As he reached for the strings once again, a long crash echoed nearby, a hatch banging open. Voices interrupted the quiet of the night. “How many?” a rough voice barked.
Two figures appeared from belowdecks and crossed to the rail not far from Meric. Holding the neck of the lute, Meric stood, so as not to appear to be eavesdropping. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
The taller of the two glanced his way. It was Kast. The broad-shouldered Bloodrider nodded to him. Kast’s long, dark hair was a braided mane down his back. The tattoo of a winged dragon shadowed his cheek and neck. “We’ve just heard word from the council,” Kast said brusquely, barely able to suppress his anger. “Did you hear?”
Meric shook his head.
The slim woman standing beside Kast slipped her small hand into the larger man’s. Meric noted how Kast squeezed her palm and ran his thumb along the tender web between her thumb and finger. A casual gesture. Probably neither was even aware of the small signal of affection and support between them.
Sy-wen nodded her chin out to sea. “My mother sent an emissary. It seems Elena has forced the council to make a stand.”
Meric stared over the seas. In the far distance, he could barely make out the humped shadow of the Leviathan, one of the living behemoths that housed the mer’ai while they traveled under the seas.
“She gave them a choice,” Sy-wen continued. “Agree with her plan or leave this night.”
Meric’s brows rose and he was unable to suppress a shocked grin. It seemed Elena was growing into her role as leader and wit’ch. In her veins ran the blood of ancient elv’in kings. It seemed their colors were finally shining forth.
“The high keel had already given his support,” Kast said. “The Dre’rendi fleet will stay.”
“As will the mer’ai,” Sy-wen said. “Master Edyll convinced my mother that, with the assault on the island, there was no further hiding for the mer’ai.”
“But what of the others?” Meric asked. He wondered what his own mother’s decision would be. “I had better return to the Sunchaser and ensure the elv’in fleet will not abandon the cause.”
“No need,” Kast said. “I heard from Hunt, the high keel’s son, that the elv’in will stay. It seems they mean to keep your ancient king’s bloodline safe, whatever her decision.”
Meric nodded, but a part of him was suspicious of his own mother’s quick decision. Had his stories reached some part of her heart? Or was there another agenda hidden behind Queen Tratal’s generosity? “What of the others?”
Kast frowned. “May the Mother curse them all for their cowardice,” he spat.
Sy-wen touched the large man’s shoulder. “Before even the sun set, practically the entire delegation from the coastal townships left. I imagine most who yet remain will wait to hear Elena out in the morning, but who can say for sure?” She pointed out to a flotilla of sails, lanterns in the rigging. The ships were drifting away from the island. “Like them, more may flee during the night.”
Meric frowned. Bloodriders, mer’ai, elv’in—all outsiders to the lands of Alasea and the only ones willing to fight alongside a wit’ch. No wonder these lands were conquered five centuries ago.
“What now?” Meric asked.
Kast shook his head. “We wait until dawn.” The Bloodrider’s hard gaze surveyed the seas, as if daring anyone else to abandon the island. Sy-wen leaned into the man’s embrace, tempering his hardness with her softness. Together, they watched the seas.
Meric drifted a few steps back to his post by the ship’s prow. Nearby, Tok’s bright eyes reflected the glow of the moon just now rising. Meric had promised the boy a song, and he would not disappoint.
Still standing, leaning against the rail, Meric swung the lute up and settled the instrument against his belly. He drew his nails across the strings. The music seemed so loud against the quiet backdrop of the softly creaking boat and the gentle lap of water against the hull. Meric frowned slightly. Even this brief scatter of notes sounded unusually strident, almost scolding.
Tok sat up straighter in his blanket, also noting the change in the lute’s character. Meric felt the gazes of Sy-wen and Kast swing in his direction.
Meric positioned his fingers and began playing, trying to recapture its usual bittersweet song. But all that sang forth were strident chords, discordant and frantic. Meric continued, trying to discern an answer to the strange music.
His strumming became more vigorous, not of his own accord, but because the music demanded it of him. Behind the hard music, it was almost as if he could hear the beat of the drum and the strike of steel on steel. What was this strange song? Meric found his skin heating as he played. Sweat beaded his forehead on this cool evening.
“Meric?” Kast mumbled.
Meric barely heard him. His fingers danced along the long neck of the lute; his nails thrashed the strings. Then from behind the music a whispery voice arose. “I have waited for so long . . .”
Startled, Meric almost dropped the lute, but it would not let him. He continued to play. It was as if he were unconnected to his own body: he could not control his fingers or limbs. The lute had somehow cast a spell over him. The voice continued, stronger now, familiar, “Come to me . . .”
“Who is that?” Kast said, reaching for the lute, seeming to sense Meric’s distress.
“No!” Meric barked out. “Not yet!”
The speaker now all but sang through the notes of the lute, a bell among reeds now, as clear as if the speaker was standing on the planks with them. “Bring me the lute. All will be lost without it.”
Meric’s eyes grew wide as he recognized the singer behind the notes, but it was impossible. He had helped bury her himself. “N-Nee’lahn?”
“Bring me my lute, elv’in. It is the only hope against the Grim.”
“Where are you?” Meric gasped out.
“Western Reaches . . . the Stone of Tor. Come quickly . . .” The voice began to fade. Meric’s fingers began to slow. He tried to force his fingers to quicken again, but Meric could sense the spell weakening.
“Nee’lahn!” Meric called out, struggling with his fingers. The chords began crashing apart, strident notes becoming chaos.
One last message strangled through the noise. “Break the Gates! Or all will be lost!”
Then Meric’s fingers spasmed. The lute fell from his fingers. But Tok dove forward and caught the instrument in his blanket before it struck the planks. Meric sagged to his knees, weak.
Kast and Sy-wen approached him slowly. Sy-wen reached toward him, but didn’t touch him. “Are you all right?”
Meric nodded.
“Who was that?” Kast asked.
Meric ignored the question. He was not ready to answer that yet, not even to himself. He turned to stare up at them. “Can you get me to the castle? I must speak to Elena. Now.”
Sy-wen glanced to Kast. The Bloodrider nodded. The two backed to the center of the deck. Kast stripped out of his boots, breeches, and shirt. Soon he was standing, bare chested, wearing only a loincloth.
As Sy-wen neatly folded the Bloodrider’s clothes on the planks, Meric drew himself up and retrieved the lute from Tok. He watched Sy-wen approach and stand before Kast. The Bloodrider leaned down and deeply kissed Sy-wen. It was a kiss of good-bye.
After a long moment, they broke apart. Meric saw the glint of tears on Sy-wen’s cheeks. She reached toward Kast’s cheek and touched the dragon tattoo on his neck. “I have need of you,” she mumbled softly.
Kast jerked under her touch; then the two of them were lost in a dark explosion of black scale, silver claw, and wing. A trumpet of triumph flowed from the whirling flesh. Soon a massive black seadragon crouched atop the deck, silver claws dug deep into the planks. Its neck was stretched toward the skies, silver fangs glinting as long as a man’s forearm. Its triumphant roar filled the skies.
Tok gasped beside Meric. The boy had never seen Kast transform into the dragon Ragnar’k before.
Atop the beast’s ba
ck, Sy-wen sat perched. She held out a hand toward Meric as the dragon rolled a single black eye toward him.
“Grab Kast’s garments,” she said. “Let us be off.”
2
ER’RIL CLIMBED DOWN the long ladder from the observatory loft to the library floor. He bore a satchel of books over one shoulder and a small oil lamp with a short taper. He had fled the immense stacks of the library for the solitary quiet of the Edifice’s observatory. Amid the old brass scopes and prismed lenses once used to study the stars, Er’ril had pored through the ancient texts. But the reward for his strained eyes was meager. He had found no mention of the Weirgates in any book or scroll. All he could find was an obscure reference to the mythic Weir itself.
But what did it mean? He was no scholar. He knew swords, horses, and little else. Still, he did not want to fail Elena. He had seen her eyes shine with determination when she had heard of the danger faced by her Aunt Mycelle and the others. A new Weirgate, somewhere near Castle Mryl in the north. Why up there? Er’ril had hoped for some answer in these dusty shelves, some way to help guide Elena on the best course. But he found only more mystery.
The Weir.
The single reference mentioned the elemental energy inherent in the Land. The ancient writing theorized this elemental energy could not exist without an opposite in nature. All the natural world had two sides. Reflections, one of another. Mirror images. The sun had the moon. Fire and ice. Light and dark. Even the twin magickal spirits, Chi and Cho, were reflections of each other: male and female, a duality that produced a balance in all things. The text imagined an opposite to the Land’s power. Where elemental magicks encompassed all facets of nature, this other power would reflect all that was unnatural. The scholar named this mythic power the Weir.
Er’ril stepped from the ladder to the library floor with a shudder. Personal experience had proved the Weir to be anything but myth. He had been drawn into the ebon’stone statue of the Wyvern Weirgate, into the Weir itself. Though he remembered nothing of the experience, he knew the memory was buried there somewhere—but his mind had walled it away for his own sanity. Er’ril did not fight this. He suspected that if light should ever illuminate that corner of his mind, he would be lost forever.
Striding the long length of the narrow library, Er’ril placed his oil lamp and satchel of books beside the white-robed Brother who had helped him research the Weir.
With spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, the old scholar looked up. “Were the volumes of any use?”
“I’m not yet sure, Brother Ryn. I need to dwell on what I’ve read.”
The shaven-headed man nodded his understanding. “Only in that way is wisdom ever attained.” The elderly Brother returned to the crumbling scroll atop the table. “The other scholars and I will continue to peruse the shelves and see what else we can learn for you.”
“Thank you, Brother Ryn.” Er’ril bowed and made ready to depart.
But the scholar spoke again, stopping him. “These Weirgates . . . You described them as lodestones of magick, capable not only of drawing magick into them, but persons of magick, too.”
“So the darkmage Greshym explained them to me.”
“Hmm . . .” the Brother said. “And the Weir is also the well from which the Dark Lord draws his power.”
Er’ril nodded. It was a secret he had managed to drag out of Greshym when last they had met.
“And are these Gates the only way to access the Weir?”
“Greshym seemed to think so. He said the four ebon’stone statues were somehow linked together, creating a portal to the Weir.”
Brother Ryn glanced up at Er’ril, removing his spectacles. The man’s eyes were hoary with age, but a sharp intelligence shone through his cloudy orbs. “Then it would seem prudent to find these four Gates and destroy them before confronting the Dark Lord directly.”
Er’ril stared back at the old scholar. What the old man asked sounded so simple and plain, but in fact was impossible. He pictured the Wyvern Gate flying off from the tower heights. It had been headed back to Blackhall with his brother, Shorkan. But what of the other three ? No one knew where they were hidden, and even if they could be found, how did you destroy such monstrous creations?
The scholar returned to his reading. “Knowledge is the answer, Er’ril of Standi,” he mumbled, as if reading the plainsman’s mind.
Er’ril nodded and turned to leave.
Brother Ryn, though, had one final word. “You are simply missing the key.”
Er’ril glanced over his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“For the past fortnight, I have sensed that a piece of this puzzle is still missing. Discover that and I suspect a way will open.”
“What piece? What do you mean?”
“The unifying element. Some fact to bring the Gates, the Weir, and this font of the Dark Lord’s power into one clear picture. We are looking at individual pieces, while the whole portrait still remains blank to us. If you can find this last piece, all will come clear.”
“That’s easier spoken than done, Brother Ryn.”
“As is the path to all wisdom,” the old scholar said and waved him away, as if dismissing a student. “The moon rises. Go to your wit’ch.”
Er’ril bowed one last time and strode toward the doors to the library. His hand came to rest on the hilt of his sword. He’d had enough mysteries for one evening. It was time to be a simple liegeman again. Elena had a long night ahead, and he would be at her side when she opened the Blood Diary.
Casting aside his worries, Er’ril strode through the halls and stairs of the Edifice to the westernmost tower, the Wit’ch’s Dagger. He mounted the stairs two at a time and climbed toward the tower chamber where Elena rested.
As he marched, he felt a small twinge build in his right leg, where he had borne the thrust of a goblin’s poisoned blade while protecting Elena. The ache remained like a sour memory. Halfway up the tower, Er’ril was forced to slow his pace to single steps as the pain grew.
It was at these times that Er’ril felt his mortality. With the book bequeathed to Elena, its gift of immortality had been transferred to her. With the spell gone from his own body, Er’ril had expected his hair to grow quickly gray and his limbs to become ricketed with arthritis. Instead, he aged at a normal pace, a pace which no man could see when studied day by day; it could only be perceived upon reflection over winters. But here and now, with his leg aching, he felt the march of time more sharply. Er’ril continued on with a sigh. Finally, he reached the top of the stairs, his lips in a tight grimace. He could hardly hide his limp from the two guards stationed to either side of the iron-bound oaken doors.
The guards straightened their stances as he approached.
“How fares Elena?” he asked.
The guard on the right answered. “The old healer has been watching over her. She gave the wit’ch a draught of dreamweed to help her rest until moonrise.”
Er’ril nodded and strode toward the door. The guard on the left knocked softly, then pushed the door open for the plainsman.
The room beyond was dimly lit. Only a scatter of thick white candles flickered on the mantel above a hearth glowing with the coals from a tiny fire. The only other illumination came from the row of tower windows. Long and wide, they revealed the western night skies and the flow of bright stars. In one window, the edge of the moon could be seen cresting from the sea.
In the dimness, the clearing of a throat drew Er’ril’s attention to a cushioned chair by the hearth. An old woman dressed in a dark shawl and robe rested with a book in her lap. Her hair, braided and wound like a nest atop her head, matched the gray of her robe. She smiled softly at Er’ril as he turned. “She rests in the next room,” Mama Freda whispered. “I was about to rouse her, as I see the moon rises.”
“It does, but let her sleep a few moments more. The moon has yet to grow full in the skies. She has a long night ahead and a hard morning tomorrow.”
“So I’ve heard. The fate
of Alasea rests on her decision.” This statement brought a broader smile to the woman’s burnished features, as if the idea amused her. “Such small shoulders to carry the world.”
“She’ll manage,” Er’ril said sternly.
Her smile turned wry. “Oh, with you at her side, I don’t doubt it.”
Er’ril found himself rankling slightly at the attitude of the healer. “Elena is strong,” he said, as if ending the discussion.
Mama Freda shifted in her chair, settling deeper into the cushions. The movement triggered a squeak of protest from the animal perched on her shoulder. It was Tikal, the golden-maned tamrink from her native jungles. Its tail, ringed in black-and-copper fur, was wrapped around the woman’s neck. Its tiny bare face, framed in a fiery mane, was filled by its two large black eyes. “Elena is strong . . . strong . . .” it chittered, mimicking Er’ril.
The woman calmed the beast with a touch and a scratch behind an ear. The animal doubled as both companion and eyes to the old healer. Born without eyes herself, she had been bonded to the tamrink long ago and saw only with the beast’s vision. Right now, Tikal’s attention remained with Er’ril. “Strong, you say?” Mama Freda mocked. “You did not help the lass to her bed or double the dosage of dreamweed just to get her to slumber. She bears a great burden.”
“I’m well aware—”
“Are you now? Then a little more support than just a curt word or nod might ease her heart a little.”
Er’ril sagged slightly under the accusation. In truth, ever since the dance atop this very tower, he had tried to keep his relationship with Elena at arm’s length. He could not keep his true heart from showing. Elena did not need that burden.
“Did you know that tomorrow is also Elena’s birthingday?” Mama Freda asked.
“What?” Er’ril could not hide the shock in his voice.