Wit''ch Gate (v5)

  “An illusion,” Joach said, disbelieving. “Like Shaman Parthus.”

  “No, I’m afraid the shaman was just an ordinary dreamer, dealing with illusion. But you are a sculptor. Changes wrought with your magick are real. The youth I stole from you is permanent.”

  Joach sensed the truth to Greshym’s words. He pointed the staff at the darkmage. “Undo it!”

  Greshym stepped back. He held a hand up, not to ward against Joach’s threat, but to admire the beauty of his own youth. “It’s simply wonderful. Youth, more than gold or power, is the truest treasure in life.”

  Joach reached for the dark energies in the staff. Though he may have aged, he could still wield magick. He raised the weapon, but to his horror, he found the wood empty.

  Greshym smiled sadly at him. “I told you I’d give you the staff, Joach, and any magick it contained, but I’m afraid my little spell was quite a drain on energy. I needed all its magick to wreak this transformation.”

  “You tricked me.”

  Greshym waved his hand dismissively. “I played to your own base desires. You didn’t come here to save your world. That was just an excuse. You came because you lusted for the staff and its dark magick.”

  Joach’s legs trembled. He wanted to rail against Greshym’s words, but he didn’t have the strength to put up a false face. Deep in his heart, Joach knew the darkmage spoke truthfully. He hung his head.

  Greshym sighed. “I do feel like I’ve sorely used you. So let me grant you this additional boon—for free, from the generosity of my youthful heart.”

  Joach glanced up.

  Greshym waved an arm. “The answer to your problem is here. It does not require black magick only your own, Joach. You’ve always been the answer—you and that bit of a dream shaped like a girl.”

  Joach closed his eyes. “Kesla is gone, consumed by the Weir.”

  “Oh, come now, since when can a dream be destroyed? Did the original Shiron die after the battle with Ashmara? As long as the desert lives, so does the dream.”

  Joach drew himself up on his staff, hope flaring.

  “You’re a sculptor. This is the dream desert. Draw this girl back to the sands.”

  Joach blinked. “I can do that?”

  Greshym rolled his eye. “Oh, how I’d love to train you. You’re so unmolded.” He then sighed and spoke more soberly. “Of course you can resurrect her . . . if you concentrate hard enough.”

  Joach remembered Shaman Parthus’ warning about the figments of the desert: if you stare too long, they can become real. He faced Greshym. “But how can bringing Kesla back help? She failed last time.”

  Greshym stared at him for a long time. “I think I’ve told you enough. If you want to savor a victory here, then figure out the rest by yourself.” The darkmage stepped away, lifting an arm, ready to depart.

  “Wait!”

  “Look around you, Joach; look around you.” Then he was gone.

  Joach felt the ember of hope burn away. What good would resurrecting Kesla accomplish? She was dream. If the desert died, so did she, and Joach could not bear to watch her die a second time.

  He leaned on his staff and searched the desert. Underfoot, the sands were black with the stain of the basilisk. He stared out and saw the darkness spreading farther and farther into the glowing desert. It was close to being entirely consumed. Joach turned away and stared at his toes, defeated.

  Then realization dawned inside him, burning away all emotions, hollowing him out, leaving only cold horror. He fell to his knees. Somewhere far away, he heard harsh laughter.

  Curse you, Greshym.

  Joach now understood the role Kesla and he were meant to play. He dropped the staff across his knees and covered his face with one hand. What was asked was too hard. Not this price.

  Rocking in the sand, Joach knew he had no choice, but he could not bring himself to start. He shut out everything and pictured Kesla’s violet eyes—the same shade as an oasis pool at midnight—and imagined her skin, as soft as the finest sand and the color of burnt copper. He remembered her lips, so soft against his, her touch so gentle and warm, her curves so inviting to melt into. He touched the love in his own heart, still fresh, still raw from its recent loss. He knew his love had been shared.

  “Sir?” a voice spoke before him.

  Joach jerked back and saw a sight that quaked his being. Kesla stood before him, leaning over, an arm outstretched.

  “Can you tell me where I am?” Kesla stared around the blackened landscape. “I’ve lost my friends.” She touched her forehead. “We were in the Southwall.”

  Joach used his staff to regain his feet. “Kesla.”

  Her name spoken by a stranger clearly startled her. “Sir, do I know you?”

  Joach smiled sadly at the wary glint to her eyes. No matter the circumstance, it was wonderful to see her again. He stared and willed all his love toward her.

  Take all my love from me, he prayed, or I won’t have the strength to do what I must.

  Concentrating with all his heart, he felt a part of his spirit drain out of him, giving substance to what his pained imaginings had wrought. He sent everything in him toward the figment of his love. As he did so, she seemed to grow more solid, more detailed. He saw the sweat that beaded her brow, the scared tension in her stance; then he saw a glint of recognition. She stepped nearer, staring back into his eyes.

  “Joach?”

  He closed his eyes to hold back the tears. “No,” he said with a hoarse choke. He did not want her to know him.

  “It is you!” Kesla closed the space between them. He felt the warmth of her presence.

  He opened his eyes, and tears flowed down his face, hot and burning. “Kesla . . .”

  She leaned into him, reaching her arms around him, pressing her soft cheek against his. “Oh, Joach, I thought I had lost you!”

  Joach stared over her shoulder to the spreading black stain of corruption. Kesla loved the desert.

  Still, Joach hesitated. He pulled back and stared into her eyes one last time. “I love you, Kess. I always will.”

  She smiled and hugged him back to her, tight and forever. “I love you, too.”

  Joach closed his eyes and willed the blade to appear in his hand: a long dagger, with an edge so fine it sliced without pain. In this dreamscape, anything was possible. Joach held Kesla tight, willing a lifetime of love into her—then drove the blade through her heart.

  He felt a small gasp escape her, and her grip tightened on him. He held her tight. Blood poured over the blade’s hilt, over his hand, and drained into the black sand at their feet.

  “Joach . . . ?”

  “Shush, my love. It’s only a dream.”

  Joach kept his eyes closed, holding her as she slowly sagged against him. Tears flowed until he felt her last breath on his cheek, and still he did not release her. He stood for an untold length of time, then finally opened his eyes.

  The pool of blood at his feet had washed away the stain from the sands. Like the black pool upon which Ashmara had stood, the darkness here was vanquished by the purity of Kesla’s blood. Under him, the sands glowed bright again, and as he watched, the miracle spread, cleansing the sand in all directions, driving the basilisk’s touch from the elemental desert.

  Joach, too heavy of heart to stand any longer, sagged to the ground, cradling Kesla’s limp form in his lap. He brushed back a strand of hair from her face and wept.

  “You did it, Kesla. You saved your desert.”

  24

  CROUCHED ON THE stone arm of the manticore, Tol’chuk stared at the skies. The moon had almost set; only its edge still gleamed above the jagged horizon. Closer, the ghostly apparition from the book had grown hazy, weakening with the moon’s departure.

  “We must hurry!” Fila said.

  Er’ril stood before the ebon’stone boulder. His face was ruddy from exertion, his forehead slick with sweat. He raised the ax once more and drove it down upon the boulder. Iron rang brightly against the s
tone, but it did no harm. Er’ril hefted the ax again, its edge now chipped and dulled from his previous assaults.

  “It’s no use,” Wennar said. “Only the Try’sil could hope to shatter it.” The d’warf glanced accusingly in Tol’chuk’s direction.

  Tol’chuk looked down.

  “Elena!” Er’ril called.

  “I’m still here,” she answered, her voice floating out of the stone. “But I don’t know for how much longer. The magickal protection wears thin. Already I feel the pull of the Weir. Once Cho’s magick dies, I won’t be able to stop it from claiming me.”

  Tol’chuk closed his eyes. There had to be an answer. Er’ril had spent his brute force, Fila had sought an answer in the spiritual plane, and Wennar had simply accepted defeat. What role did he play? The Heart of his people had guided him to the wit’ch. His father’s shade had pointed him to Gul’gotha, and the Bane had led him to the Manticore Weirgate.

  And now Tol’chuk sat on his haunches—useless. What was he supposed to do? He had all these fragmented bits, and he knew some answer lay among them, but only if he could fit them into proper order.

  He clenched a clawed fist in frustration. He wore the face of the Dark Lord, proof of his cursed lineage. This thought kept him from being able to think clearly. It blanketed him with a sense of doom. He thrust it back now. He would not accept such a fate.

  Reaching to his thigh pouch, Tol’chuk ripped it open and tore out the chunk of heartstone. He held it up to the moon’s light, staring at the black Bane hidden inside the ruby stone. What be the meaning? Why has the Land cursed my people? Why has it led me here?

  Elena’s voice called from the stone. “Er’ril, I can’t hold on . . .” Her voice faded.

  “Elena!” Er’ril called.

  Tol’chuk turned, knowing all was about to be lost. He gripped the heartstone and stared at the boulder. A seed of realization struck him. The Heart of his people was a ruby stone holding something black at its heart, and the Weirgate, with Elena inside, was a black stone holding something ruby. The symmetry had to have meaning. But what? What was the Land’s purpose in putting the Bane in the stone? Why have it feed on his people’s spirits and leave the stone dead and without magick?

  Tol’chuk blinked, then burst to his feet. “Without magick!” he yelled.

  Er’ril glanced over his shoulder.

  Tol’chuck lifted the Heart of his people. “It be without magick! The Bane killed it!”

  Er’ril frowned, wiping his brow.

  Tol’chuk rushed forward. “The Land did not curse our people! It gave us the tool to avenge my ancestor’s betrayal!” He recalled the tale of Mad Mimbly, the miner who had first discovered heartstone. In his ramblings, the d’warf had claimed that only heartstone held the power to defeat the coming darkness.

  Er’ril moved to block him, but Tol’chuk let his sudden surety guide him. He knocked Er’ril aside.

  “Help me!” Elena called, her voice a faint whisper trailing away.

  Tol’chuk raised his chunk of heartstone over his head. “Without magick, the Weir has no hold over the Heart!” With all the strength in his og’re shoulders, Tol’chuk slammed the heartstone into the black boulder.

  The resulting explosion flung him back, slamming him into Er’ril and sending them both tumbling. A scream pierced the night, echoing out into the mountains.

  Tol’chuk sat up. Atop the stone palm, the boulder lay in a shattered ruin. But it was no longer ebon’stone. Piled and broken atop the palm was pure heartstone.

  Er’ril jumped to his feet and rushed to the piled debris, climbing and kicking his way through ruby rubble. “Elena!”

  Tol’chuk lifted his hand. The Heart was still gripped in his claws, unharmed. He lifted the jewel, and it burst into a blazing glow. Startled, Tol’chuk almost bobbled it from his fingers, but then gripped tighter. It had been restored! He lifted it higher. Even the Bane had vanished!

  “Elena!” Er’ril’s tortured scream drew him from the stone.

  The plainsman crouched amid the ruby rubble. He bent and lifted a pale figure from out of the debris. It was Elena. Er’ril turned and faced them. She hung limp in his arms.

  “She’s dead!”

  MERIC STOOD AT the edge of Tor Amon. He had kept his vigil all night, searching the dark lake for any sign of Kral. Earlier, the snowstorm had blown itself out, except for occasional gusts that carried a few flakes. But he had refused to leave the lake until dawn. He had to be sure.

  The lake’s surface had settled back to its placid, glassy sheen, snow banked high along its sides. The only evidence of the great arch was a few shattered chunks of broken granite poking above the water.

  The fall of the Citadel had been sudden and rapid.

  After leaving Kral’s side, he and the others had fled down the stairs, just reaching the base when a violent quake shook the entire structure. Kral’s last words had proven true. With the shattering of the arch, the group had been tossed back to the real world. Free, they had raced across the narrow bridge to the forests beyond, fleeing the huge waves that washed the shores as massive chunks of granite crashed into the deep lake.

  The others—Mogweed, Nee’lahn, and Tyrus—were hidden in a nearby cave, warming by a strong fire. Meric glanced over his shoulder and made out the small glow of their hearth. He also noticed the eastern skies had paled, stars vanishing with the approach of dawn.

  The plan was to head out with the rising sun, to escape over the pass before another storm came and closed the upper mountains completely. Earlier, Tyrus had used his silver coin and contacted Xin aboard the Stormwing. The ship would meet them beyond the Northwall, though there seemed to be some problem with the Stormwing that Xin couldn’t fully explain—adding another reason not to delay here.

  It left little time to mourn lost friends.

  Sighing, Meric surveyed the lake one last time and headed back to the small camp. He trudged through the snow. At least there was no sign of d’warves. They must have all fled in a panic with the collapse of the Citadel.

  Meric climbed up the icy slope to the cave, drawn to the warmth and light.

  Tyrus stood guard near the entrance. He did not even bother asking if Meric had spotted any sign of Kral. “It was a fool’s errand,” the man had stated earlier. “The mountain man is gone.”

  Meric could not fault Tyrus’ assessment, but the prince had not shared the cellar under Shadowbrook with the mountain man. Both Kral and Meric had been tortured by the d’warf lord Torwren. Kral had come to rescue Meric, but the mountain man had ended up paying the ultimate price, while Meric had escaped with nothing but burns and bad dreams. Meric owed Kral. Guilt had forced Meric to search for a sign of the man, for some slim chance.

  But at the end, Tyrus was right. It was a fool’s errand.

  Nee’lahn looked with sympathy upon him. “I will write a song of him,” she said softly. “Of his sacrifice. He’ll live on in my music.”

  Meric smiled weakly. “Someday you’ll have to play it at Castle Mryl—for Kral’s people, when they return from their centuries of wandering.”

  She nodded. The babe in her arms slept soundly after the long, loud night.

  Meric settled to a seat next to Mogweed. “So I expect you’ll be returning to the forests of the Western Reaches.”

  Mogweed shrugged, staring sullenly into the flame.

  Settling to a cup of weak tea, Meric warmed his chilled bones. Slowly the skies continued to brighten, and after a while, Tyrus called for them to prepare for the day’s march.

  Meric stretched his legs and shouldered his pack. He stared as the sun’s first rays pierced the horizon. At his side, Mogweed suddenly collapsed, a fist clutched to his chest. Meric was closest and hurried to his aid.

  Mogweed was down on his hands and knees.

  Meric reached for him. “Mogweed . . .?”

  A growl escaped the man, feral and wild. The man shoved back and rose. “I’m not Mogweed.”

  “Then who—?”
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  The man turned to the rising sun. “Fardale.” Though the man’s face was the same, there was no doubt a change had occurred. This man carried himself differently. His eyes were sharp and quick.

  Nee’lahn and Tyrus joined him.

  “Fardale? How?”

  The man scowled. “More of my brother’s mischief. Mycelle’s snake. It’s fused us in some strange manner.”

  “And Mogweed?”

  Fardale wiped his hands on his shirt in disgust. “Though I can’t feel him, he’s still in there, where I was a moment ago: locked in a prison without bars, watching all transpire while you’re held helpless.”

  “But what made the switch occur?” Nee’lahn asked.

  “I had no control of it; neither did Mogweed.”

  Meric spoke up. “Mycelle’s paka’golo was attuned to the moon. And you appeared with the first glint of the sun. Hmm . . . I wonder . . .”

  Fardale stared at him, clearly not understanding.

  Meric glanced to the rising sun. “I suspect that during the day you’ll control this body, but at night, Mogweed will take over again.”

  Fardale’s expression grew ill. “If true, I must find a way to break this spell.”

  “And I’m sure Mogweed will feel the same way.” Meric snorted. “I guess you’ll both be staying with us a little longer.”

  Tyrus shook his head and stomped away. “Then let’s be off. We’ve a long road ahead of us.”

  JOACH STAYED WITH Kesla’s body until the sun rose in the real world and the dream desert dissolved around him, stealing Kesla from his lap. Joach found himself back in the chamber of the basilisk.

  Sy-wen crouched on one side of him, Kast on the other. His transformation must have frightened them into releasing Ragnar’k for the moment.