the city of Stormhaven. She was still dressed in her bedclothes, unable to sleep. After the fight between Er’ril and Prince Typhon, the floors of the great hall had been quickly wiped of the combatants’ blood, and the celebration of Elena’s marriage had begun in earnest. Servants marched out course after course of food and wine: thick soups filled with onions and lentils, roasted quail wings in jellied orange sauce, salads made of a tumble of flower petals, breads rich in cinnamon and baked with raisins, fruits of every variety sculpted in shapes to delight, smoked duck curried with spices that burned the tongue, and finally velvety smooth chocolates accented with sips of port wine.
But the entire meal was just a long blur to Elena. After the fighting, Er’ril had been taken to the city’s healers, along with Prince Typhon. Elena had yet to see him, even after the celebration ended and she was led to her rooms. Everyone assured her that Er’ril was fine and the healers of Stormhaven were the best. Her only consolation was that Mama Freda had gone with Er’ril. Elena trusted her skill, and as the party wound down to dancing and slow ballads played by minstrels in the balconies, Mama Freda had returned to report that Er’ril was mending well. “Dragon’s blood will make short work of that little scratch on his arm.” After passing the news, the old healer had left to return to Er’ril’s bedside with the assurance that she and Tikal would watch over him.
As the party ended, Queen Tratal led Elena from the hall. Tratal had hardly spoken more than a word to her during the long night of celebration, merely picking at her food, nodding to those courtiers who attempted to engage her in conversation. But once free of the hall, Tratal had stopped Elena. “I will hold you to your word, Elena Morin’stal. One day, our two houses will be joined.”
“You’ve waited countless generations,” she had answered. “What is one or two more?
Queen Tratal had just stared with those ice blue eyes.
Elena did not look away. “I will honor my word. There will come a day when our two houses are joined—of this I am sure—but it must never be by force. Only a hand freely given in love will unite the royal lines.”
The queen had then sighed, her mask of ice momentarily melting away. Her voice softened. “Love . . . For one so young, it is so easily spoken. But do you even know your own heart, Elena?” With those cryptic words, Queen Tratal had drifted away, leaving Elena to her guards. The climb to the tower suite was long, and at the top, Elena found no rest.
The queen’s words had nagged her. She was now married to Er’ril. And she did not know how she felt about it. On one hand, she knew it was merely a ceremonial act, and once free of the elv’in, it would mean nothing. But a part of her did not want it to mean nothing. She remembered the dance atop the tower, in Er’ril’s arms. She had never felt safer. Yet at the same time, she did not want her hand won upon the point of a blade, not even by Er’ril. There was too much unspoken between them. Until those words could be voiced aloud, Elena would never feel married. She did not need roses, rings, and flowing gowns of silk and pearls—only a quiet moment with Er’ril, a moment when the heavy silence between them could finally be broken.
But the thought of such a meeting terrified her to the core of her spirit.
Queen Tratal was right. She was not ready to face the secret hidden in her own heart. Not now, not yet. The wit’ch and woman in her were carefully balanced on a knife’s edge. It took all her spirit to define herself amid the powers raging in her blood. She lifted her hands to the stars. Even now the power sang in her blood, a chorus of wild energies that threatened to overwhelm. Like the city of Stormhaven imbedded in the heart of the raging storms, so Elena stood in the eye of her own power. Here no one could protect her, not even Er’ril. Her only wall against these wild forces was her own resolve and determination.
So how could she ever hope to share her heart with anyone? To open herself completely? That path she must not risk—not even for Er’ril.
Elena lowered her arms and leaned on the balcony’s balustrade.
Far below, Stormhaven was a spread of tiny lights: homes, shops, narrow streets. Above, a sprinkling of stars, so quiet, so peaceful, blind to the storm beyond the walls. But from her vantage high in the royal spire, she watched the flares of lightning brighten the churning black clouds, a pool of energies beyond imagination. There was power enough there to lift cities into the skies—or to lay waste to the same. Life and death were all a matter of balance. Elena knew this only too well.
To the left, the storm’s thunder grew louder, roaring now with the voice of giants. A sudden wind gusted forth to nip at the hems of her loose bedclothes. She shivered in the sudden cold. She wrapped her
arms around her body and stepped back toward the open doorway and her bed beyond. Pausing at the threshold, she turned back to the dark storm. The hairs at the nape of her neck quivered.
Something was wrong.
From the left, a huge fireball burst from the storm’s belly and arced high into the sky, like a meteor sailing back to the heavens. But it was not returning to the stars. It reached its zenith and began falling back downward—toward Stormhaven.
Trailing a fiery tail, the large flaming boulder crashed down into the city. The muffled crash seemed a small thing compared to the storm’s thunder, but the devastation was anything but small. The boulder punched through the city and set fire to all around it. Elena saw a four-story building, lit by the flames, topple into the ragged hole.
Distantly the strike of hundreds of gongs sounded the alarm from the city’s walls. Below, across the dark expanse, more lamps and lights flickered into existence as the city was shaken awake.
Elena again heard the telltale roar. She glanced up in time to see another flaming boulder belched forth from the storm—then another, and another.
From all directions, fiery arcs blazed across the night sky.
The door to her suite suddenly burst open behind her. Wennar and two of the elv’in guards tumbled inside the room.
“Stormhaven’s under attack!” Wennar blurted out. “Come! We must reach the ships!”
Elena fled the balcony. “The others?”
“They’re being gathered as we speak. Hurry, mistress.”
“What’s happening?”
Wennar shook his head. “We have no time to waste!”
Elena glanced back through the balcony doors. More and more flaming trails roared across the night sky. The strike of gongs became more strident. Distant explosions rumbled, shaking the ensconced wall lamps.
As Elena followed the d’warf toward the halls beyond, the floor canted under her feet, tilting abruptly. Caught off balance, Elena tumbled into Wennar’s arms.
He grabbed her, holding her steady as the floors continued to list at an ever-steepening angle. His eyes were wide with fear.
“Stormhaven falls!”
14
ABOARD THE SUNCHASER, Tol’chuk woke with the first explosion and was on his feet before the echoes had died down. He tumbled out the door of his cabin. Up and down the lower passageway, other doors banged open. Faces peered out in confusion.
The d’warf Magnam tugged a shirt over his bare chest and crossed to Tol’chuk. “What is going on?”
Crouched against the low beams, Tol’chuk shook his head. Distantly a low roaring could be heard. “Something be wrong.” Confirming this, strident gongs began to clang. Tol’chuk turned toward the door leading to the middeck just as it burst open.
A wild-eyed elv’in sailor waved them toward the open deck. “Stormhaven is under attack!”
Tol’chuk hurried forward, leading the d’warves and elv’in from their cabins. He clambered out to the open deck to find the winds had picked up. Free of the passage, his keen nose immediately picked up a trace of smoke upon the sharp breezes. Turning, he saw the source. A quarter league beyond the docks, flames danced high into the night air.
Magnam stepped to his side, gawking not at the burning city, but up at the sky. “What’s bloody happening?”
Tol’chuk looked up. A score of fiery trails arced across the night sky. He watched as one flaming boulder sailed past overhead and struck a steepled building, bounced off, then crashed into a bridge, smashing it to splinters as new fires sprouted.
“Maybe the captain knows what’s going on,” Magnam said, pointing toward the starboard rail.
Jerrick, temporary captain of the Sunchaser, stood with a long spyglass fixed to one eye. The elder remained steady as other flaming juggernauts struck the city, punching holes and setting homes and buildings ablaze. Tol’chuk followed the line of his spyglass toward the spires of the royal palace. With his keen og’re eyes, he discerned a flicker from the highest tower: a mirrored signal.
Jerrick lowered his spyglass and turned to those gathered around the deck. His voice boomed for all to hear. “Cast off the mooring lines! Send word to the rest of the ships! Free the skiffs! We’re to evacuate as many as we can from the fires!”
Elv’in sailors scurried to their posts. Ropes were tugged free and lines loosened. Sails tumbled down to snap in the steady wind. Along the harbor, other ships—both small and large—followed suit. A few drifted upward from their docks, their red iron keels glowing with energy.
By the rails, tarps were tugged from the smaller skiffs flanking the Sunchaser. Elv’in sailors scrambled to haul up the boats’ short masts and loosen the skiffs’ moorings.
After passing final orders to his crew, Jerrick crossed to Tol’chuk and the gathered d’warves. His eyes were worried, but his words were steady. “The word from the castle is to load you all into the Sunchaser’s lead skiff. I’m to take you to the palace to join your companions. The queen suspects the attack is not upon Stormhaven itself, but set against the wit’ch.”
“What then?” Tol’chuk asked.
Jerrick shook his head. “I am to take you to the palace. Those were my orders.” He led the way to the ship’s stern. Beyond the rail, the largest of the skiffs was being readied. Sails bloomed from the short mast.
A splintering crash sounded off the port side. Tol’chuk watched a neighboring thick-bellied supply ship crack in half. A flaming boulder had struck its hull and arced over the tip of the Sunchaser’s masts. The heat of its passage burned like a passing sun. The damaged supply ship, its sails aflame, tumbled from the sky. In the fiery light, the small figures of sailors could be seen falling to their deaths.
Grim-faced, Jerrick waved Tol’chuk and the others onto the skiff. “Get aboard. We must be under way.” As the d’warves clambered along the narrow gangway, the captain’s eyes turned to his city now, aglow with scores of fires. The city itself began to tilt, sinking into the storm around it. Distant screams and shouts echoed out to them.
Tol’chuk crossed the short way onto the skiff. Jerrick followed last, his lips bloodless and tight. He waved a sailor from the boat’s tiller and took the place himself. “I can manage on my own,” Jerrick said. “Attend your duties on the Sunchaser. I’ve left the first mate in charge.”
The elv’in sailor bowed, then scrambled back to the ship.
Once the last lines were loosened and the gangplank pulled in, the small skiff fell away from the Sunchaser. Its sails swelled, and it hove in a sharp turn toward the burning city, spiraling upward.
By now, a good quarter of the city was ablaze. Smoke choked the skies. Tol’chuk watched as a flaming boulder exploded out from the city’s center, punching through from below and shooting into the sky. Splintered wood cascaded upward, catching fire and showering back down upon the homes and buildings. New blazes blew into existence.
Numb, Tol’chuk settled to his haunches near the mast. The d’warves huddled in smaller groups in the cramped boat. Magnam scuttled over to join Tol’chuk. “So much for sneaking up on Gul’gotha unawares,” he mumbled. “Someone knows we’re here.”
Now high enough, the skiff glided over the destruction below. Wafts of stinging smoke struck the small boat like rogue waves. Jerrick guided the craft with skill, shying from the worst flames and watching the sky for danger from above. Still the heat grew searing, and the smoky fumes watered the eyes and singed the nose.
Ahead, the spires of the royal palace drew nearer. Several of the towers listed like drunken sailors, threatening to topple at any moment. Tol’chuk glanced behind him.
Jerrick manned his post, his pale face smeared with soot and sweat. He, too, saw the danger, but maintained his stoicism, his sharp face fixed with determination. The captain’s gaze flickered to the flash of a signal fire from one of the listing towers. The silver light flickered in code.
In response, Jerrick leaned his shoulder into the tiller, and the skiff swept around toward the threatened to
wer. “Your companions are in there,” Jerrick said calmly, nodding forward.
Tol’chuk swallowed. The spire continued to tilt, falling slowly, as if the flow of time had slowed. They would not make it in time.
Jerrick tried to aim the skiff on a steady and swift course, but the fires wreaked havoc on the winds. The swirl of cold and hot air created pocket tempests. Jerrick was forced to cut back and forth, buffeted by errant gusts.
As the captain fought the tiller, a roar like a thousand raging dragons sounded below.
“Grab hold tight!” the captain bellowed.
Tol’chuk dug his claws into the rail as another boulder shot upward from below, passing no more than a stone’s throw from the starboard side, a monstrous sun shooting past their tiny ship. D’warves scrambled away, crying out. The small skiff was pelted from below by splintered debris.
Tol’chuk turned forward in time to see a flaming section of a demolished house fly up in front of the skiff. It flipped end over end, throwing off burning shingles. Jerrick angled the skiff up and away and avoided a collision by less than a handspan.
But they did not pass the flying house unscathed. A handful of flaming shingles rained over the skiff. The d’warves kicked and swatted the fiery bits off the deck, but one shingle struck the sail, burning through it and setting the sailcloth aflame.
Tol’chuk shoved to his feet and patted at the flames, scorching the hair from his fingers and arms, but the fire spread quickly, eating away their only sail. Other flames spat up around the rails.
“The hull’s on fire!” Jerrick yelled.
As Tol’chuk and the others fought the flames, the skiff went into a steep tumble down toward the burning city.
ELENA RACED WITH Wennar down the spiraling stairs that led to the main keep of the elv’in palace. The steps were canted at a unnatural angle, as if this were all a fevered dream—but it was not. The air reeked of smoke. The heat was stifling in the tight stairwell. Screams echoed from afar. Through narrow windows in the tower, they caught passing glimpses of the destruction. Fires burned throughout the city. Whole sections were just cratered ruins.