A small voice snapped his head around. “I have need of you!” Atop the raised foredeck, Pinorr saw his granddaughter crawl from around an overturned barrel and push to her feet. She walked toward where Hunt and the others still battled the skal’tum trio.

The monsters were wounded now after the passage of Ragnar’k, but they were far from dead. With the fading of the dragon’s roar, their dark protections had again returned. But it seemed the blades that had been bloodied during the last passage of the dragon could now pierce the dark protections. It was slow going, though; for every skal’tum slain, two others appeared.

Atop the foredeck, one of the beasts heard Sheeshon’s voice and swung its fanged face around.

Pinorr scrambled up the ladder after his granddaughter, but Hunt also spotted the girl and fought his opponent more vigorously. Neither man would make it in time. Sheeshon still continued toward the grip of the nearest beast. “I have need of you,” she called again to Hunt.

“Sheeshon! Get back!**‘ Hunt called to her. Pinorr saw the pain in the keelchief’s eyes, but he was pinned down by his own monster. One of the men at his side tried to break free and come to the child’s aid, but he was cut down by one poisoned swipe of a skal‘-tum’s claw. The man writhed for several breaths, then lay still.

By now, Pinorr had scrambled atop the deck. Sheeshon was only a step away from the beast. He would never reach her in time.

Pinorr met Hunt’s gaze. The keelchief had spotted the shaman, and his eyes flew wide at the sight of a sword in his hand. But instead of words of warning like Mader Geel, Hunt yelled encouragement. “Get Sheeshon back! Kill anything in your way!”

Having the keelchief’s support instead of admonishment fueled Pinorr’s heart, as if a great weight had been lifted from his chest. He leaped with a lunge of his sword. Old buried instincts again raged forth. His sword struck the outstretched claw of the skal’tum. It did no damage, bouncing off its protected skin, but it knocked the limb away from Sheeshon. Pinorr continued his roll across the deck, striking his granddaughter with his shoulder. Sheeshon gasped and bounced to the side.

Pinorr jumped to his feet, standing now between the beast and Sheeshon. He raised his sword against the monster’s leer.

“You think to sssteal my treat, little man,” it hissed.

“You will never touch her, demonspawn!”

The skal’tum struck, lightning-quick. Pinorr danced back, barely in time, using a twist of his sword to parry a swipe of claws. But already the beast lunged with its other limb at the shaman’s chest.

Pinorr was forced back. He now stood over his fallen granddaughter. Sheeshon sobbed at his feet. The beast struck again. Pinorr spun a flurry of steel before him. Claws bounced back.

The skal’tum cocked its head and studied Pinorr for a moment. “So the white-haired elder thinksss he hass fangs, does he?”

Winded now, his heart’s fire was unable to maintain its ferocity for long. Pinorr’s arm trembled.

Sensing the weakening of its prey, the skal’tum lunged once more. All claws and fangs, it leaped at him.

Pinorr tried his best to fend the beast off with flashes of blade, but he tired rapidly.

A claw slipped past his defenses and ripped the robe across his chest. Then another’s sword was beside his own. Pinorr did not have time even to glance at his savior, but he sensed it was Hunt. Back-to-back over the girl, the two men fought. It seemed an endless dance.

Then Hunt’s voice boomed out again. “Ragnar’k comes! Be ready!” In a lower voice, the keelchief added. “Fight brave, old man. Just for a moment more.” Pinorr tried his best to honor the keelchief’s order. But relief at hearing of the dragon’s return actually doused his heart’s fire. He slowed.

Then the roar was upon them. “Duck!” Hunt hollered in his ear. Pinorr dropped, his legs giving out anyway.

He watched Hunt swing his sword with both arms. The head of the monster cleaved from its shoulder. It arced across the deck and rolled into the sea. The malignant body fell away like an axed tree.

With Pinorr down, Sheeshon crawled into the old man’s lap. Pinorr dropped his sword to wrap the child in his embrace. “Papa.” Sheeshon leaned her head to his chest. “Papa, I love you.” With his beast slain and a momentary lull in the battle, Hunt knelt beside them both. Pinorr met his gaze and straightened. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, nodding toward the sword.

Hunt shrugged. “It’s not as if it was the first time you picked up a sword.” Pinorr blinked at these strange words.

Hunt’s face was bloodied, but the fire of chiefdom still shone brightly through. “You did the fleet a service by ridding the Dragon-spur of Ulster.”

A gasp escaped Pinorr. “You knew? ”

“Do you think me a complete dullard, old man? There were clues enough for those who cared to look. But most would rather not see.”

Pinorr’s voice cracked. “But I cursed the boat. I broke my oaths.” Hunt leaned a bit higher to keep an eye on the flow of battle. “In these dire times, every warrior is needed, shaman or not.” He placed a hand on Pinorr’s chest. “I don’t believe in the curses of gods, only in the strength of a man’s heart. That is where the hope of the fleet lies. The world changes today. Whether it ends good or bad, nothing will be the same.”

Pinorr covered Hunt’s hand with his own. “Thank you.”

Hunt nodded and pulled his hand away. He glanced in shock at the blood that now covered his palm.

“Pinorr?” Hunt showed his stained palm.

Pinorr glanced to Sheeshon in his lap. A bright bloom of blood oozed through his robe over his heart. “Take care of her, Hunt. If the ship survives, the next days will be hard for her.” Hunt knelt lower, touching Pinorr’s shoulder. “I know. We already share a bond. I think she came up from below because she sensed my own danger. We will watch over each other.” Pinorr hugged his granddaughter one last time, squeezing a lifetime of love into this one embrace. Then he placed Sheeshon’s small hand into Hunt’s. He glanced up to the young keelchief. He saw the strength, courage, and heart in the man. “I made the right choice.”

Hunt nodded, his voice formal. “You have served the fleet well, Shaman Pinorr. Go in peace.” With tears flowing down his cheeks, Pinorr reached to touch Sheeshon one last time as battle raged all around. “I love you,” he whispered as the poisons of the skal’tum finally reached his heart.

Sy-wen leaned over Ragnar’k‘s neck to view the spread of boats under them. Like steam rising from boiling water, screams and the clash of steel rose above the seas. All around the island, boats foundered and spats of skal’tum forces wreaked havoc wherever they flew. Sy-wen searched the island itself for any sign of the signal fire, some sign that the Blood Diary had been discovered. If the others were successful, she and Ragnar’k could wing to their rescue, scoop them off the island, and the battle below could end.

Tears flowed down her cheeks, but the winds quickly dried them. Her fingers were numb as they clutched a fold of scale. It seemed as if the war below had been raging for several days, not just an eternal afternoon. With the onset of the skal’tum attack, the tide of battle had turned. Fiery plans of taking the island had long gone to ash. Now the mer’ai and Dre’rendi fought just to survive. Each ship below was its own island under assault. Though the mer’ai struggled to help, with the strange twilight the skal’tum were almost impossible to vanquish. It was now a war to stay alive.

Sy-wen and Ragnar’k gave what little aid they could: diving toward ships when most needed and roaring away the dark protections of the beasts. But their main duty was still to watch the towers of A’loa Glen, awaiting the signal from the wit’ch. Until that time, the two protected the fleet.

“Over there!” Sy-wen yelled hoarsely. In her mind’s eye, she sent an image of the ship she meant.

Ragnar’k sent his acknowledgment, and the dragon turned on a wing and began a long banking dive toward a ship’s whose sails were ripped to rags and whose rigging was festooned with skal’tum. Sy-wen leaned against the wind. The heat from the dragon kept her warm, but still she shivered. As Ragnar’k swooped, roaring over the masts, Sy-wen closed her eyes. She no longer wished to see the carnage atop the decks of the ships; it wore at her heart. At least from the height of the clouds, such details were muted.

As Ragnar’k finished his run, Sy-wen felt an ache in her throat. The dragon’s roar grew hoarse. This mode of attack would soon fail. From somewhere deep down, words whispered up. As long as we breathe, there is always hope . Sy-wen opened her eyes and sat up straighten It was Kast. She had not heard from him since they had initiated the transformation aboard the Dragonsheart .

“Oh, Kast, the deaths… the screams… the blood…” Sy-wen sobbed.

Hush. Ragnar’k was right in allowing me forward. Do not lose heart.

“But, Kast, our people are being slaughtered.”

/ see the deaths, my love. Sy-wen felt a warmth suddenly fill her that had nothing to do with the dragon’s heated body. It was as if Kast’s arms had wrapped around her. He meant to comfort her, even as he spoke words that quailed her heart. What occurs now is a price that must be paid. Both our people avoided this payment for too long. The mer’aifled to the Deep. My people turned south and never looked back- If we are to find our own true spirits again, it will take such a cleansing flame. We’ve emerged after centuries of hiding. We’ve declared our loyalty to Alasea’s future, and a line must be drawn here— even if it is in blood.

Sy-wen again began to sob. “I just want it to end. Either way, I want it to end.” Come to me.

“What?” she whispered.

Close your eyes and reach for me.

“I don’t understand…” Just do it. Trust us both.

Sy-wen swallowed and did as asked. She closed her eyes and sent her thoughts toward him, sent her love and sorrow. The warmth she had felt a moment ago grew. Suddenly the warmth became two arms wrapped around her. She felt Kast’s body pressed to hers. The boundaries between the three—dragon, man, and woman—grew blurred. For just this endless moment, three became one. No words were shared. In silence, three spirits comforted each other in an embrace of warmth and love.

Kast’s voice finally whispered to her. It was as if he spoke at her ear, his breath brushing against her neck.

This is what we fight for.

As answer, Sy-wen held Kast and Ragnar’k even tighter. She wanted to stay like this forever, but a thought—from Ragnar’k— intruded. Something comes.

Sy-wen opened her eyes, and the moment was gone. She felt those arms of warmth dissolve away and knew Kast had retreated deep inside Ragnar’k again. The dragon needed all his faculties to face this new threat.

Ragnar’k banked on a spread of black wing. Sy-wen now faced away from the island. The wall of inky darkness still marred the western skies, hiding the sun. The shaft of black energies continued to feed the foul construct.

At first, Sy-wen failed to see what had alarmed the dragon, but Ragnar’k had keener eyes. As the dragon passed over the rear of the Dre’rendi fleet, Sy-wen finally spotted strange aberrations in the wall of darkness. Her mind could not fully grasp what it was witnessing. It was as if huge white clouds billowed through the barrier, piercing the magickal wall.

Was this a storm front approaching? Sy-wen sensed that it wasn’t.

Ships, Ragnar’k sent. Many, many ships .

Crinkling her brow at the dragon’s strange words, Sy-wen could not understand the surge of excitement she received from Ragnar’k.

What ships?

Then the strangest thing happened. Her vision shifted to that of the dragon’s. Suddenly, she felt leagues closer to the coming storm. The wall of darkness swelled in her vision. What she had thought were clouds were actually billowing sails. She shook her head. How could this be? These ships sailed the air! Still, there could be no mistaking the timbered and masted boats under the huge sails. Through the dragon’s vision, she even spotted small figures manning the decks of the strange flying ships.

As the vessels passed through the wall, Sy-wen was suddenly blinded. Like scores of arrows shot through a black sail, sunlight

pierced the inky darkness, marking where each ship had thrust through the barrier. Bright shafts of sunlight outlined each ship. Sy-wen quickly counted. The aerial armada numbered twenty or thirty.

Sunlight cast the ships in gold and set their sails ablaze.

Ragnar’k swooped and sped toward these strange intruders. Who where they? Friend or foe?

The ships flew higher than Ragnar’k, at least a quarter league above the island and seas. As they neared, Sy-wen saw that the keels under these strange boats were made of some peculiar metal that glinted under the columns of sunlight, a long rib of metal that glowed a bright red. Crackles of silver energy danced along the length of the keels.

Then Ragnar’k was among the wondrous fleet. The dragon swept between two of the boats, flying fast in case they proved enemies. But no arrows chased him. Sy-wen had caught a glimpse of a tall pale man standing in the prow of each boat, arms stretched to the twilight skies. Silver hair, longer than the men were tall, flowed behind each of them like a ship’s banner.

As Ragnar’k swung in a tight arc for another surveillance run, Sy-wen pictured the men and suddenly knew who they were. She could not mistake their slender forms, the brilliance of their silver manes, even the spark of their blue eyes as they tracked the passing dragon. Though Meric’s hair was only a sparse stubble, the resemblance of these men to the elv’in was clear.

Sy-wen remembered some mention of the arrival of a sunhawk and how it supposedly heralded the launch of the elv’in forces. Ragnar’k sped back toward the flying armada, gliding through lances of sunlight. The brilliance of the setting sun cheered her heart and fired her blood. She had not thought the elv’in fleet would arrive so soon!

She urged Ragnar’k to slow, tears in her eyes. Here was the salvation that Sy-wen had prayed for all day. Already the ships had rent holes in the wall of darkness. Sy-wen’s gaze followed the shafts of sunlight to where they fell among the ships of the Bloodnders. She knew any skal’tum caught in the blaze of the setting sun would be vulnerable to attack.

Ragnar’k pulled up and maintained a pace to keep even with one of the ships. Sy-wen yelled a greeting to the boat, but none of the men or women aboard seemed to acknowledge her. They continued their duties atop the deck. She tried shouting again, but still they gave no response. The winds must be tearing away her words. A few of the crew glanced her way. She raised a fist in the air. They could at least see her signal. But they simply ignored her and went back to their duties.

Frowning, Sy-wen instructed Ragnar’k to bank away and try another ship. The dragon obeyed, but they had no better luck. Soon the elv’in fleet and the dragon were sailing over the war below. But the sky ships did not slow. They continued in force toward the island.

As they passed over the ships of the Bloodriders, Sy-wen saw faces turn upward in awe. Even the skal’tum were wary of these new intruders. Their attack paused as they pondered, along with everyone else, what these new ships intended. None of the beasts dared risk winging up to investigate.

Finally, Sy-wen noticed that one of the sky ships was much larger than the others—twice as large, in fact.

It must be their flagship. She needed to get their attention, to ask them to aid the beleaguered forces below. Already time was running out. The holes in the twilight barrier were closing, healing the wounds.

By the time Sy-wen flew abreast of the flagship, the armada had reached the island. The fleet spread, encircling the city below. Five ships separated from the others and floated forward, over the city itself, to hover in a ring around the central castle. What were they doing? Sy-wen had a momentary gnaw of worry that perhaps she had judged them wrong. Maybe these were a new enemy.

She urged Ragnar’k to follow the flagship as it rose higher than the rest of the armada. Ragnar’k had to arc away then back to gain a matching height. The flagship now drifted above the center of the ring of five ships, taking up a post directly above the towered citadel. In this thin air, Ragnar’k fought to maintain a matching position. At the prow of the flagship stood not a man, but a woman. She wore a long, flowing gown, its fabric so thin that Sy-wen could see her lithe form as easily as if she were naked. Her silver hair shone with a brilliance that had nothing to do with any ray of sunlight. The woman turned to her. As her gaze met Sy-wen’s across the wide distance, Sy-wen sensed the energy that flowed from this woman: She was lightning given form.

The woman’s lips moved, and Sy-wen heard the words as clearly as if the woman had been sitting beside her. “Go. This is no longer your battle.” Then the elv’in woman turned away.

“Wait!” Sy-wen called, but the woman ignored her except to raise an arm in the dragon’s direction.

Suddenly the skies were a whirlwind around them. Her mount fought to remain beside the ship, but his wings seemed incapable of catching wind. They fell in a spiraling plummet away from the flagship.

Sy-wen clung like a starfish as Ragnar’k tumbled. She was sure they would crash into the island. But then the whirlwind was gone, and the dragon’s great wings caught the air. They pulled out of their dive and sailed smoothly again.

Ragnar’k flew with care now; their fall had put them among the towers of the lower city. Banking past the tilted statue of a man with an upraised sword, Ragnar’k took them up and out of the city.

Sy-wen twisted in her seat to monitor the circle of five ships. Ragnar’k began a slow turn around the island to keep the ships in view, but he dared not approach closer. And Sy-wen did not urge him, either. She had seen the look in the tall woman’s eyes. It was like staring into a cold void. Sy-wen had sensed no hate or enmity in that gaze, only a profound indifference. It was as if Ragnar’k and Sy-wen were too small to warrant a second glance. They had been swatted away like a pestering gnat.

As Sy-wen continued her sweeping survey, she saw the crackles of silvery energy grow more violent along the keels of the five ships. Something was about to happen. The metal of the keels grew from a deep bloodred to a fiery pale rose, almost as if the ore were heating up. The crackling grew more intense, sparking now with small bolts of lightning, feathering out from the keels like jagged spears.

Ragnar’k flew too near one of the ships; Sy-wen’s hair rose around her head, sparking with traces of power. The dragon swept away, sensing the danger looming here.

As her mount sailed over the city, Sy-wen watched the rage of energies now racing back and forth along each of the five keels. It was almost blinding. Sy-wen sensed that here was the power that propelled these great ships through the air, only now it was directed toward another purpose.

Even from this distance, Sy-wen could taste the energy in the air. The keels blazed with crackling power.

Spates of lightning stabbed down at the castle but never quite reached. Suddenly it was as if the Vj L R M’t

air around the castle were sucked away. Sy-wen gasped, clutching her throat.

Along the five keels, lightning bolts raced from stern to prow, jettisoning skyward in fonts of energy that struck the thicker keel of the flagship above. For a moment, a five-spoked star with the flagship at its center blazed in the twilight sky.

Then in a blink, the star vanished, and Sy-wen could breathe again. The five ships fell away from the citadel, drifting down and back, like spent lovers. Their keels were again a deep dull red. No energies crackled along their underbellies.

The same, however, was not true of the mighty flagship. It still hovered above the castle, ablaze with fire and energy.

Sy-wen’s heart clenched with terror. “What are they—?” Then all the power trapped in the flagship’s keel released. A bolt of lightning as thick as one of the castle towers struck straight down. It blew Sy-wen and Ragnar’k backward. Then the explosive boom followed, deafening, blinding them.

Even dazed, Ragnar’k helped keep Sy-wen in her seat, squeezing the ankle holds tighter as he tumbled away. Finally, their roll ended and Ragnar’k righted himself. They were over the seas again. Ragnar’k sent his concern to her. Do you fare well, my bonded? I’m fine , she answered, though in truth she was still dazzled by the bolt of energy. She could not blink the glare from her eyes. Then suddenly she sat up straighten No, it wasn’t the burn of lightning that still plagued her eyes! Sy-wen craned her neck all around her. It was the sun!

Sy-wen stared as the last of the inky darkness sank to the horizon, exposing the setting sun. She swung around. The spear of black energy was gone! In its stead, a pall of smoke rose from the castle’s center. Its towers all stood, but Sy-wen knew that its central court must be a blasted ruin.

“They destroyed the source of the black barrier!” she said with a cheer in her voice. It was echoed from the seas around her. With the sun up, even a setting sun, the skal’tum were now vulnerable. Cheers and roars of blood lust rose from the boats and from the throats of dragons. The tide of battle had shitted!

Victory could again be imagined!

Sy-wen, a weary smile on her face, turned to view the island and the armada overhead. She meant to wish them a silent thanks, but what she saw dimmed her smile.

Five new ships broke from the armada to rise toward the island, beginning to form a new ring under their flagship.

Sweet Mother, the elv’in were continuing their attack on the island!

Sy-wen feared for her companions. They must surely be down there already, somewhere in the castle or city. If these sky ships persisted, the island would soon be a smoking ruin.

Glancing over the hundreds of spires, Sy-wen prayed to spot the blaze of their signal fire. But there was nothing, only smoke and cold stone. Her friends could be anywhere. Maybe they were dead already.

Sy-wen dismissed this last thought. She would not give up hope.

She glanced to the flagship far above and the cold woman who stood at its prow. “Ragnar’k, we must stop them!” she called out.

JOACH PICKED HIMSELF OFF THE STONE FLOOR AS DUST CONTINUED TO

settle. He shook his head to clear the roaring inside his skull. Gods above, what had happened? He had been sure when the blast struck that the island itself was being torn apart. He had never expected to live.

Nearby, Meric rose to his feet with a groan. He bore a large bloody scrape on his forehead. He fingered the injury, then ignored it and helped Mama Freda up.

Without any eyes, the old woman’s expression was difficult to read. But Joach guessed how she felt. Her hands grasped at Meric’s arms like a drowning woman. Joach saw her lips move, but he heard nothing except the roar in his own ears. He gave his head another shake, and his hearing suddenly snapped back with a painful whine.

“—happened?” Mama Freda finished.

Meric glanced up and down the corridor. “I don’t know. But I expect it’s some type of black magick.”

“Maybe it was a quake,” Mama Freda offered. She clung to Meric’s arm. “The volcanic islands around here are always giving us a good shake.”

Meric merely shrugged, but Joach was glad to hear some conversation from the old woman. These were the first words the old

healer had spoken since their group had left Elena. At least the explosion had shaken her from the paralyzing shock of losing both her pet and her sight.

Joach moved closer to them as Meric retrieved the torch he had dropped. Luckily it had not sputtered out.

“I wouldn’t count on it being a volcano,” Joach said. “Some evil is at work here.” He glanced toward the lower passage. There was no sign of the ill’guard who pursued them. But how far back was he? Joach’s thoughts went out to his sister. Could the explosion have been due to some effort of hers to free the book?

If so, had Elena survived? With this worry nagging him, Joach nodded them all forward. “We must keep going!”

Ahead was the side passage that left the main concourse of the catacombs and led toward the staircase where Tol’chuk was posted. Meric collected Mama Freda under an arm and led them into it. Here again the walls to either side grew cruder and rougher. They kept their pace quick but noisy. They wanted to stay clear of the ill*— guard’s grip but not so far as to lose him. Before long the stair appeared on the left.

Pausing to let Mama Freda catch a breath, Meric studied the steep stair. “Once we reach Tol’chuk, we’ll need to either make a stand or lead the ill’guard into the streets above.” Joach shook his head. “We make a stand. I won’t leave with Elena still down here.” Mama Freda spoke from beside Meric. “It’s too late. He’s already here.” Meric and Joach both swung back toward the corridor. Joach raised his staff, and Meric slipped a long dagger from a wrist sheath. But the corridors behind them were still dark.

“I see no sign of torch or lantern,” Meric whispered.

“He hides in the dark,” Mama Freda answered.

Joach fought a shiver down his back. Beyond the reach of their feeble torchlight, the passage was a wall of blackness. Joach had heard of how the blind were often gifted with heightened senses. “Are you sure?” The old healer simply nodded, showing no fear at her revelation. Instead, her lips were grim with anger.

“He listens to us even now.”

Joach waved to Meric. “Take Mama Freda from here. I’ll hold the monster off while you fetch Tol’chuk and his hammer.”

“You can’t hold an ill’guard off by yourself—not for that long.”

“He’s right, Joach,” Mama Freda said, shoving free of Meric’s grip. “I’ll stay and fight alongside you.” Joach bit back a retort. How did this old blind woman expect to help? In any fight to come, she would prove more a burden than an asset.

Meric seemed to agree. He glanced doubtfully from over the old woman’s shoulder. Then he leaned his torch against the wall and turned to Mama Freda. “If you mean to stay with us, you’ll need a weapon.” He handed her his knife. Its long blade glittered in the torchlight. “It’s an ice dagger forged by my ancestors. If necessary, strike sure and deep. It will slice through bone as easily as air.” Mama Freda awkwardly handled the knife. Her lack of sight hindered her. She almost cut her thumb on its blade. “Thank you,” she said to Meric. “This will do nicely.” She turned to face the black passage below them.

Joach followed her gaze. “Why doesn’t he come? ”

Mama Freda slowly shook her head. “He listens, hoping we will give him some clue to Elena’s whereabouts.”

Seeming to hear her words and knowing his ruse was over, Brother Ewan pushed into their circle of torchlight. “Right you are, my fine old woman. And before I slay you all, I will have my answer. Now where have you hidden the girl?”

Joach stepped forward to meet the ill’guard monster. He positioned his staff in front of him. His lips moved silently, and the length of wood blew to flame with spurts of darkfire. “Stand back!” Joach ordered.

Brother Ewan had stripped his robe to his waist. His arms, chest, and neck were draped with thousands of tiny purplish worms, each the color of a deep bruise. They seemed to reach for the darkfire of Joach’s staff, their slender bodies stretching toward the flames. “Young man, I see you’ve been touched by the black arts, too. So why do you fight when you should be joining me? ” Joach waved the staff before him in a warding motion. The leeches followed its motion, swaying in sync with his staff. “Magick is only a weapon,” Joach said coldly. “I wield it; it does not control me.” Brother Ewan waved a hand dismissively, and a few leeches flew from his fingers to strike the stone wall.

“You argue semantics. Touch darkness, and darkness touches you. Flint should have taught you that by now.”

Joach could not argue too fiercely against this one’s words. In fact, Flint had warned him about the risk his spirit faced from wielding the staff’s magick. An inkling of worry touched him, but he shoved it away. He would not be corrupted. Joach scowled at his enemy. “Only the weak allow the darkness in them to eclipse the bright as you have.”

Brother Ewan’s wan face grew heated. “The master has not beaten me down. He has granted me a gift.” The ill’guard raised his two arms, displaying the spread of worms. “Leeches were always a tool of a healer.

But no healer has been blessed with such a splendid crop as mine.” Mama Freda slipped forward to Joach’s right side, one hand on the wall to guide her. She could not directly find Ewan’s face as she spoke. “I’m the only healer here, Brother Ewan. You’re a disease.” She threw Meric’s knife at him. But without eyes, she did not even attempt to skewer him. She merely tossed the blade at the man’s feet. “Prove yourself still a healer. Cut the corruption from yourself!” Her display brought a smile to Brother Ewan’s lips. He nudged her knife aside and waggled a finger at her.

“Tsk, tsk. For such an experienced healer, you’ve made a terrible misdiagnosis. It is you who are the disease—and I am the cure!”

Joach inwardly groaned as he backed away. Why had the old woman wasted her only weapon? It was her last defense in case Joach and Meric failed to defeat the fiend. He moved Mama Freda roughly behind him in his anger. The old woman did not resist.

Brother Ewan stepped toward them.

Meric slipped forward in front of Joach, moving almost too fast for the eye to follow. Already the elv’in’s shirt billowed with his magick. Meric raised a hand, and a gust of wind blew forth from his fingertips. The whirling gale swept down the passage toward the ill’guard.

The man continued to smile. As the blast struck Brother Ewan, he remained standing. The tails of his robe snapped in the wind. His smile grew as the winds whipped at him. The leeches upon his body flailed in the gusts, but instead of being ripped from the fiend’s skin, they stretched and grew. Soon the man’s pale skin was draped with leeches longer than a man’s forearm.

Brother Ewan’s laughter echoed out from the center of the mag-ickal gale. “Send me more power, elv’in!” Mama Freda pulled at Meric’s sleeve from behind. “Stop! I know about these ill’guard. Elemental magick feeds their darkness. You only strengthen him with your own magick. You must stop!” Meric stumbled backward as he withdrew his magick. Joach took his place. Where elemental magick failed, black magick might prevail. Joach raised his staff.

Brother Ewan grinned and suddenly lunged out with an arm. Joach blocked with his burning staff but realized too late that his move was just what the ill’guard wanted. Ewan grabbed the end of his staff.

Leeches flowed onto the wood.

Joach yanked his staff away in disgust, managing to free it of the fiend’s grip, but not the leeches. The purplish worms clung to the wood, bathing in the darkfire, writhing in what could only be described as pleasure. Joach stumbled away. He watched in horror as the leeches on his staff swelled further in size. In only a single breath, they stretched and grew to the size of huge jungle snakes.

“Shake them off! Now!” Mama Freda yelled. “They feed on your magick, too!” Joach obeyed and struck the butt of his staff against the wall, hard enough to sting his hand. The giant leeches fell in a tangle to the cold stone—all except one tenacious beast that lunged at Joach’s hand. Fire flamed up his arm, and Joach fell to his knees.

Suddenly Mama Freda and Meric were there, tugging Joach back by his shirt. Their quick movement saved his life. He was dragged backward just as more of the monstrous leeches lashed out at him, quick as mountain adders. Still, the beast attached to his hand burned and swelled.

Joach’s vision began to blacken.

Meric used his boot to kick the staff from Joach’s grip, knocking away the leech attached to it.

Immediately, the fire in his hand ended. Joach glanced down to see his two smallest fingers and part of his palm gone. Blood spurted and flowed.

“Move!” Meric yelled. “If you wish to live, boy, then help us!” Joach raised his eyes in time to see more of the leeches already at his heels. Ignoring the pain in his wounded hand, Joach scrambled away on hands and feet. In a tangle of limbs, the trio retreated.

All the while, Brother Ewan pursued, step for step, following with his writhing pack of monster leeches.

“Why run? Tell me

where the wit’ch hides, and I will let you live! Or stay silent, and take your medicine.“ Joach’s face paled. How could they fend off such a monster when their magicks had failed them? What hope did they have to survive?

Suddenly, Mama Freda stopped her own flight. She stepped between Joach and the fiend. She spat at Brother Ewan. Her aim was deadly accurate. Her spittle hit the fiend square in the face.

Joach rolled to his feet, cradling his wounded hand.

Brother Ewan wiped his face, leaving a few leeches clinging to his cheek. His laughter died with the strike of spittle. “You will pay for that,” he said coldly. His giant leeches writhed around his ankles.

Mama Freda faced Brother Ewan squarely. “I’m not finished.” Joach glanced askance to Meric. Something slowly dawned on Joach. Mama Freda had warned them about the magickal growth of the worms; she had even pulled him away from the striking leeches and spat in the ill’guard’s face. “Mama Freda… ?”

She ignored Joach. “I have one more gift for you, Brother Ewan!” She pointed a finger at the fiend.

“Death!”

Brother Ewan’s lips spread into a grin. Laughter bubbled up. Then suddenly Ewan tensed in midstep. His smile faded into confusion, and his cackle strangled in his throat. Blood dribbled from the man’s lips.

Brother Ewan toppled forward, crashing to his face on the stone floor. He spasmed a moment, then lay still.

Dead. Impaled in the center of his back was the hilt of Meric’s ice dagger. Small crackles of silver energy danced out from the blade and skittered across the fiend’s skin. As they looked on, the leeches dissolved into clots of blood, steaming slightly on the cool floor.

“How… ?” Joach’s mind was too full of questions. Then he saw the answer. A small furred creature scrambled from around the man’s legs and scampered toward Mama Freda.

“Good boy, Tikal,” Mama Freda said warmly. She bent and hauled the creature into her arms and up to her shoulder.

Tikal wrapped his tail around Mama Freda’s neck and gently licked her cheek. “Cookie?” Tikal asked in a frail voice.

She patted him and scratched behind his ear. “You’ll get all the cookies in Port Rawl after this.” Tikal closed his eyes and leaned into the woman’s neck, clinging tight.

“But… but your pet was killed,” Joach said, pointing uselessly at Tikal. Blood flowed from his wounded hand. Reminded of his injury, Joach swooned to the floor.

Mama Freda rushed forward, kneeling before the boy and pulling bandages and a vial of elixir from various pockets. She explained as she cradled Joach’s hand in her lap and worked on him. “I, too, thought Tikal had been killed. When I first began to receive visions from him again, I thought I had become deluded, wishing so strongly for him that my mind made it so.” Mama Freda reached and touched Tikal once more with clear love. “I can sense the mag-ick in him. Someone healed him.”

“Elena?” Joach asked weakly.

“Who else?” she said as she applied a cooling balm that washed away Joach’s pain with a single swipe.

“Tikal has her scent about him. Elena must have found him on her way back down the catacombs. Her magick strengthened him enough to survive and follow. But, like you, he will need more healing.” Meric spoke up from where he stood over the corpse of the ill’guard. “Why didn’t you tell someone?” Mama Freda’s expression grew embarrassed. “I wasn’t sure the visions were real. It was only after Tikal came upon the ill’guard on our back trail that I knew it was true. By that time, the ill’guard was already listening to us, so I kept silent. I hoped Tikal’s stealth would prove useful.” Mama Freda nodded toward the knife’s hilt. “And so it has.”

Joach stared at the old woman, eyes wide. He had secretly considered Mama Freda a burden to this venture. But now he knew better than to judge by appearances. The old woman had just saved his life.

Mama Freda finished wrapping his hand in a snug bandage. “Dragon’s blood mixed with root of elm should save the rest of your hand.”

Joach raised his arm, almost afraid to look. He cringed at the sight of his half hand, but he flexed his remaining fingers and felt no pain. The wrap was even clean of blood. It was as if the injury were months old, rather than mere moments. Joach swallowed and glanced to the old healer. “Thank you, Mama Freda.

I’m in your debt. If you had not—”

An explosion suddenly ripped through their world. Joach and Mama Freda again found themselves tossed roughly to the floor.

(AMKS V, L h M K N S

Dust billowed, and stones groaned. Joach’s skull rang with the force of the concussion. He pushed to his feet even before the ground had finished rumbling. He helped Mama Freda up. Tikal still clung to her neck.

Down the passage, Meric shoved himself off the ill’guard’s body, his face a mask of disgust. Suddenly, through the wafting dust, a monstrous figure rose behind the elv’in.

Joach opened his mouth to warn Meric, but a familiar graveled voice spoke. “What happened?” Tol’chuk asked. The og’re waved through the dust cloud and crossed toward them, eying the fallen ill’guard.

Joach crawled to his feet, then helped Mama Freda stand. “What are you doing down here? You’re supposed to be guarding the door.”

The og’re surveyed the scene one more time, then spoke. He pointed absently above his head. “The island be under attack from ships that fly the clouds. I came to fetch you away from these crypts before the castle lands on all your heads.” Tol’chuk glanced around. “Where be Elena?”

“Gone for the book,” Joach answered as he retrieved his staff from the floor. He examined the length of wood for damage but found none. “What is this about flying ships?” Meric interrupted, his face pale. “Did they have keels that glowed ?” Tol’chuk nodded his head. “And lightning bolts danced below them.” Meric groaned. “The Thunderclouds, the warships of my people— They’re already here. If they’re attacking, they probably saw the sea battle and assumed their windships had arrived in time. They won’t know we’re here.”

“What’re they trying to do?” Joach asked.

Meric covered his forehead with his palm. “They mean to tear down the island. And if we don’t stop them, they’ll take us down with it.”

Joach shook his head. They had survived skal’tum, d’warves, and ill’guard, only to be threatened now by one of their own allies. “Meric, you must find some way to stop them. Take Tol’chuk and Mama Freda with you. Get your people to call off their attacks.”

Meric nodded. “What are you going to do?”

Joach nudged his staff toward the deeper catacombs. “With the ill’guard out of the way, I’m going to search for Elena. If you fail to stop the warships, then book or not, I must get her out of here.“ Meric reached and clapped Joach on the shoulder, holding his grip

tight. “Be careful. And be quick.”

Joach returned the clasp. “And you do the same.”

Tol’chuk moved forward with Mama Freda at his side. “Meric

does not need us. But more eyes in these dark passages will find your sister quicker.“

Joach touched the og’re’s elbow. “Do not fear, Tol’chuk. I will find her. But it will do me little good if the catacombs collapse atop us. Go with Meric. Guard him from the dangers that must be raging up there by now. He must stop those warships.” He then turned to Mama Freda. “And you must use your wiles and your pet’s eyes to find them both a safe path.”

Tol’chuk grumbled, clearly not entirely convinced, but he bowed his head. “I will not let the elv’in fail.” The og’re turned away, and Joach found Mama Freda facing him still. She raised her chin as if examining Joach down her long nose. “You send us all away for another reason. Something is hidden in your heart.” Joach sighed. He could not lie to her. “My destiny lies here,” he said quietly. “This next path I must walk alone.”

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with the truth of his heart, and turned to join the others.

In short order, Joach found himself alone in the catacombs. Even the tread of his companions’ boots faded behind him as he marched with staff in hand into the bowels of this subterranean crypt. As he walked, his blood stirred with the gift of weaving. His words to Mama Freda had not been a lie. He sensed the culmination of forces and circumstance pulling him toward one destination, one fate.

What came next was between Joach, Elena, and a plainsman from Standi. Joach pictured the sunset tower, the Spire of the Departed, and gripped his staff in an iron grip.

In this last battle, he would not fail his sister.

Elena continued to follow Er’ril and his lantern. She willed him to a faster pace, but after the second blast from above, he had grown even more cautious. Contrary to the plainsman’s wariness, the explosions made Elena want to race blindly ahead. Worry for Joach and the others inflamed her fears. Had these blasts something to do with the ill’guard? She forced her feet to keep pace with Er’ril. She could not flee his side, not as long as he still clutched the Blood Diary.

As she matched his pace, mindful of the floor under her, she became fixed upon the play of light and shadow across the muscles of his back. She had seen Er’ril bare chested before, but never with two arms.

At first, she had trouble reconciling this new physique with the old one in her mind. There was a symmetry of form now that had been missing before. She found her gaze riding over his shoulder to his new arm. No scar separated the two, yet a clear delineation could be seen. His shoulder and back were deeply tanned from the summer’s sun, and though his new arm was also a coppery hue, it did not share as deep a bronzing. Where the old Er’ril and the new met could be distinctly noted.

Elena licked her lips as she followed, her mouth dry. How she wanted to run a finger along that fine line between copper and bronzed skin, to find out for sure if this was the same Er’ril who had been snatched from her. If only he would offer her some clear clue, something that would let her run into his embrace once again. She shivered in the cool air of the catacombs. It had been too long since she had felt the heat of his skin on her cheek. Please, she begged him silently, give me some clue to your true heart.

Elena clutched the iron ward to her chest. Its cold touch reminded her to be wary. Now was not the time to let her guard down. But even the scent of his sweat trailed behind him, reminding her of times when he had held her close. Elena held the ward in a white-knuckled grip. She was no longer a little girl to moon over a knight; the fate of Alasea depended on her caution and control. She must hold steadfast.

Suddenly Er’ril stopped in front of her.

Lost in her own heart, Elena almost collided into his backside. She pulled up short, so near she felt the heat off his body, her naked skin so close to his bare back. A flush traveled from her legs to her face. His scent filled her senses. She tensed, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, lest he hear her.

Slowly Er’ril crouched and moved away, taking his heat with him. Elena sighed silently, both relieved and disappointed. Though no one could see her, Elena crouched also, instinct still making her follow Er’nl’s lead.

She spotted the source of Er’ril’s sudden caution. A flickering light played out from a side passage ahead.

As she crouched with Er’ril, Elena suddenly realized it was the same passage that led to Flint’s secret staircase. She had not thought they had traveled so far. Her worries and concerns had befuddled her sense of distance.

Er’ril dimmed his lantern’s flame to a trickle. He placed the lantern on the floor and drifted across the hall to crouch in the shadows near the curve of the wall. As he bent down, he reached behind him and slipped the Blood Diary under the belt of his pants at the base of his back, keeping it hidden. He then removed Elena’s wit’ch’s dagger and held it before him.

Elena found herself momentarily transfixed by the gilt rose on the book’s cover as it poked from under Er’ril’s belt. The rose seemed almost to glow in the feeble lantern light nearby. She had only to reach out and grab the book. Her fingers stretched for it, but she clenched a fist. It could be a trap. She pulled back her arm and crouched alongside Er’ril. She would wait to see who else shared these halls ahead.

Taking the lesson from Er’ril, Elena knew the only certain safety lay in staying unseen.

(AMES

As she waited, Elena listened to the plainsman’s breathing, a wolf on the scent of a deer. Soon the tread of boots grew louder from the side passage, and a figure appeared outlined by torchlight. Elena was sure it was the ill’guard returning to his roost. But as the figure stepped nearer, Elena saw that it was not the ill’guard who approached, but her own brother.

She came close to calling out Joach’s name in relief, but after staying cautious for so long, she controlled this sudden urge. Maybe here, hidden and listening, Elena could discover some answer to Er’ril’s loyalty.

Joach approached, staff in one hand, oblivious to the wolf in the shadows. Er’ril could easily slay her brother, but instead he straightened and stepped clear of the shadows. Her brother startled backward.

“Er’ril!”

Elena spotted the bandage around her brother’s right hand. What had happened to him? And where were the others?

“Joach, what are you doing down here alone? It’s not safe.” Er’ril returned the dagger to his belt.

But Joach’s eyes seemed blind to Er’ril’s moves. The plainsman could have stabbed Joach, and her brother would not have seen it. His gaze flickered between Er’ril’s two hands. “Your… your arm,” he finally mumbled. Joach broke from his stunned stupor and raised his staff against Er’ril. Flames of darkfire bloomed along its length.

Er’ril refused to back from Joach’s display. He raised his new arm. “Do not fear. It was the key to unlocking the Blood Diary from the spell that protected the book. My arm was fuel for the spell, and with the release of the magick, it was returned. Now where is Elena?” Joach shook his head and took a step back into the side passage. His face was a mask of disbelief, his eyes glazed. Elena knew her brother’s sight was obscured by his recurring dream. “I’ll never tell you! First the ill’guard tried to find out and failed. And now you appear. I’ll not let you near Elena!”

“What… what ill’guard?” Er’ril snapped angrily. “What are you rambling about, Joach?” Joach raised his staff higher.

Eying her brother’s response, Er’ril choked back his anger. He took a deep breath and started again. He lifted both his arms. “I know how this must appear. It was the reason that I encouraged you to come along with us. Flint and Moris thought your dream was

a false weaving, believing it an impossibility for my arm ever to return—but I knew better. Still, to keep the book safe, I had to remain silent.“ Er’ril’s voice grew firm and sure. ”Look at me, Joach. I am not corrupted. I don’t know what will happen next. But understand and believe me, Joach, I mean your sister no harm. I… I care deeply for her.“

Elena’s breath caught in her throat. She swallowed back a sob. She longed to step forward and reveal herself, to end this charade, but what might happen next could reveal the truth of Er’ril’s words.

Joach lowered his staff slightly. Er’ril’s words had removed the glaze from her brother’s eyes. “How can I trust you, Er’ril? You know how my dream ends.”

“Dreams, even weavings, can fool. But I know that that is no answer that will convince you.” Er’ril reached behind him. “Maybe this will.”

Joach backed a step warily.

Er’ril slipped the book from his belt and held it toward Joach. “Here is the Blood Diary.” Joach’s eyes grew wide.

“It has been my responsibility for five hundred winters,” he said. “But I want you to take it now. I sense that my role in guarding the Blood Diary is ending. If you will not let me near your sister, then you must get the book to her.” Er’ril stepped forward and placed the tattered tome at the entrance to the side passage.

He then moved back. “Take this burden from me.”

Elena stood stunned by his act. Surely this was a clear sign of Er’ril’s loyalty. A creature of the Black Heart would never relinquish the book.

The same thought appeared to course through Joach’s mind. But where Er’ril’s offering made Elena hope, it only made Joach more suspicious. Her brother’s eyes narrowed as he set down his torch and slipped closer. He hovered over the book with his staff raised, eying Er’ril with clear distrust. Joach slowly bent, then snatched the book from the floor and darted backward, away from Er’ril.

But the plainsman made no move against Joach.

Elena’s eyes remained on Er’ril. Joach’s continued suspicion held her back from revealing herself. Though the release of the book seemed contradictory to anything a dark minion might do, Elena knew her only safety lay in the spirit spell that hid her.

(AMES LLEMENS

“Take the book to her, Joach. The duty I swore so long ago is over. From here, Elena has no need of me.” Elena carefully circled in front of Er’ril, studying him as he spoke these last words. Sorrow and relief were mixed in his eyes. But what did these emotions mean? She stood there, only an arm’s length away, searching for an answer in his face. A single tear rolled down his cheek. Her fingers rose to wipe it away.

In her heart, she suddenly knew the truth. Er’ril was not corrupted.

Then Joach spoke behind her. “These pages are all blank.”

Elena lowered her hand and glanced over her shoulder at Joach. Her brother held the book in one hand and rifled through its pages. Even from here, Elena could see the clean white pages.

“This is not the Blood Diary,” Joach spat out. “It’s a trick.” Elena turned to see Er’ril’s eyes flash with anger. This sudden change was like a flare of wildfire, burning away the sorrow from a moment ago.

Elena stumbled away. She cursed herself for being so blind. Why had she not even considered that the book might be a fake?

Er’ril’s voice was rough. “It is no trick, boy.”

Joach still held the book up by its cover. “And I am to take your word on this? You who step from my dreams with two arms?”

Er’ril shook his head, the fire dying to ash in his eyes. “Believe what you want, Joach. There is nothing I can do to prove my heart more than giving you the book itself.” Er’ril stepped away and returned to his lantern. “Take the book to Elena. That is all I ask.” He lifted the lantern and turned toward the ascending spiral of the catacombs. “My brother is somewhere up there, weak now. I will take my war to him since my usefulness to Elena is at an end.”

Joach danced back as Er’ril moved past the entrance to the side passage. Once Er’ril was marching away, Joach slipped the book inside his shirt, grabbed his torch, and darted down the throat of the side passage, escaping from whatever threat he imagined in Er’ril.

Elena, though, waited at the crossroads. She watched Joach’s torchlight fade down the side passage while Er’ril’s lantern glow disappeared around the curve of the catacombs’ hall. She stood fixed in place, unable to move. Which path should she take? She clutched the ward to her belly, begging it to reveal some sign.

More than ever, she wished Aunt My were here. Right now, Elena could use the swordswoman’s wise and practical counsel.

Finally, Elena took a step toward the side passage. Surely here was the wisest path. Even if the book was a trick, it was best to rejoin Joach and the others. Even Aunt My would approve such a pragmatic decision.

Or would she?

Elena’s feet froze at the threshold. Long ago, back in Shadow-brook, Aunt My had warned her that there must be a reason that a woman, rather than a man, had been destined to carry the banner of freedom. Aunt My had explained her own personal belief: that ultimately the fate of Alasea would depend not on the capacity ofmagic^ in a woman, but on the strength of her heart.

As Elena pondered her aunt’s words, the two sources of light faded completely. Gloom descended on her.

In the darkness, she pictured the single tear on Er’ril’s cheek, shining like silver in the torchlight.

Elena stepped away from the side passage and turned to the dark catacombs. Her mind attempted to justify her decision. Surely she should pursue Er’ril in order to discover the truth of his allegiance. But Elena needed none of these justifications for her decision. Her feet were already treading up the spiraling concourse, moving faster and faster. She had been won over already. Her heart would not let her leave Er’ril’s side.

And for now, that was enough.

Through the streets of A’loa Glen, Meric rushed ahead of Tol’chuk and Mama Freda. Around them the city lay in chaos. Trails of smoke scarred the horizons. Cries and screeches echoed off the stone walls. The citadel atop Mount Orr still rumbled as bricks and sections of wall tumbled from the heights to crash and rattle into the lower streets. Overhead, the bloated bellies of warships hung in the skies, slowly circling like so many vultures. Under the pall of smoke, the sharp tang of lightning flavored the air, radiating from the ships above and from the recent pair of assaults.

“They mean to strike again!” Tol’chuk called to Meric. “One more blow and the castle be rubble.” Meric pulled to a stop and glanced overhead just as a score of frantic wings swept past. More panicked skal’tum. Since fleeing the catacombs, Meric’s group had spotted many such fragments of the skal’tum army. Torn into frightened scraps, the beasts sought to escape the arrival of the elv’in warships.

So far none of the beasts had attempted to assault the trio. Meric suspected the monsters’ eyes were fixed on the skies above.

Once the skal’tum had flown past, Meric saw that Tol’chuk’s assessment proved accurate. Another five Thunderclouds were beginning to ring the top of the hill. The Sunchaser , his mother’s flagship, still hovered over the smoking castle heights. He cringed at the sight. This was all his fault. “We must move faster!” Meric cried out above the din of battle.

Tol’chuk crossed next to him. The og’re’s face was purplish with exertion. He had carried Mama Freda most of the way. He pulled forth the Try’sil, the d’warf hammer, from its sheath on his back. “We be close enough. Let’s find an open plaza and try it.”

Meric shook his head. “They’ll never see. Not unless we are right under their noses.” Tol’chuk pointed to the ships moving into position. “We either try now, or we lose everything.” Meric sighed loudly. He knew the effort would prove futile, but the og’re was right. They at least needed to make the attempt. He could not let the land’s hopes be dashed without first trying to signal the fleet, to warn the ships away. Meric studied the skies for some clue, some way to redeem his mistake. His heart ached with the pain of his betrayal.

Mama Freda spoke from near Tol’chuk’s elbow. “Tikal has found a long plaza up and to the left. We could be there in moments.”

“Let’s go,” Meric said and ran ahead.

Tol’chuk slung Mama Freda under one of his large arms and loped after him. The old healer called out directions, and soon the trio reached the open court. They were almost under the very cliffs upon which the citadel perched. The square was in full shadow from the setting sun. Tol’chuk set Mama Freda down so she could grab her pet tamrink and retreat to the side of the plaza.

Tol’chuk followed Meric to the center of the square. “Hurry, elv’in.”

“I know, og’re,” Meric snapped back; but then his eyes apologized for his harshness. Tol’chuk was only expressing all their concerns. “Raise the hammer high. I will do my best to create a good show.” Tol’chuk grunted and lifted his arms toward the skies, bearing the hammer aloft.

Meric touched his magick and gathered winds to his frame. Once insulated, he mixed dry and moist winds, creating a crackle of energy from their frictions. He gathered more power from the air. With the warships overhead, the winds were rich with energies. Soon his clothes snapped and danced with scintillating sparks.

“Be ready!” Meric called out. “Hold the hammer steady!”

Hands raised high, Meric gathered energy to his fingertips. It built into a sphere of lightning that slowly spun and shone in the shadowed plaza. But Meric knew such a feeble glow would attract few eyes. He needed more of a show. He fed more and more power until his whole frame tremored with the power overhead.

All the hairs on his body stood on end, quivering. A sheen of sweat glistened his face and arms. His fingertips began to burn from their proximity to the sphere of lightning. He had meant to shout one final warning to the og’re, but it was too late.

He shifted his eyes to stare at Tol’chuk. The og’re met his gaze.

In a final wrench of shoulders and power, Meric threw his lightning at the hammer. Its ball of energy smashed into the iron. The Try’sil had been forged by lightning. It could withstand the force. It remembered its origin and shouted it skyward.

From the head of the hammer, a brilliant silver-blue bolt shot toward the ships above. Thunder cracked across the plaza. Tol’chuk was thrown backward, his arms scorched to the elbows.

Meric, protected by his winds, was buffeted backward also, but he kept his feet. He watched the bolt shoot between two of the warships overhead. “See it,” Meric prayed. “Look down.” Tol’chuk scrabbled off the cobbles with a groan, but Mama Freda was already at his side, smearing a balm over the og’re’s singed and smoking skin. Tol’chuk seemed more annoyed than comforted by the old healer’s attention. “Did it work?”

Meric tried to watch the ships above him. He saw no sign that the vessels had recognized the bolt as a signal. With the dance of lightning among the many keels, the crews must have thought little of Meric’s display. “No,” he said sourly. “My people are too much creatures of air and cloud. It takes more than my little spark to get them to look down.”

Tol’chuk rolled to his feet. “Let us try again.”

Meric shook his head. “I used almost everything in me. I would need to rest at least a quarter moon to repeat even the same show.”

“Then it be hopeless.” Tol’chuk’s tired eyes swung to the five Thunderclouds as they gathered around the crown of the peak.

“We should return to the catacombs,” Meric said. “Try at least to get the others away.”

“We’d never make it—”

A sudden rumbling roar shattered across the plaza from behind them. The trio spun around in time to see a massive black-winged shape skirt around a tower’s top and dive toward them. It roared again, silver claws wide as it lunged toward the square. Meric and the others ran out of its way. With a snap of its scaled wings, it slowed its descent to land with a screech of nails on stone.

Meric spotted the tiny rider atop the beast’s back. “Sy-wen!” The tiny mer’ai woman seemed haggard and exhausted. It was almost as if she had lost substance during the day’s horrors. “Thank the Sweet Mother! I saw your flash and could only hope it was you!” Then she glanced around the square. “Where are the wit’ch and the others?”

Meric rushed forward, ignoring the swing of the dragon’s head in his direction. The beast’s large black eyes seemed to drink him in. “We have no time to explain! Can you get me to that large ship above the castle?” Sy-wen frowned. “I’ve been trying to reach it since the fleet arrived, trying to get them to stop their assault.

But between the lightning and that cursed woman’s winds, I’ve made no headway.” Meric finally glanced to the dragon. “If your mount will allow it, I can get us there.” Sy-wen turned to her dragon. A silent exchange passed between them. “Ragnar’k will allow it. But we must hurry.” Sy-wen nodded above.

Meric turned. Already the five Thunderclouds were gathering energy to their keels. He swung back around to see the mer’ai offering her hand from the neck of the dragon. “Climb behind me.” With a brief nod of thanks at the dragon, who still stared at Meric with clear disdain, Meric crossed and took Sy-wen’s hand. In the moments it took to settle and wrap his arms around Sy-wen’s waist, the dragon spread its wings, pushing up on its stout legs. “Hang tight!” Sy-wen called.

Then the world swept out from under them. Ragnar’k leaped upward, wings snapping, pulling them from the square.

Tol’chuk’s voice bellowed from below, wishing luck and speed, but most of the words were lost as the dragon’s wings fought to drag them into the sky. Ragnar’k climbed above the highest towers, then banked to the west, circling around the cliffs atop Mount Orr. The bellies of the warships were just overhead.

Meric smelled the lightning wafting from them.

Ragnar’k swung farther out, fighting to gain more height. Slowly, too slowly, he scaled higher and higher into the sky. Glancing behind, Meric saw that the keels of the five Thunderclouds now raged with energy.

“Hurry,” Meric moaned, both to himself and to the dragon.

Ragnar’k must have heard. The dragon suddenly wheeled back, tilting frighteningly on one wing tip. Meric saw the spread of city and ocean far below. As Ragnar’k swooped around, the dragon’s wings caught a sharp updraft and shot skyward. Soon they sailed above all the armada except the Sunchaser , the flagship.

It hovered directly ahead. Ragnar’k banked and aimed for it.

Sy-wen bent low over the dragon’s neck, forcing Meric to crouch, too. Ragnar’k sped faster. “Just get above the ship!” Meric yelled into Sy-wen’s ear.

The dragon was now near enough to the ship that Meric could spy the members of its crew. At the stern wheel, he spotted one crew member with a characteristic streak of copper in his silver hair. It was his older brother, Richald. As they neared, Meric saw the tall woman manning the prow of the ship. Her silver hair already glowed with power.

“Mother,” he whispered.

She seemed to have heard him. She glanced toward the dragon, but the expression she wore was not one of welcome. Fire blazed in her eyes even from here. She snapped a hand at them in clear irritation. Winds suddenly assaulted them.

“She does this whenever we draw near!” Sy-wen yelled into the winds as Ragnar’k fought fiercely to hold his position.

Meric slipped one hand from around the mer’ai girl’s waist and lifted his palm against the winds. He cast out his magick, weakening rapidly, and thrust against his mother’s assault. The winds abated, but only slightly. From the back of the dragon, Meric saw his mother’s expression of surprise.

“Go!” Meric urged Sy-wen, pulling back his magick.

Ragnar’k used the break in the gale to sweep at the ship, driving just over their masts. Once above the vessel, Meric released his other arm from around Sy-wen and rolled off the rear of the dragon. He tumbled toward the ship below as Sy-wen yelled in surprise.

Under him, the five Thunderclouds suddenly blasted forth with flows of power, a brilliant star dawning below. Meric fell toward the center of this fiery display.

Stretching out his arms, Meric shoved down with his magick to slow and guide his fall. His body straightened its rolling pitch. Meric swung his legs under him and slipped past rigging and sail. He landed hard on the decks of the Sunchaser , pain lancing up his right leg. The limb crumpled under him. He crashed to his knees, broken bone slicing through his thigh. He bit back any complaint; he had been lucky to live.

Meric raised his face, lines of agony marring his features. He was already surrounded. One man shoved through the others. The man bore a long thin sword but lowered it when Meric met his gaze. “Brother,” the man said with calm surprise.

“Richald.” Meric nodded as if this were an ordinary meeting of brothers on a sunny day.

Richald glanced up and down his brother’s body, his nose slightly curling at what he saw. Burned, scarred, and now broken limbed, Meric knew he hardly resembled one of the royal blood of their house.

Meric spoke into his brother’s appraisal. “You must stop Mother. She must not strike again!” Around them, the star of power winked out. Meric could sense the energy now stored under the keel of the Sunchaser . It trembled the deck beneath his knees.

The crowd of elv’in opened before Meric, and a woman shining with power stepped toward him from the prow. Her skin glowed, and her eyes shimmered too bright. His mother had linked to the storehouse of energy below. Her voice quavered with the suppressed might. “Why should I stop, my son? Is this not what you asked?”

Meric attempted to stare up at his mother, but the blaze in her gaze stung. “I was wrong, Mother. The fate of these people depends on what happens next on the island below. We must not interfere.”

“I care not about the fate of these people.” Meric cleared his throat, his voice sharp. “But I do.” His mother waved a hand as if to whisk away his statement, crackles of energy playing across her fingers.

“You have been walking in the dirt for too long, my son.”

“Yes, I have. So I am the best judge to decide if these people are worth saving.” His mother lowered her hand, pondering his words. Meric pressed on. “And what of our own bloodlines? ” His mother cocked her head slightly. “What are you saying, Meric?”

“If you care so little for these people, then consider our own. The last of our lost king’s heirs struggles below. Destroy this island and you destroy half the heritage of the elv’in.” These words finally reached her, but she showed little emotion. She simply turned on a heel and nodded to Richald. “Pull back the Sunchaser . We will discharge our load into the sea.”

“No! Wait!” Meric called to her. “I know where this energy can be best spent.” His mother glanced back, eyes blazing. “Where?” Meric did not answer. He waved for Richald to assist him to the rail. Meric stifled a cry as he was pulled to his feet. In the distance, he saw the black-winged form of Ragnar’k swing around and sail back toward the ship. Once close enough, Meric waved an arm to Sy-wen. He wind-spoke to her so she could hear him.

“Lead us to the battle in the sea! Scout for the worst skirmishes that still rage! It’s time to end this! We will use the might of the Sun-chaser to smite the last of the attackers!” Once he received acknowledgment from Sy-wen, Meric sagged against the rail. The pain of his broken leg and his weakened state finally overwhelmed him.

His mother slid beside him, still cool and passionless. “You care this much for these people of the land?” Meric turned to her, this time not even flinching from the blaze in her eyes. “Yes, Mother, I do. I would give my life for them.”

Reaching to her son, Queen Tratal rested a palm over his hand. She gave him a quick squeeze of affection, then raised her other arm. On her signal, the Sunchaser heeled around and followed the dragon. “Then as you said, let’s end this.”

Somewhere among the rubbled streets of A’loa Glen, Greshym leaned against the wall of an ancient distillery. His breath rasped and wheezed from between lips clenched with pain. The creation of the portal so soon after battling Shorkan had taken its toll on the ancient mage. As a creature sustained by black magick, to empty his well of power so thoroughly wasted him physically as well. At the moment, he felt every one of his over five hundred winters. Even the air itself felt too thick to breathe.

In the shadows of the crumbling old building, Greshym leaned his head against the cool brick. He had only been able to leap as far as the city. At full strength, he could have created a portal strong enough to transport him all the way to Blackhall, not that he would have dared. Er’ril’s last words to him were true.

Once Shorkan passed word of his betrayal to the Dark Lord, he was a marked man. Every demon hound and netherworld beast would be hunting him.

Greshym eyed the Edifice far above. The second strike by the flying ships had taken out the easternmost tower. The spire had been aptly named the Broken Spear due to its cracked parapet. Now it was just a smoldering pile of blasted stones. It’ll have to be renamed the Smoking Heap , he thought sourly.

“A shame it wasn’t Shorkan’s tower,” he groused aloud. If the ships had struck the Praetor’s Spear, most of Greshym’s problems would have been solved. With Shorkan dead, Greshym’s traitorous actions in the catacombs could have remained a secret. But today the gods had not smiled on him. All his careful plans had not only failed to bring the book into his grasp but had doomed him as well.

Greshym pushed off the wall and moved down the avenue. He needed to get free of this island, but first he needed an infusion of magick. But from where? He crouched for a moment where the street of ancient ale houses ended in a wide square. He watched for any skal’tum. All that remained of their immense legions were ragged bands of panicked beasts. In his weakened state, without even a staff, he would be easy prey for the monsters. Since he was one of the darkmages who had sent them to this slaughter, they would not treat him kindly.

Greshym sidled around the corner, sticking to the deepest shadows cast by the setting sun. As he hurried, he caught a whiff that stirred his withered heart. He stumbled as the scent struck him to the core. He leaned his stumped wrist against the wall, panting.

Dare he hope? Had it been his imagination? Once he collected his breath and calmed the clamor in his heart, Greshym lifted his nose like a hound on a scent. His eyes closed with the pleasure of the tang in the air.

If he had not been so starved, he might have easily missed it. He sniffed again. He knew what he smelled.

Black magick! Somewhere nearby someone or something reeked of power, raw and untapped. Greshym thought of Shorkan, but quickly dismissed it. Not only would the Praetor avoid the streets, but after crossing the mage ring and enduring their short battle, Shorkan did not have the amount of magick he sniffed now.

But where was it coming from?

Revitalized by the scent, Greshym shoved from the wall and began to hunt the trail. Pausing at every corner to sniff the breeze, the old mage tracked the whiff of magick. His legs began to hurry along the dusty streets as the scent grew richer and more potent. Famished, his weak sight blurred further, but he continued on, drawn by the smell. His nose became his eyes, leading him onward to the source.

Finally, he scurried along a narrow street on the highest level of the city. Though the air was still fouled by smoke from the castle above, the tang of magick could not be obscured. Its source was just around the next corner. Caution slowed his feet. With the power he sensed, he could escape this tortured island.

Greshym dragged himself along the square base of a tall statue, creeping carefully. Once at the corner, he closed his eyes and focused himself with a rattling breath.

First, he needed to discover what lay ahead. Leaning forward, straining his old back, Greshym peeked around the corner. What he saw in the alley beyond almost tumbled him out of hiding. But he managed to pull back, one hand rising to throttle a shout of surprise and delight.

It was the boy! His boy! The wit’ch’s brother! How could he be so lucky? Maybe the gods were smiling on him after all!

The view around the corner still burned in his mind. The lad stood in the center of the alley, staring up at the neighboring tower, lost in thought. But that was not all Greshym had spied. In the boy’s grip was a staff.

And Greshym would recognize that length of poi‘-wood anywhere. It was his own staff! He had thought it lost forever. The boy must have retrieved it.

Greshym closed his eyes and drank in the scent of ripe magick in the staff. He licked his lips. He would have it again. He would have them all again !—his staff, the boy, and his magick! But first he needed a plan.

Greshym’s mind spun with various scenarios. He could not just snatch the staff from the lad. It was clearly bound to him. Greshym had seen the spurts of darkfire skittering its surface. He clenched a fist in frustration. He had forsaken the staff, and to retrieve it now, the staff must be handed back to him freely.

But how? How could he get the boy to relinquish the staff?

The darkmage sent his thoughts probing around the corner and grinned when he discovered that the old strings of his woven spell remained in the boy’s mind, frayed but still there. The boy had never had them removed, but then again how could he? There were no mages left with the skill to do so. It would be a simple thing to retie those old knots and trap the boy again in his mind, making the lad a slave once more.

But even that would not help much. To take the staff in this manner would be the same as snatching it from him. To keep the magick potent in the staff, it must be given freely from the heart. Otherwise, it was just an ordinary stick.

Greshym coiled his thoughts around the puzzle. He needed to hurry lest more of the wit’ch’s companions should appear. But how to get the boy to trust him? Then, like a light dawning after the blackest night, the answer appeared in his mind. He could not coerce the boy by enslaving him, but he could still use the fragments of magick imbedded in the lad’s mind.

Greshym knew what he needed to do. It would take only the slightest touch of magick to reach to those familiar strands and tug on them. Maybe he couldn’t get the boy to dance for him like a marionette, but he could tug hard enough to move the boy’s heart.

Knowing what he must do, Greshym reached out with the last dregs of his power. In his weakened state, even this small bit of magick weakened him as if he had cast a major spell. Greshym stumbled around the corner. He did not need to fake the groan as he fell to the cobbles in the alley.

Joach swung around at the sound, eyes wide with threat. The staff burst with darkfire. To Greshym, the magick wafting from the staff was like heat from a hearth in the middle of a winter storm.

Then as quick as the flames had appeared in the staff, they died away. Joach ran at Greshym. He fell to his knees beside the old mage. The boy’s eyes were bright with concern and worry as he reached to help him.

“Elena!” the boy called out. “What happened to you? How did you get out here?” Greshym smiled as he pulled and tweaked the various strands of magick to maintain the illusion in the boy’s eyes. “I don’t know,” he said feebly, not needing to feign weakness or confusion. Greshym knew that his voice sounded like the boy’s beloved sister’s in Joach’s ears.

“We must get off these streets,” Joach said, reaching under his shoulders to help him up.

“Yes. Yes, we must hide.” With the boy’s aid, Greshym allowed himself to be led, half carried in his depleted state. His fingers secretly brushed the poi’wood of the staff affectionately. Soon , he thought silently.

Joach spoke, words tumbling from his mouth. “It seems Meric was successful in getting the elv’in fleet to pull back. We need to get atop a tower and signal them.”

“To escape?”

Joach nodded, gathering Greshym tighter to his side. “Save your strength, El.” As they limped across the alley and headed toward the door of the neighboring tower, Joach’s eyes met his own, a tired grin on his lips. “It seems we cannot avoid our fate,” he said, then nodded to the doorway ahead. “We must go up.” Not understanding the boy’s cryptic words, Greshym craned his neck to stare at the parapet of the tower.

He wrinkled his brow. Why did the boy think they needed to climb the Spire of the Departed?

His heart heavy with despair, Er’ril shouldered aside the warped iron gate to the catacombs. He stared at the destruction in the central courtyard. Rubble and smoke filled the square. Fires still burned, mostly from the smoldering ruins of the ancient koa’kona tree, now a cratered ruin. Er’ril winced at the destruction of the mighty tree.

But like himself, the tree had lived long past its usefulness. Both of them were just hoary and ancient remnants of Alasea’s past glory. With the Blood Diary free, his duty to the centuries was finally completed.

From here the fate of these lands would now rest on shoulders younger than his. It would be up to them to wrest the Dark

Lord from his seat of power. And if prophecy held true, the wit’ch and the book were the land’s only hope.

He would offer what strength of arms he could, but in the greater schemes of prophecy and destiny, the wit’ch must walk alone from here.

At this thought, a sharp pang clutched his chest. He ground a fist against his ribs. He blamed the pain on the searing heat and smoke-filled lungs, but he could not entirely fool himself. He had come to define himself as Elena’s knight, and some of this ache was from knowing that he would never share the same closeness with her again. He sensed that the book would replace his role. From this day forward, he would be as useful to Elena as the smoldering limbs of the dead koa’kona.

He stared at his new arm for a moment and swore a silent curse. He had gained so little and lost so much.

Sighing and girding himself to continue onward, Er’ril studied the open court for any dangers or foes.

Overhead, he spied a huge flying ship retreating from the citadel. Lightning danced along its iron keel. Er’ril guessed this was the source of the destruction here. Silently, he thanked the unknown allies. Their aid had broken the mages’ control of the island. Ahead, the castle itself now seemed dead and deserted. Er’ril only hoped that Shorkan had not been driven away just yet.

He eyed the towers as he stepped from the cool stone of the catacombs. The heat of the court instantly smote his bare skin, raising a sheen of sweat. From here, Er’ril surveyed the full destruction of the eastern tower. Through part of the shattered wing of the castle, he looked upon the city and ocean beyond. Even from here, Er’ril could see the ships embattled below. The war still raged in the seas surrounding the island.

Only able to wish them luck from here, Er’ril turned away. His own goal was closer at hand. He faced the westernmost tower, Shorkan’s lair. Atop its crown, in the last rays of the setting sun, Er’ril spotted a black figure perched among the tower’s parapets. At first he thought it a living creature, but then he recognized it.

It was the ebon’stone statue of the wyvern. And if Greshym was to be believed, it was also one of the four Weirgates that opened to the source of the Dark Lord’s power.

Stopping to collect a long sword from the blistered corpse of one of the catacombs’ guards, Er’ril entered the courtyard. If he could

not find Shorkan, he could at least topple that statue off its perch. Maybe a fall from such a height would crack the cursed sculpture.

Passing the edges of the crater in the center of the courtyard, Er’ril avoided several dark-robed corpses that lay blackened on the blasted stone. He scowled at them. Disciples of the darkmages.

As he moved on, he thought he heard a stifled gasp and the sound of something striking the stones a few paces back. He swung around, crouching, eying the nest of corpses. But nothing stirred. Er’ril straightened.

The winds and the crumbling castle must be playing tricks on his ears.

Studying the bodies for one more breath, Er’ril swung away. He hurried across the remainder of the open courtyard, fearful of any eyes in the hundreds of dark windows. But no arrows were shot at him, nor were any shouts raised against his intrusion. Soon he pushed through the charred and shattered grand doors to enter the castle proper.

As Elena watched Er’ril disappear into the dark castle, she rolled to her feet, rubbing the knee she had twisted after tripping over a loose stone. A moment ago, Er’ril had come so close to catching her. When the plainsman had swung around, Elena had panicked and frozen like a startled rabbit, her face just a handspan above one of the blackened corpses. Even now the stench of charred flesh clung to her nose.

Straightening, Elena took a step toward the castle. Her knee protested strongly, shooting lances of pain up her thigh. She could walk, but only slowly. Elena studied the looming mass of the Edifice, the ancient citadel of A’loa Glen. Its black windows stared back at her nakedness. Though none could see her, she felt exposed. Sighing, she knew there was no way she could follow the plainsman, not as fast as he was moving now. Already he must be lost deep within the castle. She would never find him. If only she had paid more attention to her own feet a moment ago…

Biting her lip against the pain of her injured limb, Elena hopped back. She craned her neck. Where was Er’ril heading? He said he sought his brother. But was this true? She swung her gaze to the tower that had captured Er’ril’s attention when he had first entered

the court. The setting sun’s last rays painted the western tower’s parapets in gold.

Far above the blasted court, she spotted what had drawn Er’ril’s attention. Atop the spire stood the familiar black-winged figure of the wyvern, the ebon’stone statue of the darkmages.

As she stared, a stray breeze shivered her bare skin. Elena wrapped her arms around her chest, trying to hug away the dread that had settled under her ribs. Though not certain of his true heart, Elena still feared for the plainsman.

Tears suddenly rose in her eyes, blurring her vision. After almost losing Er’ril once already to the black magic of the statue, Elena could not face such a loss again. The wounds were still too raw. She watched the tower for some sign of the plainsman, some clue to guide her.

“Be careful, Er’ril,” she whispered as winds sighed through the blasted courtyard. “Come back to me.” In the empty halls of the Edifice, Er’ril increased his pace. Well familiar with the Edifice, he knew the shortest path to the Praetor’s Spear. His feet led him quickly toward his goal while he stoked the fires in his heart. In a battle with his brother, he must not let despair slow or weaken him. With Shorkan’s black magick currently at an ebb, here might be his last chance to rid the lands of his evil.

Er’ril leaped up steps three at a time and raced along dark halls. In short order, he found himself mounting the winding tower stair. He slowed his pace just enough to snatch glimpses from the slitted windows along the steep stair. He surveyed the battle around the island. By now, the sun had sunk into the western horizon, blazing the skies with fire. Below, the war in the seas continued.

As Er’ril passed another window higher in the tower, a flash of brilliance caught his eye and stopped his feet. What was this? Twilight had begun to settle over the seas. In the growing gloom, Er’ril watched as bolts of lightning struck out from one of the large flying ships. Lances and spears of radiance blasted amidst the warring boats and dragons, taking out ships and flocks of skal’tum. The ship glided languidly through the air, reaping a harvest of destruction

from the enemy under its keel as it crisscrossed the battlefield. The rumble of thunder trailed its path.

Thanking these unknown allies once again, Er’ril allowed himself to imagine victory. The despair in his heart lifted slightly. He mounted the steps with renewed vigor and soon reached the top of the staircase.

The doors to the Praetor’s tower chambers lay open. Er’ril slowed and clenched his sword tighter in his fist. He did not trust such an open invitation.

Cautiously, he slipped past the threshold into Shorkan’s study. It was empty, its hearth cold. Holding the blade before him, Er’ril crept through the neighboring rooms. The small bedroom was also empty, as was the bathing chamber. He sensed that neither had been used in a long time. Maybe Shorkan had not come here after all. Ending back in the central chamber, Er’ril studied the room. He paused in the middle of the bright rug and strained to listen for any sign of the darkmage.

He both saw and heard it at the same time. Along the floor, a section of the wall’s tapestry fluttered slightly with a whisper of bird’s wings. Er’ril crossed toward it, careful to keep his tread silent. He used the tip of his sword to shift the length of silk to the side.

Behind the fold of tapestry stood a small oaken door, partially cracked ajar. Through the narrow opening, Er’ril smelled the ocean and smoke. Pushing the door wider, Er’ril discovered a secret stair leading up toward a trapdoor overhead. Light trailed down. Er’ril knew where it led, and his heart thudded louder in his ears.

Not risking the creaky old hinges, Er’ril slid through the gap and mounted the stairs. He climbed one stair at a time, careful where he placed each foot. Overhead, a trapdoor lay flung open to the sky. Er’ril crept up to it and held his breath for a moment. Rolling the hilt of his sword in his right palm, Er’ril also loosened the dagger at his belt.

Once both fists were armed, Er’ril leaped through the trapdoor and rolled across the stone roof of the tower. He shouldered himself upright and jumped to his feet, quickly taking in the scene.

His brother, burned and blistered, stood on the far side of the tower. This high above the sea, the sun’s light still bathed the spire’s top. The stones of the parapet glowed golden, starkly outlining the ebon’stone statue from its perch behind Shorkan. Above his brother’s head, the ruby eyes of the statue glowed in the sun’s fire. Wings of

ebon’stone rose to either side of Shorkan’s shoulders, as if the wyvern were about to take flight.

When his brother spoke, no fear etched his calm words. “Er’ril, it seems we meet one last time.“

Er’ril raised both sword and dagger. “It will be our last!” Shorkan eyed his weapons with disinterest but cocked his head and glanced back and forth between Er’ril’s two limbs. “So that was the secret of the book’s protection spell. Flesh.” Shorkan shook his head. “I had never imagined old Brother Kallon could stomach such a sacrifice from you, Er’ril. No wonder it has confounded me for so long.“

Er’ril shrugged, circling around the trapdoor toward his brother. He eyed the wyvern statue warily.

“What are you planning to do with the Weirgate, Shorkan? What is the Dark Lord plotting with the other statues?“

Shorkan’s brows rose as Er’ril approached. “It seems a little bird has been singing in your ear, my brother. You seek answers to questions that are beyond your ability to understand.”

“According to Greshym, the same could be said of you.”

Ire flashed in Shorkan’s eyes. “Since you are my brother, I will give you one answer—something to keep you up at night.” Shorkan waved his hand toward the wyvern statue. “The Weirgates pose more of a danger to Alasea than does the Black Heart. You fight the wrong enemy, Er’ril. You have all along.”

“You lie. Greshym already told me how the Weir is the Black Heart’s source of black magick.” Shorkan shook his head. “You understand so little. It truly saddens me. Was this the paltry information for which you traded the Blood Diary? If so, Greshym bought the book cheap. But he will pay for his treachery.“

“Greshym doesn’t have the book,” Er’ril said, raising his sword higher. “It is on its way to the wit’ch as we speak.”

These words twitched the blackened skin around his brother’s right eye. “Then where is Greshym?”

“He’s fled.”

Shorkan eyed Er’ril’s sword as it flashed in the last rays of the sun. By now, Er’ril was only a few paces away. “Then so must I, my brother.” Before Er’ril could move, Shorkan reached behind him and touched the wyvern statue. A spatter of darkfire played about

Shorkan’s fingers, and then the statue became a carving not of stone, but of shadows. Sunlight disappeared into its depths. Shorkan stepped backward between its wings and into its dark well. “Goodbye, Brother.” Er’ril lunged after him, but he was blasted backward by a force that deafened him. Only the stones of the parapet kept him from a long fall to his death. His head cracked the stones with a resounding blow. Ignoring the pain and dazzle from his bruised skull, Er’ril rolled to his feet. He searched the tower roof. It was empty. The statue and his brother had vanished.

Standing, Er’ril crossed to the edge of the tower and searched the skies. Sunlight basked the towers of the citadel and a few of the tallest spires of the city. Where had Shorkan gone?

Then, in a blink, an inky stain appeared just an arrow’s shot off the western edge of the tower. It was the shadowy wyvern, alive and gliding toward the golden spires of the city below. Er’ril now understood how he himself had been transported here. Just the thought that he had once been swallowed and transported within that darkness shuddered his spirit.

“Curse you, Shorkan!” Er’ril called out to the retreating form. Suddenly, as if his brother had heard his cry, the wy vern seemed to twitch in the air and bank sharply around. It dove back toward the castle, sailing closer to one of the sun-touched spires of the city.

Er’ril squinted to see what had so attracted Shorkan from his flight. Then he spied it, too: two small figures atop a spire nearby. Across the distance, Er’ril recognized the staff and the red-haired boy who bore it.

Joach.

As he recognized Elena’s brother, Er’ril’s vision suddenly twisted queerly; a strange sharpness tweaked his sight. This was Joach’s dream. He had thought that by leaving Joach’s side he could turn fate’s path. But even now, it was coming true.

Er’ril leaned both fists on the stone parapet. He studied the other figure atop the spire. From Joach’s description of his dream, it had to be Elena. But as Er’ril studied Joach’s companion, his heart climbed into his throat. It was no woman that stood beside Joach. He saw the way the man’s back was bent. Sunlight shone on his bald and leathered pate. But mostly Er’ril recognized the dark robe the man wore. “Greshym!” Er’ril’s legs suddenly weakened under him as he remembered that he had left the Blood Diary with the boy! What was Joach now doing with Greshym? Had the boy been a traitor all along?

Er’ril stumbled away from the tower’s edge. Twisting around, he dove for the trapdoor. Something was direly wrong.

He had to stop them!

Er’ril tore through Shorkan’s study and flew down the tower stair. As he ran, he knew the fate of A’loa Glen depended on his speed, but he also recalled Joach’s other revelation from his dream weaving: Upon the tower, Er’ril was doomed to die in a blaze of darkfire.

Despite knowing his fate, Er’ril raced on.

It seemed destiny was not done with him yet.

In the courtyard of the castle, Elena clutched a hand to her throat. A moment ago, a whooshing blast had drawn her eyes upward, and she had seen the wyvern statue vanish from its tower perch. Now it had reappeared, gliding and circling just past the walls of a castle.

What had Er’ril done? Was this his doing?

As her heart pounded in her throat, Elena could not help but remember Joach’s dream. Her brother had insisted his nightmare was a prophetic weaving, and from Joach’s description, the first part of his vision was of an assault by a black shadowbeast. Elena stared as the wyvern banked away.

The dream was coming true.

Somehow Er’ril had unleashed the beast. Whether he had triggered it with malice or by accident, Elena did not know. All she knew for sure was that Joach’s nightmare was beginning. She backed across the courtyard toward the entrance to the catacombs. She could wait no longer. She knew where she had to be.

Fate called for her to fulfil her role atop the Spire of the Departed. She must be at Joach’s side.

Overhead, the wyvern beast opened its black beak in a silent scream and dove beyond the castle wall, disappearing out of sight.

It had begun.

Elena turned and ran as fast as her injured knee would allow. Though Er’ril was somewhere in the castle behind her, Elena knew she was not abandoning him. In a way, she was running toward him.

They were fated to meet atop the neighboring tower, and she would not miss this rendezvous!

Joach’s dream played over and over in her head. She knew how it was destined to end: with the murder of Er’ril. Elena clenched her fist around the iron ward and ran harder. If their fates were set in granite, Elena meant to shatter that stone with her own magick. She would not let Er’ril be slain if he was still true of heart. This she swore.

As determined as she was, a part of her still quaked with fear. How would she know for sure? How did one judge another’s heart with certainty? Elena cast aside her doubts.

She must find a way.

Joach stood amidst the sunset’s blaze. To the west, the skies were still awash in a final fiery display as the sun dipped below the horizon. As Joach watched from the parapet, the sights below the tower trapped his breath in his chest. The oceans beyond the city lay cast in deep shadow, a promise of the night to come. All around the island, elv’in warships glided above the seas. Occasional spears of lightning shattered the gloom, reflecting off the waves, highlighting the sails and rails of their many ships.

Meric had succeeded. He had turned aside his people’s attack on the island and directed their might to the war below. Upon the seas, victory was near. But what of the island itself?

This sobering thought drew his eyes back from the views. He found Elena staring at him. She eyed his staff. He knew what she must be thinking. According to Joach’s weaving of this day, his staff would protect her atop the tower. It was up to him to make sure Elena remained safe.

Even with her hands ripe with ruby magick, Elena was clearly too weak to defend herself. The climb up the tower stair had wasted her. He had never seen her so weak.

On the way here, he had been unable to get Elena to talk much. She refused to speak of what had happened to her after they had separated. It must have been horrible, and she was too raw to discuss it yet.

Still, he had to ask one more thing of her.

“We need a signal, Elena,” he said as he crossed closer to her. “Do you think you have enough magick to blaze a sign for Ragnar’k?”

His mention of the dragon jolted her from whatever reverie she had fallen into. “No, not now.” She waved a hand limply at him. “Maybe your staff…”

“I dare not waste its magick,” he said. “You know of my dream.” His words only seemed to raise a look of confusion on her features. She reached weakly toward his staff.

“Let me try.”

Joach pulled away the length of poi’wood. “You are stubborn, El. You know this burden is mine.” He shook his head at his sister’s bravery and her willingness to sacrifice herself. This was her fourth attempt to take this responsibility from him. But he would not let her. It was his destiny.

Holding the staff in his bandaged hand, he ran his glove along its length and drew the magick to the wood’s surface with his touch. Trickles of darkfire ran in small rivulets along the staff. He must be ready. Again he scanned the skies. Still no sign of the shadowy beast.

From the corner of his eye, Joach saw Elena watch him manipulate the staff. Longing and anger were bright in her eyes. After wielding so much power, Elena clearly still refused to yield to the inevitability of fate.

Joach spoke in an attempt to distract her. “I know what distresses you, El.” He glanced at her, then away again. “It’s Er’ril. I know how much you wish him to be pure. But I met him.” Elena startled beside him.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to tell you. You were so exhausted, and I had hoped to keep this from you. But maybe it’s better you know. Er’ril has been turned. He now serves the darkmages.” He swung to face her.

“So when I kill him, do not grieve. The Er’ril you knew would rather die than harm you. It must be done.”

“Er’ril? You’ve met Er’ril?”

“Yes.” Joach hated to hear so much hope in her voice. He lowered his voice as he revealed his last. “And he has two arms. He even tried to trick me with a fake copy of the Blood Diary. He foolishly thought such a prize would blind me to his treachery.”

Elena stumbled toward Joach. “The book… ?”

Joach patted his shirt where the tattered old diary still rested.

Elena’s hand rose to snatch at him, but a keening cry split the skies. Joach swung around, shoving Elena behind him. She landed hard on her backside with a curse on her lips. He did not have time to apologize.

From behind the neighboring citadel, a monstrous black shadow swept toward him. He stared into the ruby eyes of his enemy. “Now it begins… and ends,” he said and stepped away from where Elena crawled toward him. This was not her battle. Joach lifted the staff over his head and called the magick in the wood to a full blaze. “Come to your death!” he screamed in defiance. “I will not let you near Elena!” As the beast dove toward them, Joach saw the shape was indeed a wyvern. The black hooked beak, the glowing crimson eyes, wings of razor-sharp pinions. But he did not quail from the sight. He swung his staff and pointed its end at the streaking shadow. He recited the dream-cast words.

His lips grew cold with each utterance. As he spoke the incantation, traceries of frost skittered outward through his heated blood to reach for the wood in his gloved hand. As the last word fell from his lips, a shaft of darkness jetted out from the end of his staff. Balefire! Crackles of energy danced along this spear of darkness.

Joach grinned at the power. He would let no one harm his sister. He had given his promise to his father. He would not fail!

The lance of balefire struck the beast full in the chest, halting its dive, holding it in the sky above the tower.

Its sharp cry changed to an almost human wail of agony. It writhed, impaled on Joach’s spear. The shadowy beast began to lose form; its edges blurred as the dark-fire tore into it.

A harsh laugh exploded from Joach’s chest. He sensed when his magick was about to vanquish the beast, like a storm about to burst. Joach’s lips ached as they stretched into a wide grin. He had never felt such power.

Then something broke in the beast overhead. Joach sensed it. In a blink, the shadowy wyvern became stone again, a statue once more. And like any stone, it plummeted toward the streets far below. Joach dashed to the parapet to witness the end result of his handiwork. The statue tumbled toward the ground.

“Die, demon!” he screamed after it.

But the monster held one more trick. Just before it struck the cobbles, a brief flash flared in the shadows at the foot of the tower, and the statue vanished. The streets below remained empty.

Pulling back, Joach raised his staff and searched the skies around the parapets, but nothing tried to attack again. In truth, he knew he

would not be assaulted by the beast again. Joach sensed that the wyvern had jumped far from here. But more significantly, in his dream, the beast had only struck the one time and was driven away.

“Joach?” Elena still crouched in the shadows of the parapet.

He recognized the relief in her voice, but he held up a hand to hush her. It was not over. There was one more participant yet to appear. Joach swung to face the tower door. He spun the staff between his fingers.

With a smile of triumph and a heart iced by his taste of magick, he waited.

“Come to me, Er’ril.”

Atop the long stair inside the Spire of the Departed, Elena stood with her hand hovering over the latch to the tower door. She braced herself.

Earlier, while racing up the stairs, the screeches and the sounds of battle had echoed down to her from above, firing her urge for speed. She had been determined to burst through the doorway and face whatever was attacking the tower and her brother. But as she had climbed the last few landings, the sounds had suddenly stopped. Beyond the door, she heard nothing. Caution again gripped her heart.

According to Joach’s dream, she herself was fated to be beside her brother, not climbing these endless steps. So what had changed? Her hand touched the iron latch. There was only one way to find out.

Just before she shoved into the door, a hurried stamp of boots echoed up from below. She snatched back her hand and stared down into the tower’s gloom. She carried no torch or lantern. Only the occasional window along the staircase had lighted her way.

Sliding away from the door and down a few steps, Elena tried to pierce the shadows. But in her heart, she knew who came. She pressed herself against the far wall of the stairway and waited for Er’ril, holding her breath and clutching the ward between her breasts.

Up from the darkness below, like a rolling storm, he came. Er’ril clutched a long sword in his right fist. His breath gasped between clenched teeth. His eyes shone with anger; the muscles on his arms and chest bunched with suppressed might. He almost glowed with an inner rage.

Elena hugged herself tight to the wall, but Er’ril was blind to all but the door above. Even without the spell, she imagined he would not have seen her, such was his haste.

He swept past Elena, so swift that the heat off his body was like a slap in her face. But he paused at the top of the stairs. Elena moved one step closer. He raised his sword’s hilt to his brow, using its steel to cool his forehead. Elena moved closer still. She saw the pain behind his anger. He lowered his sword and took a deep breath. His eyes told her all she needed to know. Er’ril knew his death lay beyond the door but that he still must go.

He grabbed the door’s latch, his fist tightening on his sword. “Damn you, Joach. I’ll kill you for betraying your sister!” Elena froze, shocked by his words. He meant to kill Joach! Somehow Er’ril must have sensed her presence. He glanced behind him, his expression suddenly confused. Then, with a shake of his head, he tore at the latch and shoved the door open.

After the gloom of the long stair, the brilliance of the sunset sky blinded her. It must have done the same to Er’ril. He raised his free arm to shade his eyes and stepped out onto the tower’s roof.

Elena followed, slipping around his back and moving to his side. A voice cracked out from beyond the doorway. “I’ve been waiting for you, Er’ril!”

Elena’s eyes blinked away the glare. She saw her brother standing just a few paces back. He bore his staff in his half hand. But this was not the sight that startled a gasp from her throat. She spotted the crouched and robed figure of the darkmage Greshym behind Joach. Er’ril’s angered words as he locked the tower door covered her own startled gasp. “Joach, you traitor! You would forsake your sister for mere power!” These words had little effect on Joach.

Her brother was preternaturally calm, especially with a darkmage at his back. Joach warded the mage away with his other palm. “Stay back, El. This must happen!” Joach twisted his staff, and Elena felt the surge of power. Elena’s eyes twitched to the darkmage, then flew wide. She suddenly understood the illusion behind Joach’s dream. She leaped between her brother and Er’ril just as both men struck at each other.

She felt Er’ril’s sword pierce her back at the same time as Joach’s spear of darkfire struck her between the breasts. She cried out at the agony as the blade scraped against her ribs. Bones broke. But even this was but a pinch compared to the flaying burn of the black mag-ick’s touch. Her skin burned; her breasts were charred to cinder.

The touch of black magick blasted away the spirit spell. She saw the horror in Joach’s eyes as she appeared. The font of black energies died instantly, and he flew toward her.

But her brother was too late. Elena fell back into Er’ril’s arms. The plainsman crashed to his knees under her—not from the heaviness of her body, but from the weight of his horror. He cradled her in his lap. “Oh, Elena, no…” His voice was like nothing she had ever heard. He sounded like such a lost boy. “What have I done?”

Elena stared up into his eyes. “It… it was my choice, Er’ril. Let me have this blame, not you.” She reached toward him, though the pain almost blinded her. She wiped away a tear that was not on his cheek. The horror of the moment and the shock had not allowed the plainsman any tears yet. But she remembered the glistening single tear on his cheek at the crossroads of the catacombs. She had known even then that it was for her. She wished to erase it.

Er’ril leaned into her touch. “I can’t live with this,” he sobbed, tears finally breaking forth. “Not after so many winters. Not after… after…”

Joach interrupted them. “Elena?”

She lifted her face toward her brother. He stood a step away, his eyes stricken. She knew that expression.

His mind was in shock. He glanced from her, then back to the darkmage behind him.

“It’s a trick,” the darkmage hissed. “They only seek to deceive you, Joach. You know I’m your real sister!

They only strive to steal the book.”

Joach stepped away from both of them. His gaze still shifted between them, almost panicked by his confusion. “The Blood Diary?”

“Yes,” Greshym spat. “Bring it to me! I will use it to destroy their illusions.” Elena coughed at the darkmage’s deceitful words. “J-Joach…” But she had not the energy to argue.

Er’ril did. He shifted under her. “Don’t listen to him. It’s Greshym that lurks at your back, Joach. He is the one masked in illusions of your sister. It is he who seeks the book.” Joach continued to back away from both sides. “I don’t know who to believe.” He held his staff before him, threatening both.

Elena added her voice. She knew how to convince her brother.

She lifted an arm toward Joach. “Remember… remember, Joach… the staff.” She reached farther toward him, but this was too much.

Darkness rose from the edges of her vision and swamped over her. She fell limp in Er’ril’s arms and heard his cry of anguish. Elena struggled toward Er’ril against the rising tides of darkness, but she lost her battle.

The currents here were too strong.

She was carried away.

Joach stared as Elena’s singed and naked body sagged in the plainsman’s arms. Surely this was not his sister.

He could not have just slain Elena. Joach stared at the other twin. This one was clothed in the same light shift and leggings that his sister had worn to the island. This had to be his true sister. Did it not?

Still, the earnestness of this other Elena seemed so real. She had begged him with her eyes. In the past, he had seen that same expression in his sister’s face. “Remember,” she had insisted. But remember what?

Something from his past? Some detail only brother and sister would share? Joach crinkled his brow as Er’ril grieved over the fallen girl. Joach saw that her chest rose and fell, but her breathing was ragged and faded fast.

Joach turned to the other. “If you are truly my sister, tell me why I was punished to shovel our family’s barn every morning for a full moon.”

Elena smiled sadly. “Must you test me? But considering the nefarious scheme being played here, I guess I can understand. The answer to your question was that you were punished for feeding a berry pie to Tracker.”

Joach’s tense shoulders relaxed with relief. He smiled at Elena. He had been right all along. Here was his true sister. He glanced at the wounded woman, glad to know she was not truly Elena. He did not know if he could have survived the guilt of slaying his own sister.

Er’ril, though, interrupted his relief. “Answer the boy, darkmage!” Joach turned to Er’ril, lifting his staff. “Stop this charade, plainsman. Elena just gave me the correct answer.”

Er’ril scowled. “He plays your mind like a fine instrument. No words were just spoken. He plied you with a trick to make you think you heard the right answer.” The plainsman nodded toward the fallen twin of Elena.

“Here is your sister, Joach. Not that monster.

Even now she dies. If you love her, bring the book to me. It may yet hold a chance to save her.“

“Don’t, Joach!” Elena insisted. “He struggles to trick you.” By now, Joach’s mind spun in dizzying circles. Whom to believe? Jf Er’ril meant to harm him, why did he still cradle the girl? None of it made sense. He clutched his staff in both hands. How was he to discover the truth?

Er’ril looked up at him, not in anger but with eyes that beseeched him. “Her death nears, Joach. You must decide.”

“But my dream…” he mumbled.

“Dreams are difficult to judge, Joach, and weavings are even more so. In your vision, you saw yourself defending Elena, but in truth, it was this sorcerer disguised as your sister. Dreams are fraught with illusions.”

He pondered Er’ril’s words. The plainsman’s argument sounded familiar and struck Joach to the core. Had not someone just given him similar advice? But who? Then Joach remembered. He dropped his injured hand from his staff and fished in the pocket of his pants. It was still there.

He palmed the object and drew it forth. Opening his fingers, he stared at the large black pearl, the one Xin had given him. The zo’ol wizen had promised its power could connect them when the need was great.

Joach closed his fist over the treasure and spoke his friend’s name. “Xin!” Nothing happened.

Joach opened his fist and stared at the pearl. He was a fool.

Then words rose from the jewel’s blackness. Joach, son of Mor-in’stal, I sense a storm in your heart .

Words tumbled from his lips in a rush. “Xin, my dream… I can’t tell what is real and what is false. Can you help me?”

Elena interrupted. “Joach, what are you doing?”

Joach ignored her and listened. “I cannot help you from here,” Xin answered. “But, Joach, your own heart can.”

“How?”

“Ignore what your skull tells you. Listen with your heart. There is where all truths lie.” Joach had no words to answer Xin. He returned the pearl to his pocket. How could he follow advice he did not even understand? He glanced to the clothed Elena. Her face, her voice, her manner-isms all spoke true. She reminded him of home and farm, all he had loved dear. Here was the sister from his past. He felt nothing wrong

about her.

He then turned to the dying girl. What did he feel about her? He looked past her battered body. In her face and words, she had demonstrated bravery, selflessness, and a love that could even forgive her own murder.

This was a woman Joach hardly knew. She was not

from his past.

The truth of the situation then dawned in him, almost blinding him with its clarity. Xin had been right.

In Er’ril’s arms was not the sister of his past, but of thtpresent. The other Elena was a figment of old memories—familiar and comfortable memories—picked from his mind. But that was not who Elena was anymore. Joach hardly knew the woman whom Elena had become on her journey here. In his mind’s eye, he still considered Elena just his younger sister, someone he had to protect. But that was true no longer.

Elena was no longer just a girl of the orchards. The strange woman in Er’ril’s arms was his true sister. Still, Joach needed to be sure.

He glanced down to his staff and remembered Elena’s last words to him: Remember the staff. Even in this matter, his sister had surpassed him. Though in agony and near death, Elena had given him the key to the truth: the staff .

Joach raised his eyes toward the false Elena. If Er’ril and Elena spoke truthfully, there stood Greshym, the man who had tormented him for almost six moons, enslaved him, debased him. Joach was tempted to use the staff one more time and slay the monster, but after harming Elena, Joach could not bring himself to touch black magick again. He just wanted to be rid of the foul talisman. But before he did that, the staff had one more duty. Turning, Joach tossed the staff toward the one who claimed to be Elena. One of her arms snatched the staff greedily from the air. She brought it down to her side. Even disguised as Elena, Joach could see how well the poi’wood staff fit this figure. It was as if it were another limb.

“Good, Joach,” the false Elena encouraged. “I knew you wouldn’t fall for Er’ril’s tricks. Now bring me the Blood Diary.” Joach slipped the book free of his shirt. “Er’ril…” The plainsman raised hopeless eyes toward Joach. Er’ril did not say a word, clearly thinking himself defeated.

Joach tossed the book to Er’ril. “Save my sister if you can.” Er’ril deftly caught it, eyes wide with surprise.

Cursing, Greshym shook free of his illusions. Elena’s features fell away, and Joach found himself staring at the wrinkled, bent-backed fiend. The darkmage glanced between the two men as Joach stepped closer.

“How?”

“Elena could not handle the staff. It seems the two magicks— black and blood—repel one another.” Greshym sneered and raised his staff. He pointed it at Joach’s chest. Darkfire bloomed along its length.

“Your cleverness will cost you your life.”

Instead of ducking away, Joach stepped even closer. When he was within an arm’s length of the dire weapon, he shook off his deerskin glove and grabbed the end of the staff with his bare hand.

Greshym laughed. “You’ve grown bold, boy. You think to challenge me in the black arts?” As Joach grasped his end of the staff, his blood entered the wood. The staff grew pale around his hand and spread down the length of the wood, dousing the spats of darkfire as it flowed. “I don’t challenge your skill at the black arts, mage,” Joach said with ice in his voice. “I will fight you with my own blood.” Greshym stared as his staff paled. Joach saw the darkmage tighten his hoary grip upon his end of the poi’wood. The flames of black magick grew taller and thicker, washing against the paleness like an angry black surf.

Joach lost some ground, but not much. His blood continued to feed the hungry wood. White and black staff fought in its center. To continue to hold back the wall of darkfire, more and more of Joach’s blood was needed. The usual small red rivulets in the pale wood grew in number and size. Now thick torrents of crimson pumped through the staff. Joach’s heart beat like thunder in his ears. His vision focused down to a point. His entire world became just the staff. It was both his body and his spirit.

Across the length of wood, Greshym fared no better. Sweat ran down the mage’s face, and his breath grew ragged.

Joach knew something must give soon. Either he would faint from lack of blood, or Greshym would collapse in exhaustion. What

actually happened startled both combatants. The staff exploded between them in a spray of stabbing shards.

Joach fell backward, as did the darkmage.

Both men eyed each other, bloodied by stabbing splinters. The staff was gone. Its entire length was just so much kindling scattered on the stones.

Eying the scraps, Greshym pushed off the wall. The flare of black magick from the destruction of the staff had revitalized him, but he still wobbled a bit on his feet. Their battle had taken its toll. Greshym spat in Joach’s direction. “You will pay for this, boy. We will meet again.” With those last words, Greshym waved a hand, and a portal appeared behind him. The darkmage stepped back into it, falling away and vanishing in a blink.

Joach suddenly sagged, wasted and suffering from loss of blood.

Suddenly Er’ril was at his shoulders.

Joach could not even look up. He just glanced to where Elena lay sprawled on the stone. “I’m sorry.” Er’ril’s voice was gruff, but not unkind. “Her blood is on both our hands, Joach. We were equally deluded by fears of treachery.” Er’ril gathered Joach under his arm and pulled him toward Elena. “It’s time we put aside the past. If we are to have any chance of saving your sister, we must act quickly.” Er’ril then gripped Joach’s arm, hard. “And we must work together.”

Joach raised his eyes and met Er’ril’s gaze without flinching. “What must I do?” With Joach’s help, Er’ril spread Elena across a thin blanket from the boy’s pack. Though the sun had set and the full moon had begun to rise, the stones remembered the day’s heat and kept her warm. Her flesh, naked and bared to the stars, seemed carved of ivory. She was so pale. The seared circle in the center of her chest was like one of the darkmage’s black portals.

Er’ril touched her cheek. She was so cold. Her breathing was so shallow that Er’ril found himself holding his own breath between each rise and fall of her chest. She should be dead already, but her magick sustained her. Er’ril glanced to her hands. Only the softest pink hue remained of the deep ruby Rose; only a dribble of magick remained. When that ran out, Elena would die.

“What now?” Joach asked.

Er’ril glanced to the boy’s handiwork. As instructed, Joach had finished applying a bandage made from the boy’s shredded shirt over the sword wound. Its rough cloth should help clot the flowing blood. Er’ril stared at the bandage, suddenly reminded that it was his sword that had stabbed into her. He could not look away.

“Er’ril?” Joach touched his elbow.

Leaning back, Er’ril shook his head. He had no time to dwell on his own guilt. It would do Elena no good. “We’re ready,” he barked hoarsely. “Grab the ward.”

Er’ril knelt nearer and placed the Blood Diary atop the blasted circle upon her chest. The gilt rose shone in the growing moonlight.

Joach fetched the small iron fist from the stone floor and handed it to Er’ril.

Er’ril shook his head. “I must not touch book or ward from here.”

“What are we trying to do?” Joach finally asked, but his question ended in a sob. His resolve was deteriorating. Er’ril could not blame Joach. After bandaging the deep wound, the boy’s hands were fouled with his own sister’s blood, and the air reeked of her charred flesh: harsh reminders of what he and Er’ril had done to her.

“I’ll try to explain.” Er’ril waved for the boy to kneel on Elena’s other side. “When the book was first forged, the spell was incomplete. The boy mage, Denal, never infused his spirit into the book. Still, the presence of Shorkan and Greshym were enough to ignite the magick and bind me to it. To this day, the Blood Diary heals me and sustains me. If we can add Denal’s spirit to the book, then the spell will start again. When it ends this time, Elena must be the one bound. The book’s magick will then be available to heal her and protect her.”

Joach nodded, but his eyes had filled with doubt and fear. He lifted the ward. “And the boy Denal’s spirit is trapped in this iron fist?”

“Not trapped. Stored. Denal gave his spirit freely.”

Joach studied the ward. “What do I do with it? ”

“Just place the iron fist on the book. If the spell ignites, there will be a flare of white light, and the book will be flung open. We must each then take one of Elena’s arms and guide her hands to close the book and complete the spell. Neither of us must touch it.”

With shivering hands, Joach reached across his sister’s prone form and bobbled the tiny iron fist atop the book’s cover. It kept rolling off until Joach found the right balance.

Once done, Joach leaned back. “Now what?”

“We wait.”

And so they did. The passing of time grew agonizing. All they could do was watch Elena’s breathing grow more and more shallow. Er’ril noticed Joach eye his sister’s hands. Both were as pale as her arms now. Neither man spoke of it.

As they waited, the moon continued to rise, full and bright. Once the moon crested the parapets and the light shone fully on the book, the fist began slowly to open, like a midnight rose basking in the moon’s glow.

Joach glanced to Er’ril and held his breath. Er’ril found himself doing the same, afraid to disturb what was happening.

Soon the fist had opened fully and rested palm down on the gilt rose. Er’ril remembered how, long ago, the three mages had placed their palms upon the book, just as this iron hand did now. Er’ril could almost hear a whisper of chanting from far away. It was not just one voice but three.

Winds kicked up around the tower. The book trembled slightly. As Er’ril watched, eyes unblinking, the small fist began dissolving away, sinking into the book. As it did so, the winds picked up, and the book’s trembling worsened. The chanting grew louder. Er’ril met Joach’s gaze over Elena’s body. He willed the boy to be ready. Joach seemed to sense his thoughts and nodded his head once, very slightly. Both feared to move.

Soon the ward was but a vague outline, a ghost hand; then it disappeared completely. No sign of the iron fist remained. Denal had

joined the book.

With the act complete, the book settled on Elena’s chest, and the winds died. Er’ril’s brow crinkled.

Was that it? He continued to wait, but nothing happened.

Joach finally released his trapped breath in a moan of sorrow.

Then, as if this were some mysterious signal, the book suddenly jumped from Elena’s chest to float a handspan above her blackened skin.

Joach tumbled back upon his rear. “Sweet Mother,” he swore.

Its covers split open, revealing the empty pages within. From the white parchment, a blaze of brilliance shot high into the night sky.

Er’ril glanced away from its blinding radiance. He was sure it lanced high enough to strike the moon. Under his knees, the tower shook.

“Er’ril?” The boy’s voice was edged with fear.

“Now’s the time, Joach!” Er’ril commanded sternly. “Grab your sister’s wrist and bring her hand to the book!” Er’ril demonstrated with Elena’s right limb, while Joach matched the movements with her left.

The two brought her arms under the book, palms toward the covers.

“On my count, we use her hands to close the book. Then make sure you get clear.” Er’ril recalled the last time he had performed this act. It had thrown him across the inn’s room.

Er’ril counted, and on three, they slapped the book shut with Elena’s palms. Both men quickly rolled away.

They were lucky they did. The blast that followed split the night. Er’ril was thrown into the tower door, while Joach was tossed to the stones of the parapet. The boy ended down on his belly, his arms over his head.

Er’ril did not hide his face. Rolling to one elbow, he saw Elena lifted from the stones of the tower. Still limp and unmoving, she hung in the air, bathed in a light that stung the eyes. It came from the book still caught between her two palms, a star fallen from the night sky. Elena blazed in its glory. From such a height, the sight would be visible all the way to the coast.

“Joach! See this!”

Slowly Joach lifted first his head, then his body. He sat up to bask in the glow.

Elena’s form slowly twirled in the brilliance. As Er’ril watched, he saw her stir. One hand moved from the book to rub at her face, as if she were simply awakening from a nap. Slowly the glow receded into the book. Elena’s legs drifted lower until her toes touched the tower’s roof. She settled to her heels, pulling the book to her chest in wonder. Her eyes were wide and reflected the remaining glow of the book. They were so alive! Even her hair was a drape of fire down her back.

Er’ril had never seen her so beautiful.

Elena turned to him, her lips curving in a gentle smile of relief and welcome. She lifted the book in both hands. The gilt rose on its cover still blazed sharply, but even this was fading. “The Blood Diary.” f “¦

Er’ril bowed his head slightly, crossing his arms on his chest in the ancient honor of a liegeman for a mage.

“The wit’ch and the book are united at last.” For all his postured reverence, he could not hold back a grin.

To his delight, Elena matched his expression.

As she lowered the book to her side, Er’ril’s smile faltered. The blackened circle of charred skin remained on her chest. His gaze drew Elena’s eyes. Frowning slightly, she fingered the damage. It came apart under her fingers, flaking away to expose soft and perfect skin.

“I’m healed,” Elena said in amazement.

“The book will protect you from here,” Er’ril said softly, not able to completely hide his regret. Mixed emotions stirred his heart. Though he would not change anything, Er’ril knew that from here Elena would no longer need him. Er’ril’s honor to her a moment ago was also his good-bye. From this day onward, Elena would not age, while he would. The passing of the book marked the end of Er’ril’s immortal life.

As Joach moved forward to greet his sister and offer her a thin blanket, Er’ril raised his hands before him.

He stared at the bones and veins of his hand. Already he could almost feel the weight of time descending on him.

As brother and sister reunited, he hardly heard their whispered apologies and absolutions. Tears glistened on both their cheeks. Joach hugged his sister tight, needing to heal as badly as Elena—and Er’ril knew the boy would heal with time.

Er’ril lowered his hand. Time. From here on out, his own was no longer limitless. He would age like any other man. After five hundred winters, he had no right to complain of time’s inevitable march. Still, as Er’ril stared at Elena, she met his gaze and smiled at him in

the moonlight.

And for once, Er’ril prayed that time would stop.

Elena pulled free of Joach’s grip and handed him the book. With her arms free, she took the thin blanket from her shoulders and wrapped it around her torso, tucking and cinching it in place. Elena felt foolish with this bit of modesty after running throughout A’loa Glen as naked as the day she was born. But as the fire of their trials

died down, she sensed both Joach’s and Er’ril’s discomfort at the sight of her bare skin.

Once she was done, Joach offered her back the Diary, but she shook her head. “Could you hold it a moment more?”

“Are you sure?” Joach asked doubtfully, holding the tome out as if it were a poisonous snake.

“I trust you, Joach,” she said with a slight laugh.

He returned her smile, then studied the Diary’s cover. The golden rose still glowed softly in the night.

“When do you think we should open it?”

“Later. Another day.” Elena had had enough magick and surprises for two lifetimes. “We should wait until everyone is gathered. It’s something they all deserve to share.” Joach nodded and carefully tucked the book under his arm. He crossed to the parapet to watch the end of the war below. Elena stared out at the seas for a moment, too. With the darkmages gone, the island’s defenders fled from all fronts. The remainder of the fighting was more housekeeping than battle. By sunrise, the War of the Isles would be over.

Turning her back on the sight, Elena found Er’ril studying the moonlit skies and city, wary of any new threats. Always the guardian. In the moonlight, shirtless still, he seemed a bronze sculpture.

She crossed and stood beside him, silent for a breath. “Er’ril,” she said softly.

“Hmm…” He did not turn, keeping up his vigil.

Elena reached and touched his bare right shoulder. She did what she had wanted to do in the catacombs while following him. She traced the tanned line where his restored arm met his shoulder, where the new Er’ril merged with the old. She knew that from here, nothing would be the same between them. He had completed his task, and she sensed that in the future the book’s power would grow between them. Her heart ached at such a thought. Was there not some way to keep the new Er’ril and still not lose the old?

The plainsman shuddered under her touch.

Elena lowered her hand to grasp his wrist. Gently she turned him from the parapet.

“Elena?”

“Shush,” she scolded him. Taking his left wrist in her other hand, she lifted his palms toward her. She studied them for a moment, like

an oracle in a village fair seeking some vision. Here were the new and the old. But they both looked the same. Who was he really?

Er’ril turned his wrists in her grip and held her hands now, gently, tentatively. “I… I thought I had lost you.”

“And I feared the same for you.” She leaned toward him, tears in her eyes.

Always her protector, Er’ril slid his hands up her bare arms and wrapped her into his warm embrace, two arms circling her, holding her against the horrors of the day. She leaned against his broad chest. As her cheek touched him, Er’ril tensed for a moment, still a sculpture in bronze; then she felt him relax against her, melting into just a man. They held each other silently, both knowing that their embrace meant more than mere consolation but neither speaking of it, fearful of ruining the moment.

Elena sank into his warmth, wrapped in both his arms, and she knew here was her answer. Two arms circled her completely. She could not say where one started and another ended. In his embrace, there was no new or old Er’ril. There was only one man. And she would not lose him—not even for the book’s promise of immortality. Er’ril held her tighter.

Thoughts of war and wit’chcraft seemed far off as she listened to the beat of his heart. Time slowed to a stop at that moment. The stars halted their endless dance; the moon froze in the night sky. For now, there was just the two of them. And for the first time since leaving her family’s orchard, Elena knew she was home.

Suddenly, from behind them, a roar shattered the peace of the moment. Elena and Er’ril twisted around, still in each other’s arms. A black winged shape skated from below to rush overhead.

Across the roof, Joach swung to face them, his eyes bright with excitement. “It’s Sy-wen and Ragnar’k!

The blaze of the book must have summoned them!”

Elena and Er’ril slowly pulled from each other’s embrace. The world beyond called for them, trumpeted from the throat of a dragon. But before Er’ril turned away, Elena touched his chin, stopping him. She leaned and softly kissed his cheek, where once a single tear had glistened.

She raised her face to his. “Thank you.”

They turned together and watched the dragon circle above. With the war ending here, Elena’s thoughts turned to those friends unable

to share this victory: Mycelle, Krai, Mogweed, Fardale. How did they fare this night?

Elena stared at the stars, praying they were safe.

As THE SUN’S LAST GLOW FADED TO THE WEST, MYCELLE LED HER GELDing down the final switchback of the mountain pass. The others in her party were draped along the trail behind her, moving slowly along the slick rocks. The Pass of Tears had been named for the glistening droplets sprayed on the boulders alongside the path from the nearby cataracts of the Mirror River. The rumble of the river had been a constant song for three days and nights. By now, the noise had set Mycelle’s teeth to aching. Even the tiny jungle snake around her wrist seemed agitated, writhing in slow circles around her wrist as if it sought some escape from the rumble.

She soothed the paka’golo with a finger as her gelding, Grisson, cautiously traversed the rocky terrain.

Ahead, the forests of the Western Reaches spread across the landscape, stretching from horizon to horizon, an endless sea of green. As foreboding as the dark wood appeared, it was still a welcome sight. Not only did Mycelle look forward to leaving behind the roar of the mountain pass for the quiet of the forest, but those woods had also once been her home. Lost under the green bower were many strange creatures and odd folk, including her own people, the si’lura.

Mycelle held up a hand and willed her flesh to flow. Her fingers responded, spreading and twisting in the moonlight like the tendrils of some nocturnal vine. With her shape-shifting abilities returned, she felt a renewed kinship to her own people, and it soothed her heart to know that she was about to reenter her forest home. But a homecoming with her tribal clans would have to wait. First, she must honor her oath and join Tyrus in his fight against the Grim. Only after Castle Mryl was recovered would Mycelle’s oath and debt be paid. Willing her hand back to its previous shape, Mycelle lowered her arm.

Once they reached flat ground, Mycelle kicked her mount to a faster clip toward the woods. Though night had descended, Mycelle refused to set up another camp within earshot of these roaring cascades.

She scouted ahead of the others. Fardale kept her company, loping through the brush and scrabble like a dark shadow. Behind her, Mogweed rode alongside Prince Tyrus.

Krai and the trio of Dro women guarded their rear flanks. Their party had spoken little since passing the wellspring of the Mirror River. After the many days of hard travel, everyone was saddle sore and exhausted; tempers were short and attitudes sour. Except for Prince Tyrus.

The former pirate seemed little fazed by the long trek. Even now, Mycelle could hear his laughter echoing down the trail. While the others were worn down, the man seemed to thrive on the hardship of this march.

His spirits seemed to grow with each league that brought him closer to his ancestral home, Castle Mryl, overlooking the Northwall.

Scowling at his bright merriment, Mycelle snapped her reins to move Grisson faster. The mount rounded a section of cliff face, and it was as if she had entered another world—a world of whispers and hushed noises. Blocked by the cliff, Tyrus’ laugh and the falls’ roar were instantly muffled. Mycelle sagged in relief. She let Grisson slow to a leisurely walk. Fardale wandered closer to the edge of the forest, leaving Mycelle a moment of rare solitude.

As she enjoyed the peace, Mycelle drifted away from the wolf. She encouraged Grisson to follow the wood’s edge. Oaks and alders predominated here, a mixture of mountain and valley trees. A few maples were even scattered among them. Mycelle drew in a long breath, taking in the scent of the forest: loam and leaf, bark and moss.

Her eyelids slipped closed as she inhaled. Lost childhood memories returned, buoyed by these smells of the forest. As Grisson walked, tears flowed down Mycelle’s cheeks. She sniffed and wiped at her eyes, surprised by the depth of her reaction.

Then, from somewhere ahead, a whisper of music arose. It took a moment for the sound to reach her consciousness. It seemed to sing more to her heart than to her mind, wrapping its notes and chords around the ache in her spirit, drawn to the pain of her lost childhood and home. Mycelle cocked her head, unsure for a moment if the soft sounds were real or merely old memories. As she listened, straining for the melody, Mycelle seemed to recognize this mournful tune. But where had she heard it?

Grisson continued along the forest’s edge. Around a corner of the forest, Mycelle found her answer.

Standing in a small glade, outlined

in moonlight, was the singer. Cloaked and hooded in a patchwork of hues, the figure stood as still as the trees. Only the sweet voice rising in song from inside the shadows of the hood suggested life.

Mycelle knew this figure. She had encountered the singer once before, in the coastal wood on her way to Port Rawl. Mycelle knew that it was no man or woman who sang from within that motley cloak, but some shade or ghost.

Slowly, Mycelle slipped from her saddle and waved for Grisson to remain. She feared startling this apparition away. She wanted to discover why this ghost haunted her. As she slipped into the moonlit glade, the figure finally shifted in her direction with a rustle of leaves. As it kept its head bowed in shadows, a single arm lifted toward Mycelle, beckoning her.

Near enough, Mycelle saw that the cloak was actually an intricate patchwork of green and autumn leaves.

Even the shade’s hand was gloved in foliage. Not a speck of skin showed. But Mycelle knew no skin could show. Under the leaves was nothing but a hollow shell.

Suddenly, from behind Mycelle, a low whine arose. She glanced over to find Fardale standing at the glade’s edge. His amber eyes were huge and aglow with an inner light. The melody of the song ended.

Mycelle swung around, fearful that the wolf’s appearance had chased the apparition away. But she found the singer still standing in the glade’s center, silent now, but with an arm still stretched toward Mycelle, palm up as if begging for a copper.

Unsure what to do, Mycelle turned to instruct Fardale to fetch the others. But instead she found Fardale wagging his tail with a strange whine flowing from his throat. Mycelle stared into the wolf’s amber eyes and opened her mind to him. She begged Fardale to tell her what his wolfish senses perceived. He might have some clue as to why this ghost persisted in haunting her trails.

She only received one mental picture from the wolf: a blac’t acorn . She blinked at this response, remembering the sprouting oak seed she had found in the discarded piles of leaves after she had first met the singer. Was the wolf trying to tell her that the apparition wanted it back? Frowning, she turned to find the singer still frozen with an arm outstretched.

Fardale whined again, deep in his throat.

Mycelle backed to her horse, refusing to look away. “Fetch the others,” she ordered the wolf.

Fardale hesitated, then spun away.

Mycelle searched her pack. How did Fardale or this apparition know she had not discarded the acorn?

Mycelle had thought of doing just that many times, but the tiny green shoot peeking from under the acorn’s cap had always stopped her. It was a living thing, and Mycelle could not simply cast it to the stone or into the trash.

But where was the cursed seed now?

As Mycelle searched, she kept glancing back at the leaf-shrouded figure. The mysterious singer had not moved.

Fishing through a side pocket of a pack, her fingers found the familiar shape of the smooth and oddly warm seed. Mycelle slipped it free just as the others of her party came thundering around the forest’s edge. She held a palm out to slow them, then waved them off their horses.

Once they dismounted, she led the others toward the glade.

Krai’s gruff voice was ill suited to whispering. “Who is that?” Mycelle shook her head and stepped forward. Once near enough, Mycelle reached out and placed her acorn in the foliage-wrapped palm. It shone brightly, limned in moonlight for all to see.

Mogweed spoke from behind her, shock in his voice. “That’s the acorn I gave to Elena! From the sp-spider forest!”

The shade’s fingers closed over the seed. The apparition raised its fist to its chest, head bowed over it.

Again the song began—but its mournful overtures now ran with traces of hope.

No one moved.

As they watched, a soft glow arose from the figure as the song continued. Mycelle stared and knew it was not the outer cloak that shone, but something inside. Its internal glow shone out from between the patchwork of leaves, like a distant hearth seen through trees.

“What’s happening?” Tyrus asked brusquely.

Mycelle hushed him.

The song grew stronger and richer, less ethereal. The glow also grew sharper, almost blinding. Mycelle lifted a hand to shield her eyes. Then, in a single heartbeat, the song ended; the brilliance winked out.

It took a moment for the dazzle to fade from Mycelle’s eyes. She saw that the figure still remained in the glade, a sculpture in leaves.

Suddenly, a sharp gust blew into the glade. The figure shuddered as if it found the breeze chilling. With this small movement, the apparition’s cloak fell to the forest floor, scattering into leaves that whirled a bit in the wind. This time the singer did not vanish with the breeze.

Among the discarded foliage stood a woman of simple beauty. In the moonlight, her skin was the color of cream. Her bowed face and upper body were draped modestly in long tresses the hue of warm honey.

Posing in the moonlight, the woman’s fist still lay clutched to her throat. Slowly she lowered her arm, opening her hand. The acorn was a hollow shell, split into halves. The singer dropped it to the leaf-strewn floor, then raised her face toward them all. In the starlight, her eyes were the deepest violet.

Mogweed coughed and stumbled away. “Nee’lahn!”

TWO NIGHTS LATER, ELENA STOOD BEFORE A FULL-LENGTH LOOKING

glass and frowned. For the victory celebration, she had been primped and dressed like some porcelain doll.

Her hair had been woven and pinned atop her head, with just the barest trickle of curl allowed to dangle alongside the small diamonds that now studded her earlobes. She was bound in a gown of soft green velvet with a deeper green sash and matching gloves. Her hem draped full to the woven rug and completely hid her silver slippers, which were each adorned with a single silk rose.

Behind her, two wasp-thin women appraised her with pursed lips. Their silvery hair had long gone gray.

According to Meric, these were his two aunts. The pair were also the ones to blame for Elena’s current predicament.

“This will have to do,” Ashmin said with clear dissatisfaction.

Carolin smiled slightly at the other. “You judge too harshly. You just need to see it move.” The older woman waggled her fingers at Elena, and a small breeze blew into the castle chamber and billowed the gown around her. “See? The dress is meant to move.”

Ashmin sighed loudly. “If we were back in Stormhaven…”

“Of course, Sister, then I would hide my head in shame to present even a servant girl in such attire.” Tapping a finger against her chin, Ashmin tilted her head. “Maybe we should try the pale rose gown again.” Before Elena could scream, a knock at the door interrupted the aunts. “Elena!” a voice called out. It was Joach. “Everyone’s been gathered in the hall now for almost a fortnight. I’ve been sent to escort you.”

Elena thanked the Sweet Mother for her salvation. “I’m coming now!” She glared to her two torturers, daring them to object. Ashmin threw her hands in the air. “It will just have to do.” Carolin grasped her sister’s hand. “She looks lovely. You have worked wonders.” Elena rolled her eyes and proceeded to the door. She wanted to run, but the gown and slippers forced her to a shuffling walk. She reached for the latch, but Ashmin was already there. Elena frowned at the magickal quickness of the woman’s elv’in feet.

Ashmin lifted the latch and pulled the door wide. It was not done in courtesy or in respect for Elena’s lineage to their ancient king, but for a more practical reason. “You mustn’t soil those gloves. Keep your hands folded under your bosom as we showed you. You are an elv’in princess, child.” Elena frowned but obeyed. The old woman’s tone was too motherly to ignore.

Beyond the doorway, Joach stepped forward from the hall. So far, he had remained speechless. His mouth hung open as his eyes traveled from her slippered toes to her pinned hair. “You’re beautiful!” His words would have been complimentary if they had not been spoken with such sheer disbelief.

Still, Elena smiled. She was a princess after all. “And I see they scrubbed you enough to find a man under all the usual filth.”

Joach straightened his shoulders proudly, posing slightly to showcase his attire. His hair had been oiled and combed out of its normal tangle. The small reddish brown beard he had started to grow had been clipped and contoured. If Elena had not known better, Joach could have passed as some rich lordling. His pants were a hue of green so deep they appeared almost as black as the boots he wore. Tucked into a thick black belt was a shirt of spun silver overlaid with a sleeveless green jerkin.

Elena shook her head slightly. Joach’s outer garment was the same hue as her gown. Clearly the two aunts had had some hand in his attire. If Joach was to be her escort, then of course the two must complement one another.

Ashmin bowed, stiff from the waist. “My prince,” she said, formal and warm. “You are looking most handsome. My niece will be well pleased.” Joach returned her bow, then slipped an arm under Elena’s elbow. “Thank you, ladies. But our guests await.” Joach guided her away.

At a safe distance, Elena leaned to Joach’s ear. “What did you do to win a civil tongue from Lady Ashmin?

What was that about her niece ?”

Joach smiled, though his lips had a twist of exasperation. “Since these elv’in learned that, as your brother, I also share the blood of their lost king, every elv’in mother with a daughter has found her way to my door.” Elena squeezed his arm in sympathy. “I’m sorry, Joach. But at least I’m no longer the sole heir to half the elv’in heritage.” She grinned at her brother. “Believe me, I’m glad to have you share this with me.”

“Thanks, El,” Joach said sourly.

Too soon, they reached the double doors that led into one of the many halls of the Edifice. This room had been chosen for the ceremony due to its lack of damage from smoke and bloodshed. But the rest of the castle had not fared as well. It would take many moons to repair a tenth of the damage.

Elena sighed at how much work still lay ahead. But once done, it would be well worth it. The island would become a foothold against the Gul’gotha. For the first time in five centuries, A’loa Glen would once again be a bastion of hope. And they meant to keep it that way!

Around the island, three forces kept constant guard. The seas themselves were watched from below by mer’ai outriders who searched and questioned any ship that neared. Closer to the island, the remaining fleets of the Dre’rendi rode the waves in armed patrols, daring anyone who challenged their dragon-prowed might. Above the city itself were the ever-present warships of the elv’in, plying the clouds and watching the skies for threats from above. For now, the island remained

secure.

Meanwhile, word of their victory had already spread. Boats from many lands were beginning to investigate.

Elena had heard that a trading ship from the distant jungles of Yrendl, the old homeland of Mama Freda, had even docked at the island to share information. The captain had heard tales of the return of A’loa Glen and had come to see for himself.

At the castle itself, men and women had labored for the past two days and nights to prepare for the coming celebration.

A feast had been planned for this night, to raise mugs and voices to their victory. And to mark the beginning of the festivities, Elena had a role to play. With the rising of the moon, she was to open the Blood Diary for the first time and read the prophetic words written therein. Supposedly her magick had the power to bring the blank book to life. But that was yet to be proven. So much was based on the words of long-dead prophets. Who knew for sure if it would even work?

As the doors to the great hall were swung open before her, dread at what might be revealed by the book suddenly constricted her chest. Elena found it difficult to breathe as the music in the cavernous hall washed over her. Distantly, Elena heard someone announce their arrival.

Gentle clapping greeted their appearance.

Joach led her inside. She was overwhelmed by the press of people. Walking arm in arm, the two passed down a narrow aisle between tables laden with wines and ales, cheeses and herbed breads. And a more sumptuous feast was still to come.

At long last, the aisle emptied into a central court. Elena glanced around. Framing the four sides of the open space were long dining tables of polished mahogany. Seated at each table were the representatives of the various parties who had come to her aid.

On her right, Elena nodded to Meric, who sat beside his mother, the elv’in queen. Meric’s older brother, the regal Richald, sat stiffly on the queen’s other side. Elena met Queen Tratal’s eyes for a moment. The silver-haired woman bowed her head slightly, not with any warmth, just as one woman of the royal blood acknowledging another. Elena smiled more warmly at Meric, quietly thanking him for saving the island by bringing the warships to their aid.

Elena turned next to the more boisterous table on her left. Kast sat with Sy-wen among a party of Bloodriders who were well into their cups of ale. Elena recognized one member, a striking man named Hunt. He had come to the castle to represent the Dre’rendi fleet. The man’s father, the high keel, had been gravely wounded in the battle and still rested in Mama Freda’s ward. From this table, Sy-wen smiled at Elena, as did Kast. But Elena noticed how the two

held each other’s hands. She sensed the pair’s pleasure lay more in the company of each other than in this feast.

As Joach led Elena to the center of the open court, she noted that the table across from her was only sparsely occupied. It seemed that even a feast could not lure many of the mer’ai from the sea. Among the few here, Elena recognized only one. She nodded to Linora, surprised to see the elder present for the feast.

Elena had heard that Linora still sorely grieved the loss of her bonded dragon and the passing of her husband. But from the way her gaze kept flickering to her daughter, Elena could guess the woman’s reason for coming. Through the cloud of sorrow behind Linora’s eyes, a glimmer of joy shone as she watched her daughter discover love. Elena left the mer’ai woman to her tiny island of happiness.

As Elena drew near the last table, a full smile bloomed to her lips, and tears rose to her eyes as she greeted her friends. Tol’chuk sat in the center, hulking and towering over the others. Someone had managed to outfit the og’re in finery that ill fitted him. He seemed ready to tear the linens from his body at any moment, but so far had refrained. As their gazes met, Tol’chuk rolled his eyes but grinned, exposing his fangs. Elena waved a hand across her own elaborate finery, indicating her understanding of his discomfort. They shared an amused smile.

Beside the og’re sat Mama Freda; her pet tamrink sat crouched atop a wheel of cheese on the table, nibbling at his perch. The three zo’ol sailors sat on Tol’chuk’s opposite side with the boy Tok among them.

The small lad’s eyes were wide at the pageantry of the night. Elena thanked them all with a nod. The zo’ol and Tok had sailed the Pale Stallion to the island after the war, delivering her mare, Mist, to a makeshift stable beside the docks. Elena visited the horse each morning with a bit of dried apple. The mare seemed happy to discover solid ground under her hooves again.

Elena moved farther down the table. As she spotted the empty seats and settings, her smile faded and tears flowed anew. Places had been prepared for Flint and Moris as a remembrance to the two Brothers’

sacrifice. This castle had once been their home. They had given their lives to turn it over to her and the others. Swallowing back a sob, Elena had to turn away from the empty chairs.

As she swung around and wiped at her tears, she saw one last figure step forward from the opposite aisle of the court. Er’ril carried the Blood Diary in his hands. But his hands might as well have been empty; Elena was blind to anything but the man himself. His hair, combed and curried like a stallion’s after a run, shone with the rich hues of a raven’s wing. His skin was ruddy from the heat of the hall, almost aglow with the hues of the setting sun. Under a midnight-black jerkin, he wore a silvery gray shirt that matched his eyes. As he moved toward her, Elena watched how the silk slid over the firm muscles of his shoulders and arms. Not even this handsome attire could hide the man’s power; he was something raw and wild.

Er’ril crossed to stand before her. He suddenly knelt and offered her the book. The rose on its cover glimmered in the hall. “Accept your birthright, Elena.”

She took the book, then his hand. She pulled Er’ril to his feet. “Only if you swear to stand beside me, Er’ril, for all times. In the past, a mage needed a liegeman at his side, to keep him honest, to keep him humble.” She stared into his eyes. “Be my liegeman.”

Shock froze his face, as if her words had stung him. His own words were strained. “Y-you do not know what you ask.” She touched his hand. “I think I do,” she whispered. He looked into her eyes, silent, as if about to say something. Elena suddenly knew he would refuse. He had already sacrificed five hard centuries of his life. He had earned his freedom. What right did she have to beg him to stay? She opened her mouth to rescind her offer, but then Er’ril knelt again on one knee.

He reached to her hand and held it between his two palms. “My heart made its oath to you long ago. If you will have me, I will always be at your side.”

Tears again rose in her eyes. She pulled on his arms. “Rise, my liegeman.” Er’ril stood and moved to his place at her shoulder.

Elena found the others’ eyes all staring at her expectantly. It was time. She lifted the book and took a step forward. She had delayed long enough. If Er’ril was strong enough to oath-bind himself to her once again, she could at least face her own responsibility.

The dread she had felt before entering the hall was gone. With Er’ril at her shoulder, she could face anything—even the Blood Diary. Slowly she peeled off the green gloves, revealing her two hands ripe with the Rose. Her palms seemed almost to glow in the torchlight.

A murmur rose from the crowd at the sight.

Elena ignored the onlookers and glanced to the book. In her bared hands, she felt the Diary’s power, a warm coal in her fingers. Before she lost the iron in her heart, Elena snapped open the rose-engraved cover.

She gasped, stumbling back.

In her grip, the book flared from a warm coal to a fiery agony, as if she clutched a flaming brand by its burning end. But she did not let go. She knew this pain. It was the same as when she had grabbed Joach’s staff. She felt blood magick rip from her palms, feeding the book. Still, Elena hung on. She sensed that to let go now would spell disaster. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Elena?” Er’ril took a step nearer.

“No,” she choked out. “Stay back!”

At her words, a sharp brilliance flared from the open pages, blinding her, searing into her mind. Then, as quickly as it came, the light vanished, taking the pain with it. Elena blinked away the residual glare. The book became a cooling balm in her hands. Relieved, Elena straightened, glancing down into the Diary.

What Elena found within the tome so startled her that she almost cast it away. Er’ril steadied her with a touch on her shoulder, then leaned to gaze with her into the book. She heard his sharp intake of breath.

Elena spoke to the plainsman, hoping he had an answer. “Er’ril, where are the pages?” There was no book between the tattered covers—there was another world. The open book became a window to a landscape of black voids, dense-packed stars, and clouds of gases in a rainbow of sharp hues.

Suddenly an insubstantial figure composed of foggy light swept up and through the window and into this world.

All around the room, chairs toppled as the celebrants retreated back. Weapons were drawn, but none dared approach.

Er’ril pulled Elena back.

Oblivious of their panic, the foggy form settled calmly to the hall’s marble floor, swirling and spinning with an inner glow that whispered of moons and stars. Slowly, the mist drew tighter, fog becoming substance.

Arms and legs stretched out, ablaze with the same fire

that had marked the rose on the book’s cover. The misty light grew even denser until actual features could be seen.

Before the transformation was complete, Elena recognized the stern expression of the apparition. Soon what was once a glowing mist of scintillating light became a sculpture carved of moonstone.

The apparition from the book faced Elena and the others.

Elena’s heart eased. She knew this woman: the thin, unforgiving lips; the small nose that tilted slightly up at its tip; the hair bound in a severe braid, woven out of harm’s way while its owner labored at baking. Elena named their visitor. “Aunt Fila?” After so much strangeness, this familiar face was most welcome.

Then the shade spoke, and all sense of family and old homes shattered. The voice was cold, echoing up from some distant plane. Behind the words, stars died, and worlds were burned to ash. As Greshym had hidden behind the face of Elena a few days back, now something larger and even stranger hid behind Aunt Fila’s face.

“Weare Cho,” the figure said, cocking its head and studying them as some bird might examine a spider for a meal. “The void has been opened ,” she stated with a nod toward the book in Elena’s hand, “and the bridge has been sacrificed .” Her other hand indicated the form she wore.

Elena raised a fist to her throat. “Who are you? What have you done to Aunt Fila? ” The apparition bent its head. “We are Cho. We are Fila.” The words were spoken with finality, as if this should be clear enough. Then the woman cocked her head as if she was listening to something from far off.

“We understand .”

Somehow Elena knew this last statement was not meant for her. As she watched with Er’ril at her shoulder, the carving of glowing moonstone seemed to relax, almost as if something warmer had entered the sculpture.

When the apparition next spoke, Elena knew it was her dead aunt. Even Fila’s familiar tired smile appeared. The eyes wandered up and down her niece’s form. “Elena, honey, you’ve grown since last we talked, but you’ll have to explain how that happened later. Right now, I must be quick. Healing you earlier took most of this moon’s power.”

Elena shook her head, trying to shake one of the thousand questions loose from her skull. “What… ? Who was that other?”

As usual, Aunt Fila sensed her confusion. She raised a hand. “Calm yourself. Not even I can explain everything yet. But I can answer your question. Cho is the being who has granted you your power. She is a creature of neither form nor substance. She is light and energy, magick and power. As we live on this world, she lives in the void between stars and travels among them.” Elena’s eyes grew wide.

“I will give you more details later, my dear. For now, I must be brief. The book is your only link to communicate and understand Cho. And my spirit is the bridge between the Blood Diary and this being. She shares my spirit and uses it to travel from the stars to the book. But there are limits to even this, rules you must follow.”

“Like what?”

“First, you ignited the book under a full moon, so the path can only be opened during one of the three nights when the moon is most ripe. Otherwise, during the day or any other night, it is only a font of power. It will help protect and heal you, but only to a point. It is not limitless. Even on the night of a full moon, it takes power to maintain this connection. For this cycle, we used much of it to heal you, so now we must be brief until the next cycle of the moon. In the coming moons, Cho and I will use these nights to teach and train you for what must come next.”

“And what is that?”

“For now, just rest. You have done much. Use the autumn and winter moons to firm this foothold in the Black Heart’s domain. It will be needed.”

“But what is to- come after that? When do we take the fight to Blackhall and the Gul’gotha?” Aunt Fila glanced around the room at the gathered forces. Elena sensed that she was leaving much unsaid, especially in front of so many eyes.

“What is it, Aunt Fila? What are you holding back? ”

“There is much I still don’t understand. Cho has just joined me, but she is so foreign that not all is clear.

When she thinks about Chi, there is much I don’t understand.” Er’ril stepped forward, his voice bitter. “What of Chi? What have you learned?” Aunt Fila squinted and scratched behind one ear thoughtfully. “It’s confusing. Cho and Chi are somehow partnered. They are

familial, like brother and sister or husband and wife… but then again not. They are also opposites. Man and woman, white and black, positive and negative. It’s all very strange.“ Fila glanced to Er’ril. ”All I know for certain is that Cho returned to this world to find Chi. It took her five hundred of our winters to return here after first sensing Chi’s disappearance.“

Er’ril scowled. “Then she came a long way for nothing,” he commented sourly. “Chi is gone.”

“No, Er’ril. One thing is clear from Cho: Chi never left. He is still here somewhere. That is why Cho has returned and why she has granted Elena her power. The wit’ch was forged to be Cho’s warrior upon this world, while the Blood Diary is Cho’s eyes and ears.” Aunt Fila’s shade blew forth with a fiercer light.

“This is Elena’s true purpose! Not to fight the Dark Lord, but to find Chi!” Elena shook her head, confused. “I don’t understand. How—?” Before Elena could question the woman further, Aunt Fila’s form began to dissipate into a fog.

“I can speak no longer. The connection wears thin for this cycle.” Aunt Fila reached to Elena. “You have done well, child. Rest now until the next moon. We will talk more then.” The shade of Aunt Fila became mist and seeped back into the book. The glow spread over the Blood Diary, obscuring the view into the starry landscape. As the light faded, Elena found herself staring at blank pages in a tattered book. She closed the tome, flipping the cover up. Even the rose on its cover was dull, no longer shining with any inner fire. It was just plain gilt, flaking at its edges.

Elena turned to Er’ril. The plainsman’s face had grown pale. “How are we supposed to find Chi?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “We’ll ponder such mysteries later, Elena.” He waved to the crowd. “For now, a party awaits.” The banquet minstrels began tentatively to strike up their instruments.

Elena frowned. Right now she wished nothing more than to be left alone. Too much had happened, too much to digest. Still, she took Er’ril’s arm. Duty called to her even this night.

As MIDNIGHT PASSED, Er’rIL STALKED DOWN THE CROWDED PASSAGEWAY

outside the great hall, searching for Elena. She had slipped away from him and vanished while he was momentarily distracted by a toast. But Er’ril could guess where she had gone. After the endless stream of courses during the feast, the hall had grown stifling. He had noticed how flushed and melancholy Elena had grown by the time dessert was served. Maybe she had sought fresh air.

Finally reaching the renovated doors to the central courtyard, Er’ril pushed through. It was a warm evening, but after the press of bodies, the open air still felt refreshingly cool. Er’ril searched the court.

Though the worst of the debris had been cleared from the yard, it would be a long time before even a glimmer of its former beauty could be restored. In a corner lit by torches, a foursome of minstrels played quietly. Since the residual reek of smoke in the yard was too potent a reminder of the war, the musicians had only one listener in attendance.

Er’ril approached the single spectator. His large bulk appeared like a boulder fallen from the castle heights. The og’re did not turn as Er’ril approached, but he did speak. “If you be looking for Elena…” He pointed an arm toward the westernmost tower. In his raised claw was his tribe’s heartstone talisman.

It shone like a faded rose in moonlight.

Tol’chuk lowered his arm, cradling the stone again in his lap. From the og’re’s slumped shoulders, Er’ril sensed his melancholy. He knew the source of the og’re’s distress. All the past day’s victories— winning the war, recovering the book, retaking the island—had failed to help the og’re in his one goal: to free the Heart of his people from the Bane. His people’s spirits continued to fade in the stone.

“Tol’chuk:..?”

The og’re turned more of his back toward Er’ril. “I be fine, but she needs you, Er’ril. Go to her.” Er’ril glanced to the tower’s parapets. Far above, moonlight outlined a small figure leaning on the stone’s tower. “She shouldn’t be up there alone.”

Tol’chuk grunted, half in amusement. “You don’t need an excuse, r ril.

He blinked. “Wh-what do you mean?”

Tol’chuk just shook his head, exasperated. “Humans.” Tol’chuk waved an arm. “Go!” Er’ril’s feet were already moving. He needed to make sure she was safe. He reentered the castle and wound his way toward the western tower.

As he climbed the long stair, he thought back to the last time the two had been atop a tower together. He recalled the long embrace they had shared and cursed himself. He shouldn’t have let his emotions rule him then. Er’ril touched the hilt of the silver sword in its new filigreed sheath. This is all he should be to her—her liegeman and nothing more. It was time to dig out these other feelings that had taken root in his heart. They were weeds that would weaken him, choke his ability to protect her.

He must be her sword, nothing more.

With this new determination in his heart, he followed his way to the tower’s roof. The trapdoor was open.

He paused before stepping out. A sharp breeze flowed down the throat of“ the staircase. Er’ril took a moment to appreciate the fresh air. From the tower’s height, the winds carried no smoke or banner of war.

Er’ril closed his eyes and allowed the winds to rush over him, cleansing him.

Once ready to face Elena, Er’ril climbed the last steps to the roof. Elena did not hear him. She just stared out to the skies beyond the parapet. Moonlight bathed her in silver, while starlight danced along her gown.

Er’ril suddenly could not breathe.

Sadness and loneliness shone from her as bright as the moon.

His heart ached. At that moment, he knew he could never be content with being just her sword. He wanted to be her moon and stars, her sun and sea. He wanted to be everything to her.

Er’ril gazed at her in wonder, and he knew he must lock away these desires forever. Elena had the weight of worlds on her small shoulders. He could burden her no further. But from here, he could no longer deny his own heart either. He loved her. It was that simple.

Though he would never speak of his deeper feelings, he would strive to be more than just her sword, her liegeman. He would do his best to protect her—even from the despair he saw in her now.

Still dressed in her finery, Elena stood atop the tower once called the Praetor’s Spear. Already it had been renamed the Wit’ch’s Sword after the sole occupant of its highest chamber. Overhead, elv’in ships glided silently by, blocking the stars, then moving on.

She stared at the sky. The moon was on its descent. Midnight was well past.

Still, the sounds of revelry echoed up to her from the streets and castle below. The whole city was in celebration and would be until dawn. She eavesdropped on the merrymakers: the strike of drum, the strum of lyre, the bawdy songs of men glad to be alive. But under it all, there remained a vein of sorrow. The laughter from below had a strained edge to it. Even the calls of the celebrants were often tearful.

Done with her duties, Elena had retreated to her rooms as soon as possible, taking the Blood Diary with her. She needed a moment of quiet to contemplate Aunt Fila’s story of the twin spirits, Chi and Cho, whose destinies intersected with her own. She shook her head. It was too much to ponder for one night. She would simply take Aunt Fila’s advice to rest and wait for the next full moon. Hopefully then she would learn more.

Glancing to the Blood Diary in her hands, she traced a finger along the twisting stem of the rose to the warm blossom in the center. So many lives had been lost for this. A voice spoke behind her. “Elena?” She turned to find Er’ril standing behind her. How long had he been there? He still wore the earlier fineries of the evening, but his eyes shone with a new light, something she could not name. The breezes atop the tower had loosened his hair, fluttering it over his face. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he said, his voice quiet.

“But Tol’chuk noted you from the courtyard below. It’s not safe to expose yourself alone to the night like this.” He moved near her. “As your liegeman, I should always be at your side when you venture out.” Sighing, Elena turned away. She glanced to the stars. “Can’t we ever have a normal moment, Er’ril?” she asked sourly. “Listen. Music is playing, and the night is bright. Must we always act as if we are about to be attacked? Can’t I just have a moment to pretend I’m not a wit’ch? Pretend that the fate of Alasea does not depend on where I take my next step?”

She turned to find him staring sternly at her, all iron and solidity. Under his gaze, she instantly felt like a churlish child. What right did she have to complain when so many others had lost so much more? She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry…”

He simply stepped toward her and held out one arm.

She was unsure what he was offering. “May I have this dance?” he whispered softly to her. Elena failed to hide the surprise on her face. Only then did she hear a familiar Highland tune rising on the winds from street minstrels below. It was a common dance from her own lands.

A smile haunted Er’ril’s lips as he suddenly recognized the tune, too. “It seems Tol’chuk sensed the heaviness of your heart, too.”

Elena’s cheeks flushed as the plainsman stepped nearer. Er’ril stood over her, arms out. The night’s breeze carried his scent to her, warm and familiar. Before she could balk, Er’ril took her hand in his. He guided her gently into his arms. Tentatively, they began to move to the music. The first few steps were awkward as they danced cautiously across the stones.

Soon, though, they found their rhythms and began to move in step, quicker and more joyous now. Elena allowed herself to be led, circling and turning in unison with the larger man. Er’ril’s palm blazed like a flame at the base of her back as he guided her, teasing her to keep up.

As he pulled her into a tight spin, a small laugh escaped her lips. The sound surprised her.

“For a wit’ch with the fate of Alasea riding on your next step, you’re awfully light on your feet,” he said with a sly grin.

Soon Elena could not stop laughing in his arms. They spun and spun with the stars whirling overhead. The world beyond the parapets faded away. There were just the two of them, the music, and the moon.

Then, after a final giddy twirl, with both dancers breathless, the music’s cadence slowed to something more languid but no less passionate. Elena’s laughter quickly died.

Er’ril still held her, but again the awkwardness rose between them.

He began to step back, but Elena tightened her grip on him. She did not want him to step away, not this night. He relented and moved nearer.

As/the music grew, Elena reached and pulled the pins from her hair,/ She shook out her fiery curls. For this one night, she no longer wanted to be a wit’ch or a savior. She let all this drop away with the pins to the floor. She would just be a woman.

Er’ril pulled her near, and they slowly swayed to the music from below. Elena did not know when she began crying, but Er’ril offered

no words. None would have helped. He just held her close to his heart as the music played long into the night.

And so as Er’ril and Elena slowly dance toward dawn, I must end this section of her story. With the War of the Isles won, it is time for the land to heal and prepare for the coming days of darkness—and, trust me, those days will come.

So allow our friends a moment of well-earned peace. Pick a partner. Stroll the streets. Raise a mug of ale to their victory, and join the celebration. For it won’t last long. Soon the dogs of the Black Heart will be loosed from their ebon’stone shackles to ravage the land.

And the gods themselves will learn to scream.