Book Three

PATHS AND PORTENTS

Elena stood frozen in the street, her eyes fixed on the spot where her brother had stood only moments before. Empty, blackened cobbles now remained. The town lay hushed around her, as if holding its breath. Her ability to comprehend what had occurred had vanished along with Joach. She did not blink as the one-armed swordsman stumbled over to her.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, placing his single hand on her shoulder. His next words flamed with suppressed rage. “I did not suspect the monster’s power. Fear not. I will hunt him down and free your brother.”

The tiny woman who had earlier pulled Elena to safety joined them. “Er’ril, who was that cloaked one?

Did you recognize him?”

“Someone from my past,” he mumbled. “Someone I never thought to meet again.”

“Who?”

“It is of no matter right now. The townspeople are aroused. It would be best if we fled this cursed valley.” Around them, the town was beginning to awaken from the demonic assault. A few calls for arms echoed from neighboring streets.

“What about the girl?” the woman asked.

Elena still stared. From slack lips, she whispered, “My brother…”

“We’ll take her somewhere safe,” Er’ril said. “Then I’ll search for what became of the mage and the boy.”

The giant mountain man approached and stepped between Elena and her view of the spot where Joach had stood. His intrusion severed some tenuous connection between Elena and the spot. Blackness edged her vision. She swooned to the cobbled street. The swordsman’s strong arm caught her before her head hit the ground.

“Er’ril, the child’s heart sickens with the horrors here,” the woman said. “We need to get her somewhere warm, away from here.”

Er’ril spoke near Elena’s ear, his breath on her neck as he supported her shoulders. “Nee’lahn, you need to discover if she has any other family.”

The word “family” penetrated the blackness around Elena’s heart. Her eyes settled on the torn remains of Aunt Fila, tossed like rags in a shadowed corner. Tears frozen in her chest thawed and began to flow.

Her breathing dissolved to sobs. Elena remembered her aunt’s final words. With great effort she turned to face the swordsman. “I… have an uncle. She said… told me to go there.” The woman knelt beside her. “Who told you, child?”

“Where is your uncle?” Er’ril interrupted.

Elena forced her hand to point north of town.

“Can you guide us there?”

She nodded.

Suddenly a deep voice barked nearby. “Look what I found here!” Elena and Er’ril both turned. Elena saw the mountain man reach behind a rain barrel and haul out a thin-framed man dressed in a smudged uniform of the town’s garrison.

“Who is that?”

Elena knew the answer to the swordsman’s question. She had seen that pinched face with its manicured mustache and black eyes. Elena fought her tongue loose. “He’s the one who k-k-killed my family! He was with the old man.”

He was the one named Rockingham.

Er’ril watched the trembling man dart looks right and left, searching for help or a way out. But Krai had the man’s cloak wrapped in a boulder of a fist. His other hand braced an ax. Er’ril recognized the thin man as the one who had spoken to the darkmage. “Who are you?” Er’ril demanded.

“I am… head of the county garrison.” Rockingham’s voice tried to sound threatening, but his words cracked with fear. His eyes kept darting to the headless carcass of the beast slain by the mountain man.

“You would do well to release me.”

“This girl says you’re in league with the darkmage. Is that true?”

“No. She lies.”

Er’ril nodded to the mountain man. There was a way to measure this one’s truth. “Test him.” Krai nodded and rested his ax against the rain barrel. He reached up and placed his palms against the man’s temples. Rockingham shied away, but Krai pressed firmly. A heartbeat later, the mountain man whipped his hand away as if he had touched fire.

“Does he speak the truth, Krai?”

The mountain man flexed one hand as if it hurt. “I cannot tell. I never felt anything like him. It’s as if… as if…” Krai shook his head.

Nee’lahn spoke up. “What?”

“It’s as if the man himself were constructed of a lie. His words were mere droplets in a monstrous ocean of untruths. I can’t read him.” Krai now held the man at arm’s length, as if disgusted at the thought of touching his skin again.

“Do you think—?” A bugle blew stridently from across the town, interrupting Er’ril’s next question.

A chorus of horns answered, scaring a flock of pigeons from a nearby roof. The blaring horns sounded from the direction of the garrison. Er’ril was suddenly aware of townspeople beginning to peek out of windows and from behind doors. The town continued to awaken from the shock of the magickal assault.

“Perhaps we should take your advice, Er’ril,” Nee’lahn said, “and head out. We have nothing else to gain here.”

The horns sounded again.

“My men are on the march,” Rockingham said. “Release me, leave the girl, and you may yet live.” Krai shook the man and raised a startled squeak from him.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to give orders,” Er’ril said. “Krai, haul him with us.” Elena stirred. “No! He’s evil!”

Er’ril rested a hand on the girl’s shoulder; all he needed was a hysterical child. He softened his words.

“He may have answers as to where your brother was taken. If we are to find him, this man may know how.”

Er’ril watched her swallow her fear and straighten her slumped shoulders. Determination shone in her eyes. She spat in the direction of their prisoner. “Don’t trust him.” A spark of respect for the youngster flared in Er’ril. “I don’t trust anyone,” he mumbled. Er’ril turned to Krai and Nee’lahn. “We’ll head north and see if we can find her uncle and maybe some answers on what occurred here today.”

Krai nodded and bound Rockingham’s wrists. Once finished, he secured the ax to his belt and slipped a knife to Rockingham’s ribs. “To keep your tongue from waggling,” Krai growled with a humorless grin.

Nee’lahn placed an arm around Elena. “Come, child.”

Er’ril led the way north through backstreets and alleyways. The commotion kept most of the townsfolk indoors or patrolling the main streets. Few eyes noted their passage.

BOL STUDIED THE ROOM, RUBBING AT THE THICK MUSTACHE that hid his pursed lips. He was just about ready. The piles of books and scrolls had been shoved into cabinets, shelves, closets, and empty corners. He had finally cleared the dining table of his scavenged library. Decades had passed since he last saw the wood of the table; some of the books had left scarred outlines of their bindings on its oak finish. Spots of yellowed candle wax dotted the surface, giving it a pocked, diseased look. He sighed.

That would have to do. He was no chambermaid.

Running fingers through his white hair, he smelled the ko’koa simmering on the stove. The lentils for the soup should just about be ready. The roast needed basting but could wait a few moments more. Maybe he should collect an extra bunch of carrots from the garden. Frost would soon be here, and they would go to waste otherwise.

He glanced out the western window to the sun setting behind the peaks of the Teeth. Storm clouds blustered among the mountaintops, blurring the tips with rain. It would be a wet night.

No, the carrots would have to wait. Time ran short.

His hand kept fluttering to the amulet hung around his neck by twisted strands of his sister Fila’s hair. She would have done a much better job preparing the meal, but such was not to be. Fate had chosen between the twins, and Fila was snatched. She had her own responsibilities now, leaving Bol the more practical concerns. Who had the worse lot in these matters was yet to be seen. The paths from this room pointed to a thousand different compass points. Like a boulder loosened by centuries of rain and tumbling a path of destruction down the mountainside, there was no turning back—for any of them.

“Fire will mark her coming,” he mumbled to the empty room. “But what then?” A chill slipped past his coarse shirt and woolen undergarments to tingle his skin. He crossed to the fireplace and used a brass poker to stoke the fire to a brighter blaze. He stood before the flames and let his clothes cook in the heat. Why were his old bones always so cold? He never seemed to stay warm these days.

But that was not the real reason he stood idle by the fire. The last of his chores still awaited his attention.

He clutched the amulet firm to his chest. “Please, Fila, take this duty from me. You were always the stronger of us.”

No answer came. The amulet did not even bloom with its familiar warmth. Not that he expected it. Fila was past the point where this simple trick could reach her. He was alone in his task.

He heated his fingers on the waves of hot air wafting from the hearth, trying in some manner to purify his hands for what he must do. He stared at the tiny white hairs on his knuckles. When had his hands become so old, just parchment-dry skin wrinkled over knobs of bone?

Sighing, he dropped his hands and turned from the fire. If his interpretation of the passages read true, the party would be arriving soon. Bol had built his home as a young man at this exact site for the coming night ahead. The ruins of the ancient school’s chamber of worship lay buried under the floorboards. Here is where all would be drawn, and the journey would begin.

He must be as strong as Fila this night.

Bol crossed to a cabinet constructed of impenetrable iron-wood. The door was sealed with only one key. He hesitated, then reached and slipped the braided cord from around his neck. He raised the cord and stared at the amulet. Carved of green jade in the shape of a wine pitcher, it contained three drops of sacred water. The water still swam with ancient traces of elemental energies. The amulet had allowed the twin siblings to communicate across long distances and had been vital to coordinating their efforts and plans.

He closed his eyes. As sacred as the amulet was, what stayed Bol’s hand was its connection to his dead sister. He was reluctant to let this piece of his sister’s memory go. Still… He pictured Fila’s stern gray eyes and could guess her response to his delay. “Hurry up, old man,” she would scold. “You have to let go sometime.” She had always been the practical one.

A small smile played at the corner of his lips. He twirled the amulet on its cord and smashed it into the seal of the iron-wood cabinet. Jade shards flew across the floor. One piece stung his cheek, like a slap for destroying such delicate artwork.

He ignored the bite on his cheek. The key had worked. The seal on the cabinet was broken. He reached to the cabinet’s handle and opened a door that had been sealed tight over two decades ago. A single object lay within the shadowed interior: a rosewood box with flowered traceries of gilt around the edges.

Bol did not remove the handsome box but only lifted its hinged top. Resting on a violet cushion of silks lay a dagger older than any of the buildings in the valley, older than most people’s memories.

Before fear clutched his hand, Bol grabbed the dagger’s hilt and lifted it free of its nest in the box. He held it up to the firelight. Its black blade seemed to absorb the light, while a rose of gold carved on its hilt reflected the fire in blinding exuberance.

Tears threatened to well as he held the dagger, but his hand did not tremble, and the tears never did flow.

Bol knew his duty. He was his sister’s brother.

“Forgive me, Elena,” he whispered to the empty room.

A GASP OF JOY BURST FROM ELENA’S THROAT AS SHE RAN UNder the branches of the willow to the horse. “Oh, Mist, you’re still here.” She hugged the horse’s neck, inhaling the mare’s familiar smell, a mix of hay and musk. Her family’s barn had always smelled just like this. She hugged the horse tighter. If she closed her eyes, in a tiny way, she was home again.

Mist nickered and nudged her away, reaching for some tender shoots growing nearby, plainly unimpressed that Elena had returned. This familiar snubbing brought tears to the girl’s eyes.

Er’ril spoke behind her, but his words were for Krai. Elena ignored him, still content to place her palms on Mist. The horse stood solid: firm muscle, hard bone, and coarse hair. The mare had not vanished.

“Krai,” Er’ril continued, “be careful. Just retrieve our gear and mounts from the inn and head right back here.”

“No one will stop me. What about the prisoner?”

“Tie him to the tree for now.”

Elena clenched her lips at Er’ril’s words and untethered Mist from the trunk of the willow.

“Girl, what’re you doing? Leave the horse be.” Er’ril’s voice snapped with exhaustion.

“I don’t want that man near Mist.” She pulled Mist’s halter and guided the mare to the edge of the canopy of branches. Mist’s presence bolstered her confidence. Though she had lost so much, she still had her mare. “And my name is Elena, not girl.”

Nee’lahn crossed to join Elena, an amused smile on her lips; her violet eyes and honey hair caught splashes of light from between the branches. The small woman’s beauty snatched the breath from Elena.

When in town, she had thought the woman somewhat plain, but out here among the trees, she seemed to bloom like a forest flower. Elena would even swear the willow branches moved so the small woman’s beauties were accented by rays of sunlight.

“She is a handsome mare,” Nee’lahn said.

Elena dropped her gaze to her toes, embarrassed by her own gawky appearance. This close, Nee’lahn even smelled of honeysuckle. “Thank you,” Elena said sheepishly. “I raised her from a foal.”

“Then the two of you must be very close. I’m glad you were able to lead us here to find her.” Nee’lahn offered Mist a bite of apple from the wares they had purchased as they snuck from town. Mist twitched back her ears in delight and snatched the entire apple with her thick lips.

“Mist! Mind your manners!”

Nee’lahn just grinned. “Elena, can you find the way to your uncle’s as easily as you did here?”

“Yes, he lives in the next valley. Winter’s Eyrie, up by the old ruins.”

“What?” Er’ril wore a shocked look on his face. Krai had already left for town, and Er’ril had just finished testing Rockingham’s bonds and gag. He stalked over to Elena. “Where did you say he lived?” Nee’lahn placed a hand on Elena’s wrist. “She said that he lived near some old ruins. Now quit raising your voice.”

The swordsman tensed with the rebuke, his face darkening. “Fine. Now, girl… I mean, Elena, are these the ruins of an old school?”

Elena shrugged. “We aren’t allowed near the ruins; there are lots of poisonous snakes. But Uncle Bol is always poking among the stones, digging up books and such stuff.” Er’ril blew an angry wind from his chest. “Did your uncle ever find anything… unusual?” She shrugged and shook her head. “Not that he ever mentioned, but he sort of keeps to himself.”

“Er’ril, do you know the place?” Nee’lahn asked.

He spoke as if his jaws were stuck. “I visited it the last time I was here.”

“So you know the way?”

“Yes.”

“Then as soon as Krai returns with your horses, we can set out.” Nee’lahn turned her back on Er’ril and faced Elena. “While we’re waiting, maybe you could tell us how you ended up with those evil men?” Elena kicked at the soil with her toe, reluctant to rehash the entire story, the pain still too fresh.

Nee’lahn reached up and placed one hand on Elena’s cheek. “It’s all right now. Er’ril is a skilled swordsman. He won’t let anyone harm you. We need to know more if we are to help your brother. You want that, don’t you?”

Elena bowed her head and refused to raise her face as she spoke, her voice so low Er’ril leaned closer to hear. “That man and the one in the robe, they came to our farm last night.” Elena glanced to her hand, plain now, as she related the events of the previous night. She purposely left out the part about the red hand. “… and then Joach and I rode away before the worms or fire could get us. But when we made it to town, they were waiting and we were caught.”

“Do you know why they were after you?” Nee’lahn asked. She lowered her eyes. “I don’t… No.” From the corner of her eyes, she saw a secret exchange pass between Nee’lahn and the swordsman, doubt clear in both pairs of eyes.

“Maybe I should ask our prisoner,” Er’ril finally said. “Twist it out of him.” Nee’lahn frowned. “I think we all—” Elena caught the nod in her direction from the small woman.

“—have had enough violence for one afternoon. Why don’t we wait until the girl is returned to her uncle, before you begin your… um, questioning.”

Er’ril frowned but finally sighed. “We should wait for Krai anyway. His skills may yet be useful.” Nee’lahn turned back to her. “Elena, you should rest. We still have a long ride ahead of us.” Elena nodded and moved into Mist’s shadow. She fiddled with the mare’s halter, trying to look busy.

Why had she lied to them? They may not have been able to rescue Joach, but they did save her. She glanced again to her right hand and stared at the plain palm. The red hue had vanished. Gone in the flutter of an eye, just like her brother Joach. She fought back a new wave of tears. As much as she hated the thought of her magickal talent, if the power could return her brother, she would gladly accept the curse again.

Elena lowered her hand.

But it was over now. Wasn’t it?

Twilight approached.

Er’ril fought to keep his eyes on the path through the woods and to watch for lurking dangers in the dappled shadows. But his mind kept dragging back the image of the darkmage as he vanished on the street. He could not grasp the implications of this encounter. He tried to shove such thoughts away until a time they could be carefully picked at and studied, but he could not.

How could Greshym be alive? Had he imagined it? No. It was an older face, but Greshym’s nonetheless.

He tried to pierce the years to that midnight in the inn when the Book had been forged. He remembered the bond between Greshym and his brother. He could still feel the respect and affection he had for the older, wounded mage. How could he balance that with the hatred he felt now? His skin crawled with the memory of the black arts wielded by the mage. Foul trickster! What game have you been playing since ancient times?

And what of the Book? What did this mean?

His horse slowed on a steeper grade of the path, and he kicked at its flank harder than he had meant.

The stallion whinnied with surprise and bucked a few steps forward. He patted the animal’s neck, calming the beast with his touch. His anger and frustration may have loosened his control, but his horse shouldn’t suffer.

Er’ril twisted in his saddle and checked his party. When Krai had returned with the mounts and gear they had left at the inn, Er’ril had set them a hard pace. The innkeeper had tried to stop Krai, screaming that the mountain man was stealing other patrons’ property. But when the guardsmen, busy with the riled townsfolk, failed to respond to the innkeeper’s summons, Krai had split a table with his ax, and the innkeeper quickly bowed out of the huge man’s path. On Krai’s return, Er’ril had not wasted the waning hours of daylight, fearing any repercussions from the town’s garrison. He had loaded everyone up and led the way to the highlands.

Behind him, Nee’lahn and the child rode together atop the girl’s horse. Krai and the prisoner rode one of the mountain folk’s huge war chargers. Its fiery eyes and metal-shod hooves marked it as a steed only a fool would try to stop.

Nee’lahn caught Er’ril’s glance and nodded forward. “A storm comes. We need to reach Elena’s uncle before full night.“

Er’ril glanced at the girl. And what role did she play in all this? Surely she was just an unwitting pawn—maybe a virgin for some foul magickal working. He had heard whispers during his travels of such sick deeds. He twisted forward again in his saddle, noting the black clouds obscuring the setting sun.

Once free of the girl, he could concentrate on the matter of the mage. With a gentle nudge, he urged his mount to a quicker pace. Retrieving the boy was only a small part in his desire to hunt down Greshym.

The darkmage had much to answer for.

As he led the party toward the highlands, the woods began to change. The autumn leaves of the oaks and alders, blazing with the crinkled hues of a smoldering fire, gave way to a green blanket of alpine evergreens. A sea of discarded needles spread yellow waves across the path.

Er’ril did not need a guide. He knew the path to the ruins buried in the valley of Winter’s Eyrie. Why would someone build a homestead in such a lonesome and windblown place? In winter, the snows at this height could reach the roof of a two-story house. He knew why the school had been built there: Isolation was necessary when training the initiates to the Order. Besides leaving the students with little to distract them from their studies, the distance from others kept the harm from magickal “accidents” of those new to their arts well away from habitable regions.

But with Chi’s abandonment of the land, why live out here now?

Er’ril cantered his horse over a steep rise, his mount’s hooves nearly slipping on the slick cushion of pine needles. He paused at the crest of the rise. From the tiny vale ahead, a single plume of smoke trailed into the twilight sky. Black clouds from the mountains beyond seemed to be drawn toward the plume like moths to a candle. The storm threatened. Flares of lightning winked from the clouds.

His eyes followed the smoke to its source. A stone cottage stood in the valley floor, its chimney painting the vale with the smell of wood smoke. His nose tasted the invitation to warmth, and yellow light flickered from tiny windows, adding its welcome.

The horse bearing Nee’lahn and Elena drew abreast of his steed. “That’s my uncle’s place,” the girl stated. “Looks like he’s home.”

Er’ril flicked his reins to walk his horse forward down the slope toward the cottage. “Let’s hope he’s ready for guests.”

With pinched lips, Er’ril studied the surrounding land and judged escape routes and places from which to fight if the need arose. His training as a campaigner in the wars against the Gul’gotha had become as instinctual as the beating of his heart.

He also studied the homestead of this “Uncle Bol.” From the condition of his home, Er’ril lost a certain amount of respect for the man. It was a shambles. Moss crusted the shingles. The doors to a small barn hidden to the side of the cottage lay crooked on their hinges. A small pen containing three goats had holes chewed into the planks of the fencing. Three horned heads poked from these holes and stared toward the newcomers. Nasal bleats insulted them as they passed.

Er’ril shook his head, recalling the order and stateliness of his own family’s farm on the plains. He turned his eyes to the heights beyond the cottage. Crumbled stone in unnaturally straight lines crisscrossed the neighboring rise. His mind’s eye pictured the rows of halls and dormitories of the Order’s school.

Ravaged stones gave silent testimony to the ancient place of study.

The door to the cottage suddenly burst open, flinging light toward the trio of horses. A man stood limned in the firelight. “Well, what are you all waiting for? Hurry it up! It’s about to storm.” The man waved an arm and disappeared back inside. Elena swung in her saddle to face them all, her face scrunched up.

“My uncle’s not that good with people.”

“But at least he seems to be expecting us,” Er’ril said, suddenly wary.

His nervousness grew once they had stabled the horses and entered the cottage. After so long traveling in the chilled highlands, the warmth of the cottage stifled the lungs. But Er’ril ignored this, his eyes instead fixed on the lavishly laden table. Three tall candles sprouted like islands from a steaming sea of foods: spit-roasted beef, steamed red potatoes, a thick bean soup with a loaf of pepperbread as big as his head.

Platters of carrots and greens dotted the table among bowls of autumn blackberries. Six cups of ko’koa were set before six tin plates. “Sit, sit,” the white-haired man said. He was setting bowls on the plates for the soup. He stopped to tap a quick kiss on Elena’s forehead. “I barely made it in time. Fila would be so angry if I didn’t do everything like she ordered.”

Elena spoke softly, taking the old man’s hand in her own. “Uncle… Uncle Bol, I have bad news. Fila’s dead.”

He slipped his hand from the child’s and patted her on the cheek. “Oh, yes, I know. Never you mind.

Now, sit! Everything will grow cold.”

Er’ril found his tongue. “You were expecting guests?” The man scratched his head with an ink-stained finger. “Guests? Oh no. I was expecting you, Er’ril of Standi.” Elena watched the swordsman pick at the beef and red potatoes on his dinner plate, his fork scraping across the tin surface. Elena sat beside Er’ril and caught his narrowed eyes darting wary looks toward Uncle Bol at the head of the table. But Uncle Bol ignored Er’ril, his own attention fixed on Nee’lahn at the foot of the table. Though the firelight seemed to have dimmed her beauty when compared to her appearance in the woods earlier, Uncle Bol’s eyes seldom spent much time away from her face. How odd, Elena thought, the way Nee’lahn’s beauty waxed and waned.

Suddenly a loud belch rattled the stoneware. Krai balanced on a small chair across the table from Elena and wiped at his bearded chin with the edge of his sleeve. He stared question-ingly at all the eyes now focused on him. The mountain man was apparently oblivious to the social affront his eruption might provoke. “What?” he asked, placing his fork on his plate and leaning back and rubbing his packed belly.

His head swiveled to face them all. “What?”

Elena held a hand over her mouth to stop a giggle from escaping.

Rockingham, who was digging at his beef with a spoon— the only utensil allowed him—mumbled to himself, “And they tied me up.” The captured man’s ankles had been roped together and secured to a foot of the oaken table for security.

Er’ril cleared his throat and faced Uncle Bol. “Well, it seems that everyone is finished with dinner. Now maybe you would care to enlighten us all on how you knew we were coming, and even knew my name.”

“Who would like dessert?” Uncle Bol scooted his chair back with a loud squeak. “In honor of the orchard fire, I made a hot apple pie. Anybody interested?”

“That can wait—” Er’ril started to say, but the four raised hands of his companions stopped him. The swordsman’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed loudly. “Fine. Fetch the pie.” Uncle Bol got up and stretched. “Perhaps…” His eyes settled again on the small woman’s face.

“Nee’lahn, wasn’t it? Perhaps you could help me in the kitchen.”

“Certainly.” Nee’lahn wiped her delicate hands on the scrap of linen in her lap, then rose and followed Uncle Bol from the room.

Er’ril tapped at his mug of ko’koa with obvious impatience.

Elena sensed that the swordsman was close to exploding. Ever since Uncle Bol had named him, then refused to answer any questions until they all had eaten, the muscles of Er’ril’s neck had grown corded and tight. Though he must be hungry, he had hardly touched the food he had taken.

“Don’t be mad at Uncle Bol,” Elena said. “That’s just the way he is.” Er’ril stopped his tapping and swung to Elena. “Just what is your uncle up to?”

“He’ll tell us, but only when he’s ready. He used to tell us bedtime stories when he visited. If you tried to hurry his stories along, he would just drag them even longer.”

“So I guess we eat pie,” he said sullenly.

Elena nodded, chewing at the inside of her cheek. She remained silent about the nervousness she sensed in her uncle. Something was truly bothering him. She had never seen him jump at every noise. A popping log in the fire had practically shot him to the raftered ceiling. And Uncle Bol was normally a robust eater—how he ate so much and stayed so wiry and muscular was a mystery discussed among the female relatives of the family for years—but tonight, like Er’ril, he had barely touched the piece of roast on his plate.

Uncle Bol returned, carrying new plates and forks. Nee’lahn followed with the spiced apple pie. The aroma of simmering apple and cinnamon swelled through the room. Even Er’ril seemed to brighten at the smell.

This new delay that seemed to so irk Er’ril only lasted a short span. The pie plate emptied quickly, and after much sighing in delight at the sweet taste, the table was surrounded by full bellies.

Uncle Bol stood up. “I hope all have had their fill.”

Groans of agreement answered him.

“Then I guess it’s time I showed you your rooms for the night. I’m afraid the men will have to share one room, and Nee’lahn and Elena the other.”

Er’ril raised his one hand. “About those unanswered questions.” Uncle Bol frowned. “Join me, Er’ril, after we get everyone settled, for a smoke by the fire.” He turned to Elena. “You join us, too, honey. There’s words I must pass to you.”

“What you need to say can be said among my companions,” Er’ril growled. Krai’s and Nee’lahn’s eyes glowed eagerly. Rockingham tried to feign disinterest, but failed miserably.

Her uncle rubbed at his mustache. “No, I don’t think the Brotherhood would appreciate that.”

“What brotherhoo—?” Elena began, but Er’ril placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed her to silence.

“It’s been a long time since I could relax with a pipe,” Er’ril said. “I look forward to it.” His words had an edge of menace.

“Good! Now let me show you the rooms.”

Rockingham listened as the giant closed the door to their room. He could not see the mountain man as Krai then stripped out of his riding gear and climbed onto a cot. The bonds that secured Rockingham to the bed—his hands were tied to the pine headboard, his feet to the posts at the foot of the bed—limited his motion, blinding him to all but the ceiling and a tiny section of the room. Then the single lamp blew out, and even this cramped view vanished.

Rockingham lay stripped on his back under a heavy blanket. He crinkled his nose. Though he might not be able to see the mountain man, he smelled him. The odor of wet goats crept across the room to wrap around him; it was like sleeping in a barn. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through his mouth. It didn’t help. He tried to roll away on his side, but the ropes stopped him. His bed creaked loudly with his efforts.

“I sleep lightly,” Krai growled from the darkness. “Do not test me.“ Rockingham stayed silent. What was the use of even trying? The ropes, though not tight enough to chafe, were tied snug.

He lay still and found himself staring toward the rafters of the room. And why would he even want to escape? Where could he go? Not the garrison, that was for sure. Once word reached Lord Gul’gotha that one of his lieutenants had been beheaded and the girl he sought had escaped, his death would be one to terrify the hardest soldier. He had seen what slunk through the bowels of Blackhall’s dungeons. He shivered under his thick blanket.

His only options were either to disappear and keep running, hoping the minions of the Dark Lord never found him, or to stay with this group and look for a chance to snatch the girl. She was the key to unlock his dungeon. Recovering her would assuage the wrath of the Lord Gul’gotha.

So he had not fought his kidnapping by the one-armed swordsman. Let them take him far from town—all the better. Don’t resist. Let them relax their guard. He could wait. A slight grin came to his lips at the thought of returning to Blackhall with the girl in chains. That was worth waiting for.

As he dreamed of that moment, an itch blossomed in his crotch. Damn that tavern wench and the lice she harbored! He tried to rub his legs together and calm the crawling. It only worsened. To make matters worse, the giant began to snore. Not a whispery nasal whistle, but a throaty rattle full of mucus and phlegm. Each outburst made him cringe in disgust.

Rockingham clenched his eyes closed and squirmed quietly. It was going to be a long night.

The tortures of Blackhall’s dungeons now didn’t seem quite so bad.

* * *

Er’ril leaned on the mantel of the fireplace. Where was Bol? The others had retired to their respective rooms, leaving Er’ril alone with Elena. He watched the girl stare at the fire. As she sat, swallowed by the deep cushioned armchair, she seemed lost in the flames. A profound sadness shone past the exhaustion in her face. For a child so young to be so violently uprooted, she had a determined bearing about her that illuminated the strength of her spirit.

Words of consolation tried to form in his mind, but it had been a long time since Er’ril had had the need to show compassion. He found his eyes settling on the twitching flames. Time did not always grow wisdom, sometimes just calluses.

His reveries were interrupted by the reappearance of the girl’s uncle. He had two pipes in his hand. “The tobacco leaf is from the south of Standi, I believe. I thought a piece of home might be nice,” he said, passing a pipe to Er’ril.

“Thank you.” He raised the pipe to his nose. The smell of cured leaf and powder dried further words. At the back of his throat, he tasted the wide fields of his home. Bol sparked a flame on a stiff taper from the hearth. He lit his pipe, his cheeks bellowing in and out, and he sucked it to flame. Er’ril accepted the burning wick from the old man, but his hand hesitated in igniting the tobacco. He was reluctant to set to flame this reminder of home.

He found Elena staring at him, her sadness palpable. She had lost much more to flame this past day. He touched the wick to his pipe and drew smoke into his chest. Its warmth and familiar taste melted the tension in his body, his knees almost weakening.

“Sit,” Bol said, pointing to the only other chair by the fire. The old man remained standing near Elena.

Er’ril dropped, sinking into the goose-down cushions. With some reservation, he removed the pipe from between his lips. “How do you know me? How did you know we would be arriving this night?” Bol nodded. “You ask questions of the end of the story. To understand the end you must understand the beginning.”

“I’m listening.” Er’ril returned the pipe to his lips.

“You have already heard me mention the Brotherhood. The Broken Brotherhood, I believe, is their full title. Let me start there.“

“What is that?” Elena asked softly.

Her uncle sent a puff of smoke from his chest, forming a perfect ring of gray smoke. As it wafted across the room on the waves of heat from the fire, a tiny smile formed on Elena’s lips. “Some of this you may not understand, sweetheart. But at one time in the land, there was an order of mages who wielded white magick. A spirit named Chi granted them this power, which was far stronger than the weak elemental magick inherent in the land. The Order used this power to build a wonderful civilization.“

“That’s not the story I was taught in school,” Elena said doubtfully.

“Not all that is taught is true.”

“So then what happened?”

“Along time ago, the magick suddenly vanished at a time when it was most needed. The lands were being invaded by the armies and monsters of the Gul’gotha. The mages and our people fought bravely. But without our white magick, we could not withstand the dark magick of the invaders. Alasea was defeated, its peoples subjugated, and its history destroyed.“

“Where did our magick go?”

Er’ril answered that question, spite thick in his voice. “It just abandoned us.“ Bol nodded. “Only pockets and pieces of the magick still survived. The Order, without power, broke apart. But some of this group banded together to try to find and nurture the magick left in the lands. They had to do this in strict secrecy, since the Dark Lord of the Gul’gotha sought to wipe them out. So the Broken Brotherhood was formed.”

“A secret society?” Elena asked breathlessly. Secret was too mild a word, Er’ril thought. To his knowledge only a handful of men still alive today knew of the cabal headquartered and hidden among the sunken remains of A’loa Glen. Few men even knew the lost city still existed, its approach guarded by the trace magick still held close to its heart. Many had sought the mythical city, but only a scant few discovered its whereabouts and dared enter. Those that did never returned.

“But the Brotherhood made a crucial mistake,” Bol said.

Er’ril’s eyes grew wider. What was this?

Bol continued. “With their eyes so blinded by the powerful energies of Chi, they couldn’t appreciate the magick bora to the land, even after the loss of Chi.”

“But of what use are a few weak tricks eked from the ele-mentals of the land?” Er’ril asked. “Of what use is that against the dark power of the Gul’gotha?”

Bol turned to Elena. “Now you see why the Sisterhood was formed. Men see only degrees of power, while women see the warp and weave of strength’s tapestry.”

“What is this Sisterhood?” Er’ril asked. “I’ve lived centuries and never heard a whisper of such a group.

Who formed it?”

“It is not an open group like your Brotherhood. One must be born to it.”

“What?”

Bol waved the tip of his pipe. “You asked who formed the Sisterhood. One person. You may even know her, or of her.”

“Who?” Er’ril sat straighter in his chair.

“Sisa’kofa.”

The word was like a brick dropped into his gut. “The wit’ch of spirit and stone!” He remembered when last he had heard the blasphemous name spoken, by Greshym on the night of the Book’s forging. The one-handed mage had warned the Book would herald the rebirth of the wit’ch.

“Yes,” Bol said. “She is my distant ancestor. Very distant. She was an ancient story even when you were a boy.”

“You can trace your lineage to that foul wit’ch?”

“There was nothing foul about her.” Bol’s cheeks darkened. “She was a woman granted powers equal to, and in some ways surpassing, those of men. She even bore the mark of the Rose. And men could not handle the thought of a woman wielding equal power. Lies were fabricated to discredit her.” Er’ril noticed Elena start at her uncle’s words, but his heart pounded too loudly in his ears for him to give her any further attention. “Impossible! Chi never granted his gifts to women.”

“Who said anything about Chi?”

“What? Are you suggesting elemental magick is the equal of Chi?“ Bol blew out his cheeks, sending pipe smoke across the room. “At times, yes, I believe so. But it was not elemental magick that shared its power with Sisa’kofa.”

“Then what?”

“You are jumping ahead of the story again.” Er’ril bit his tongue to keep from rebuking the old man.

Obviously Bol needed to tell the story at his own pace. “Fine. Go on,” he mumbled.

“Near the end of Sisa’kofa’s lifetime, her magick left her, but not before promising to one day return to her descendant when most needed. Sisa’kofa was warned of a black shadow that would spread across the lands of Alasea. Just when this dark time would occur, she was never told. So Sisa’kofa formed a society of her female descendants. She taught them to prepare for her magick’s return. Sisa’kofa sensed the elementals would be critical to the eventual rebirth of light to the land, so she trained her Sisterhood in the use and respect for the elemental spirits.“

“How do you know so much about the Sisterhood? You’re not a female descendant.“

“I was born twin to a female, my sister Fila. Being the first male born twin to a girl, I was allowed into their secrets. My birth was believed to be a sign—that she who gave Sisa’kofa her power would be returning soon. So the Sisterhood prepared, studying all they could.” Bol swung his arm to encompass the stacks of scrolls and books. “They searched ancient texts and gleaned portents from the elementals.”

“And what was learned?”

“We learned the signs of her arrival and some of the key players—like yourself. We also knew the elementals would be involved. ”Three will come‘ it was written. But we knew not which ones or who.

This Krai is obviously rich in rock magick. And Nee’lahn… She’s a nyphai, isn’t she?“

“Yes,” Er’ril said.

“She has the fire of the root strong in her. I could hardly take my eyes from her. But that last member…

he, too, is steeped in magick, but I couldn’t tell how.”

“Krai sensed a strangeness about him, too.”

“He must be the third.” Uncle Bol drew on his pipe, his lids slightly closed, and sent wisps of smoke between his words. He scratched at his beard. “Though there was one oracular text that I thought spoke of the arrival of ‘someone from times past and lands lost,’ but I must have been mistaken. Unless they meant you, but I didn’t think so. Maybe I’m wrong. As I said, much that surrounds the Book is vague.”

“You seem to know enough already. So when is this wit’ch supposed to return?” Bol’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, my, she already has. Didn’t you know?” Er’ril sat stunned.

Bol pointed to his niece. Er’ril finally noticed how panicked the girl now appeared. “Born of the line of Sisa’kofa and birthed in fire. There sits your wit’ch.”

After Uncle Bol declared Elena a wit’ch, silence hung like a stone over the room. Elena tried to worm deeper into the goose-down cushions of her chair. She watched the swordsman’s eyebrows climb higher on his forehead, his already ruddy complexion darkening further. His eyes settled on her with such force that Elena felt he peered through to her skin. Her arms rose and covered her chest in a tight hug.

She shrank back from his eyes but raised her right hand to the firelight. “But I… I’m not a wit’ch any longer,” she said.

“It’s gone.”

Her uncle patted a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It doesn’t work that way, honey.“ Er’ril ignored their words. “She is just a child. How can I believe you speak the truth?” Uncle Bol crossed from Elena’s chair to the fire. Elena could tell from the limp in his gait and the way his shoulders hung low that her uncle neared exhaustion. But his voice remained strong. “Doubt? You have been on the road too long, Er’ril. Can you not sense the truth of my words? Why do you think that darkmage tried to snatch the girl? He sensed the power birthed in her.”

“You ask me to use the actions of a man with a black heart as proof?“ Her uncle wanned his hands for several long heartbeats and spoke to the flames. “You know I speak the truth.” He turned to face Er’ril. “We need the Blood Diary.”

“So you know of the Book, too?”

“Of course. How could we not? It’s the reason you are all here this night.” Er’ril’s pipe hung unused in his fingers, forgotten. “I came to return your niece. That’s all.”

“No. The winds of fate blew you here where you were needed. The wit’ch and the Book share the same paths.”

“My brother said nothing of this wit’ch. He said the Book had to be forged if there was to be any hope of ending this dark reign of the Gul’gotha. He knew not of this wit’ch.” He said the last word with such disgust that Elena’s cheeks reddened in shame.

“We decided Shorkan didn’t need to know.”

“What are you talking about?”

Uncle Bol puffed on his pipe thoughtfully before continuing. “Where do you think your brother learned how to forge the Blood Diary?”

“I don’t know. He mentioned something about old texts.”

“The information was spirited to him from the Sisterhood. Unknown to Shorkan, we guided his hand.”

“Impossible!”

Uncle Bol shrugged, ignoring the swordsman’s doubt. Both men just stared at each other.

Finally Er’ril broke the tense silence. “So my brother and I have been pawns in some game to return the heir of Sisa’kofa to the lands of Alasea. Is that what you’re hinting at?”

“No, not at all. Your goal is the same as that of the Sisterhood: to bring the light back to our lands, to drive the Gul’gotha from our shores. But do you expect her—” Uncle Bol nodded to Elena. “—even with the Blood Diary, to be able to singly defeat the armies of the Dark Lord, let alone the Black Beast himself?”

Er’ril’s eyes shifted to Elena. The anger in his eyes dissolved away to confusion.

Uncle Bol continued. “It is time the Brotherhood and the Sisterhood united. The Brotherhood created and guarded the Book. The Sisterhood nurtured the elementals and prepared for the return of the wit’ch.

Now is the time both must be forged into one cause and purpose—to defeat the Gul’gotha and free our lands!”

Er’ril swung his eyes back to Bol’s wrinkled face. “How?”

“The wit’ch and the Blood Diary must be joined.”

“And what then?” Er’ril asked bitterly. “What have you foreseen?“ Uncle Bol’s next words were whispered, edged with smoke from his pipe. “We don’t know. The Blood Diary is a potent talisman. Even its function is shaded in doubts. Portents swirl about it like a whirlpool, so violent that they become impossible to read. Beyond the union of wit’ch and book, nothing can be foretold. Some foresee salvation, others destruction. But most signs somehow point at both.”

“If the future is so unclear, why chance bringing wit’ch and Book together?”

“Because if we don’t, the oracles are all unanimous on the fate of Alasea. The land will continue following its dark path to a blackness that will swallow not just Alasea, but this world and time itself. The wit’ch and the Book must be united!“

Elena cowered in her chair. How could she possibly be this important? She didn’t want to bear such a burden.

Er’ril seemed equally unsure. “So where do I fit into all this?“

“You are the guardian of the Book, the eternal watcher. Now you must extend your protection to include the wit’ch. You must guard Elena and take her to the Book.”

“Why risk the child? Why not let me fetch the Book alone and bring it here?“ Uncle Bol shook his head. “You will fail. It has been prophesied. For any hope of success, the wit’ch must be accompanied by the guardian and the three elementals here tonight; that we know. But be warned, even this path is shadowed, and success in reaching the Blood Diary is not assured. The journey ahead is fraught with many dangers.”

“And I have no choice in this matter.”

“Have you ever? Does this life of useless wandering hold such attraction for you?” Er’ril lowered his head. “I wish my own life back—before I ever stepped into that inn with Shorkan so long ago.”

“That cannot be. But perhaps on this path you will find a way back to the man you once were.” Er’ril continued to hang his head. Elena, even though terrified by her uncle’s words, felt a twinge of sorrow for the swordsman. His very bones seemed bowed down with exhaustion and the weight of years.

“Make your choice, Er’ril of Standi.”

His words were whispered to the floor. “I will take her to where I hid the Book.”

“A’loaGlen?”

He raised his eyes. “Is there nothing hidden from you?”

Uncle Bol shrugged. “I know only hints,” he said softly. “Words in books and scrolls. I know nothing beyond this door.”

“The journey to A’loa Glen is a long one. And the city is guarded by sorcery. Before I can go there, I will need to retrieve the ward that unlocks the path to the city. I hid it here in the ruins of the old school. Near the—”

Uncle Bol waved the tip of his pipe at Er’ril. “Do not tell me. The fewer who know the better.” A long silence followed these words.

Elena squirmed in her seat. Her mind fought to absorb all she had heard, but most of their words made no sense. Only one thing was clear. Her own fears found voice, and she spoke, cracking the silence among them. “I don’t want to be a wit’ch.”

Her uncle tried to smile at her in reassurance, but only succeeded in quivering his mustache. The profound sadness in his eyes shocked her. But instead of comforting her, Uncle Bol crossed in front of Er’ril, his back to her. “Earlier you asked for proof of my words.” He slipped something from inside his vest. “Do you recognize this, Er’ril?”

Elena could still see Er’ril’s face. His mouth dropped open, and words tumbled out. “That’s Shorkan’s!

Where did you find it?”

Elena could not see what was proffered. She tilted her head, but her uncle’s back still blocked her view.

“If you remember,” her uncle said, “Shorkan had given it to the boy on the night of the Book’s forging.

When you fled with the Book after slaying the child, we retrieved it. The boy still had it clutched in his dead fingers.“

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“What I must.”

Her uncle suddenly swung around and faced Elena. He held a dagger in his hand; the black blade glinted in the firelight. Tears were in his eyes. “I never wanted to do this, Elena.” He grabbed her wrist and yanked her hand toward him. A small gasp slipped from Elena’s chest. What was he doing? She was too shocked to resist.

“This is an ancient dagger used by the mages to consecrate the Blood Diary during its forging.” He dragged the blade’s edge across her exposed palm.

Blood welled from the cut before the pain reached her eyes. A sharp cry escaped her throat. She stared in disbelief at the wound.

He pressed the hilt of the dagger into her bloody palm. As the blood soaked the knife, the black blade burst forth with a single flash of white light. As the radiance subsided, the dark blade now shone silver in the firelight.

Uncle Bol fell to his knees before her. “Now it’s a wit’ch’s dagger.” Er’ril sat straight in his chair. His pipe had fallen to the floor from his limp fingers, scattering smoldering tobacco across the pine planking. Though he had sensed the truth in the old man’s words, to see it happen before him numbed his mind and limbs. Long ago, he had witnessed other initiates receive their first cuts from the masters of the Order, christening them to their magick. The same blinding light had marked their coming to power.

Elena was a wit’ch!

He watched the child drop the dagger to her lap and wipe the traces of blood from her hand. No sign of her uncle’s cut remained. It had healed without a mark.

Her uncle still knelt beside her. “Forgive me, Elena.”

“But I don’t want the stupid knife.”

“You must take it. You will need it to draw on your magick.” She held up her right hand. “I already told you, it’s gone. See, my hand is normal again. The red color faded away.”

Er’ril spoke up. He kept his voice small so as not to further upset the child; she seemed close to panic.

“Your Rose has faded as you exhausted your supply of power,” he said. “You will need to renew.”

“I don’t want to!” Tears rolled down her cheek. Her uncle placed his hands on her lap. “I know you’re scared, honey. But your aunt Fila is counting on you.”

At her aunt’s name, her sobs quieted. “What do you mean?” she said between sniffles.

Bol rolled back to his feet. “Come, let me show you something. Aunt Fila left a gift for you.”

“She knew about all this wit’ch stuff?”

“Yes, she did, Elena. And she was so proud of how strong you were growing.” She sniffed back the last few tears. “She was?” Her uncle nodded. “Come with me.” Bol turned to Er’ril.

“You come, too. This may help you retrieve the ward you hid in the ruins.” Er’ril stood from his chair. Along with Elena, he followed the old man to a nearby case of dusty books.

Bol’s fingers ran along the spine of bindings like a lover’s caress. A sigh escaped his lips. His fingers settled on a carved stone bookend of a dragon’s head. He reached and tilted the bookend. A series of slipping pulleys and shifting stones sounded from behind the bookcase. The entire cabinet swung toward them.

“Stand back,” Bol warned. He swung the bookcase open like a door to reveal a stone stairway leading down.

Elena’s eyes widened with surprise, her wonder overwhelming her tears.

Even Er’ril was intrigued. “Where does this lead?” Bol reached to a hand lantern resting on a sideboard.

He picked it up and adjusted the wick to flame the lantern brighter. “Follow me, and watch your step.

The stone is damp and slippery.”

Er’ril waved a hand for Elena to follow her uncle while he went last. The stairway, constructed of crude slabs of hewn rock, appeared much older than the stone of the cottage. Spiderwebs wisped in drapes from the low ceiling. The girl and the stooped man passed under the webs, setting them to drifting on currents of disturbed air. Er’ril, taller than the others, kept wiping them from his hair as he managed the slick stairs. He slapped at his neck as he felt the scurry of tiny legs on his nape.

Hearing his slap, Elena looked back at him and eyed him as he rubbed his neck. “Careful. It’s bad luck to kill a spider.”

“Go on, child.” He nudged her forward with a finger. She wasn’t the one with spiders in her hair.

Elena listened as she crept down the last of the steps. Her footsteps echoed back from the stones. She crinkled her nose at the smell of stagnant water and mildewed dampness. Reaching the last step, she paused. Uncle Bol stood several steps ahead of her, his lantern held high. The light revealed a wide chamber, its walls sweeping to either side in a crude circle. Twelve pillars of rock, like stone guards, sectioned the walls. Between the pillars, in alcoves, hung ancient mirrored plates, most with green water stains marring their silvery finishes.

Uncle Bol smiled encouragement. “There’s nothing to be frightened of here, Elena.” Behind her, Er’ril nudged her forward. As she crossed to her uncle, the mirrors reflected back sparks of lantern light and movement. Their own reflections shifting in the mirrors made Elena jittery. She snuck closer to the swordsman. She kept catching glimpses of motion from the corner of her eye. One black passageway led away from this chamber toward other dark mysteries.

“What is this place?” Er’ril asked, bringing to voice Elena’s own question.

“We are at the outskirts of the old ruins.” Uncle Bol still had his pipe clenched between his teeth. Its glowing tip acted like a pointing finger. He swung in a circle, encompassing the entire room. “This was the old chamber of worship for the school. Here young initiates—your age, Elena—would come to pray and meditate for guidance from the spirit Chi.”

She stared into all the dark shadows. Weren’t there supposed to be poisonous snakes around the ruins?

She stepped even closer to the man with the sword. “Am I supposed to pray to Chi?” she said, her voice a whisper. “Here?”

“No, sweetheart, Chi is gone. The spirit that gave you your gift is different.”

“How so?” Er’ril asked. He didn’t seem the least bothered by the shifting shadows or the possibility of snakes.

Uncle Bol seemed unconcerned, too. He spoke to Er’ril as Elena listened for hissing. “Where Chi was more a male spirit and only communed with men, we believe the spirit that granted both Elena and Sisa’kofa their powers is more the feminine twin of Chi.” He waved the lantern to the mirrors. “Like the mirror image of Chi.”

“But Chi granted his gifts to many men,” Er’ril said. “Why does this spirit only choose this little girl—Elena—to be its instrument?”

“That has been much debated, while the writings of Sisa’kofa ponder that very question. The best answer the Sisterhood could settle on was that Chi, like all men, can spread his seed far and wide, so he could bring many men into his flock. This other spirit, more like a woman, has only one seed at a time to cherish and nurture. That seed was Sisa’kofa in the past and Elena today.”

“So this spirit is weaker than Chi,” Er’ril said.

Uncle Bol frowned at Er’ril, the tips of his white mustache drooping down. “It takes both a man and a woman to birth a child. Who is stronger and who is weaker in this union? It is just sides of a coin.” Er’ril shrugged. “Words for dreamers.”

“What is this spirit?” Elena asked, becoming slightly intrigued but still watching for snakes. “Where did it come from?”

“Much is still unknown, honey. That’s what I hope your aunt Fila may discover.”

“But Aunt Fila is dead. How can she help now?”

Uncle Bol placed a hand on her cheek. “Aunt Fila is special. Our lineage, even before Sisa’kofa, has always been blessed with a unique connection to the elemental spirits. Even your own mother, Elena.”

“My mother?”

Bol nodded. “You know how she could always tell the sex of an unborn child or when a cow would calf.”

“Yes, all the neighbors used to come to her.”

“Well, that was her special skill.”

“And Aunt Fila had special skills, too?”

“Yes, and her skills were strong. Your aunt Fila could fold and knead the magick of the elementals like the bread in her bakery. She could wield many sorceries.”

Tears again appeared in Elena’s eyes as she thought of her parents, of her brother, and of Aunt Fila.

“Why did she have to die?”

“Hush, sweetie… don’t cry. Let me show you something.” Uncle Bol led her to an alcove between two pillars.

Elena followed, noticing that this was the only section of the wall upon which a mirror did not hang. The alcove, lit by the hand lantern, was not constructed of stacked stones like the walls, but was carved from the rock of the hillside. It contained a pedestal supporting a basin of water. As she watched, a small drop of water rolled down the damp rock wall to dribble into the basin.

“What is this?” Er’ril asked behind her. “It was a bowl used for ablutions by the initiates. The hands of many ancient mages used this bowl to wash before meditating.” Elena squeezed forward and had to rise on tiptoe to peer into the water. “What does this have to do with Aunt Fila?”

“This water, seeping from springs deep in the hills, is steeped with elemental powers.” Uncle Bol glanced over her head to Er’ril. “I don’t think the school’s mages, blind to the elemental spirits, even knew what strength flowed through this water. Maybe they somehow sensed it and so intuitively built their chamber of worship here.”

“What does it do?” Er’ril asked.

“As water can carve paths in stone, so this water can carve paths between people. Both Aunt Fila and I had amulets that contained drops from this water, and it allowed us to communicate across distances.” Uncle Bol slipped a small jade amulet in the shape of an alchemist’s vial from his vest pocket. It hung from a gray twisted cord. He offered it to Elena.

She carefully lifted the amulet into the lantern light. “Thank you. It’s beautiful!” Uncle Bol bent and kissed Elena on her forehead. “It’s a gift from Aunt Fila. In fact, the cord is braided with her hair.” He reached down and removed a tiny sliver of jade acting like a cork in the vial. “Now go fill it with water,” he said, pointing to the basin.

Elena looked at her uncle questioningly, then crossed to the tiny pool and dipped the amulet in. The water’s cold stung her fingers. She lifted the vial free, and Uncle Bol passed her the jade stopper.

“Cork it snug,” he said.

Elena did so, her brows knit tight as she worked the jade sliver in place. “Now what?” she asked.

“With this amulet you can talk to Aunt Fila. You must just hold the amulet tight in your hand and wish it so.”

A trickle of fear dripped down her back. She loved her aunt, but… “I can speak to her ghost?”

“Yes. Her body may be gone, but her spirit lives. I, myself, cannot reach her with my amulet any longer.

The elemental power alone is not strong enough to breach the distance to the spirit realm. But Aunt Fila believed you could succeed.”

Elena’s eyes were focused on the amulet. “How?”

“Cross to one of the mirrors. You need a reflecting surface. Then gaze inside as you hold the amulet firm and speak Fila’s name. Try it.”

Elena scrunched up her face and stepped to a mirror in a neighboring alcove. She slipped the cord over her head and clutched the amulet in her palm, its sharp edges pinching her skin. Pressing her fist to her chest, she stared into the mirror. Splotches of green water stains marred her reflection, giving her a diseased appearance.

“Think of her and speak her name,” Uncle Bol whispered beside her. His voice sounded so hopeful, and sad at the same time, that she could not refuse him. In her mind’s eye, she pictured her aunt’s stern expression and the way her hair was always pulled back into a tight knot. “Aunt Fila?” she said to the mirror. “Can you hear me?”

With her words, Elena felt the amulet stir, much like a chick shifting in an egg just before hatching. But nothing else happened. She turned to Uncle Bol. “It’s not working.” His eyes narrowed, and his shoulders slumped. “Maybe she’s too far.”

“Or maybe she was wrong,” Er’ril said. “We should—”

The bookcase door slammed shut above them, startling Elena. She jumped, and her fist reflexively clamped, piercing her thumb on a sharp edge of the amulet.

The lantern rocked in Uncle Bol’s hand, casting shadows to and fro. He and Er’ril stood stunned for a frozen heartbeat.

Suddenly a new light burst forth into the room. It came from the mirror in front of Elena. Her eyes, drawn by the light, saw a sight she never expected to see again, her aunt Fila! The old woman was draped in waves of light, and stars winked behind her. The starry view reminded Elena of something she had seen before.

But before Elena could ponder this, Aunt Fila spoke, a panicked look blooming across her aunt’s face.

“Run!” She pointed a ghostly hand toward the single dark corridor leading out from the chamber and deeper into die ruins. “Flee! Now! Leave the cottage and escape to the woods!” With his pillow covering his ears, exhaustion finally consumed Rockingham, and he fell into a fitful slumber. He dreamed he stood on the edge of a cliff above a dark, choppy surf. As he watched the white-tipped waves crash on black rocks below, he somehow knew he dreamed. Clouds and rain blotted the horizon as a storm brewed far out to sea. As is often the case in dreams, the time of day was unclear; the quality of light was such that a change felt imminent. But whether the light was due to wax brighter as in early morning or to wane into darkness, he was unsure. The only thing he knew for certain was that he recognized this place. He had stood here before. He remembered the salt in his nose and the breeze on his face. The Dev’unberry bluff, on the coast of his island home!

A smile appeared on his face. It had been many years since he had returned to the Archipelago. Even this nighttime fantasy was a welcome visit. He soaked the air deep into his chest, and if he squinted… yes, he could just make out the Isle of Maunsk in the distance, nearly swallowed by roiling clouds.

Suddenly, as he viewed the neighboring island, a feeling of dread clutched his heart. He glanced quickly behind him as if expecting some creature of nightmare to be pouncing toward him, but the rolling green hills stood empty.

What was this fluttering of his heart? This was his home. What should he fear? He stared at the view off the cliffs. The sweep of ocean, wind, and rain seemed strangely familiar, more than just a memory of home. This very picture—the distant island disappearing into cloud, the crash of angry water at his feet, the sting of spray on his cheek—not only had he stood here before, but he had stood at this exact moment before. But when?

He tried to organize his thoughts, but a rising panic rattled him. He had a sudden urge to ran. But before he could act on this thought, his feet began to move on their own, not carrying him away to safety, but toward the edge of the cliff! As in many dreams, he could not stop. It was as if his body were a carnival puppet through whose eyes he peered. He could not stop his feet as they continued forward. As he fought, he watched his right foot step into open space.

Now he remembered! Not only had he been here before, he had done this very thing. A welling pain escaped his breast in a scream as his body tumbled off the cliff. “Linora!” As the water-churned rocks flew toward his face, words tolled in his head, in a cold, familiar tongue, laced with black humor. Dismarum’s voice said, “Don’t worry, Rockingham, I’ll catch you again.” Laughter echoed as he hit the waves.

Rockingham sprang awake in the old man’s cottage, tasting blood in his mouth. His underclothes were drenched in sweat as if he had ran a long race. He struggled to sit up, but the ropes held him.

Suddenly a rough hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to scream, but the palm blocked all sound.

“Silence or die,” someone whispered in his ear. Rockingham felt the blade of a knife at his throat. He stopped struggling. The weapon lifted from his neck and sliced his ropes free.

Rockingham pulled his arms down and rubbed his wrists. The bulky shadow of the mountain man loomed beside his bed. “Get dressed. Hurry!” Krai growled at him.

He noticed the small woman, Nee’lahn, fully dressed and peering through the tiny window. “Quickly!” she said. “Both are inside. The way is clear. Once we reach the horses, we can draw them after us.”

“What is going on?” Rockingham asked as he tucked his shirt into his pants. He bent to his boots.

“Skal’tum,” Krai answered.

Rockingham sped his efforts, pouncing into his boots.

Now was not the time to be caught by the Dark Lord’s lieutenants. He had no bargaining chip. “Where is the girl… and the others?”

Krai ignored the small man’s question. He pushed him toward the window, not knowing why the woman had insisted on hauling the prisoner along. Rockingham should have been left to the teeth and claws of the beasts. But Nee’lahn had insisted.

Nee’lahn slowly worked the window open. Crashing sounded from below. “Do you think they’re safe?” she whispered.

He stayed silent, unsure and reluctant to voice his fears. If only he had sensed the approach of the beasts earlier. Krai had found himself with only enough time to hurry down and kick the cellar door shut before the first skal’tum had begun digging at the cottage’s door. He had barely escaped back up the stairs himself.

“Will they be hidden long enough for us to get to the horses and draw the monsters away?” Nee’lahn asked, propping the window open.

“The cellar door is well disguised.”

“Still, we must hurry!” With the window now wide open, she climbed through the frame onto the thatched roof.

Krai picked up the prisoner and shoved him over the windowsill. The thin man rolled across the roof, almost tumbling from the edge. Krai wormed through the window next, having to blow all the air from his wide chest to give him room to squeeze through the narrow frame. His belt caught for a difficult moment on the sill before finally popping free and allowing him to scoot the remainder of his bulk through to the roof.

“Like a cow giving birth,” Rockingham commented to no one. His flippant words, though, could not hide the wary crinkle of his brow or the way his eyes kept darting to all corners of the roofline.

Nee’lahn stood at the roof’s edge. The horse barn with its crooked doors and sparse thatching stood just a stone’s throw from her. “We could jump from here,” she whispered. “Or work our way to the back of the house and climb down the woodpile.“

As answer, Krai leaped from the roof to land with a muffled thud on a heap of dead pine needles. He waved the others down. Nee’lahn pointed for Rockingham to go first, obviously distrusting the man. He did not need goading. The speed with which he slipped to the edge of the roof suggested he, too, did not welcome an encounter with what tore through the lower rooms. He hung from the roof’s edge for a moment, then let go to land near Krai.

Nee’lahn adjusted her pack and glanced down to them. Krai took a step forward to catch her if needed.

As she hesitated a breath at the edge, a splintering crash erupted from the bedchamber behind her.

“Hurry!” Krai called. But he need not have spoken. Nee’lahn had already launched from the roof.

The word “Run!” blew from her lips as she landed on her feet. Before Krai could get his large bulk moving, she was off and darting for the horse barn. She flew like a fluttering leaf. Krai thudded after her, herding Rockingham ahead of him.

He heard glass shatter behind him, and the explosion of burst planks. He twisted his neck and saw a dark form driving through the window above, claws scrabbling at the thatched roof. It seemed trapped, but from the way it thrashed, it would be free in a heartbeat. He drove faster, shoving Rockingham forward.

The townsman stumbled, but Krai caught his shoulder and kept him on his feet.

Krai saw that Nee’lahn had already disappeared into the horse barn. By the time he reached the crooked door with its cracked rawhide hinges, the woman had two of the horses— the girl’s gray mare and the plainsman’s chestnut stallion— already in tow. His own war charger, Rorshaf, would not allow the woman near and stood snorting and digging an iron-shod hoof into the dried manure. His black flanks heaved in excitement, apparently sensing the foul beasts afoot. Krai clucked his tongue twice, and Rorshaf settled his hooves.

Nee’lahn slid bareback atop the chestnut stallion and tossed the reins of the small mare to Rockingham.

Krai noted with satisfaction that she had tied a lead from the mare to her stallion, not trusting the prisoner to stay with them. The mare fought Rockingham’s mounting, but Krai—busy with his own beast—could not fault the man’s garrison training. He stayed on the back of the horse and managed to gain control.

Krai tossed his saddle and packs atop Rorshaf and yanked the strap to secure it. In a heartbeat, he was mounted. He patted one of his packs at his thigh. Its fullness told him that no one had disturbed its contents.

He led the way to the barn door and kicked it wide.

A large shape crashed to the dirt and rock before him. His war charger, who would run through fire with nary a flinch, reared and snorted in fright. Krai twisted his fist in the reins and fought to keep his seat.

Before him, with wings swept wide, stood another of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants. The skal’tum hissed at the rearing horse and blocked the way forward. Krai finally, with a savage yank on the bit, convinced Rorshaf to keep his hooves planted. The other horses and riders had edged back deeper into the ramshackle barn. But in there lay no safety; this beast would not be stopped by rotted and warped boards. Krai kicked Rorshaf forward, and for the first time since broken to the bit, his stallion refused his command. He kicked again with more heel. The horse ignored him, terror holding it frozen.

Krai leaned forward in his saddle, his pommel digging into his stomach, to reach his mount’s ear. “ Rorshaf, partu sagui weni sky,” he clucked in the tongue of the crag horses, a language all mountain folk knew as well as their own. Krai was the best of the Whisperers in his clan. Some said he was born to the fire speaking the language of the crag horses. Still, as skilled as he was, it took all his coaxing to work the fear from Rorshaf’s heart and to get his mount to attend him.

The war charger began to respond to Krai’s hands on the reins. Krai tapped his flanks, and the horse edged a few paces closer to the skal’tum.

The winged beast’s ears swiveled forward and back, gauging the situation. The claws of its feet had dug deep into the soil. A greenish ooze dripped from the daggered tips of its claws as it opened and closed its fists. Fangs showed from between thin lips, and in the scant moonlight, its eyes were black pits with red-hot coals glowing deep within. The motion of the horse drew the monster’s full attention.

“Where iss the girl child?” the skal’tum spat toward him. “Give her over, and we will let you die quickly.” Behind its words, Krai sensed fatigue in the beast. Its breathing rasped across the empty space. It had labored hard to arrive here so quickly. With luck, Krai might be able to distract the monster long enough to allow the others to escape. He thumbed free his ax from his saddle harness and pulled it to his lap.

Kicking his horse to a lunge, he sped directly at the beast. A roar barreled from his throat in a battle cry of his clan. Krai swung his ax high.

As Krai had hoped, exhaustion and surprise forced the skal’tum back two steps before it could rise to its full height. It was enough; there was room enough for a horse and rider to slip behind Krai and out to the dark woods. “Go!” he screamed at the others. He did not have to call twice. A rush of thundering hooves passed behind his mount’s rump. He dared not follow their progress, his eyes fixed upon the claws and teeth of the skal’tum.

The skal’tum, though, saw some of its prey scurrying away. It lunged at Krai just as the last of his companions raced past behind him. A lightning swing of his ax bounced back a flash of poisoned talons from his face, and a downward bat of his hickory handle knocked away a clawed kick at his mount’s belly. Krai guided his horse with slight movements of his legs and shifts of his weight. Rorshaf became an extension of his own body. Where horse and man met became a blurred line of muscle and will.

The skal’tum backed a step, its chest heaving with exertion. “You fight well, man of rock. But the night iss mine.”

Krai danced his ax in his hand, but it was a useless show of skill. He knew his fight with the beast was hopeless. As his previous battle with this beast’s brethren had taught him, dark magick protected the skal’tum from harm. With the sun far from rising, Krai could not maintain this stalemate. Sooner or later, a claw or fang would slip through his defense. His best hope was to buy time for Nee’lahn and the garrison man to escape, then lure this beast away from the cottage—if he lived that long.

The skal’tum waited, its breathing becoming less labored as it rested. It was in no hurry to finish him off, toying with him. Apparently it knew the child it sought was not among those who had escaped on horseback. Krai sat straighter in his saddle. He had given Nee’lahn and the others time enough to flee. If he was to die here, let him die swinging his ax and on the back of the steed he had raised from a foal. He swung his ax above his head, meaning to challenge the beast to lunge. It did—cursed predictable beast!

Now to bait it away from the cottage.

Krai reared his horse, iron-shod hooves striking back the foe. Still hanging on the back of the reared stallion, Krai signaled Rorshaf to twist around. The horse spun on its hind legs and crashed back down, jarring Krai forward across the pommel. The skal’tum now stood behind them, screaming. The mountain man kicked his horse forward, attempting to race for the tree line beyond the corner of the cottage. But after only a handful of paces, Rorshaf ground to a halt, his hooves digging grooves in the rocky dirt. The sudden stop caught Krai by surprise. He struggled to compensate but could not stop his body from tumbling over the head of his mount. He landed with a roll and avoided a snapped bone. Pulling to his knees, Krai looked ahead to what had spooked Rorshaf.

A second skal’tum stalked from the front of the cottage and blocked his escape to the trees. Krai heard the sibilant laugh of the first skal’tum behind him. “Come back, little one. We are not done playing.” AS BOL STRUGGLED TO PRY A TORCH FROM THE CRUMBLING stone of the wall, Er’ril prepared to mount the stairs and investigate the crashing commotion echoing from the cottage above.

“Stay your feet, plainsman!”

Er’ril turned to face the speaker, the ghost in the mirror. The swirling bands of light swelled and ebbed over the stern figure of the old woman. He spoke to the mirror. “I have companions in danger up there.”

“They are not your concern,” she said coldly, her eyes narrowed. “You were guardian of the Book, and now must be guardian of the one for whom the Book was forged. You must get Elena to safety. Time has not dulled the Black Heart’s lust. Now go!” Her bright image in the mirror fluttered like a candle flame in a breeze, her final words stuttering. “The dark magick… snaking in the cottage… weakening my link.

Flee… while you still can! Do not fail me, Er’ril of Standi.“ Then her ghost vanished and darkness reclaimed the chamber. Only the blue-flamed torches weakly beat back the blackness.

In the silence, the girl edged closer to Er’ril’s side. An exceptionally loud crash boomed from above, startling her, and she clutched at his hand. He squeezed in reassurance, her hand a hot ember in his palm.

How could this child be a wit’ch? Wit’ches were legends of evil: crook-backed crones buried deep in swampy lairs, or beautiful women with raven hair who lured men to their doom on midnight visits. Er’ril studied the woman-child. In the torchlight, her eyes were glassy with fear, her lips slightly parted as she held her breath. One hand twisted a curl of hair by her ear. He squeezed her hand again. Evil or not, this wit’ch was under his protection.

Bol had finally freed one of the torches from its bracket and pointed it to the only hall leaving the chamber.

“This way.” He passed the torch to Er’ril.

With only one arm, Er’ril was forced to pry his hand from Elena’s tight fingers to accept the flaming brand. The girl’s hand, free now, snatched the edge of Er’ril’s leather jerkin and clung there.

Bol raised his lantern. “Come. I have explored these ruins and know them well.”

“Do you know a way out to the woods?” Er’ril asked.

The old man’s words were whispered as he turned and began to lead the way toward the black hall. “I once did. But these ruins have a way of tricking an eye.”

Er’ril, with Elena attached to his side, followed Bol into the dark passageway leading from the chamber.

The passage was revealed to be an ancient hall of the school. Hewn stone crumbled in dampness, and mold grew thick across the stone walls. An occasional alcove or niche they passed contained statuary so worn by dripping water and age that the forms had melted into hunched masses that seemed to menace the passer.

Er’ril noted that Elena kept well clear of these dark spaces, and every noise triggered a gasp from the girl. As she walked beside him, her feet stumbled in exhaustion. He heard her mumbling under her breath, words spoken to the floor in a disjointed fashion—something about snakes. Er’ril’s lips tightened to a frown. It must be over a day since the child had slept. They needed to get her somewhere to sleep and recuperate. The dangers facing this youngster were more than just physical.

He wanted to put his arm around the girl, but he was fully occupied supporting the sputtering torch. For the first time in a long time, he regretted the loss of his other limb.

Ahead, Er’ril saw Bol hesitate at a junction of three crumbling halls. The subterranean ruins of the old school were a maze of crisscrossing stone halls and collapsed chambers. At first, Bol had been marching through this warren of tunnels with confidence, but as they proceeded he stopped more and more to scratch his head and squint his eyes.

Er’ril stepped beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“I must have made a wrong turn. I don’t remember this crossroad.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we’re lost. There are many parts of these ruins I haven’t explored. Some sections are unstable and apt to fall. Some parts are where beasts of the underground rule and guard against intruders.”

“And where are we now?”

As if in answer, a sudden loud hissing bloomed from all around them. Elena whimpered beside Er’ril.

Bol lowered his lantern. “How fast can you run carrying Elena?” he whispered to Er’ril.

“Why?”

Bol peered into the darkness. “I didn’t know they had stretched their territory so far. The winter cold must be driving them to these lower regions.”

Er’ril listened to the growing hissing. “Serpents?”

Bol shook his head. “Worse. Much worse. Rock’goblins.”

The two skal’tum beat their wings through the cold night air as Krai struggled to his feet. One of his knees protested the motion, and he grabbed for Rorshaf’s withers to steady himself. The war charger sidled closer to him. Though the horse’s eyes were wild with fear and its coat slick with sweat, Rorshaf stayed by the downed Krai, ready to protect.

The skal’tum behind him chuckled, the sound of its laughter like rocks rattling through a wash during a flash storm. “My little bird broke hisss wing. Come and I will fix it.” Krai heard the scrape of bony wing and claw approaching his back. He stared at his empty hands—weaponless. He had lost the ax when he was thrown from the horse. It now lay in the dirt near the feet of the second skal’tum. He needed another weapon but had none. Unless…

The second skal’tum crept closer toward him from the front. “We have had a long trip here. We could use a little meal before we tear apart the cottage and find our true prey.” Both of the skal’tum now hissed sibilantly. Green oil dripped from the claws of the skal’tum in front while it stared at him like a dog salivating for a bone.

Krai’s hand settled on one of his packs. He picked the strap loose and flipped open the covering.

“Now what doess our little man think he hass?” the beast behind him asked. “Another shiny blade to prod at us? You cannot harm us, soft one, but only whet our appetites.” Krai reached into his pack and grabbed his “weapon” by a long ear. He pulled free the decapitated head of the skal’tum he had slain in the town. He raised it high for both creatures to see. “Do not trust so fully your dark magick! I have learned how to thwart your foul protections.” The sight of the head, its long tongue hanging slack from its dead lips, had the desired effect on the beasts. Krai guessed the two skal’tum had seldom seen one of their kind slain in many centuries. The shocking revelation caused both of the beasts to flap back from him in trepidation. He hopped forward, his horse following at his whistled command. He swung the head toward the skal’tum in front. It backed far enough away from Krai that he could reach the ax.

He quickly wiped the ax’s edge through the thick blood that dripped in globs from the severed neck in his hands. “Blood of your kind smeared on a blade will render your dark protections useless.” He raised the blade, praying his ruse would hold. “I do not need the sun to kill you!” His words shook the skal’tum. Both near exhaustion themselves, neither seemed willing to test his claim.

He mounted and, using his knees, guided his horse to the side. Now both skal’tum stood in front of him.

“We will kill you, little man. Mark our wordsss. When the tale of what you have done reachess our tribe, you and all your kind will be meat upon our fangss.”

“We will be ready for you! Your blood will flow like rivers down our mountains,” he assured the creatures as he swung his horse around and signaled Rorshaf to his fastest speed. Fear ignited his mount, and Rorshaf’s iron-shod hooves thundered across the cold ground. Trees flew past to either side. With a net of limbs blocking the sky overhead from a winged assault, Krai allowed himself to breathe again.

As he and Rorshaf raced through the wintry night, thunder rumbled from overhead. The storm was about to break. Krai watched lightning arc across the black clouds as two emotions warred in his heart: relief at having survived, and shame for what he had done. He kicked Rorshaf to a faster speed, as if he could run from his ignoble act. Froth foamed from Rorshaf’s lips as he obeyed his master and sped through the woods.

It was not the abandonment of his companions in the cottage that caused his heart to weigh like a stone in his chest. Though he had left them to the beasts, his heart knew he had done all he could to buy them time to escape the cellar and reach safety. He had done his best, risking his own life.

No, what caused his heart to ache and his throat to choke was that he had lied, spoken an untruth! And for no other reason but to save his contemptible hide!

He yanked on Rorshaf’s reins. His mount reared, wild-eyed, foam flying from the bit, and pulled to a short stop. Suddenly lightning and thunder crashed above Krai, as if the heavens above screamed for his lying heart. A freezing rain began pelting through the pines to strike his upturned face.

No man of his clan had ever allowed a lie to escape his teeth. With the spittle of his foul tongue, Krai had doused the fire of his family clan. For that blasphemy, he could never return to his mountain home.

A man forever lost, Krai howled into the face of the rain.

Elena clung to the swordsman’s jerkin as the hissing of the goblins crept around them. Now what? She had seen too many horrors this past day. She buried her face into Er’ril’s leather jerkin. A rumble of di stant thunder echoed from above, silencing the hissing but not for long. As the crackling roar died away, the menacing noise resumed, itching at her ears. She peeked an eye open and stared down the hall behind them. Were there darker shadows sliding toward them?

Uncle Bol spoke behind her. “I smell rain down this hall.” She glanced back toward her uncle. He peered down the hall leading to the left. “And I think the hissing is less this way, too.”

“Then let’s go,” Er’ril said.

With her ear pressed near his chest, Elena heard Er’ril’s heart pound in its bony cage. She concentrated on the rush of blood through the warrior’s heart, letting it drown out the hissing.

“Toss away the torch,” Bol said. “You’ll need that arm of yours to carry Elena. We must hurry. They may let us pass through their halls unmolested if we don’t dally.” Elena allowed herself to be hefted into the air by Er’ril’s iron-muscled arm. She held her arms around his neck to maintain her perch. “Swing to my back,” he said.

She did as he asked and wrapped her legs around his waist. He kept his one arm hooked in her leg. “I don’t need you to hold me,” she said right into his ear. “If you lean over just a bit, I can hold on by myself.”

Er’ril grunted acknowledgment and let go.

She tightened her knees and adjusted her weight. She held her place firm; it was not unlike riding a horse.

“I’m set,” she said.

Placing a hand on the pommel of his sword, Er’ril nodded to Bol. “Lead the way.” Elena’s arm across his windpipe strained his voice.

Bol raised his lantern, slipped into the hall on the right, and led the way at a slight trot. Er’ril followed with a strangled “hang on” tossed back at the girl.

Elena pushed her cheek against his neck and held tight, careful not to choke her mount completely. Her nose filled with the scent of him: horse and a rich muskiness, like a hint of the loam of his home plains. A picture of him as a boy running in the fields of his Standi home passed through her mind’s eye, legs strong as they leaped irrigation ditches, chest wide as it drew the air yellowed by the dusty pollen of the spring fields. What if they had met as children? Would they have been friends?

Before she could ponder the strange effect his smell had on her heart, they entered the new hallway. The hissing grew louder as the walls around them echoed the threat. The noise seemed to creep into her skull and bounce around inside. She stared over Er’ril’s shoulder as he trotted after Uncle Bol and the lantern.

Though they moved quickly, the pace was not so hurried as to trip a foot on a crumbling stone or bump a head on a fallen roof beam. It was this fast yet steady pace that kept Uncle Bol from death. From her perch, Elena could see the forward edge of the lantern’s light as it raced ahead of them, illuminating obstacles. As she stared, the lantern light sliding along the stone floor suddenly vanished ahead as if swallowed by a hungry darkness. It took her a moment to realize what lay ahead. “Watch out!” she called to her uncle, who still hurried ahead of them.

Her words struck his ears at the same time the sight reached his eyes. He skidded to a halt, his arm swinging to keep him from falling. His toes teetered at the edge of a precipice. Er’ril came near to colliding into his back and sending him tumbling into the black pit ahead, but the swordsman was agile and instead pulled Uncle Bol from the edge.

Elena dropped from Er’ril’s back. All three stared at the yawning precipice. The hall had been split by an old crack and a shifting in the rock of the foothills; the edge of the lantern light barely reached across the gap to where the hall continued on the far side—much too far to leap.

Another crack of thunder echoed from the storm overhead. The thunder’s bark rang clear from the distant hall. Uncle Bol was right. A way to the surface did lie at the end of that hall. But with the pit between them and the hall’s continuation, it might as well have been a thousand leagues away.

The thunder seeped away, and the source of the hissing became clear. The noise rose like steam from the precipice, as from a furious teakettle ready to explode.

“Rock’goblins,” Bol muttered.

Behind them now, a thick-tongued hissing answered its brethren from the pit.

Uncle Bol turned to face Elena. She had never seen such despair in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to both her and Er’ril.

Elena barely heard his words. From the hall behind them, she saw inky shadows shift and squirm toward their light.

“Kral!” Nee’lahn called through the storm-swept wood. Limbs lashed about her horse, and a hard rain beat down, stinging her face. She continued through the wood toward where she had heard the thunder of passing hooves. She coaxed the stallion forward.

Behind her followed the mare and its rider, Rockingham. Though the steed was tethered to her stallion, the man made no effort to leap from his mount and flee. Apparently the prisoner had no desire to traverse these woods on foot with monsters loose this night.

“He’s dead,” Rockingham said sourly. “Let’s find a thick-boughed tree and weather this storm out.”

“No.”

“He can’t have survived the skal’tum.”

“He did it once.”

Rockingham pulled his shoulders up and hunched against a sudden wet gust. “Not this black night.”

“I heard him.”

“You heard thunder.”

Nee’lahn nudged her stallion forward, leading the mare with her. Her senses were keen. It was not thunder she had heard. “Krai!” she called again, the wind ripping the name from her lips.

As if in answer, a light bloomed in the wood far ahead. Her first thought was that they had circled back around and that the misty light came from the old man’s cottage. No, they were too deep in the wood, too far from the cottage. She sat straighter on the horse and peered forward, trying to pierce the veil of rain. The light, a soft azure glow, appeared to be bobbing up and down. Was someone hailing them?

Maybe Krai?

She reached a hand to the trunk of a tree and allowed her eyes to drift partially closed, searching through the rough bark and down to the heart of the tree, to its very roots that entwined with the other trees of the dark wood. She hummed a song of the nyphai low in her throat, a song of inquiry. Who lay ahead, friend or foe? But her only response was a rumble of irritation. How dull the roots of these trees, like men snoring in dream, compared to the symphony that once played in her own forest home. Only a single feathery answer returned— elv’in.

Startled, she let her fingers drift from the woody bark. Just an old nightmare, she thought. These trees here were lost in the past. The elv’in had been gone from these shores for a thousand ages. They had disappeared long ago, sailing their wind ships beyond the Great Western Ocean to a faraway land, from which they had never returned.

Still, even this mention of the ancient elv’in stirred a worry in her chest; it was such a cursed name to find among these storm-drenched limbs.

Her curiosity inched her stallion in the direction of the light. The trunks of trees, moving between her and the light, winked the glow into and out of existence like some cryptic signal. Finally, an especially fierce gale blew down from the peaks, and a wall of rain swept over them. The light blotted out. Nee’lahn stopped her horse and waited, unsure where exactly the light had last stood.

As she held her breath, her eyes searching, Rockingham slipped his gray mare beside her chestnut stallion. “I don’t like this. We should go. No telling what manner of beast might be loose this night.” She raised a warning hand. “Hush!” Her ears strained. She thought she had heard the snapping of a twig nearby.

“Wha—?” Rockingham’s question was strangled to silence by a large hand clamped over his mouth.

Nee’lahn flinched in her saddle as she saw the huge shape swell up and pull Rockingham from his perch.

A knife flashed into her hand from a sheath on her wrist. Whoever had grabbed Rockingham was on the far side of the horse, hidden from view.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the glow reappear on her right, farther in the forest. She ignored it, her attention focused on the commotion behind the mare. A face suddenly appeared over the withers of the horse. The rocky planes and thick beard of the face were familiar. “Krai?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Down,” he whispered at her, a hand motioning her to dismount.

Nee’lahn slipped from the horse’s back. She darted to Krai and Rockingham. The garrison man was rubbing at his neck, his eyes narrowed with anger.

“Tether the horses,” the large man whispered in her ear.

“Why?”

He pointed toward the light. “The horses draw attention. You two were making enough noise to attract a deaf cliff-cat. On foot, the storm should hide our scent and cover our footfalls.”

“Who’s over there?”

“I’m… not sure.” Krai quickly swung his face away. “But on this foul night, we should heed caution.” Nee’lahn’s brow crinkled. The mountain man was acting oddly, but his words were sound.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Rockingham said, planting his feet.

“You’re right,” Krai said. He grabbed both the man’s wrists in one hand and bound them with rope.

“You’re staying here with the horses.” Krai tossed an end of the rope over a high branch of a winter oak and caught it again. He pulled it taut, dragging Rockingham’s arms so far up that he danced on the tips of his toes. Krai tied the rope around the bole of the tree.

Rockingham began to protest, but a gag stuffed into his mouth silenced his words.

“Is that really necessary?” Nee’lahn asked, surprised at the savagery in Krai’s behavior. “He hasn’t caused us any trouble.”

“What about the skal’tum?” Krai said. “How did they know where to find us?” She remained silent, unsure.

“Come, the sun’s rising,” he said. “I’m returning to the cottage and ridding the valley of those beasts, as I did with the other.” He nodded toward the light. “But first I will know who else moves through these woods on a stormy night.”

Nee’lahn thought of mentioning what she had heard from the tree voices, but Krai’s actions made her uneasy, reluctant to open her worries to him. Besides, what was the need of speaking of the elv’in kind?

They were creatures of old stories.

“It would be best if you stayed with the horses, too,” Krai said.

“No.” The word escaped her mouth before she could stop it, but she didn’t take it back. “I’m coming with you.”

Krai hesitated as if to protest, then merely shrugged and turned away. Nee’lahn followed his wide back as he slipped away. For such a huge man, he seemed to float across the forest floor. Silent and sure, he sped toward the distant light, ax clenched in one fist. Nee’lahn, a creature of the forest herself, still had to press hard to keep pace with the man. The storm, with its sudden buffeting winds and wet embrace, hindered her, while the rain sluicing through the bower overhead ran off Krai’s body as if off rock.

Not a word was uttered as they continued, but inside Nee’lahn a thousand concerns fought. Even after his battle with the skal’tum in the town, Krai had come away from the fight winded but unfazed, with his calm resilience intact. Now, though, his words had a bite to them, and his actions were as sharp as the edge of his ax. Even his shoulders seemed tight and bound in iron.

If Krai had not been so strange, she would have perhaps stayed with Rockingham and the horses and might have been able to keep Rockingham from being trussed up like a beast. But the way Krai’s brows brooded over his sunken red eyes scared her—not for herself, but for others he might encounter. Not all things this night needed to be met with blade and muscle.

Nee’lahn came abreast of the mountain man and watched the light glowing past the last scattering of tree trunks. Whoever cast this light into the storm deserved to attract more than just blind fury. She edged ahead of Krai, determined to see first if Krai’s ax might be needed. She sped ahead of the giant, her lithe feet dancing across the fallen leaves and twigs in silence. The ways of the forest paths were part of her nature. Behind her, she heard a whisper of ire from Krai.

The slightest smile edged her lips until she reached the last of the trees and saw who and what brought light into this dark wood. No! Instinct took hold of her heart as her dagger again appeared at her fingertips, snatched from her wrist sheath. She flew into the circle of light.

The tall, slender man, twice Nee’lahn’s height but half her weight and dressed in only a thin white shift tucked into billowing green trousers, twisted a long thin neck to face her. He stood in a ring of mushrooms with one arm raised high, bearing aloft the source of the glow. A bird, perched on his raised wrist, glowed a bright azure from its feathers. Startled, it beat its wings twice, and the light waxed brighter with its motion. A moon’falcon!

The falcon opened its beak and screeched.

“No, Nee’lahn!” Krai called behind her as she raced forward with her dagger held high.

She ignored him, a scream of rage escaping her lips.

The elv’in must die!

Er’ril pushed the child behind him and unsheathed his sword. He faced the dark hallway. Hissing black shapes slid toward them. Bol stood with the girl and held his lantern up. Its light cast the trio in an island of illumination. With the precipice at their heels, retreat meant only another form of death.

“I don’t understand,” Bol muttered behind him. “The few times I’ve encountered signs of the rock’goblins, I merely had to run away. They‘ ve never pursued me.”

“Maybe they’ve grown bolder,” Er’ril said. He saw a few of the shapes slip toward the edge of the light.

The lantern’s glow seemed to hold them back, like some magickal shield.

One of the shadowy figures broke away from the others and dragged forward. It stood just outside the light, clinging yet to the blackness. A glimpse of red eyes and a baring of needled fangs reflected the traces of the lantern’s glow. Er’ril found the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck raising at the sight. The creature’s shape echoed night terrors of his own childhood when blankets were pulled tight to chin as the house creaked at midnight.

“They won’t hold much longer,” Er’ril said. “Do you have any weapon, Bol?”

“No, only the light.” The old man stepped forward, flashing the lantern ahead.

The sudden movement of the light caught the bolder goblin by surprise. It stood exposed in the bright light, no taller than a goat. Its skin, which had appeared black in the shadows, was now revealed to be a scaly white, like the underbelly of a dead fish. A filthy oil sheened its surface. Huge red eyes stared, unblinking, at them. Then it hunched back from them with a sharp hiss, exposing the fangs of an asp. A tail, with a single black horn brandished on its tip, whipped from behind the goblin to coil and writhe in threat.

Er’ril grimaced, not at the sight of the single beast cringing in the lantern’s glow, but at what else the spreading light revealed. The hall before them was crammed with hunching, squirming forms. Even the walls and roof were festooned with goblins hanging from claws dug into the crumbling blocks of stone.

The single goblin nearest them darted back into the shadows. The bulk of its fellow creatures also shied from the encroaching light, but not in full retreat.

“What do you make of them?” Er’ril asked Bol. “My sword cannot singly force a pass through their mass. What of wit’ch magick?” Er’ril forced himself not to stare at the little girl cowering behind Bol.

“No, Elena is dry. And like her male counterparts, it takes sunlight to renew her power. She cannot help us.”

“Then can these rock’goblins be reasoned with?”

“I know not. They are a skittish lot, having only rare contacts with others.”

“And what happened to those others?”

“Their skulls and bones were found, well cleaned.”

Er’ril stared as the goblins began a slow creep back toward them. He motioned Elena toward one wall and had Bol stand guard before her. Er’ril needed room to maneuver. He raised the tip of his sword.

He watched for any sign that the beasts had gained enough confidence to attack. But they continued to hover at the edge of the lantern’s light, as if waiting for a sign of their own. The goblins seemed determined to keep the intruders from leaving, but unsure what to do with them otherwise.

“What… are they doing?” Elena asked from behind her uncle. Her voice was surprisingly steady. Maybe she was too naive to properly appreciate their predicament.

“I’m not sure, honey,” Bol said, “but we’d better be quiet.” With their words, a commotion seemed to be stirring among the mass of goblins. It started far down the hall and commenced toward them—a furious hissing and a squabbling of clicking tongues.

Er’ril tensed, his sword arm rock steady, his eyes narrowed with concentration.

Suddenly another goblin burst from among the mass to reveal itself in the lantern light. Like the goblin before, this one stared up at him with huge red eyes, its tail thrusting toward Er’ril cautiously. But in its tiny hands was clasped an object that flashed in the lantern light. The goblin slunk forward, its hands raised toward him as if offering a gift. Er’ril backed a pace and pointed the tip of his sword at the creature.

The other goblins filling the hallway had silenced their hissing and stood stone still. The goblin standing before Er’ril peeled its long fingers open to reveal a single sculpted lump of metal, so large it took both of its tiny white palms to support it.

Er’ril gasped. The metal glinted like gold in the lamplight. He knew this object and its shape and knew it was not gold that shone in the light, but iron forged from the blood of a thousand mages. He had hidden it among the ruins of the ancient school over a century ago for safekeeping against rogues and thieves during his traveling.

It was the ward of A’loa Glen.

Stunned by the unexpected revelation, Er’ril allowed his guard down and moved too slowly. The goblin with the prize darted forward, not at Er’ril, but past him. Before Er’ril could react, the goblin snaked behind him and flew to the lip of the yawning precipice. The creature paused a moment, peering over its shoulder at him.

“No!” Er’ril dropped his sword and lunged a hand at the beast. The ward must not be lost! Again he was too slow. The goblin leaped into the precipice and tumbled into the black maw, still clutching the key to the lost city.

Er’ril dashed to the edge, falling to his knees, and searched the chasm. Nothing but blackness stared back at him. “Bring the light!” Er’ril commanded.

“Look, they’re leaving,” Bol said.

Er’ril allowed himself a quick glance. The mass of rock‘-goblins were slinking back from them, disappearing into the gloom of the dark halls: one less threat. Swinging his attention back to the precipice, Er’ril repeated, “Your lantern! Shine it here!”

“Why? Let’s get out of here. We’ll backtrack to the surface,” Bol said as he stepped to the chasm with the lantern.

“Lower it into the pit.”

Bol bent with a sigh and leaned his lantern over the edge. The light spilled into the darkness to illuminate a narrow cliff only a few spans down. Crude hewn stairs led from this ledge deeper into the chasm. Just at the edge of the lantern’s glow, a goblin could be seen jumping down the steps. It was soon beyond the reach of the light.

“We need to catch that little toad.” Er’ril pulled to his feet and picked up his abandoned sword.

“Why? Let him go, Er’ril. We need to get Elena to safety.”

Er’ril slammed his sword into its scabbard. “If we’re to have any chance of reaching A’loa Glen and the Blood Diary, we need what the goblin carries. It’s the key to unlocking the path to the lost city. Without it, the ancient spells woven around A’loa Glen are impregnable. I must retrieve the ward.” Bol’s brow crinkled as Er’ril’s words sank home. “How did they find it? And why show it to us and run away?”

“We were herded here.” Er’ril pointed to the now empty hallway. “By exposing the ward, they no longer need to push us. They expect that it will now pull us.” Elena had wandered to stare into the precipice. “Pull us where?” Er’ril stepped beside her. “Down there.”

Kral lunged after Nee’lahn. What had ignited such fury in the usually quiet woman? Rain lashed in swirls through the small clearing among the trees. The lone occupant, a man as tall as Kral but thin as a wind-whipped sapling, glanced toward Nee’lahn with the mildest pursing of his lips, as if only slightly curious why this woman was racing toward him with an upraised dagger. His hair, tied into a long braid that draped down his back, was cast in shades of silver, but surely not from advancing age since the smoothness of his face suggested otherwise. His blue eyes, though, which settled only briefly on Krai, suggested time had worn away both youthful fears and wonder. The eyes seemed bored.

The only light in this stormy glade swelled in waves from a bird, a falcon aglow with a deep azure light.

Perched on the tall man’s bony wrist, the bird’s response was more vocal than that of its bearer. It screeched through a sharp beak at Nee’lahn, mimicking the tiny woman’s own declaration of rage.

A gust of rain stung Krai’s eyes. He blinked. In that fraction of a heartbeat, the bird vanished from the stranger’s wrist. In a streak of light, not unlike the bolts striking between clouds, the bird dove to Nee’lahn and knocked the dagger from her hand. Before Nee’lahn’s shocked feet could even stumble to a stop, the falcon had returned to its perch.

Nee’lahn stood panting, her fine hair plastered in welts across her face. “This is not your land!” she yelled above the thunder. “Your kind do not belong here.”

By now, Krai had reached her and placed a hand upon her shoulder. Unsure who this man was but trusting Nee’lahn’s instinct, he stood by to support his companion. He felt her quiver under his palm, as if her emotions boiled within her, threatening to explode. “Who is this man? Do you know him?” Nee’lahn’s quaking calmed as he spoke. “No, not him. But I do know his people—the elv’in! The last word was spat at the stranger.

The stranger remained silent, unconcerned, as if he did not speak their language. Krai tensed as the elv’in man suddenly moved, but he only reached a long finger to ruffle the feathers of his falcon. This seemed to calm the bird, and it settled deeper on its perch, less taut.

“I have not heard of his clan,” Krai said, his words for some reason whispered.

“You could not. Even before the race of man appeared on these shores, the elv’in were myth, long vanished across the mists of the Great Western Ocean. “Then how do you know them?”

“The trees have long memories. Our most ancient roots were young when the elv’in still walked under the boughs of the Western Reaches. The most hallowed trees still sang the stories: songs of war… and betrayal.”

“But they sing no longer,” the stranger said, speaking for the first time, his voice like the chiming of bells.

His eyes, though, were still on his falcon, his head bent slightly in study.

“Because of you!” Nee’lahn began to shake again. He shrugged.

“You betrayed us.” Tears appeared on her lids. “No, you destroyed yourselves.” For the first time, a spark of anger glinted in the blue eyes of the stranger, a sudden storm in a summer’s sky. He swung to face them both fully, high cheekbones sharp on his white face.

Krai squeezed Nee’lahn’s shoulder, attempting to bottle the swelling rage inside her. Through his touch, Krai sensed the truth in Nee’lahn’s words. She believed her accusations. But Krai also had the impression that the stranger was not lying either. He believed his own assertions of innocence.

Krai spoke into the tense silence. The storm raging in plays of wind and thunder above seemed calm compared to the quiet war waging here. “I do not understand. What happened between your peoples?” Nee’lahn turned to Krai. “Once, a long time ago, the spirit trees of my home, the koa’kona, grew everywhere on this land, spreading from the Teeth across the vastness of the Western Reaches to the Great Western Ocean itself. Our people were revered as spirits of root and loam. And we shared our gifts freely.”

The stranger snorted. “You ruled as if all the other races on the land were mere tools to aid in the growth of your precious trees. Your rule was a tyranny.”

“Lies!”

“At first, even we didn’t recognize how unnatural your spread upon the lands was. We aided you, using our gifts of wind and light to help your trees grow. But then from the winds on high, we began to sense the corruption that this marching spread of your people had upon the land: Swamps drained, rivers diverted, mountains fell. The beauty of life’s variety was thwarted by your people’s single-minded creep.

So we held back our gifts and tried to speak reason to your ancient elders. But we were reviled and cast out from our homelands.“

“But not before cursing us! You seeded the Blight upon your winds and cast the rot of root and leaf upon us. Our trees began to wither and die across the land until only a small glade, protected by the new magick of the human race, survived the purge. You destroyed us.”

“Never! We held life precious, even your own. It was not we who cursed your trees and brought the Blight, but the land itself. Nature fought your spread to protect its diversity. You were cast down by the land itself. Do not blame us.”

Krai saw Nee’lahn’s eyes grow wide; reason and rage fought within her gaze. “You lie,” she said, but this time her voice was tinged with doubt. She turned to face Krai. “He lies, doesn’t he?” Krai shook his head. “I sense only truth, but only in the faith of his words. He believes what he says. That does not mean that what he believes is true.”

Nee’lahn raised her fists to her temples as if to squash the doubts now rooted therein. “Why? Why then have you returned?”

“When we were banished, elemental wards were placed upon these lands by your ancients to keep us from these shores. With the death of the last tree, the strength of the wards faded, and the paths here opened again. So I was sent.”

“Why?” Krai asked.

“To retrieve what we had lost, what we were forced to leave behind.”

“And what is that?” Nee’lahn asked. “We kept nothing of yours.”

“Ahh, but you did. You hid it in this valley, a vale still named as we named it long ago—Winter’s Eyrie.” Krai and Nee‘lahn voiced the same question What?

He raised his falcon high. “Seek out what we have lost” The bird burst out from his wrist in a streak of moonlight and soared across the drowned glade. “Seek out our lost king ” Book Four

MOONLIGHT AND MAGICK

Tol’chuk lumbered behind the others, his shoulders hunched against the pelting rain. The storm had struck as soon as they had cleared the mountain heights and entered the rimwood forest of the lower highlands. Spears of lightning crashed in jagged bolts across the night sky, illuminating the dark forest ahead in sharp bursts of blinding radiance.

In one of these bursts, he saw Mogweed and his wolf-brother almost a league down the path. Even with the storm’s howl, his companions had traveled lightly once they reached the forest’s edge. Woods were their home, and even though this was not their own forest, the familiar canopy of woven branches and bushy undergrowth seemed to ignite renewed vigor in their limbs. The injured wolf, even burdened by his splinted leg, raced among the trees, while Tol’chuk, racked by rib-cracking coughs and a nose clogged with dripping slime from the constant dampness of the weeks of travel, found himself slipping farther and farther behind the others.

Tol’chuk dreamed of his own dry caves with a roaring fire in his family hearth. He bowed his head and dragged a forearm across his raw nose. The first winter storm had always marked the Sulachra, the ceremony of the dead, in which cured goat dung was burned in family hearths to honor the spirits of the departed. He pictured the caves billowing with the sweet smoke and the females waving fans of dried toka’toka leaves to cast the mingled odors out into the storm. Lightning was supposed to open cracks in the dome of the sky through which the smoke would seep to the next world, letting the dead know they were still remembered. Tol’chuk coughed, an echo of the thunder above, and wondered who would perform the Su-lachra for his dead father. And if no smoke arose for him, would he think he had been forgotten?

As Tol’chuk plodded down the path, the tapping of his thigh pouch on his leg brought a sudden realization. He stumbled to a stop, his palm cupping the Heart of the Og’res in the pouch, and remembered the Triad’s words. The spirits of the og’re dead, including his father, had not made the journey to the next world. They were trapped here, in the heartstone!

This realization opened a hole in Tol’chuk’s chest into which a profound hollowness swelled. The Sulachra ceremony was a sham! The smoke had never reached the flared nostrils of the spirits. The dead had never reached the next world.

Tol’chuk’s hand fell away from the pouch, from the gem. The Sulachra had been a time when all the og’re tribes united for a brief few days in a communal act of homage. It was a time of peace and contemplation, a short respite from the tribal wars. It united the og’re people with its grace. But now, with the knowledge of the lie behind the act, the beauty of the ritual was forever fouled for Tol’chuk.

In just a heartbeat, he had become less an og’re. He glanced ahead at the dark wood spread before him.

So many leagues still to cross on this journey. What else would he learn on this trek? Who would he become?

Thunder mocked him from above as lightning split the dark roof of the world. In the flash of illumination, Tol’chuk realized he had lost Mogweed and Fardale. His traveling companions had disappeared among the black, glistening trunks.

Alone among the trees, Tol’chuk felt as if he were the only living creature for a thousand leagues.

Between the rumbles of thunder, the forest lay silent around him except for the rattle of rain on leaves and the brief whistles of wind through pine branches. Not a tor’crow cawed, not a frog croaked. Tol’chuk wiped at his nose and sniffed loudly, just to interrupt the forest’s silence. I am here, he said with each sniff. I am not dead.

He marched on. As he took his first step forward, he saw a glow blossom into existence on his right.

How had Fardale and Mogweed gotten so far? He adjusted his course toward the light, his legs as heavy as the tree trunks around him. These swampy woods addled his sense of direction. The light, like an island in a storm-swept sea, became his beacon. With his eyes fixed on the glow, Tol’chuk trudged forward.

The lonely wood fired a craving for the sight of others, some reassurance that all living creatures had not been swallowed up by this black forest. As his legs increased their lumbering pace, he wondered how his companions could enjoy this cramped and closed world of heavy limbs and choking undergrowth. Where were the open views across a thousand leagues? Where was the parade of snowy peaks spread far and wide? Here, he could barely reach a hand forward to keep a branch from slapping his face or see much beyond the tip of his nose. Even the tunnel to the chamber of spirits had not felt this confining.

As he marched, he noticed he was gaining ground on the glow’s position. The others must have stopped and were finally resting. Hopefully they had found a dry spot to weather out the remainder of this night’s storm. Besides the desire for companionship, the thought of a dry shelter hurried his pace. Soon he spotted the motion of dark figures within the glow. His heart gladdened at the sight of others. He was not alone. As the light swelled momentarily brighter, he saw three silhouettes limned in the azure glow. His feet stumbled to a halt. Three? Who had his companions met? Suddenly the glow shot away, streaking like a fiery arrow into the wood. Perhaps he should stay hidden. But what if the others were in trouble, met up with some brigand or marauder? He was not familiar with the tricks of the forest floor and knew that the only reason the others were unaware of his location was because of the blanketing noise of the storm. To sneak closer and survey the situation firsthand was beyond his skill. Too many snapping twigs and branches would betray his approach.

Seldom creatures of deception or cunning, og’res relied on brute force for both offense or defense.

Though only a half-breed, Tol’chuk knew this part of his heritage held true.

So he took the single course open to an og’re. He wiped his nose, swelled his chest with damp air, and crashed forward in a loping run that had surprised many crag’goats among the peaks. The speed of an og’re was their tribe’s only deception. Few creatures were aware of how quickly an og’re could move when necessary. And these few creatures, like the hunted goats, never lived to tell.

It was the suddenness of his speed, even though accompanied by a shattering roar of cracking branches and sapling trunks, that caught the three in the glade unaware. Three faces swung to face Tol’chuk as he burst into their tiny clearing— three faces of startled strangers.

None of these were his companions! He realized his lonely thoughts had hidden from him the possibility that a different group of travelers might be huddling in the stormy forest. Tol’chuk stood stunned as the others momentarily stared wide-eyed back at him. The largest man, almost as massive as an og’re himself, was holding an ax, while a tiny female gasped with a hand over her mouth. A waifish, silver-haired man stood frozen nearby, eyebrows high up on his forehead.

The thin man, like a version of Mogweed stretched close to breaking, was the first to move. Only a slight pursing of his lips and a relaxing of his posture spoke his lack of alarm. He raised a single finger, pointed it at Tol’chuk, and spoke with bells in his voice. “It seems I’m not the only one straying far from home this stormy night.”

With the man’s words, Tol’chuk felt a pull on his heart, as if from hooks imbedded deep in his chest, from the chunk of heartstone at his thigh. This meeting was not chance. He stared at the small blond woman with her hulking friend. Tol’chuk spoke in the common tongue, “Who be you?” That he could speak seemed to stun the ax man and the tiny woman. She even took a step away. Only the gaunt man seemed unimpressed.

“Who be you all?” Tol’chuk repeated.

The wraith of a man spoke, waving his hand to encompass the group. “Seekers like you, og’re. The wit’ch draws us to her like moths to the flame.”

Tol’chuk wiped his nose, confused, the ache in his heart beginning to dull. “I do not understand. What wit’ch?”

The man smiled, but there was no mirth in his voice. “The wit’ch who will destroy our worlds.” Mogweed crouched by the opening in the hill. The tumble of stone blocks near the entrance to the ancient tunnel was covered in wet moss and a flaky lichen. A gnarled oak growing on the slope above the black opening wormed roots through the soil to drape across the entrance like bars to a prison. From the size of the oak and the thickness of the lichen growth on the stones, this tunnel was as old as the forest itself. He noticed this whole valley seemed littered with crumbling stone and the remnants of ancient walls.

Perhaps it was an abandoned mine. Mogweed had heard that the Teeth were pocketed with ore and jewel mines like old cavities. The thought of diamonds and gold drove Mogweed closer to the tunnel entrance.

Bending near the opening, Mogweed crinkled his nose at the smell from the hole. It reeked of old animal droppings and the muskiness of bear. But the scent must be old because the growth of root across the entrance was too thick for a bear to pass. Even Fardale had had a hard time squeezing through to explore the tunnel.

If no dangers lurked there, it would be a safe haven to wait out the brunt of the storm. He heard his brother snuffling deeper down the tunnel. “Did you find anything?” he called.

Of course, his brother could not answer. Even discounting Fardale’s wolf form, it still took direct contact, eye-to-eye, to speak the spirit language of his people. But the voiced question helped dispel the misgivings that grew like webs around his heart as he sat out in the rain among these foreign trees. He could swear just moments ago he had heard a scream from somewhere not too far away. But the thunder and rain muffled the scream, and now Mogweed was unsure if it was just the howling wind he had heard.

And where was the og’re?

Mogweed was a tiny bit shocked at the pang of worry that accompanied this quandary. He should be relieved that the lumbering beast that could break him in half with a shrug was not here. But by now Mogweed had grown confident that the og’re meant him no harm, and here in the dark forest, alone, Mogweed would gladly welcome the appearance of his sharp-eared, rocky face.

Mogweed stood back up and studied the slopes around him as lightning lit the surroundings. He had known Tol’chuk was lagging behind. The phlegmy illness plaguing the og’re had been getting worse. A day’s rest beside a warm fire in a dry shelter was what they all needed.

Adjusting his oilcloth slicker, Mogweed again crouched to watch for the reappearance of his brother.

Luckily, Fardale’s keen wolf sense had discovered the tunnel. It was what they all needed, especially the sick og’re. As he bent to lean on a root and peer into the darkness, a rivulet of rain that had pooled on his coat’s collar tipped and ran down his neck in an icy trail. Shivering down to his toes, Mogweed called, aggravation thick in his throat, “Hurry up, Fardale, before I freeze to death out here.” Suddenly a brilliant crack of lightning burst behind Mogweed. Its radiance reflected off a pair of eyes only an arm’s length from Mogweed’s nose. With a sharp cry, Mogweed tumbled back. As his backside landed square in a frigid puddle, the realization that the eyes were amber and slitted struck him. They were the eyes of his brother.

He watched Fardale poke his wolf head between two roots. If a wolf could express amusement, this one was certainly doing so.

“Fardale, you piece of cold dung!” Mogweed rolled to his feet. His fury and embarrassment blazed away his chills. “Give a warning before pouncing on a person.”

His brother’s eyes glowed. The hungry sparrow fixed on a worm gets eaten by a hawk.

“Yeah, well I don’t have your sharp nose or night eyes. The senses of a man are so dull, why do they even bother wasting room on a face with noses and eyes?” Mogweed wiped at his wet bottom with a scowl. “So is it safe?”

An image formed behind Mogweed’s eyes as Fardale climbed from the tunnel: A nest lined by dry feathers and high in the crook of a tree. Fardale limped on his splinted leg to join his brother.

Mogweed sighed. “Finally I can get warm, and maybe dry these clothes. Seems like I have been damp forever.”

Tol’chuk’s image formed in Mogweed’s mind. Fardale’s eyes glowed toward him.

“I don’t know where he is,” Mogweed answered. “If we light a fire in the tunnel, the flames should guide him here.”

Fardale’s stance seemed hesitant, questioning, as if thinking of leaving Mogweed here and searching after the slow og’re.

“He’ll get here in his own time,” Mogweed insisted, suddenly nervous at the thought of being left alone again. “Besides, Tol’chuk isn’t likely to encounter anything an og’re can’t handle.” His words seemed to settle the wolf, but Fardale’s eyes kept wandering to the ridges and slopes around them. Satisfied his brother would stay, Mogweed tossed his bags between the roots, then after much squeezing and squirming, followed them into the tunnel’s entrance.

An ankle-deep carpet of blown leaves and pine needles greeted Mogweed on his arrival. Grimacing at the mulchy mess, he bent and retrieved his pack from where it lay partially buried. As he shook his bag clean of clinging leaves, he heard a low growl rumble from outside the tunnel. At first, he thought it just thunder, then recognized it as a warning from his brother.

He swung around in time to see a streak of light, like a flaming arrow, descend into their small valley between steep ridges. The light aimed straight for his brother. Fardale had his nose raised toward it, and a continuous growl flowed from his throat.

What was it? Mogweed squeezed closer to peer between the roots. The streak of light suddenly banked and aimed away from his brother—directly toward him! Mogweed tumbled back as what now could be seen as a glowing bird dove toward his face.

From the bird’s beak, a piercing scream preceded its flight.

Throwing himself backward into the deep mulch, Mog-weed watched the creature dive between the roots and into the tunnel. With a yelp, he covered his head with his arms. The beast flapped and sailed over his body, sharp talons brushing the back of his hand as it passed.

Then it was gone, sweeping away into the depths of the tunnel.

Mogweed sat up, stunned. Fardale squeezed between the roots to watch its glow disappear down the dark corridor. Once it had faded around a distant turn in the tunnel, Fardale swung and sniffed at Mogweed’s scraped hand. Mogweed was unsure whether he did so out of sympathy for his injured brother or simply to inspect the scent of the bird.

Fardale’s nose tickled the path the talon had taken across Mogweed’s hand, his breath hot upon his brother’s wound. Seemingly satisfied, Fardale pulled back. He darted around and trotted down the tunnel several steps. “Where are you going?” Mogweed asked. Fardale glanced over his shoulder at him. A she-wolf crouches and protects her litter from the hidden snake in the grass. His brother then loped after the glowing bird. “Wait!”

But Fardale did not even slow. Soon Mogweed was alone again. Out of the rain and with the entrance somewhat protected by the drape of roots, he should be relatively comfortable and safe. Still, his heart thundered blood through his ears as he strained to listen for his brother’s padding footfalls. Mogweed’s hands kept clutching at his neck, protecting his throat.

The strangeness of the bird had spooked him. As a denizen of the Western Reaches, he was familiar with most winged creatures. But the likes of that bird were unseen in his lands. Maybe they were common here in the human lands, but somehow he sensed the bird was a foreigner here, too. The bird seemed out of place with this forest, a creature of another world.

As he waited, pondering the bird, the storm lulled and the constant background rattle of rain quieted. At least the worst of the storm seemed to be blowing itself out. With the disappearance of the rain, a new noise arose. Maybe it had always been there, with the patter of rain masking it. Or maybe it had just started.

The sound did not come from outside his hiding place, but from somewhere down the tunnel—where both the bird and his brother had vanished.

The noise raised the tiny hairs on his arm.

Fardale’s final words to him now seemed foretelling: A she-wolf crouches and protects her litter from the hidden snake in the grass. The noise, a soft hissing that rose and fell as if the tunnel itself breathed, flowed toward him from deep in the tunnel, like a thousand unseen snakes.

Suddenly a sharp howl pierced the soft hiss. It was a howl of pain, a howl Mogweed had come to know—Fardale’s howl.

A deep silence followed, and it weighed on Mogweed’s heart like a stone.

“I KNOW NOTHING OF A WIT’CH,” TOL’CHUK SAID, EYING each of the three strangers.

Though the large man bearing the threatening ax should have drawn most of the og’re’s attention, it was the gaunt man with the braided silver hair who kept Tol’chuk wary. The man’s persistent sneer hovering below hooded eyes silently warned at a danger sharper than an ax blade.

“This be none of my concern,” Tol’chuk continued. “I bid you well on your journeys.” He rested a hand over his fanged lips in an og’re gesture of peaceful intent, though he was unsure if they would understand the motion. Backing from the trio, he maintained his guard.

“Wait,” the small woman said, struggling to overcome her initial fear. She wiped strands of streaming hair from her wet face. “This is a black night, full of danger. Beware these woods.” Tol’chuk paused his retreat. He noticed the woman give the skinny man a brief glance with her warning.

“There are beasts, black of heart, loose in the woods,” she continued, “hunting for friends of ours. Be careful.”

Tol’chuk thought of his own companions traipsing blithely through the wet woods. “I, too, have friends in these woods. What sort of—”

Suddenly a piercing howl broke through the slowing patter of rain. All eyes swung in the direction of the cry. As quickly as it had pierced the night, the sound faded away.

“Wolves,” grumbled the ax man.

“No, one of my friends,” Tol’chuk said, recognizing the voice of his wolf companion. “Fardale be attacked. I must help him.” The og’re started in the direction of the howl.

“Hold, og’re,” said the thick-bearded man, hefting his ax higher. “If you would have me, I will join you. It may be one of the foul beasts that we drew into the mountains that attacks your party. If so, you will need my help.”

“Yes,” said the small woman. “Krai is right. Allow us both to accompany you.”

“No, Nee’lahn,” the large man said. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Nowhere in this wood is safe this night. I’m coming.”

Tol’chuk balked at accepting their assistance but had no time to argue. Without a word, he turned and lumbered in the direction of the howl. He noticed the gaunt man followed.

Nee’lahn noticed, too. “Elv’in, you are not welcome. Be gone on your dark pursuits and leave us be.”

“Oh, I was not coming to help you,” he said as he strode after them. “It just so happens this is the path my moon’falcon flew.”

“Your pursuits are folly. No king of yours was left among the lands.”

“So your kind has always claimed.”

“Quiet!” Krai barked. “Enough of your bickering. You’ll draw the beasts upon us. From here we proceed in silence.”

Tol’chuk wordlessly thanked the bearded man. Why did these races need to spout continuously? Even Mogweed, with no other to talk to, carried on tiresome monologues, as if the sound of his own voice brought him pleasure.

With a nagging worry for his talkative companion, Tol’chuk led the party over the ridge and down the next slope. Due to the steep grade, the slope was tricky to maneuver, but piles of crumbling rock dotted the way ahead, offering footholds among the slippery cascade of wet leaves and mud. The party quickly maneuvered from stone to stone down the ridge to the floor of the hollow.

Once safely off the slope, Tol’chuk stood hesitantly. It had sounded as if the cry had come from somewhere nearby, but the woods fouled his senses. Where should he go? Suddenly motion caught his eye. He twisted and saw Mogweed, his back to Tol’chuk’s party, struggling among the roots of a large black oak as if the tree itself were attacking him. After a heartbeat, Tol’chuk recognized the characteristic black eye of a cavern opening beyond the man. Mogweed was blindly fighting his way out, dragging his pack after him. It ripped loudly on a snagging rootlet. As his pack snapped free, he was flung around to face the group. At the sight of the cluster of strangers, Mogweed’s mouth dropped open, and he scooted back to the pile of roots.

Tol’chuk stepped forward. “You be safe, Mogweed. These folk will not harm you.” Mogweed swallowed several times, trying to free his tongue. He jabbed an arm toward the hidden cavern entrance. “Far… Fardale is in trouble.”

“I heard your brother’s cry,” Tol’chuk said. “What happened? Where be your brother now?”

“A bird… Some cursed glowing hawk lured him deeper into the tunnel.”

“The moon’falcon!” Nee’lahn cried behind Tol’chuk, her voice sharp with indignation. “It was the elv’in’s bird! See, I told you. He is not to be trusted.”

“My pet did not harm your friend,” the elv’in argued, “unless he was foolish enough to threaten the bird.

My falcon is simply trained to survive—like all elv’in.”

As Tol’chuk swung around to face the others, he found the eyes of the woman called Nee’lahn narrowed with hate as she stared at the thin man, but before she could utter another word, the bearded mountain man rumbled at them both. “I do not care about old quarrels.” He stabbed a finger at the thin man. “You, elv’in, what is this tunnel? And—”

A palm snapped up, interrupting Krai. “First of all, my name is Meric, of the House of Morning Star, not elv’in. And I know nothing of this tunnel. My falcon flies upon the trail of our lost king. He chose this subterranean route, not I.“

“He lies!” spat Nee’lahn.

“I am not here to sway you.” Meric twisted on a narrow heel and strode toward the entrance to the tunnel. Mogweed danced out of his way. Apparently, like Tol’chuk, his companion sensed the palpable danger emanating from the man.

Tol’chuk, though, followed Meric, feeling responsible for Fardale. The present fate of his companion was partly his fault. He should not have lagged so far behind the others. If he had been with them, perhaps he could have stopped whatever had attacked Fardale. Few things pierced an og’re’s protection.

Ahead, Meric bent in half to enter the tunnel, slipping between the shield of oak roots with nary a struggle. Tol’chuk, though, realized the century-thick roots would bar his way. He pulled at a few of the roots, but even an og’re could not uproot an ancient oak gripping firm to rock and soil. From between the roots, he saw Meric pull a clear stone from his pocket and rub it between his palms. Then he blew upon it, as if bringing a dying ember back to life, and a greenish light burst from the stone. With the light held before him, Meric disappeared down the tunnel.

Tol’chuk sensed someone at his back. Krai, the mountain man, spoke from behind his shoulder. “Let me chop a way inside.”

Tol’chuk stepped back to give Krai’s ax room to swing.

“Stop!” Nee’lahn flew forward, raised a tiny hand, and pushed the huge ax aside. “This tree did no harm.” She placed her palms reverently on the roots, as a child might touch an elder. After bowing her head for a single heartbeat, she merely pushed the roots aside, as if sweeping back the leather flap to one of Tol’chuk’s home caves. Having tested the tenacity of the roots with his own muscle, Tol’chuk was awed by the power behind those small hands.

He was not the only one impressed. Tol’chuk heard a grunt of surprise from Mogweed, who huddled under his shadow. “A nyphai,” Mogweed said with wonder in his voice. “I thought all the tree singers were long dead.”

Mogweed’s words were ignored, though Tol’chuk noticed his companion studied the small woman with a measuring glance, his eyes narrowed.

“Nee’lahn,” Krai said, drawing Tol’chuk’s attention, “considering your view of the elv’in, perhaps it would be best if you returned to Rockingham. The og’re and I can handle this.” The small woman seemed about to argue, but Krai continued. “Besides, Rockingham has been trussed up for some time now. I’m sure his wrists are sore.”

Though Tol’chuk did not understand of whom Krai spoke, the look of concern on Nee’lahn’s face suggested Krai had won her over. Still, Tol’chuk had his own concerns. “But the wood be not safe for a female alone,” he said, slightly surprised at his own heartfelt worry for the tiny woman.

“Thank you for your concern, og’re,” she said coldly. His consideration seemed inadvertently to offend her. “But among trees, I have no fear.”

Mogweed spoke up, his voice faltering as he stared at the black tunnel. “I… I can… go with her for her safety.”

Krai swung around before anyone else could speak. “It’s decided then.” Hunched, the mountain man entered the tunnel first, squeezing past the roots that were already bending back toward the opening. He marched, back bent, down the stone tunnel.

Tol’chuk followed, crouching on the knuckles of one arm to climb inside the passage.

“Be careful,” Nee’lahn called. “And beware the elv’in.”

Tol’chuk did not answer, fearful of again insulting the woman, and only followed Krai’s back.

Soon the weak light of the night forest faded behind them. Even the eyes of an og’re had difficulty judging the shades of darkness. He heard Krai grunt as he tumbled into unseen obstacles. “That Meric and his light can’t be too much farther ahead,” Krai said as he paused to rub at a bruised shin.

Tol’chuk stayed silent. A buzzing noise, so faint even his sharp ears could barely discern it, kept him distracted from Krai’s observations. He poked and rubbed inside one of his ears, unsure if the noise came from inside his head or from the tunnel.

Krai continued, and the scrape of his boot on rock obliterated the sound. Tol’chuk followed, ears straining. As they rounded a corner in the stone tunnel, his ears no longer had to strain. The buzzing noise was now loud enough to be heard even over the scuff of Krai’s boot.

The mountain man stopped and listened. “What’s that noise?” Krai whispered.

Tol’chuk by now could discern a faint glow coming from around the next corner. “There be a light,” he said softly and pointed ahead.

Krai crept forward, now careful not to scrape his heel on the crumbling rock. Tol’chuk tried to imitate his stealth, but his claws would not cooperate. He sounded like a scuttling cave crab.

As they neared the corner, the light ahead grew brighter as the source flowed toward them. “Someone comes,” Krai breathed.

“Be it Meric?” With Tol’chuk’s words, a small stone, glowing a greenish light, rolled around the corner and bounced to the tip of Krai’s boot. “The elv’in’s stone,” Tol’chuk said.

Krai bent and picked it up. He turned to pass the crystal to Tol’chuk. The buzzing had now grown to a distinct hissing around them. Krai pointed to a smudge on the stone’s glowing surface. “Blood.” The howl shook Elena, echoing from somewhere be-yond the chasm. Even Uncle Bol seemed upset, mumbling something about there having been no wolves in these parts for ages. The wolfish cry split through the hissing rumble of the rock’goblins like a knife thrown through fog. It buried itself deep in Elena’s heart, rupturing her pocket of resolve. She stood on the steps that led from the first ledge, unable to goad herself deeper into the chasm.

The gloom of the gorge danced with visions of tortured beasts and rending teeth. She trembled with her eyelids stretched wide, aching from the strain to see what lurked just beyond the black veil. She expected at any moment for claws to reach out and pull her into the darkness, never to see light again. Even the lamp held by her uncle did little to cast back the smothering gloom.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder. “Careful there, sweetheart.” Uncle Bol pulled her back from the edge of the narrow stairs. “The edge is weak, just crumbling stone held together by age. I don’t trust it supporting even someone as light as you. Stay close to the wall.” She teetered back to the sheer wall.

Er’ril stood four steps down from her, where he had stopped when the howl echoed to them. His sword pointed into the darkness beyond the edge of the narrow stairs. The flickering lamplight cast weaving shadows across the planes of his face, sometimes creating a wicked appearance of sunken eyes and dead lips. Elena shivered at the sight; then the lamp steadied and the rugged, road-worn warmth returned to his face, eyes alight with danger.

He caught her gaze upon him. “We must be quick if we are to catch up with our thief,” he said.

Uncle Bol nodded, and Er’ril swung his sword forward and followed its tip down the dark stair.

“Uncle,” Elena whispered as she stayed close to his lamp, “if those goblins want us to go this way, like Er’ril said, what do they want of us?” Behind her breastbone, a fear she fought to keep tightly bound wiggled free. After all that had happened since the sun set yesterday, she suspected she knew the answer to her own question. Her fears were confirmed by the concern shining from her uncle’s eyes. It was Elena the goblins truly coveted.

But, of course, he denied it. “Honey, there’s no reading the thoughts of these sunless creatures. It’s most likely just mischief. They’re known for their thievish hands and wily ways.” Though she didn’t believe his words, she nodded anyway; Uncle Bol needed no further worries.

Swallowing a dry lump like an old crust of bread, she even offered him a weak smile.

Uncle Bol nudged her forward after the swordsman. Er’ril had by now crept farther down the stairs, almost to the edge of the lantern’s reach. There at the last strand of light before the sea of darkness, he had stopped. His face was turned toward them, a look of puzzlement wrinkling up his normally smooth features. But his eyes were not on them but stared at something behind Elena. His words quaked the fear in her chest. “Something comes.” His sword pointed to the darkness behind her.

She and Uncle Bol spun around. The blackness behind them now had a glowing eye. A spark of light swung in slow swoops, searching.

“Who—?” Uncle Bol began.

Er’ril hissed him quiet.

The eye of light stopped its wavering and stood fixed in the wall of darkness, then darted toward them.

Er’ril slipped like a ghost beside Elena and shoved her back. All three ducked to the wall. Elena, protected by the two men, cringed. What new horror now?

Then it was upon them. Elena gasped, not with horror, but with awe. A bird aglow with a light the color of sunshine on water swept before them, wings spread wide, plumage bright with a soft radiance. As it winged closer, subtler hues of rose and copper could be seen playing across its feathers. It hung in the air before them, slightly rising and falling with unseen currents of air, wings flexing as it rode the darkness.

Eyes like pebbles of coal studied them where they hugged the wall.

“Amazing!” Uncle Bol said, his voice low with wonder. “I thought them long dead to our lands.” Er’ril still had his sword raised toward it, ever cautious. “What is it, some cave bird?”

“No, it is a creature of the upper world. It traps moonlight in its feathers, giving it light to hunt the darkest night.”

“In all my centuries of travel, I have seen many sights, but none such as this.”

“It is from before your time, Er’ril, long before even your oldest ancestor.”

“What is it then, Uncle?” Elena asked. By now the worry of danger from the intruder had faded. The men had relaxed their guard on her and allowed her to push between them to get a closer look at the bird as it continued to hang above the well of the chasm. She stood near the edge of the stair—but not too near, mindful of her uncle’s warning.

“I believe it’s a moon’falcon. I have only seen them described on ancient, crumbling parchments.” Her uncle’s words took on a faraway tone, as if he was searching deep within himself. “The nature of the beast is spoken in some texts as a glorious creature of noble intent and in others as a fiend of foul omen.” Her uncle continued droning on, but Elena heard little past the naming of the bird—moon’falcon! Drawn by its beauty, Elena found her hand reaching over the stair’s edge. If only she had a crust of bread to lure it to her as she did the fat goose on the pond near Maple’s Corner. Or maybe a piece of meat, she corrected herself, for surely from its hooked beak and sharp talons this was a hunting bird. But what did it hunt in so dark a cavern?

She reached even farther toward the bird, leaning slightly. The falcon banked on a wing tip and swung toward her. Moonlight flashed brighter as it beat its wings and pulled higher above her. She stretched her arm up, following its flight. She could almost reach it, her fingertips close enough to brush the azure light it shed. Cooing sounds of comfort slipped from her lips. She prayed for it not to fear her.

“Careful, Elena,” her uncle warned as the bird slipped a breath lower.

Elena’s hand was now awash in its glow. Delight crowded the traces of fear from behind her breastbone—until the falcon screamed.

The bird had seemed about to alight upon her outstretched hand; then its intended roosting spot had vanished.

Elena’s hand was gone!

A cry escaped her own throat, mimicking the falcon. The screeching bird fluttered upward. Elena ignored the creature, her attention focused on her arm. Beyond her wrist lay only darkness, as if the chasm’s blackness had swallowed her hand.

Yanking back her arm in fright, she expected a flood of blood and pain. But as she pulled her arm to her chest, her hand reappeared, attached to her wrist as usual.

She groaned. The skin of her hand, bright in her uncle’s lamplight, again flowed a ruby red. Whorls of deeper red, almost black, swirled across its surface.

A sob escaped her throat. Not again! She held her hand out to her uncle in supplication, her eyes begging him to take it away. With her arm held up to her uncle, the falcon swooped in a streak of moonlight and landed upon her blood-colored hand. The suddenness of its weight almost caused her arm to drop. But before the bird could be dislodged, its black claws dug deeply at her palm, fierce enough to pierce the skin for a heartbeat. Blood welled like fat tears around the talons of the falcon. With an effort she steadied her arm, and the bird loosened its tight grip, its claws slipping from her flesh. The claws now shone silver in the lamplight. Wonder at the bird’s beauty momentarily muffled her shock.

The falcon cocked its head from side to side as it studied her fingers. A sudden thought that perhaps it was considering one of them as a meal flitted across Elena’s mind. But it merely bent its head down and rubbed its crown of feathers on her trembling hand.

Satisfied, it suddenly perched straighter on her hand, spread its wings wide, and screeched a cry of triumph across the cavern, light bursting brighter from its flared plumage.

“SO WHAT DO YOUR ANCIENT TEXTS SAY OF THAT?” Er’RIL asked Bol. He nodded to the falcon perched on the child’s wrist. After its raucous outburst, it had quieted down and begun simply to preen its feathers with a hooked beak. Er’ril was unsure what bothered him more, the bird’s behavior or actually witnessing a wit’ch ripening to power. His eyes kept drifting to the girl’s red hand. He had accepted the old man’s claim of Elena’s heritage, but to see it proven still startled.

“As I said,” Bol scolded, drawing Er’ril’s eyes from the child’s hand, “concerning the moon’falcons, the scrolls speak different tongues—some bright, some dark.”

“And what about her hand? I thought mages required sunlight to initiate a quickening. How did she manage to renew her Rose in this pit?”

Bol scratched behind an ear with a finger. “Perhaps the bird’s light.”

“Moonlight?”

“I remember reading a text of a long dead alchemist which supposed that moonlight was merely reflected sunlight.” Bol waved the fingers of one hand dismissively. “Of course, the alchemist was burned for such blasphemy. Still, one wonders.”

Both men’s eyes settled on the bird. Elena caught the direction of their attention. “Can I… may I keep him?” she asked, her eyes aglow with reflected moonlight from the bird’s feathers.

“It’s a wild creature,” Bol answered. “I don’t think I, or anyone else, can control its heart. It makes its own choices, and for some reason, it has chosen you.”

“Do you think he’ll stay with me?”

Bol shrugged. “Who can say? But I’m afraid, honey, that the bird may just be spooked by the dark halls.

It probably wandered into these tunnels to escape the storm outside and became lost. Once out in the forest, I expect it will take to wing again.“

Er’ril turned his back on the two, his eyes again studying the dark stair. Enough about some stray bird.

Rare or not, it did not bear on his pursuit of the iron ward. The thieving goblin was by now far down these stairs and likely impossible to find among the warren of halls and passages. Further pursuit was probably futile, but Er’ril could not forsake his trust. The ward, one of only two, had been bestowed on him by the Brotherhood as an honor to his family… and for his sacrifice. He felt an itch at the stump where his right arm once sprouted. His eyes closed with the memory. The price of the ward had been a costly one.

He shuddered, opened his eyes, and raised his sword. No, he would not leave the ward to these slinking, hissing creatures. “We should continue. The trail grows cold.” Bol nodded and picked up his lantern, which he had set down on the stair. “Well, at least we now have two sources of illumination,” he said, raising his lamp and nodding to the moon’falcon. “Perhaps we can better light this cold trail.”

“If we wait much longer, even the midday sun won’t help us.” Er’ril swung forward and led the way down the stair. His boots stomped on the rock, followed by the lighter tread of the others. As much as he regretted the delay due to the bird, Er’ril found Bol’s words proved true. With the increased light, the mud and grime now glistened with the growing dampness, warning of treacherous footing. The light also revealed small prints with wide-splayed toes patted into the thin layer of silt.

Er’ril pointed to the prints with the tip of his sword but kept silent. Bol nodded. To see evidence of the creature they pursued hushed the party. Here was proof that what they chased was not an illusory phantom, but a creature of bone and blood. As they continued in silence, the air itself dampened with a thickening mist. Soon Er’ril found the dense air difficult to breathe; each lungful had to be bit and swallowed.

Bol whispered behind him, his breath wheezing between his words. “Are you… sure… there’s not another way to… unlock A’loa Glen’s magickal walls? Do we really… need this ward? Perhaps Elena’s magick—”

“No!” Er’ril cracked at him. “I must… we need the ward.”

“I don’t want to do any magick,” Elena said, bolstering Er’ril’s words, her voice sour with dread.