“For me?”

He shrugged. “The young man must learn the depths of his own power and strength.”

“Joach?” Again the shrug. Panic welled up inside her. Wide-eyed, she stared at the towering rock. The sun cast its cliffs in shadows and flows of reds, like blood running down its flanks.

“I must help him!” She moved to race ahead but found her arm locked in the shaman’s hold.

“It is his test, Kesla. You cannot take it for him.”

Wild with fear and concern, Kesla used her skills to break the shaman’s grip and raced forward. But even as her feet flew across the sands, she did not need the shaman’s prophetic words to know she would be too late.

Joach was the first through the iron gates of Alcazar. The litter bearing Richald followed behind. Two things struck him immediately.

First was the castle’s beauty. As he stepped under the gates and into the central yard, the keep of the assassins opened before him. He craned his neck. Impossibly thin towers, twisting spires, and slender statues climbed the cliff faces, carved from the very heart of this great block. It was a small city encased in sandstone.

But as the others joined him in the yard, his second impression overwhelmed his wonder of this place.

Hunt voiced it aloud, settling Sheeshon to her feet. “Where is everyone?” The keep was deserted. No one manned the gate. No one greeted them. Joach was unaware of the custom here, but it seemed strange to leave the gates unguarded.

Kast stepped to Joach’s other side, Sy-wen in his shadow. “I don’t like this,” the tall Bloodrider grumbled.

To punctuate his statement, the gates to Alcazar fell closed behind them. The spiked portcullis crashed into place with a clang of finality.

Joach spun around. Iron bars now separated them from the desert tribesmen, who through the bars looked just as confused as Joach was. Only Innsu, the tall bronzed assassin, stood trapped on this side of the gate, along with two of his men.

“Something’s wrong,” Innsu said, turning and sweeping back his cloak. His sickle-shaped sword flashed in the bright sunlight of the open yard.

“It’s a trap,” Sy-wen said.

Kast already had his own sword in hand. The elv’in bearers lowered Richald’s litter to the paving stones of the yard, and crossbows appeared from under their cloaks. Hunt pushed Sheeshon behind him, freeing a short ax from his belt.

Joach reached for the nightglass dagger but found his belt empty. Defenseless, there was nothing he could do but scan the heights around him and wait for their attackers to reveal themselves.

Across the yard, a set of thick double doors burst open, thrown wide by more than just the strength of arm. The wooden portals crashed against the stone, ripping from their iron hinges and falling away. Two figures walked out of the castle’s darkness and into the sunny yard.

The first was tall, striking, dressed in a sweeping red desert cloak. His pale face and snowy hair were strange in this land of dark men. But it was his eyes, sparking red with anger, that held their attention. He eyed them all. “I see our doom. I see a boy who brings destruction upon people of the Wastes.”

“Master Belgan?” Innsu said, stepping forward and lowering his sword. “You misunderstand them. They mean us no harm. Shaman Parthus says—”

“Silence!” the pale figure snapped.

Joach noticed how shocked the young assassin was by his master’s outburst. What was going on here?

The second figure hobbled around the taller man, fully hidden in folds of cloak and silk. He leaned upon a staff and moved closer to Belgan. “Do not listen to the young fool,” the bent-backed man whispered.

“He is clearly enthralled by the dire magicks of the wit’ch’s brother.” As these soft words reached Joach’s ears, he froze, ice forming in his veins. Even whispered, Joach knew that rasped voice. It had been in his head for over half a winter. He could never forget. He knew who stood at the guildmaster’s right side—the murderer of his mother and father. The one who had ripped him from his sister’s side and used him like a puppet.

The darkmage Greshym.

The bent figure shifted his grip on his staff. Belgan’s eyes seemed to shine momentarily stronger with the false brightness of a fever. Joach recognized a spell of influence, one of Greshym’s favorite mag-ks. But Belgan clearly fought this possession, trying to struggle through the fog of deceptions.

c

]xjow alerted, Joach could almost smell the dark energies here. He had once dabbled in the black arts himself when he had stolen the darkmage’s staff. Squinting, Joach studied the monster’s new stave.

Greenish crystals laced its length, shining sickly like dripping pustules on the gray wood. This new staff appeared even more deadly than the old poi’wood one. Joach’s blood rang with its proximity. Attuned to the dark magicks, he sensed the power welling through the staff and into the enfeebled figure.

Strong emotions flared in Joach: rage, fear, hatred, loathing. But as he stared at the staff, his heart burned with both disgust and desire. A part of him was drawn to the energy emanating from the sick length of gray wood.

His hands formed twin fists. He stepped forward, unable to control himself.

Greshym’s gaze flicked in his direction. Milky eyes in an age-ravaged face stared back at Joach, amused, triumphant. From the doorway behind Greshym, a crooked, hulking creature clambered down the three steps on cloven hoofs. It groveled at the edge of the dark-mage’s robe. From a flat-muzzled face, piggish eyes glared at Joach. Its pointed ears were held back against its skull in clear aggression.

“Do you like my new pet, Joach?” Greshym whispered. “I needed someone to be my dog after you left me.”

Before Joach could respond, the darkmage flicked his staff and touched the guildmaster’s shoulder.

Belgan’s arm sprang up like a tweaked marionette. A signal. All around the yard—at windows, ledges, and doors—scores of armed men and women appeared. Weapons bristled: bows and arrows, swords and axes.

Joach retreated toward his companions.

The staff moved again, and the guildmaster’s arm swept down, like an ax cleaving wood.

“Kill them!” Belgan yelled. “Slay them all!”

Kesla reached the canyon that led into Alcazar’s heart as Bel-gan’s order echoed out to the sands. She froze. What is happening?

A malluk, eyes rolled to white in panic, burst out of the chasm’s gloom and galloped toward her. Kesla dodged to the side, almost trampled into the sand as it raced from the canyon and out into the open desert, packs and gear flying from its back. Its drover was not far behind, a shout on his lips, a whip raised in his hand. The man’s forehead was bloody. He must have been thrown by the beast.

Kesla stopped him as he ran past. “What’s wrong?”

Already the clash of steel on steel rang out to her. Men shouted deeper in the canyon.

The tribesman shook his head and spoke rapidly in the desert tongue. “An ambush. The master of Alcazar has gone mad. He’s closed the gates to the castle and seeks to murder the outlanders.”

“Why?”

The man shook his head and ran after his panicked mount, leaving Kesla alone at the entrance to the canyon. She tried to grasp meaning behind the drover’s words. It made no sense.

Turning from the entrance, she raced back into the desert and ran along the edge of the great rock, circling its base. When she was younger, she and Innsu used to sneak out of Alcazar. Both trained in the assassin ways of the snake, and there were few walls they could not scale. Flying past a tumble of sandstone boulders, Kesla came upon a section of cliff face that seemed sheer.

She shrugged her cloak aside and, with a flick of her wrist, shot a grappling rope up to a small outcropping high overhead. With a skilled tug, she set the trisling hooks and scrambled up the thin rope of braided spider’s silk. Her toes in their soft boots found easy purchase. Once high enough, she used her weight to swing the rope, her feet racing along the wall. At the right moment, she shoved with all her strength and swung up and out to a small ledge. She let go of the rope with one hand and snatched a hold on the ledge’s lip. Hanging precariously, she caught a loop of the rope around an ankle so as not to lose it, then freed her other hand and grabbed the ledge. Quickly, she pulled herself up onto the narrow shelf.

Rolling, she retrieved the slack rope, snapped its length to free the trisling hooks, afnd wound the rope back to her hip.

She repeated her efforts twice more to scale the sheer face until far above the desert floor. At its top was a lookout’s post, long deserted and mostly forgotten. She and Innsu had discovered it in their youth.

Pulling up onto the stone platform, she crossed to the tiny tunnel that burrowed into Alcazar. The passage was no more than a long rawlway. On hands and knees, Kesla scurried down its length.

In the narrow space, the panic in her heart welled up. Why was gelgan attacking her companions?

Dusty and abraded, Kesla finally reached the tunnel’s end. She used a spy mirror to examine the small storeroom. Nothing but crates and an old rolled rug propped in the corner. She crawled out, senses straining for any sign of others. Once up, she slipped to the door, pressed an ear to the wood, then tested its hinges. A whispered creak sounded as she twisted the latch and edged the door open.

Beyond was a deserted servant’s hall. The air smelled little disturbed; dust lay thick. Kesla did not hesitate. She had been taught the wisdom of when to sit still and when to hurry, skills learned from the masters of this very house.

In a few swift steps, she reached the stairs leading from the heights to the more-occupied lower sections.

As she flew down the steps, the sounds of battle grew around her: screams, shouts, clashes of steel.

When she reached the fifth level of the keep, she darted from the stairwell and headed toward the windows and balconies that opened onto the central yard. She did not have to go far before she collided into one of her fellow students, five years her junior, running back from the open window.

He had a bow slung over a shoulder, and his quiver was empty.

His eyes flew wide as he recognized Kesla.

She grabbed him by his shoulder before he could flee from her. “What is going on, Symion? Why are you attacking the outlanders?” The younger boy cowered a bit. “Master Belgan says they come to destroy us all, minions of the wit’ch you killed.”

“Killed? What are you talking about?”

“You’re bewit’ched! You’ve brought death back to Alcazar!” Symion tried to break free of her grip, attempting to use the cinch-knot technique, but Kesla easily countered it and held him in place.

“Nonsense,” she hissed at him. “I’m not under any spell. The wit’ch still lives and has freely offered to aid us in our battle against

Tular.“

In Symion’s eyes, suspicion shone.

“It’s true, Symion. This fighting must be stopped, or all hope for saving the Wastes will be lost. You must take me to someone who will listen.”

“But the wit’ch’s brother—”

“Joach?”

Symion frowned. “A wanderer came from the desert. He holed up with the guildmaster in his rooms for half a day. When Belgan came out, he was convinced the wit’ch’s brother was a danger to all the Wastes, bent to avenge his sister.”

Kesla was shocked. Master Belgan was not one to believe rumors and innuendos. What had convinced Belgan that Joach and the others were a threat? Again it made no sense. Belgan would not move without serious proof. For a moment, she began to doubt herself. Could it be possible? Could she have been somehow deceived?

She shook her head. There was no way. “Master Belgan must have been deceived,” she mumbled, though such a thought shook Kesla to her foundations.

Distracted, she allowed the boy to wriggle free of her hold and dance out of her reach.

“You are the one deceived!” Symion yelled back at her and raced down a side corridor before she could stop him. She heard his voice raised in alarm, announcing her presence.

Kesla hurried away, toward the windows and balconies. She had to see what was happening. She had to find a way to stop this madness that had infiltrated her home.

She turned a corner, and sunlight flared up ahead, flowing through a set of doors thrown wide open. She hurried forward to the balcony. It was abandoned, most likely Symion’s post during the ambush. She recalled his bow and empty quiver. He must have run out of arrows and gone to fetch more.

Stepping into the bright light of the midday sun, she crossed to the balcony’s balustrade. The sounds of battle swelled. She leaned over the rail to view the central yard.

Below, chaos reigned. The paving stones flowed with blood. Bodies lay sprawled across the yard. The clash of steel rang loudly, as did the cries of rage and screams of pain.

Amidst the fighting, Kesla easily spotted her friends. Kast and Hunt fought with axes in one hand and swords in the other. They were twin whirlwinds of death, laying waste to all that neared. The two guarded both Sy-wen and little Sheeshon. They would let no one come close.

Not far from them, in the thick of the melee, Innsu twirled, bring-

• 2 the quick death of the striking snake. He spun and twisted his ved sword, while two other tribesmen fought to guard his flanks.

ur

Fven from her high perch, Kesla recognized the mask of pain fixed Innsu’s face as he slew those he knew by name.

From the far wall, a volley of arrows arced toward the outlanders and their allies, but rather than raining down upon them, a sudden 2ust turned the flight aside. Below, Kesla spotted the reason for the sudden fortuitous breeze.

Richald sat upon his broken litter, an arm held high, scintillating with energy. Around him, his fellow elv’in danced with crossbows and thin silver swords, guarding their captain. They flew like flittering moths, almost too fast to see, bringing death both near and far. Richald suddenly flicked his wrist, and the deadly volley of arrows swung to pepper down upon the attackers themselves.

Men and women fell. Kesla watched one girl, no older than eight winters, take a bolt through the eye and fall, twitching upon the stone.

Kesla knew her name. Lisl.

Tears of frustration and anger blurred Kesla’s vision. Master Belgan would never allow someone so young to fight. He would never allow any of this to happen—not if he was in his right mind.

The fighting continued.

Off to the right, someone screamed and fell from a balcony, crashing broken-limbed to the pavement below, an elv’in bolt through his neck.

Death had truly come to Alcazar—but not for the reason Master Belgan had claimed. It was not vengeance that fueled this battle. It was delusion. Two allies had been set against one another. But why?

And more importantly by whom}

Kesla searched the bloody yard. Finally, leaning far over the rail, she saw her answer directly below her.

Master Belgan stood at the main entrance to the keep, his red cloak and flowing white hair easy to spot.

At his side stood a bent-backed figure, leaning on a long staff. Kesla had never seen him before, but she could guess who he was— the wanderer Symion had mentioned.

From her vantage point, she watched in disgust as a misshapen creature pranced about the pair of men. It was clearly being driven wild by its blood lust, gnashing at the air, claws ripping at the edge of Master Belgan’s cloak. But Kesla’s teacher seemed oblivious to the horrid creature’s antics and braying cries. Watching this, Kesla cast aside any lingering doubts. The guildmaster was possessed by some geis or spell.

The cloaked figure lifted a stumped wrist and pointed. The motion drew Kesla’s attention from the strange beast. Belgan stepped aside, and Kesla saw to where the bent figure pointed.

At the foot of the stairs, a figure was forced to his knees. An arrow protruded from the prisoner’s shoulder. He was held in place by two journeymen assassins: Dryll and Ynyian, masters of the hunt.

Belgan waved a hand, and the figure’s hood was ripped away. The prisoner glared up at the two men.

Kesla gasped, a fist at her throat.

It was Joach.

JOACH GLOWERED AT GrESHYM, THEN SPAT AT HIS ENEMY, HIS AIM TRUE.

The darkmage merely smiled at his display, not even bothering to wipe the spittle dripping from his chin.

The response from his captors was more dramatic. Joach’s head was yanked cruelly backward by a fist twisted in his hair. One of the assassins leaned to his ear. “Do not again insult a guest of Alcazar.” On his other side, the second guard grabbed the arrow imbedded in his shoulder and ground the shaft in farther. Joach’s shoulder exploded with fire. He tried not to cry out, but the pain was too great, too sudden. A scream ripped from his throat. Tears rose in his eyes.

Moments ago, he had been knocked off his feet by the hunter’s arrow. He had been stunned, unable to move, even when the tides of battle had flowed away from him. Cut off from his companions, he had been easily captured by the pair of hunters.

His head was released, and Joach sagged to the paving stones. Behind him, cries and the strike of steel grew dim as agony threatened to overwhelm him. Movement drew his eyes back forward. Greshym leaned toward him. A leathery beast capered at the darkmage’s ankles, snuffling at Joach’s blood.

Greshym nudged it aside and reached toward Joach with the butt of his staff.

Joach struggled to pull away, but he was restrained by his captors. The sick, corpse-gray stave wavered before his eyes.

“You can smell the magick in here, can’t you?” Greshym said. “You’ve tasted the blackness. It marks you, Joach.”

“Never,” he gasped out. But in truth, he could sense the energy thrilling through the foul wood. Its greenish crystalline surface glowed and pulsed with power. Joach had a hard time looking away. It was darkly beautiful. His blood remembered wielding the dread magick of balefire.

Unbidden, a hand—his half hand, two fingers lost to the sick magick of an ill’guard in the catacombs under A’loa Glen—reached to the wood. It was the hand that had once held Greshym’s stolen staff. It drew to the length of wood like lodestone to iron. Blood dribbled from his fingertips—blood that had trailed down his arm from his impaled shoulder.

Greshym’s wrinkled smile spread wider.

A part of Joach knew he’d be lost if he touched the staff. It would claim his spirit forever—but he could not resist. Bloody fingers stretched to the gray wood, drawn by its power. Deep in his heart, a scream bubbled up. He knew he was a moment away from total annihilation. A simple touch, and all would be lost.

A savage howl erupted. It cut through the dark enchantment. Joach’s eyes flicked to the side. The beast at Greshym’s feet lunged forward. It snapped at Joach’s bloody fingers, crazed by blood lust and hunger, unable to resist the flesh dangling so near. The creature’s wide maw swallowed his hand to the wrist; razored teeth tore into flesh, crushing through bone.

Joach fell back, but his arm was caught by the creature. It shook his limb like a dog fighting for a bone.

“No, Rukh!” Greshym screeched with thwarted rage. He struck the creature backhanded with his staff.

The beast flew high, striking the wall hard and landing in a curled ball. It mewled and writhed on the stones, its flesh smoking where the staff had touched.

Joach was thrown backward by the flare of magick, colliding with his captors. On his knees, Joach raised his arm. Blood fountained from the severed stump of his wrist. His hand was gone.

One of his captors quickly twisted a length of binding cord around his upper arm, cinching it tight, squeezing off his blood. Joach swooned on his knees, falling on his face toward the stones. Before he hit, he was jerked slightly and landed on his good shoulder. He rolled enough to see the fighting in the yard: blood, steel, screams sprawled bodies, and crawling wounded.

In the middle of the chaos, a black blur grew,, spreading wide Joach tried to focus on it through his pain and shock. A smoky cloud Then the darkness formed a great winged dragon crouched in the center of the yard. It bellowed with rage.

Ragnar‘’t…

“Grab the boy!” Greshym ordered savagely. “Bring him into the castle!” , ?

His captors hesitated. Joach turned his head. Greshym motioned to the tall pale figure, who had remained a statue the entire time. The figure turned to the hunters. “Take the boy!” he croaked out, clearly a puppet whose strings had been pulled.

“Yes, Master Belgan.”

Joach was jerked to his feet and slung between the two tall men. Greshym led the way through the open doors and into the castle’s darkness. The beaten creature followed, groveling at its master’s heels.

Passing through the threshold, Joach craned back around and watched Ragnar’k rip into the defenders of Alcazar, tearing through them, forging forward.

But it was too late for Joach. His limp form was hauled farther into the depths of the castle. Ahead, Greshym lifted his staff, aglow in the murk. Behind them, the castle’s broken doors swept back into place, slamming shut with the finality of a coffin’s lid.

Sy-wen sat atop her dragon. Though the great beast was not able to fly out of this confined space with his injured wing, he was able to defend their rapidly weakening companions. Up to now, they had managed to hold off the ambush through magick and strength of limb, but neither was an indefatigable resource. Against so many, it was only a matter of time until the sheer numbers attacking them overran the smaller party.

As such, Sy-wen had no choice but to call forth the dragon. They had delayed up to now, hoping for some sense to come to the denizens of Alcazar. Once the black dragon was released, it would be hard to convince the castle’s defenders that their group was not some minion of the Black Heart. And this concern proved rapidly

The sudden appearance of the dragon triggered a general nic People fled. Some of the slower were trampled under the feet f others. Those that remained, the bravest and most skilled, fought harder. From here, there was little chance of gaining the trust f Alcazar. Their best hope lay in escape. They would have to take their chances in the open desert.

Using wing, claw, and fang, Ragnar’k cleared a space between the attackers and the defenders. Behind the large dragon, the others gathered in a corner of the yard, not far from the gates. A temporary lull settled over the courtyard as both sides regrouped. The northerners needed a way out of here.

Sy-wen pointed to the iron barrier. “Can you rip out those bars?” A dismissive snort sounded. Small cage not hold Ragnar’t. As the creature turned, Richald called from his broken litter, his weak voice carried on winds of magick to her perch. “Joach… I don’t see the boy anywhere here.” Sy-wen twisted in her seat and searched the small corner. The elv’in was right. Joach was missing. In the confusion of fighting, he must have been separated. She searched the wide yard but saw nothing.

She stood slightly on the dragon’s back and yelled, “Joach!” No answer. An arrow whistled past her ear. She sank back closer to Ragnar’k, under the shield of his half-raised wings. A small voice shouted from the far side of the yard. Sy-wen squinted and spotted Kesla standing at an upper balcony. How had she gotten up there?

“Joach was captured!” Kesla shouted, her words as shrill as an eagle’s cry. “He was taken inside! I will try to find him, but some dark magick has taken root here. Make for the desert! Join with Shaman Parthus! I will join you with Joach if I can!”

Sy-wen lifted an arm, acknowledging that Kesla had been heard.

Hunt spoke near the dragon’s wing. “It could be a trick. It was Kesla that led us into this ambush. How do we know she does not mean Joach harm?”

Innsu, the young assassin, heard his words and responded hotly. “Kesla is no traitor.” Sy-wen considered both their words—but she also remembered the way Kesla had stared at Joach on the journey here. It was not hard to read the young girl’s heart. It took a woman to recognize love in another’s eyes. Sy-wen straightened in her seat. “She will not betray Joach,” she said firmly, and turned away. With a silent thought, she urged Ragnar’k to attack the gate.

With a grunt of assent, his neck twisted; fangs as long Sy-wen’s forearm grabbed the bars. She felt the dragon’s muscles tense and bulge with the strain of the stubborn iron. His silver claws dug deep into the paving stones.

One of the assassins used the moment of distraction to race forward, ax raised. But Hunt ducked under the dragon’s wing and blocked the cloaked man. Ax rang on ax. Both men were skilled masters of their weapons—but Hunt was not as fresh. His heel slipped in a pool of blood, and he missed a parry. The wood handle of his opponent’s ax cracked across the Bloodrider’s face. He fell backward.

The opponent lunged forward, his ax sweeping down in death stroke.

“Ragnar’k!” Sy-wen yelled.

/ see, my bonded…

The dragon twitched his wing, slamming its edge into the attacker’s side. From her perch, Sy-wen heard ribs crack, and the man went sailing across the yard. Hunt, dazed, lumbered to his feet and wiped blood from his lips. He spat out a single tooth that skittered across the stones, then glared at the row of attackers, daring another to approach.

No one did. It seemed they were only too happy to let the out-landers leave.

The groan of iron and rasp of stone drew Sy-wen’s attention. Glancing back to the gate, she saw the portcullis and a section of the barrier above pull free. With a final tug, Ragnar’k ripped it away and tossed it across the yard. It clanged and bounced across the bloody paving stones.

With the way now open, Sy-wen waved the group forward. She and Ragnar’k would defend their rear.

Outside the gate, a group of desert tribesmen, those who had accompanied them from Oo’shal, helped the injured. One of the party stepped forward, eyeing the dragon warily. “Shaman Parthus waits for you in the desert.”

Sy-wen nodded. “Hurry,” she urged her friends.

Innsu helped one of his injured comrades, while Hunt carried Sheeshon, who was clearly terrified. With the litter broken, Richald hauled between two of the was

cloaked desert men. The other elv’in -ere too weak from fighting to assist. Limping, the worn and blooded party retreated into the chasm.

Once the others were safely under way, Ragnar’k backed into the canyon, keeping a watchful eye on any last attack. It never came. No one was willing to challenge the beast, especially when it was clearly leaving.

Sy-wen glanced across the fouled yard. Blood stained the red stones black. Bodies lay twisted. The very air reeked of death. She glanced to the castle beyond. Though the fighting in the yard had ended, somewhere in the keep’s shadowed halls, the battle still awaited a final act. Two of their party had yet to escape this ambush. Sy-wen willed them her strength. “May the Sweet Mother protect you both.” Kesla fled through the halls, moving lightly on her toes, ears pricked for any noise. She had to find where they were taking Joach. She had seen the ravenous beast’s attack. Joach needed a healer’s attention as soon as possible. But she had to be cautious. Clearly the cloaked stranger wielded black magicks.

Wending down stairs and gliding silently along passages, Kesla came at last to the first level of the keep.

She stepped into the great meeting hall and pulled her cloak’s hood over her head, hiding her face in shadow. She studied the room. People crowded here, some helping the wounded, some walking dead-eyed. All were shocked and bone-tired. Among them, servants bustled with hot water, bandages, medicinal herbs, and salves.

Kesla kept her face down as she strode purposefully across the room. Groans and cries of pain echoed around her, and she cringed.

As she walked along one of the walls toward the far side, familiar voices caught her attention. Her feet slowed.

“I can’t believe Master Belgan did not at least try talking to these outlanders.” It was Humph, Alcazar’s stablemaster. There was no mistaking his short, stout body and muscled arms. “It is so unlike Belgan to strike without council.“

“And that desert wanderer…” Kesla recognized Humph’s companion: Mistress Shargyll, matron of the kitchens. The larg woman wiped her hands on her stained apron. “He crossed near m as I prepared the e

e

morning’s meal. My skin crawled with his mere presence. There is something wrong about that man.”

“I agree. Master Belgan takes this stranger’s advisement too easily During the attack, I saw young Innsu fighting alongside the outlanders. And when the group left, I overheard a tribesman say they were being taken to the desert, to join Shaman Parthus.” Humph blew out a rude noise, sounding not unlike a disgruntled malluk. “None of this makes sense.”

Kesla paused, hearing her own sentiments in the stablemaster’s words. Could she trust these two to help her? Joach’s chances were best with more allies. Kesla stepped to Mistress Shargyll’s side.

The large woman glanced over to her, sensing her presence. “What is it, child?” Kesla lifted her face and saw the shock in the kitchen matron’s eyes. “I need your help,” Kesla whispered.

Mistress Shargyll stared, stunned. Humph leaned over and blinked in surprise.

Kesla did not know how they would act from here. She pleaded with her eyes—then Shargyll reached a thick arm and scooped her to her side, pulling her between them. “You should not be seen here, little Kes. There is murder in the air. Many think you’ve betrayed Alcazar.” Kesla nodded. “I ran into Symion. I know the lies that have been seeded here and that took root in Master Belgan. These outlanders came at my bidding, with Master Parthus’ blessing. They are strong allies, come to help us, not harm us.”

“I knew it!” Humph exclaimed a little too loudly. Others glanced their way. Shargyll moved her wide bulk to hide the smaller girl and tugged Kesla’s hood a bit farther over her face.

“Master Belgan is under some dark enchantment,” Kesla said. “He and the stranger have taken a prisoner, a friend. I must find where they have imprisoned him. According to Shaman Parthus, the future of the Wastes lies in this man’s blood. He must be freed.”

“I saw the lad you mentioned,” Humph whispered. “Gravely wounded. He should have been taken to the healers. Even a prisoner deserves having his wounds dressed. That callousness alone made me question Master Belgan’s spirit.”

“Do you know where he was taken?” Kesla asked.

jytistress Shargyll answered. “I overheard Ynyian and Dryll when they came down for a flagon of ale.

They have the boy bound in jylaster Belgan’s chambers.”

“I must go there.”

“How can we help?” Humph said.

Kesla had been taught in the assassin’s way of the snake: to move unseen, to enter hidden places, to strike swiftly. But here she would need help. She glanced to her two old friends. “It will be dangerous.” Greshym’s blood raged. He clumped angrily back and forth across the small chamber whose windows had been curtained against the sun. His plan had come so close to fruition. He glowered at the misshapen beast cowering in a corner. If not for the untimely attack by the stump gnome, Joach would have been lost to the black magicks by now, his spirit tainted forever. With the boy bent, it would have been a simple thing then to complete the one final act necessary to return youth to Greshym’s decayed body. So close…

Leaning on his staff, Greshym studied Joach. The boy was tied to the bed, naked, spread-eagled. Blood from his severed wrist seeped into the bedding, even with the tourniquet. His skin was pale from shock and blood loss. Joach’s eyes remained dazed, as he waxed into and out of consciousness.

Greshym scowled and crossed back to Joach. The boy must not die. In his young body, so rich in magicks, lay the hope of freeing Greshym of his own decrepit one. Greshym lifted his staff and touched Joach’s stumped wrist. He whispered a quick spell. Slowly, severed veins and arteries closed; then flesh sealed over the exposed bone. Soon the ragged tear was replaced by a smooth stump. Satisfied, Greshym repaired the arrow wound just as effortlessly.

Greshym saw the boy’s body relax, his breathing deepen. Death had been staved off for the moment.

Though still lost, Joach’s eyes slowly refocused.

Good. Greshym leaned away. He could now continue what had been interrupted. He leaned his staff against the bed, then held out his hand to the room’s only other occupant.

Belgan passed him a long, crooked dagger.

Greshym’s fingers closed over its hilt. There was another way’t break this boy. It would take only a little 0

more work.

JoACH WALKED THE DREAM DESERT AGAIN. He STOOD NAKED UNDER THE

starless sky. Blood trailed his feeble steps across the sand. He teetered weak. Then a wave of coolness swept over his body. It was as if he dove again into the refreshing waters of Oo’shal. The soothing energy spread through his body, centering upon his burning wrist and inflamed shoulder, a balm that washed away pain. He sighed in relief, lifting his arm to watch rent flesh seal to a smooth stump.

“Magick,” he mumbled to the empty desert.

The desert answered. “Dark magick. Can you tell one from the other?” Joach turned and found a familiar figure standing at his side. “Shaman Parthus?” The elder was dressed in his usual red desert cloak, the hood tossed back. His eyes shone brightly. “It is time you accepted your heritage.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a shaper. A dream sculptor. If you are to live, you must accept your gift.”

“I don’t under—” Joach suddenly gasped, folding over as pain again struck him, ripping into his chest.

The shaman did not move to aid him, but simply stood silently. Joach lifted his hand from his chest. Blood dripped from his fingers. He stared down to his bare skin and saw a rune slowly form, carved in fiery lines of pain. Glancing back up, he saw a new world overlap the dream desert. A small chamber appeared as a ghostly image. In this other world, his body was bound to a bed. He watched as Greshym, bent over his body, dragged a dagger along his chest, drawing the rune in his flesh.

Greshym seemed to sense Joach’s attention and glanced up. “So you wake, Joach? Good. I want you to watch this.”

In the desert, Joach turned to Shaman Parthus. The tribesman and desert had grown just as insubstantial as the room. “What is happening?”

“You are twixt the dream and the real, Joach, where only a sculptor can walk. I can’t follow you there.”

) A M

Greshym also seemed to have heard Joach’s question. “You ask vhat’s happening, my boy? Isn’t it obvious?” He lifted the bloody dagger. “What won’t be given willingly, I’ll take by force. I mean to steal your spirit and twist it past any undoing. You will be mine forever.” As the darkmage returned to his work, Joach stared back at Shaman Parthus. “Help me,” he pleaded.

The image of the shaman faded further. “I can’t walk your path, Joach. Only you can do this.” Parthus lifted an arm and pointed to the bloody trail he had left in the sand.

Joach stared at the bright stain.

“Remember what I taught you,” Parthus said. “In the dream desert, what is figment can be given substance by your attention. Use this knowledge; tap into the power of your blood.”

“I don’t know how to—”

“The dreaming desert has called you. It is time you answered.” The shaman’s form slowly dissipated.

“You go now where I can’t follow.”

Joach gazed around him. The dream desert seemed to glow brighter. Simultaneously, the room beyond grew more substantial. He watched as Greshym handed the dagger to the tall, pale figure of Master Belgan. In the corner, he spotted the crouched beast, licking its burned flank.

Even in his nose, the two worlds commingled: the dry stillness of the glowing desert mixed with the hint of burning tallow from the bedside candles. But one smell was shared by both worlds—the red scent of Joach’s own spilled blood.

He stared again at the bloody sand. With the two worlds overlapped, the red trail seemed in both planes: dribbled both on the sand and across the floor of the chamber. A connection between the two worlds.

Though he did not fully understand, he remembered the shaman’s words. He concentrated upon the blood, trying to make it more real. As he did so, he felt a bit of his spirit and strength drain out and fill the blood. The stain grew brighter and more substantial, the connection between the two worlds stronger.

Joach began to sense the flows of power here. He could almost see the threads of magick twining out from his blood and into the sand. And as he stared further, these thin strands grew more substantial. But what did it mean?

Before he could ponder the mystery, a loud knock drew his attention back into the castle chamber.

Someone pounded on the room’s door.

At his bedside, Greshym waved his hand, and Belgan called out gruffly. “What do you want? Who disturbs us?”

The room’s door creaked open, and a short, stocky man bowed his way into the room. “I’ve come to report that the outlanders have been chased off. They’re retreating deep into the desert.” Belgan nodded. “Thank you, Humph.”

The man’s eyes flicked toward Joach strapped to the bed. Greshym noticed his attention. “Persuasion to make the young man reveal his secrets.”

Humph nodded, wearing a sick expression. His eyes narrowed briefly as he turned away. He waved a hand, and a portly woman stepped into the room. She carried a wide tray in her arms, burdened with tankards of ale and plates of sliced meats and breads.

“I thought you and your guest might like some food,” Humph said. “Mistress Shargyll has prepared a small dinner.”

From the corner, the hunched beast lifted its head at the smell of roasted meats, still warm from the kitchens’ ovens. It shambled closer, snuffling.

The woman glanced to the creature, suddenly seeing it. Her eyes flew wide, and she shrieked, throwing her platter into the air. Food and ale flew high. She pulled out a small dagger and warded off the beast.

“There is nothing to fear,” Greshym said with thick irritation.

The woman glanced to the darkmage, all panic gone from her face, leaving only cunning. “Yes, there is.” The dagger flew from her fingers and pierced Greshym’s left eye.

A long leather whip appeared in Humph’s hand. As Greshym stumbled back from the dagger strike, Humph snapped his whip, wrapping its tip around the darkmage’s staff, and with a tug, ripped it from his fingers. The stave flew across the room to clatter against the far wall.

It had all happened in a heartbeat. Beside the bed, Master Belgan sagged, like a marionette with its strings cut. “Wh-what is going on?” he asked blearily.

Hope surged in Joach—but it did not last long.

Greshym straightened. He raised his hand, and the stolen staff fl w back into his fingers. Energy surged e

along the gray wood’s length. Joach recognized the spell. Balefire.

“Run!” he croaked out—but he was caught between two worlds, unable to help those who had come to his aid.

Greshym pointed his staff, its end flaring with black flames.

“No…” Joach moaned.

Then, from the curtain behind Greshym’s back, a small figure glided out, moving so silently that not even the drapery rustled. It was Kesla. Joach caught a brief glimpse of an open window behind the curtain and a trailing rope outside. She ran with a dagger in each hand. Before Greshym could react, she struck him from behind, driving both daggers into his neck. Black blood surged from the wounds.

Kesla danced back, a cry on her lips. Her hands smoked where the darkmage’s blood had touched her skin.

Greshym whirled around, sweeping his staff toward Kesla. Dread energies coursed its length. Humph attacked with his whip, but when its leather touched the wood this time, its length was set aflame. Humph grunted in surprise, tossing his weapon aside as it burned to ash.

Joach watched in horror as the end of Greshym’s staff bloomed into a black rose of darkfire. The daggers piercing the darkmage’s flesh fell away harmlessly. “You will pay for that!” Greshym screeched.

Kesla backed to the wall, her hands curled painfully to her chest. Fire flared from the staff’s end.

No! Without thought, Joach struck out instinctively, grabbing the threads of power in his veins. From the bloodstained sands of the dream desert, a colossal fist of sculpted sand shot upward, passing from this world to the next.

As balefire shot out of Greshym’s staff, sandy fingers opened, and the large palm blocked the spew of deadly energies, absorbing it, growing more substantial. Its flow stanched, the sudden backlash of power threw the darkmage across the room.

Kesla, shocked and confused, remained sheltered behind the sculpted hand.

Greshym shared her expression as he rose from the floor. He slid along the wall until he was near his beastly pet. The darkmage’s single milky eye studied Joach, seeming to read the flows of power in the room, sensing the source. “You are full of surprises, boy.” Joach, still twined to his power, birthed another fist of sand. He swept it toward Greshym and his foul pet, meaning to swat them from this world. But before it reached them, Greshym struck his staff on the stone floor—and the beast and darkmage vanished in a whirl of oily blackness.

Words and laughter echoed out. “This is not over, boy!”

The dream fist slammed into the empty wall and blew into a shower of sand. The first hand, however, remained where it stood, now a sculpture in sandstone, sheltering Kesla.

Belgan collapsed toward the floor, no longer supported by magick. Humph and Shargyll rushed to his side while Kesla retrieved a dagger and sliced Joach’s bonds.

She touched his cheek, her fingers cool on his hot skin.

“You must get the boy out of here,” Shargyll said. “Join Parthus in the desert with the others.”

“How is Master Belgan?” Kesla asked.

“He lives but has been cruelly used. It will take time to return him to his wits. Until then you and the boy must not be found here.”

Kesla nodded, her expression worried.

Humph stood, eyeballing the sandstone sculpture. “We’ll go to the stables. I’ll saddle up one of the malluks so you can travel swiftly.”

Kesla gently wrapped Joach in the bed’s blanket. “I’ll need help with him. He’s still dazed.” Humph leaned over the bed and scooped up Joach and the blanket in strong arms. “We must not tarry.” Kesla checked Joach and tugged up a corner of the blanket, but before drawing it over his face, she quickly leaned down. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, then kissed him on the cheek.

With the touch of her lips, Joach lost his hold on the real world. Consciousness faded. He drifted deeper into the dream desert again. As he did so, the sands grew brighter. The figure of Shaman Parthus reappeared in the sands at his side.

“You’ve done well, Joach,” the elder said with a quiet smile of satisfaction. “Now sleep.”

“But—”

“Sleep. The road from here leads to the Southwall… to Tular.

You must be rested. So sleep, sculptor.“

Given permission, Joach let loose his control. The dream desert the shaman faded around him. He fell d

into a deep slumber, where even dreams did not exist. Still, one memory swirled down

; him into the bottomless depths of his spirit: the brush of soft lips

w th

on his skin.

STORM CASTLE

From the deck of the Sunchaser, Elena stared as the coastline appeared like an apparition out of the mists. A light rain fell, but she stood under an awning set up on the foredeck and was dressed warmly in a calfskin leather jacket trimmed in rabbit fur. Overhead, the weeping sky was a featureless gray that stretched forever, as it had for the past six days, covering both sun and stars. During these last days of the long journey over the Great Ocean, the only difference between day and night was a slight brightening in the gloom.

But at last their flight was almost at an end.

Ahead, the skies blew against a steep coastline, bunching up into dark thunderheads. Lightning crackled, but the storm was too distant for them to hear any thunder.

Still, the forks of lightning lit up the mist-shrouded cliffs of Gul‘-gotha. It was a formidable sight. Jagged rock faces were beset with an angry white surf, while cracked boulders churned in the waters like clashing seabeasts. No ship dared approach this place, let alone try to make landfall.

Earlier in the day, Elena had studied the map of Gul’gotha with the others. Along this coastline there was only one safe port, far to the south: Banal, a trading port that made Port Rawl seem like a well-kept, civilized haven. But they would not be going there. With the elv’in windship, they could land anywhere.

Wennar, the d’warf battalion’s leader, had placed a thick finger on a mountainous region of the map, a good hundred leagues from the coast. “We should go here,” he had stated.

“Why?” Er’ril had asked with his usual sharp suspicion.

The thick-browed d’warf had grunted. “It’s our homeland—and the birthplace of the Dark Lord’s reign.

If you seek som’ething of the blackest evil, it will be found there.” Without any better idea where to begin their search for the Manti-core Gate, they had agreed to start there. As Elena stared out at the storm-besieged cliffs, she remembered Cassa Dar’s old story of the Dark Lord’s appearance among the d’warves:

Five centuries ago, a troupe of deep miners discovered a vein of ore, leagues under our mountains. They had never seen such a stone: blacker than the darkest tunnel and impervious to any tool. Undaunted and determined to mine this vein, they used the kingdom’s strongest hammer to attac’t the stone. They employed the Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder. Its magics-wrought iron was said to shatter any stone. And this claim proved true. The stone was mined and given the name ebon ‘stone by its discoverers. At first, it was greatly treasured: every D’warf Lord lusted to wor’t a piece, to prove his skill at fashioning the new ore. Bowls, cups, plates, swords, even statues were carved from the material. But then the stone began to warp and bind the d’warves in ways they did not understand. The lands, too, began to sicken and poison. Volcanoes grew, and the ground constantly shook; Gases and ash soured the skies. Poisonous beasts, the mul’gothra and skal’tum, began to appear from pits deep under the mountains. The Dar’t Lord arose among our people, almost as if out of the bowels of the land. Some said the Black Heart was a d’warf, succumbed to the stone’s blacky magick, while others said he came from the stone itself, released by our miners from an ebon’stone tomb. No one knew for sure.

Though dressed warmly in leathers and woolens, Elena shivered at the thought of where they must travel next—into the heart of Gul’gotha, into the heart of this ancient mystery. Who was the Dark Lord of the Gul’gotha? Where had the demon truly come from? Cassa Dar’s final words echoed in her head: No one knew for sure…

As Elena frowned at the broken coastline, a voice spoke behind her. “You should go below. We will be upon the storm soon.”

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Tol’chuk crouched nearby. How long had he been there? For such a hulking creature, he could move as silently as a mouse sometimes. He leaned on one knuckle of his thick right arm, bent to peer under the awning. In the open, the rain had soaked the ridge of fur along his bowed back and dripped down the thousand crevices of his face and body. He appeared like a weathered mountain worn down by the rain. The only part of him that did not seem carved of rock was his large eyes, glowing a warm amber in concern for her.

She smiled at his worry and touched his damp shoulder with a gloved hand. When they had first met, his monstrous appearance had frightened her, but over time, she could no longer see the monster, just the large heart and undying loyalty. “I think the storm is the least of our concerns in the days ahead,” she said softly. “But I appreciate your worry. I’ll go down below in a moment. I just wanted to see Gul’gotha with my own eyes.”

He nodded, peering over her shoulder. “It be not a welcome sight.” Elena saw Tol’chuk touch his thigh pouch that hid the jeweled Heart of his people. She moved a step closer to him, bringing her arm around his thicker one. “We will not leave here until both our missions are finished. This I promise. If there’s a Gate here, we’ll destroy it. And if there’s a way to rid your people of the Bane, we’ll find it.”

A deep rumble flowed from the giant. Though it was wordless, Elena heard the thanks in his tone. They stood silently for a few moments more, then Tol’chuk spoke. “I don’t think it be mere luck that our paths go the same way now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Heart first guided me to you. I believe both our paths will end at the same place.” He stared out toward Gul’gotha. “Wherever the Manticore Gate be hidden, it be there that all answers will come.

Elena nodded. “I believe you’re right.” She frowned once more toward the coming storm. Thunder finally rumbled out to them, as if trying to ward them off. She wished she could mind the storm’s warning but knew she could not. She turned from the sight. “I’m ready to return below. Let’s keep warm while we still can.”

Tol’chuk grunted and swung around. He led the way, sheltering her somewhat from the sting of the cold rain.

As Elena followed, she pondered the twining lines of fate. The Bane, the Weirgate, the birthplace of the Black Heart, the homeland of the d’warves—how did they all weave together?

Once again, Cassa Dar’s words echoed to her.

No one ‘tnewfor sure…

Elena glanced briefly over a shoulder before ducking through the hatch held open by Tol’chuk. On this path, answers to these mysteries would be discovered—of this she was sure. But she shivered as a bigger question loomed: Would they be strong enough to face those answers?

Queen Tratal watched the fiery-haired woman descend into the bowels of the Sunchaser. Neither the woman nor her large companion had been aware of the queen’s presence. Aboard the ship, Tratal could move unseen whenever and wherever she wanted. Wisps of energy still traced her figure, casting a heavy mist that hid her from others’ eyes without clouding her own vision. She walked from her position by the stern rail. One hand trailed along the wood, caressing it like a lover brushing a sweetheart’s cheek.

Alone, except for a lone sentry in the crow’s nest atop the central mast, Tratal extended her senses into the ship. She made sure the woman was gone, feeling Elena’s footsteps on a lower deck ladder. The wit’ch soon joined the others gathered in the galley.

Good…

She dropped her cloak of mists and stared ahead, past the ship’s bow. No one had seemed to sense the falseness to the tempest hovering at the coastline. She signaled the elv’in sailor in the crow’s nest. He nodded back to her. All was in readiness.

Tratal faced forward. Along the bow of the ship, elemental energies crackled brightly as she tapped into the power of the storm ahead. A nimbus of silver-white hair plumed about her slender face as the magicks swelled in her. She lifted her arms, sighing in the play of wind and power. Sails swelled. Tratal aimed for the heart of the storm, a hard smile fixed on her face. In the gray light, her skin was carved ice, her eyes imbedded jewels of azure.

“Show yourself,” she wind-spoke to the heavy clouds that hung above the storm-lashed cliffs ahead. “It is time!” Her words were borne on gusts of winds.

Near the coast, the mists slowly blew apart and a bank of angry James Llemens clouds opened. A fleet of a dozen small sky-cutters broke free and swept forward like a flight of angry bees. Energy crackled along heir black keels, stabbing downward in dazzling bolts of t

lightning. The swift warships split into two waves, diving to circle the larger flagship.

Whispers in the wind carried greetings and acknowledgment from each of the cutters’ elv’in captains.

They sounded their readiness.

“Then let it begin,” Queen Tratal commanded. She sent more energies out into the false storm.

The black length of cloud swirled, and a passage opened through the middle of the storm. The small cutters, now flanking the larger ship, escorted it toward the roiling tunnel in the tempest. Far ahead, buried in the clouds and lit by flickers of lightning, she spotted familiar fortresses and battlements.

Queen Tratal smiled. For the past moon, Elena had refused to abandon this petty war and accept her true heritage and bloodline. Even her own son Meric had foolishly been swayed to the passions of these mud dwellers. But Queen Tratal was not so easily persuaded. She knew her duties to the past and future of her people. The bloodline of their lost king would not be lost again. It would be returned to its rightful place. What did the squabbling of land-bound nations concern the elv’in? They had flown above such fighting and wars for countless centuries.

Still, her attempts at convincing Elena had been another matter. The wit’ch had proven to be obstinate and headstrong. But there were other ways to turn a stubborn wind. If Elena would not travel willingly to the elv’in kingdom, then the kingdom would be brought to her.

The Sunchaser swept down into the long stormy tunnel, flanked by the cutters that assisted her in keeping the tempest at bay. Lightning flared in bright glows along the passage’s walls. Ahead, at the end of the tunnel, massive wooden gates swung open. Bright, clear sunlight flowed out into the passage from the heart of the elv’in’s sky fortress.

As they neared the open gates, the lead cutter’s captain announced the return of their queen. Almost lost in the rumbling thunder of the storm, trumpets blared. Tratal’s keen ears picked up the triumphant greeting. The head captain turned his attention back to the Sunchaser. His words were bold on the winds. “Welcome, Queen Tratal. Welcome back to Stormhaven.”

As the city in the sky opened before her, she smiled, like ice finally breaking with the coming spring. It was good to be home again.

Stormhaven.

The elv’in citadel floated atop this unnatural storm, hidden from below, open to the bare sky above. For centuries, the city had flown over the world’s seas and islands, oceans and lands—just an unexpected gale passing overhead. None were aware of what rode atop this tempest. For an endless time, none but the elv’in had ever set eyes upon the ancient citadel. Until now.

Upon first learning of Elena’s intent to leave A’loa Glen, Trata1 had sent word by hawk to Stormhaven, ordering the citadel’s keepers to fly the fortress to the monstrous cliffs of Gul’gotha. All was going as she had ordered. Before any of the others grew wise, the Sunchaser would be docked at Stormhaven—and at long last, the ancient king’s bloodline would be rejoined to her own.

Queen Tratal whispered her own greeting to the girl below. “Welcome home, Elena. Welcome to your true home.”

Er’ril barely noticed as the rumbling thunder grew worse. The planks under his feet trembled with each roar. Ignoring the storm, he remained intent on the map spread atop the galley table. He had borrowed the browned and weathered parchment from the libraries back at A’loa Glen. His eyes ran over the old names, many unreadable, the colored inks faded to blurs by age.

The lands of Gul’gotha.

Across from him, the captain of the d’warves, Wennar, hunched just as raptly. The craggy-faced d’warf poked a thick finger at a mountain. “We can land on the slopes of the southern side of Mount Gallmanor.

There is an old trail that winds around its flank and into our homeland valleys. It should allow us to approach the region in secret.”

“Why could we not just fly directly into your lands?” Elena asked. She stood by the hearth, warming her hands. Her hair still dripped and clung to her face. “I thought the mines and townships of your people were long abandoned.” i

Wennar glanced to her from under heavy brows. “They were abandoned by d’warves. But they are not uninhabited. I’ve heard tales of the diseased creatures and awful rites that are still performed there, fouling our lands. To explore, we must move swiftly and attract no unwanted attention.” He tapped the map. “This is an old hunting trail. Few should be watching it.” Er’ril nodded. As much as he distrusted this d’warf, he could not fault his plan. It seemed sound. If anything lurked in the mines and valleys of the d’warf homelands, a more cautious approach was warranted. “I think we should consider Wennar’s plan. In fact—” Rrrippp…

Er’ril turned to see the little tamrink, Tikal, snatch up a torn corner of the map and pop it into his mouth.

The furry beast chewed its stolen prize with much gusto. Er’ril swung a backhand at it, but Tikal went hopping away. It dodged around the crouched figure of Tol’chuk and scrambled toward its keeper.

“Tikal! ” Mama Freda scolded with a snort. The old woman, who had been drowsing in the chair, pushed up. She scooped the fiery-furred tamrink and settled it into the crook of her arm. Her sightless face turned to Er’ril. “I’m sorry. He’s unduly agitated right now.” An explosion of thunder rattled through the ship’s bones.

“I’m not surprised,” Elena said, her eyes glinting with worry. “The storm along the coast is piled high and dark.”

Er’ril returned to his study of the map. “Queen Tratal will get us through safely. She said the storm is of no concern.”

Mama Freda cleared her throat as Tikal whined in her arms. “I don’t know.” She cocked her head. Tikal mimicked her. “Something sounds wrong with this storm.”

“What do you mean?” Er’ril grumbled, instantly suspicious.

The old healer simply shook her head.

Tol’chuk stirred, eyes slowly opening. “I should go and check.”

“No need,” Mama Freda said. “Tikal is faster.” She bowed her face toward her pet, and Tikal jumped from her lap. The tiny tamrink scrambled out the door, running on all fours, a flash of fur.

Er’ril straightened from the map table. The others stood silently.

Mama Freda tugged her black shawl tighter about her shoulders. “Tikal has reached the middeck.” Her lips pursed as she concentrated. “The winds are strong. Angry black clouds surround the ship on all sides. The sky is afire with lightning.”

To punctuate her words, a new volley of rumbling thunder echoed through the ship.

“But… but the light is wrong. It’s too bright. Tikal is climbing the rigging to get a better view. I see Queen Tratal. She’s at the stern, full of power and crackling energy. She stretches for the sky, her toes barely touching the planks.”

Mama Freda suddenly sat up straighten

“What is it?” Elena asked.

“Other ships… I see smaller boats flanking ours.”

Er’ril moved forward, a hand shifting to the hilt of his silver sword. “Attackers?”

“I don’t think so. With Tikal’s keen eyes, I can spot elv’in in the other ships’ riggings.”

“Elv’in?” Er’ril scowled. “From where?”

Mama Freda frowned, holding up a hand. “The light… Sweet Mother, there’s sunlight ahead!” She burst to her feet, wobbling in her blindness, her vision fixed elsewhere. Elena hurried forward to steady the eyeless healer. “A city! There’s a city in the storm!”

Er’ril unsheathed his sword and moved toward the door. “We’ve been betrayed!” Elena made a move to follow him, but he placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Stay here with Mama Freda. Tol’chuk and I will go and investigate.” He turned to the blind elder. “Mama Freda, keep your pet’s eyes atop the deck.

Watch and be ready if there’s trouble.”

Elena yanked off one of her gloves, then grabbed her wit’ch dagger. The small blade flashed in the lamplight.

Er’ril blocked her dagger. “Be cautious with your magick. Even you can’t fly if the boat is burned out from under you.”

She slipped her hand free of his, then flicked her blade across each fingertip. “Don’t worry, Er’ril.” Blood turned to tendrils of fire, rising from her fingers. He watched as she wove the flames into a rose burning in her palm. She stared tightly at him, her eyes bright with power. “The ship won’t burn.” Er’ril’s eyebrows rose at Elena’s mastery of her magick. With a nod, he swung to Tol’chuk, who waited at the doorway.

Behind him, Mama Freda spoke urgently. “We fly toward the city’s gates. Hurry.” Er’ril raced up the steps, taking them two at a time. Tol’chuk fol-lowed. Er’ril burst out the door to the middeck, sword raised. The shock of the sight awaiting him stumbled his feet.

Catching himself, he gaped at the spectacle. All about the ship, angry black clouds roiled, lit from within by flashes of lightning. Thunder rolled everywhere, and distantly he thought he heard the blare of hundreds of trumpets. But all this was nothing compared to the sight beyond the Sunchaser’t bow.

Massive gates of wood towered a quarter league high into the sky. They lay open on a wondrous sight.

Beyond the gates lay a vast sunlit city, resting atop the storm itself. Above the roofs and towers, the late afternoon sun hung clear, shining down upon this city in the clouds.

Just beyond the walls lay a wide open space, a sheltered bay, where wooden docks and piers protruded into the air above roiling storm clouds. Er’ril spotted other ships moored there, of all shapes and sizes: sleek cutters, thick-bellied supply ships, even fanciful boats shaped like swans and eagles. Beyond the port’s docks, wooden buildings and shops climbed the clouds, spreading to the horizon. Some had chimneys leaking thin streams of smoke; others had small faces peering from windows. But all were brightly colored, like the plumage of a peacock. Instead of stone streets or muddy tracks, complex bridges and wooden spans connected the buildings together in a maze of rope and wood. Higher on the cloudy slopes, larger homes, towers, and steeples poked toward the sunny skies as the city spread far and wide.

But all this was d’warfed by the lofty castle in the city’s center, its walls of solid iron glowing bright with the energy of the storm below. Beyond the wall, the central keep’s score of towers climbed to impossible heights. Clustered tight together, they appeared not unlike a gathered bunch of reeds.

Tol’chuk stepped to Er’ril’s side, neck stretched as he gawked at the wonder. By now, elv’in sailors appeared from hatches and doors. Ignoring Er’ril and Tol’chuk, they swarmed up into the rigging and began to reef the sails.

Er’ril turned away. He could guess the name of the sky city they approached: Stormhaven. In the past, he had heard Meric speak of the elv’in citadel in the sky. But what he did not understand was what the city was doing here, and why they were flying through its gates. Er’ril’s face hardened to granite. He knew one person who held these answers.

“Come on,” Er’ril ordered. He led the way to the ladder up to the stern deck. Mama Freda had mentioned seeing Queen Tratal near the stern rail. The old woman was not wrong. As Er’ril clambered to the deck, he spotted the elv’in queen framed in crackles of blue energies, her arms raised high. Her silver-white hair was an angry cloud about her upturned face.

“Tratal!” Er’ril barked. “What deceit is this?” The woman’s gaze slowly lowered from the skies. Her eyes flashed with lightning. “I will take the wit’ch to her true throne. Her blood will unite the elv’in’s past with its future. It is time Elena put aside her mud-wallowing, to accept her true heritage.” Er’ril kept his sword in hand. “I won’t allow you to kidnap her.” Queen Tratal’s heels settled to the planks as she lowered her hands. “And what do you think you can do?” She waved an arm as the Sunchaser swept through the gates, flanked by its escorts. “Our home flies leagues above the world.

Beyond our walls lies only death. There is no escape.”

Er’ril considered her words. In truth, there was no way down from the clouds without the cooperation of the elv’in. They were all dependent on their host’s good graces. Still, over the centuries, Er’ril had learned that another’s cooperation could often be bought at the point of a sword. He stepped forward, sword raised. With a queen as hostage…

Tratal snapped her fingers, and a small bolt of lightning lanced from the energies about the ship. The blinding bolt struck Er’ril’s sword and burned it from his hand.

Er’ril gasped and shook away the burn. His sword clattered at his feet. Tol’chuk rumbled in menace, but Er’ril held him back.

Queen Tratal remained ice. “Retrieve your sword, plainsman.” She turned her back on him, unconcerned by any threat he could offer. “It is time you accepted your fate as well.” Er’ril collected his sword. He held it a moment, then shoved it back into its sheath. “Elena will never cooperate with you.”

Tratal swung around, leaning against the rail, oblivious to the energies racing along the wood. “She will when the fate of her dear friends is held hostage against her goodwill. She is a smart girl. Here all the wild magick in the world will not free her, only get you all killed.” Er’ril opened his mouth to argue, but he found no words. Elena would fight this imprisonment—but not at the cost of all their lives. Tratal was most correct. They were caught snugly in her icy web.

Cursing his blind trust, Er’ril stared at the spread of Stormhaven as the flagship swept toward the docks.

The vast elv’in city glowed under the golden sunlight. Already hundreds of residents flowed along bridges and appeared waving at windows. All had come to cheer the return of their queen. Trumpets blared, and drums began to beat cheerily. Several banners waved, bearing the sigil of an azure eagle against a silver background.

Behind them, the mighty gates swung slowly closed, shutting out the storm beyond, cutting off any means of escape.

“A handsome city, is it not?” Queen Tratal asked airily.

Er’ril frowned at the bright citadel. “It’s as pretty a prison as I’ve ever seen.

Elena followed the others along the wide bridge spanning the length of Stormhaven. Queen Tratal led the way, borne in a draped litter floating above the bridge. Energy crackled along the small vessel’s iron runners. The lithe woman lifted an arm and waved to her people as flower petals floated and swirled in the air, tossed from windows and doorways, scenting the thin air in sweet fragrances. Voices were raised in welcoming cheers, well-wishes, and song. Tratal acknowledged them all, nodding and waving.

Elena scowled at the spectacle. Upon disembarking the Sunchaser, Tratal had invited Elena to accompany her aboard the cushioned litter, but Elena had refused. “I’ll walk with the other prisoners,” she had said coldly. Tratal had merely shrugged and climbed into the high seat.

Upon first hearing of her imprisonment, Elena’s initial instinct had been to strike out, ripe with coldfire and wit’chfire. Who dared stand in her way? But Er’ril had talked her down from her sharp fury. Hers was a power of destruction and the laying of waste. Here, her magick would only lead to a tumbling death.

Mama Freda had agreed with Er’ril, insisting that time and wise words might win, where sword and fiery magick failed. Elena had finally forced her bright anger down to a tight-lipped glower.- With no other choice, she accepted her fate—for now. But as the parade led to the royal keep, Elena silently promised herself to find a way out of this gilded birdcage. The fate of Alasea depended on it.

Er’ril marched at her side, keeping a watch on windows and doorways as they passed. Wennar and Mama Freda marched behind, flanked by a half dozen elv’in swordsmen. Tol’chuk and the other six d’warves of their party remained imprisoned aboard the Sunchaser, ransomed against their good behavior.

So the group marched sullenly toward the spired citadel across the vast city. To either side, carefully crafted homes and shops lined the way. Lintels and beams were ornately carved. Windows were filled with colored glass. Everywhere Elena looked, the skills of the elv’in artisans were evident. The city was one extensive work of sculpted art. As much as her kidnapping rankled, she could not dismiss the wonder of the place.

Children, barefoot and dressed in motley colors, danced on the ropes and thin spans bridging the skies.

They raced and launched kites in various shapes and sizes, all creatures of the air, their shapes and colors both real and fanciful: sharp-eyed eagles, black-winged crows, osprey, terns, bats, butterflies, even colored clouds. The hues and shimmers flared in the bright sky, shining as brightly as the children’s songs and laughter.

Unbidden, a smile came to Elena’s lips. One bold child ran up to her, dodging easily around Er’ril’s attempt to wave him off; he could be no older than five winters. He ran beside her, matching her stride, staring up at her with large blue eyes, his hair an unkempt gale of white-blond hair. “You don’t look like a king,” he said with a small frown. “Papa says you’re a king. Kings are supposed to be boys.”

“I’m not a king, little one,” she said with an amused grin. “Just the grandchild of your ancient king.” He studied her with narrowed eyes, his mouth crooked as he pondered her words. “You still don’t look like no king,” he finally concluded, but he offered her his hand to take anyway. She accepted it. How could she refuse? He leaned a bit toward her, his eyes peeking past to Er’nl. “Papa says when I turn six, he’s gonna get me a sword for my birthingday party. Then I’ll guard you instead of him.”

“I would be honored, little knight.”

He nodded, satisfied with his future assignment. After a bit, he waved her down closer and kissed her quickly on the cheek. With his prize won, he ran away on light feet, singing at the top of his lungs. “I kissed the king! I kissed the king!”

Smiling, Elena watched other children converge on him to hear his exciting tale. It seemed young ones were the same the world ‘round. By now her mood had greatly improved. Still, she only had to look down to be reminded of her prison.

Underfoot, the bridge was composed of slats of white ash. Each iron bolt in the wood glowed with the magick of the elv’in—magick keeping it afloat above the endless fall. Elena could smell the magick thick in the air—or was it just the scent of lightning? Below, between the slats, the storm roiled like a raging torrent. Lightning flared deep in its heart, thunder a constant rumble.

Wennar moved up to her side. “Gul’gotha lies below.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

Wennar pointed to the north. Elena turned. Between a slate-roofed cobbler’s shop and a two-story chandlery, the view of the skies opened to the storm beyond the city’s towering walls. Thunderclouds churned and swirled. But this was not the sight that the d’warf leader indicated. Up from the whorling bank of black clouds, a solitary peak protruded, an island of steep cliffs and flinty outcrops riding an angry sea.

“The Anvil,” Wennar said. “It’s a sacred mountain to our people. It is said in our histories that upon this peak, the first of our people were forged by the gods’ hammers.” Elena nodded. The peak’s flat summit did indeed appear like a giant’s blacksmith anvil. She watched as the storm swept up its slopes, the clouds trying to swamp the island in the sky. “We’re adrift,” Elena mumbled. She sensed no movement, but as she stared, the storm rode past the giant mountain.

Stormhaven was on the move, passing over Gul’gotha.

Er’ril moved closer. “How far are we from the coast?”

“A half dozen leagues, I’d say.”

“And how far from your homeland valley?”

“A ten-day march. Fifty leagues or so.”

As they continued following the queen’s litter, the view vanished behind a blue house trimmed in silver.

Six leagues from the coast? The storm moved swiftly.

Er’ril grumbled. “Then we’ll be over your valleys by morning.”

“And well beyond after that,” Wennar added quietly.

Er’ril glanced to Elena, his expression hard. She understood what was left unspoken. They must escape this very night, or they would be lost forever.

Elena, her chest tight with worry, stared down between her boots. Deep in the whirling darkness, lightning lit the heart of the storm. How did one escape a prison in the sky? For the hundredth time, she wished she could consult her Aunt Fila and Cho. But the Blood Diary had been confiscated along with the Try’sil, the Hammer of Thunder. Not that the book would be any help. The moon would not grow full for several days. She would find only blank pages if she opened it now.

As Wennar slipped back behind, Mama Freda took his place at Elena’s side. “I heard what the d’warf said,” the old healer whispered. “It leaves us little time to sway these cold-blooded sky dwellers.”

“If we can’t sway them,” Elena said hotly, “I’ll burn their city from the sky.” Mama Freda glanced over at her. Though the lack of eyes made the woman’s expression difficult to read at times, now the healer’s shock was etched in every wrinkle. “You’d kill the boy who came a moment ago stealing a kiss.”

Elena lowered her face with shame.

Er’ril answered. “Elv’in only respect strength. Innocents are often killed in war.”

“Perhaps.” Mama Freda’s next words were for Elena. “But can you slay them with your own hand, not accidentally, but willfully and with forethought?”

Elena tightened her fingers into frustrated fists. “No,” she finally sighed. “No, I can’t.”

“Good. I feared perhaps that I was aiding the wrong side in this war.”

“It was just my anger speaking.”

Mama Freda nodded and touched Elena’s shoulder. “Then heed me a moment, lass. There are ways to play this that don’t require fire and death.”

“What do you mean?”

“Tikal allows me to see and hear much that others would not wish known.” Er’ril stepped closer to Elena’s side, half huddling. “What have you learned?”

“As we were off-loading from the Sunchaser, I overheard some sailors speaking privately. Rumors say that Elena will be forced to wed an elv’in prince as the moon rises tonight. Her bridemate will be announced at a feast with the sun’s setting.”

Elena was aghast. Married? “I will never! I’ll refuse.” Mama Freda nodded. “I suspect that our lives and continued comfort will depend upon you acquiescing. Even words of marriage spoken under duress are recognized by the elv’in.” Elena’s feet stumbled.

“And this very night, they will take your maidenhead upon your marriage bed—by force if necessary.” Elena grew cold. Though she had already flowered as a woman and her moon’s blood marked her old enough to be wedded, the thought of lying with a man terrified her more than any ill’guard demon. With her body’s spellcast maturation, she understood the needs of a woman. And her own mother had explained the ways of men and women when she was much younger. In fact, she had once practiced kissing with a farmhand from the Nickleburry ranch. But to bed a man? Someone she did not know? A stranger? “I will not allow this,” Er’ril said with an icy menace. Mama Freda nodded. “I didn’t expect you would. But these elv’in mean to reclaim their ancient king’s lineage, to rejoin the royal lines.” Elena found her voice again, but her words cracked. “Y-you hinted of a way out of this trap.”

“As I was saying, these sailors were talkative, and their blood was up with their return to Stormhaven. It seems your looks and charms have not gone unnoticed by the men in the rigging. One of the sailors seemed especially captivated by you. With a coarse laugh, he suggested challenging your bridemate by rite oiry’th lor.” “What is that?” Er’ril asked.

“I asked my cabin boy as he was helping me from my room. Ry’th lor translates as ‘heart’s blood’ in the high elv’in tongue. A suitor for a woman’s hand can be challenged by another. A trial by combat. The victor wins the hand and no other can contest it.”

Er’ril touched his sword hilt. “Then I will challenge this queen’s man.”

“It is not as easy as that. The challenger must fight the potential suitor with his bare hands. The suitor is under no such restraint. He will be armed with a ceremonial sword and dagger.” The plainsman’s expression hardened. “I will still challenge.”

“Of course you will… and most likely die.”

Elena shook her head. “You must not, Er’ril.”

“And even if you succeed, you will be forced to take your suitor’s place. You must marry Elena within the day of the challenge.”

Er’ril and Elena glanced at each other. Even in the chill air, her face flushed warmly. His own eyes seemed a mix of confused emotions.

Er’ril cleared his throat. “If I must, I must.”

“I… I still don’t see how this will help us,” Elena mumbled.

“Upon your marriage kiss, Er’ril can make one request of the suitor’s family. A dowry, so to speak, for the stolen bride.” Mama Freda glanced significantly at them. “It cannot be refused.” Elena understood almost immediately. “Er’ril could ask that we be let go.”

“Exactly. What cannot be won in war can be gained by love.”

“But would they honor this tradition?” Er’ril grumbled.

“I believe so. Even though they’d take Elena by force to gain her bloodline, they are still a people of tradition and strict law. If the challenge is made, it must be honored. If they broke their code in order to father a king’s child from Elena, the Blood would be tainted— no more than a bastard child. No, I believe they must bow to the challenge of ry’th lor.” Elena turned to Er’ril. “Then it must be attempted.”

She glanced up to her knight. Deep inside her, something more than hope swelled in her heart. She fought tears, remembering a dance atop a tower roof, arm in arm, the brush of his cheek on hers. No words had been shared during that long night—but it did not always take words to speak one’s heart.

“It will be a hard fight,” Mama Freda warned.

“I will succeed.” The plainsman’s gray eyes never left hers. His words were hushed. “I will win Elena.” Mama Freda nodded. “Then there is only one other item you must know.”

“What?”

, L’t M’t N S

“Before the suitor’s family honors your request, you must prove your marriage.”

“Prove our marriage?” Elena broke her gaze from Er’ril. “What does that mean?” Mama Freda stared forward, her expression unreadable. “Before we are freed, Er’ril must take your maidenhood himself.”

Er’ril stared as Elena was led into the feast hall. She was a beauty in green velvet. Her gown flowed in draperies and trains, held aloft by a pair of young girls in matching velvet as she stepped down the stairs and into the hall. Her hair was woven into a sweep atop her head, held in place by a fine net of silver filigree, fiery with diamonds. At her appearance, polite applause rose from the nobles gathered to either side of the hall.

She was led into the room by the queen herself. Queen Tratal was a cloud of silk laced with gold filaments. In her arms rested a scepter of red iron shaped like a lightning bolt, as stark and unforgiving as the one who cradled it. As she moved, traceries of azure energies danced along the scepter’s length.

Queen Tratal crossed the great hall. To either side, tables were decorated with rose petals amid settings of crystal and porcelain. Overhead, the vaulted beams were festooned with flowering vines. Serving staff waited in doorways laden with wine bottles and trays. Smells of the kitchens wafted up from the hearths below. The hall held its breath for the feast and celebration to begin.

On the room’s far side, atop a raised dais, Er’ril stood with Mama Freda and Wennar at the main table.

Each of them had also been bathed, perfumed, and dressed in fineries. As Er’ril stood, waiting for the long procession of courtiers to file in after Elena and the queen, he tugged at his gray jacket and ruffled linen shirt, both a bit too snug for his wide plainsman shoulders.

Elena and Queen Tratal wound through the room and up the three stairs to join them atop the dais. The elv’in queen took her place at a delicate throne of silver, cushioned with midnight blue pillows. Elena followed to take the chair at the queen’s right side, a matching throne but with more stern lines, clearly the king’s seat. She settled into it uncomfortably. Er’ril and the others were positioned a dozen chairs away on Elena’s wing of the table.

Er’ril caught Elena’s attention as she sat down. Her green eyes, flecked with gold, showed clearly that she was scared and worried, but he noted the core of determination behind her gaze, too. She nodded to him, then turned back as the queen began to address the gathered audience.

“This is a fateful day.” Queen Tratal’s words were softly spoken but carried easily across the wide room.

“Since our banishment from the shores of our ancient homelands, we have only been half a people. Our ancient king, King Belanon, was stolen from us—his wisdom, guidance, and love were lost in the mix of blood down the ages. And though we’ve grown beyond the need for grubbing the land and instead fashion castles in the sky, we can never forget what was stolen from us, what is ours by right of blood and heritage.”

Queen Tratal motioned for Elena to stand. She obeyed, gliding to her feet. “Though King Belarion’s bloodline was mixed with that of commoners, the iron in the royal blood can never be fully vanquished.

Here stands the vessel for the return of our king. From her womb, King Belarion will be reborn to his people.” Queen Tratal reached and lifted a slender glass of white wine. “Long live the king!” Across the hall, celebrants raised their own glasses. The queen’s words were carried and echoed across the room. “Long live the hjngl”

Er’ril scowled and was prodded from behind by a guard to take up his own glass. He downed his glass of wine in one gulp and slammed it back down upon the table, shattering the stem of the goblet. No one noticed. They were all too focused on the central dais. Only Mama Freda placed a restraining hand upon his elbow, cautioning him to be patient. Earlier, she had explained the details of rhy’th lor. He could only make his challenge after Elena’s bridemate had been named—then he must state his own claim before the suitor sealed the engagement with a kiss upon Elena’s cheek. After this gesture, no challenge could be made or accepted.

As the hall grew quiet again, Queen Tratal continued her speech.

“On this auspicious night, with the moon silvering bright in the twilight skies, I will now seal the two halves of our people. With all here as witness, let it be known that Elena Morin’stal will be wed this night to my own sister’s first son, Prince Typhon.”

It was a well-rehearsed act. A tall slender man stood to the queen’s left. There was no surprise on his dour face, nor delight. He wore a sickly pained expression as he lifted an arm in acknowledgment. He looked as if he were about to be fed naked to a pack of sniffers. Er’ril noted how a small-boned woman on his left touched his hand as he stood. Her eyes were full of regret and sorrow. He gave her fingers the barest squeeze, then released them. It seemed the prince had already given his heart to another. But with the royal princes spread thin—Meric off to the Northwall, Richald off to the South—the burden of uniting the two elv’in houses had fallen upon this young man’s shoulders.

“I accept this offered hand of marriage,” he said formally. “And will fill it with mine own.” Queen Tratal lifted her iron scepter, which scintillated with energy. “Let the offer be bound with a kiss so all may see the claim sealed. Then as the moon reaches its zenith, we will join these two in marriage. And by the dawn’s light tomorrow, our two halves will be made whole upon their marriage bed.” Her words were greeted with more cheering. Prince Typhon slipped around his chair and stepped behind the queen’s throne toward where Elena stood stiffly, her eyes wide and glassy. Mama Freda nudged Er’ril. Now was the time. Around the hall, the celebrants grew quiet, anticipating the kiss to come. Prince Typhon reached to Elena’s gloved hand. The tall man leaned toward her cheek.

Before his lips could touch, Er’ril pounded his fist upon the hardwood table. Porcelain rattled, and wine spilled from neighboring cups. The crack of his knuckles echoed across the room. Gazes swung in his direction. Half bent toward Elena, Typhon glanced his way.

“By rite of ry’th lor” Er’ril bellowed, “I challenge this suitor for Elena’s hand.” The low murmur in the hall went deathly quiet. Prince Typhon straightened, bewilderment in his eyes, but there was no confusion in Queen Tratal’s gaze. Even from a dozen seats away, Er’ril felt the icy chill from the elv’in leader. Tratal’s face was a mask of anger.

“You have no right to claim ry’th lor. It is elv’in law and does not apply to common folk of the lands below.”

Er’ril was ready for this response. He had discussed the details at length with Mama Freda. “It is not your choice to deny my claim or not. Only the woman to be betrothed can dismiss the challenge and deny the claimant.” Er’ril swung his gaze to Elena. “And by your own word, Elena is of elv’in heritage, so by your own elv’in law, she can make this judgment.”

Er’ril noted Elena shift her feet and turn to face the queen. Though Elena’s eyes glinted nervously, her words were hard and firm. “I accept the challenge for my hand by Er’ril of Standi.” By now, the queen’s scepter spat tiny bolts of energy. Her thin lips had drained of color. She was trapped by her own laws and customs. “Elena may choose to accept the challenge, but I have the right to decide how the outcome will be judged.”

Er’ril glanced to Mama Freda. She shrugged, equally in the dark about this statement.

“As ruler of Stormhaven, I declare that this challenge must be won only by blood. It will be a fight to the death.”

Gasps arose from the gathered throng. Even Er’ril was taken aback by this turn of events. According to Mama Freda, the victor in the challenge merely had to make the other combatant submit, not kill him.

“By our oldest law, from the time of King Belarion himself, ry’th lor was decided by blood. So to win the hand of the king’s heritage, I claim the old rites be followed. Only death will settle this claim.” Queen Tratal turned to Elena. “Do you still accept this challenge?” Elena’s face had paled with the queen’s words. She glanced up to Prince Typhon. He was young, lithe, and quick-eyed. Armed with a sword and dagger, the young elv’in lord would prove a formidable opponent. Even the prince looked little concerned about the challenge, his arms crossed, his face calm.

Only the young elv’in woman on the queen’s side mirrored Elena’s expression. Both women were frightened for their men.

“Do you accept Er’ril of Standi’s claim for your hand?” Tratal repeated, a tiny smile beginning to form on her cold lips.

VJ Alt

Elena turned to Er’ril, her face pained and terrified. “Make your choice,” the queen demanded!

Tol’chuk sat in the galley of the Sunchaser. He was alone except for a single d’warf who worked at the small stone oven. Magnam was one of the smallest of the ten d’warf warriors. To him fell the more menial chores, like cooking their meals. But he did not seem to mind. He stirred a pot of stew with a long wooden ladle, a soft song bubbling from his lips. The language was unknown to Tol’chuk, but the deep tone and slow cadence whispered of old loss and ancient sorrows. It spoke to Tol’chuk’s own spirit.

Atop the table, the large chunk of heartstone glowed mutely, merely reflecting the small flames from the galley’s hearth. The shade of his father had told him he must take the Heart of his people back to where it was first mined—to Gul’gotha. But now they were all prisoners in the clouds. How could he hope to complete his journey? Crouched beside the table, lost in his own pain, Tol’chuk failed to notice the small d’warf cook until a large bowl of stew was pushed in front of him, a wooden spoon stuck in the middle.

“Eat,” Magnam said.

“I be not hungry,” Tol’chuk mumbled politely, shifting slightly away. The d’warf sighed and sat opposite from Tol’chuk. “You been staring at that bauble for days. It’s time you started looking back out to the world.” He used a thick finger to push the bowl toward Tol’chuk. “Even boulders like you must eat sometime.” Tol’chuk did not move.

“You can pine and mope just as well with a full belly.” Tol’chuk rolled a large amber eye in Magnam’s direction. The d’warf’s face cracked with a soft smile. He reached for the jeweled stone, but his fingers hovered above its surface. “May I?”

Tol’chuk shrugged. What did it matter now? The stone was dead, poisoned by the Bane.

Magnam picked up the stone and held it up to the flames of a nearby lamp. He stared at it one way, then another. His eyes pinched with concentration. “Wonderful craftsmanship,” the d’warf said, lowering the stone. “A master’s work.” Tol’chuk shrugged. Magnam sighed again, his gaze shifting to the untouched bowl of

JAMKS

tew. “I might not have the skill to cut a stone of this quality, but I do make a tasty bowl of stew. It’s the s

only real reason I was allowed to stay among Wennar’s battalion. The taskmasters of the Nameless One don’t coddle the small or weak-limbed. We’re usually fed to his Dreadlords. I learned early on to concentrate on my strengths, not my weaknesses. An army travels on its stomach, and if you can fill it with tasty stews, you’re less likely to become a tasty stew yourself.” The d’warf’s easy manner slowly drew Tol’chuk out of his gloom. Magnam continued. “I’ll make a deal with you, Lord Boulder. You eat, and I’ll tell you a story of d’warves and heartstones.”

Tol’chuk stared warily. But curiosity made him reach for the bowl of stew. He picked up the spoon. “Tell me your story.” Magnam simply waited, eyeing the empty spoon. Tol’chuk grumbled and scooped up a bit of potato and a chunk of beef. He started to speak around the mouthful of stew, demanding his story, but then the taste of the stew struck his senses. The beef melted on his tongue; the potatoes were delicate and savory with a thick creamy broth. Tol’chuk’s eyes grew wide. He spooned up another mouthful, suddenly finding his hunger.

“So how’s my stew, Lord Boulder?” Magnam asked with a raised eyebrow. “Good.” Magnam settled back in his chair. “It’ll be even better tomorrow. ‘Twice-stewed is twice as good,’ my ol‘ mammy always taught me.” The small d’warf grew silent for a breath, his gaze on the past and distant memories.

Tol’chuk ate in silence.

Finally, Magnam stirred. “But I promised you a story, didn’t I?” Tol’chuk merely waved his spoon, too busy to speak. The d’warf crossed his arms. “Do you know where heartstone first came from?” His mouth full, Tol’chuk grunted his ignorance and shook his head. “Well, the first piece of heartstone ever discovered was found by a d’warf—a fellow named Mimblywad Treedle. He was mining his claim off in the hinterlands of Gul’gotha, in a mountain named Gy’hallmanti. In the old tongue, this translates to

‘the Peak of the Sorrowed Heart.’ Many considered the old d’warf to be mad. Not only had the mountain been mined dry long ago, tales spoke of hauntings and ghosts in its tunnels. The last group of miners who had entered the mines some two centuries earlier had never returned, lost forever.” Tol’chuk slowed his eating, drawn into the tale.

“But ol‘ Mimblywad insisted he smelled fresh riches down in the lowest shafts of his mine. And mad or not, he was the keenest scenter of his time. It was said his nose could sniff out an opal in a pile of pig dung. So for moon after moon, he dug with pick and shovel. Neighboring homesteads reported the echoing sounds of his work both day and night. They also whispered of other noises, stranger sounds.

But when they were asked for details, they would only shake their heads. Many moved away, leaving their claims unsold. After ten winters, the entire region around Gy’hallmanti was deserted, except for the lone Mimblywad Treedle.”

“What happened?” Tol’chuk asked, his spoon forgotten for the moment.

Magnam grew dour and slowly shook his head. “Mimblywad would sometimes trek out of his tunnels for supplies. He would travel to trading stores, a wasted figure of bones and haunted eyes. He would talk to himself, mumbling angrily, as if arguing with someone only he could see. But addled as he was, he always seemed to come down from his mines with enough gold and bits of shattered rubies to buy more supplies and disappear back into his tunnels. He soon became a legend among our people. OF Mad Mimbly.

Then for an entire winter, no one saw him. Most guessed he had finally died in the haunted tunnels of Gy’hallmanti, becoming just another ghost himself. But they were wrong.” Magnam took out a pipe from a pocket and filled it with bit of dried tobacco leaf. “More stew?” Tol’chuk glanced to his bowl, finding it surprisingly empty. “No. I be fine. Tell me more of this Mad Mimbly.”

Magnam lit his pipe and chewed on its end, speaking around the stem. “Some three winters later, ol‘

Mimbly comes down to the village of Tweentown, drawing a cart behind him like he were a mule. No one recognized the bent-backed, white-haired d’warf. His beard was wrapped around his waist, and his eyes shone with wormglow.”

“Wormglow?”

Magnam nodded. “Wherever you find heartstone, you’ll find the worms. Glowworms.” Tol’chuk remembered the Spirit Gate of his people, the arch of pure heartstone through which he had stepped to begin this journey o long ago. The tunnels leading to the Gate had been filled with worms that s

glowed the green of pond scum.

“No one knows what attracts the creatures, but if there’s a vein of heartstone mined, within days you’ll find the place crawling with the squirmy beasts. There are some who say they’re actually birthed out of the heartstone itself.”

Tol’chuk glanced to his own crystal. When first he had looked into the Heart, before its recent transformation, the Bane had appeared to be a black worm, a cousin to the tunnel’s glowworms. Could there be some connection?

“Anyway, if you hang around the worms long enough, their glow creeps into your own eyes. Some say it lets you see not only this world but the next.” “The spirit world?”

“No, the future. Glimpses of what’s to come.” Magnam waved his pipe. “But that all makes no never mind. What ol‘ Mad Mimbly had in his cart was what drew everyone in Tweentown’s attention. Piled atop his cart were gems never seen before. Redder than rubies, brighter than the finest cut diamonds.” The d’warf pointed his pipe stem to the chunk of stone. “It were heartstone, the first ever mined.”

“But how come it was never found before?”

Magnam shrugged. “I guess the mountains were finally ready to let them go. Miners say you’ll never find a single jewel unless the Land herself wants you to find it.”

“What did Mimbly say? Did he explain how he found them?”

“Ah, now there’s the rub, Lord Boulder. He labored all those years, wearing his fingers to nubs—and what does he do when he finally strikes the motherlode of riches? He up and dies.” Magnam clucked out a sad laugh and shook his head. “That very night, he falls dead on his bed in Tweentown.” Disappointment ached in Tol’chuk’s breast. “He died?”

“In his sleep. Curled like a babe.” Magnam sighed. “Fate can be cruel. But at least ol‘ Mimbly proved his nose. He had scented riches and found them at last. He was also the one to lend the new gem its name.

He would let no one near his cart of jewels. He claimed it was the blood of the mountains, from the Land’s very heart. Hence, its name—heartstone.”

“Blood of the Land?”

“So he claimed, but he was addled after his years alone. Talking and hollering at invisible figments, swatting at the empty air. He claimed the stones were the Land’s gift to our people, that it was all that could save them from the darkness to come. The jewels must be hidden away and protected. Everyone laughed at his babbling. Ol‘ Mad Mimbly.” Magnam puffed out a perfect smoke ring and gave Tol’chuk a one-eyed stare. “But maybe he weren’t as mad as we thought.” The d’warf kicked to his feet. “Best I return to my cooking,” he mumbled.

“Wait. What did you mean, ‘ maybe he weren’t as mad as we thought’?” Magnam nodded to the chunk of heartstone. “It guided you here, didn’t it? After he died, his load was taken, spread throughout our kingdom, and crafted into thousands of objects. It was a jewel of such beauty that it could not be simply hidden away. For centuries, other miners tried to find ol‘ Mimbly’s vein. But he must have mined it all himself. No other heartstone was ever found in Gy’hallmanti, not even a sliver. Occasionally a bit was found here and there across the lands, but never a strike like ol’

Mimbly’s.”

Tol’chuk remembered his own tribe’s secret: a towering arch of heartstone hidden deep in their homeland mountains. The blood of the Land. It had sent him forth on this journey. But according to the shade of his father, the Heart of his people had not come from this arch but from Gul’gotha, from these foreign lands. Realization slowly dawned in Tol’chuk. His words were a whisper. “No other large pieces were ever found in Gul’gotha?”

Magnam shook his head and crossed to his stove. “None. That’s what makes heartstone so precious.” Stunned, Tol’chuk reached and took up his chunk of heartstone. If Magnam’s story was true, there was only one place from which the Heart of his people could have come—from ol‘ Mad Mimbly’s strike!

Here was one of the very stones the ancient d’warf had mined. Tol’chuk squeezed the crystal, trying to sense its age. His father had assigned him to return the Heart to where it was first mined. He now had an answer. He stared back up at the d’warf. “The mountain of Gy’hallmanti—what else can you tell me of the place? Was nothing else ever found there?”

Magnam frowned, stirring his stew pot. “Now I didn’t say that.

After ol‘ Mimbly, many miners tried their hand at delving into Gy’hallmanti. They all went bust. But five centuries ago, a new strike was discovered.“

“More heartstone?”

Magnam’s face twisted into a pained scowl. “No, but like the heartstone Mimblywad discovered, it was a stone like no other. A stone the world had never seen before.”

“What was it?”

Magnam returned to his stew. His voice hushed to a whisper. “Ebon’stone. They found ebon’stone, damn them all.”

Ice crept into Tol’chuk’s veins. His mind struggled to put this horror together. Heartstone, ebon’stone—both had been birthed from the same mines. What did it mean?

Magnam continued, this throat strained. “There is only one other thing that ever came forth from the tunnels of Gy’hallmanti.”

“What?” Tol’chuk asked. His fingers clutched tight to the chunk of crystal, afraid of the answer.

“The Nameless One. From the endless tunnels of Gy’hallmanti, the Black Beast of Gul’gotha first walked our lands.”

Elena stared at Er’ril. He was dressed in a gray silk jacket over a bright white shirt. His raven hair was combed back and tied into a tail. How could she ask him to risk his life in the challenge for her hand, especially with the odds so badly stacked against him? Prince Typhon was strong and hale, and armed with both sword and dagger against Er’ril’s empty hand. What hope could there be for victory? If Elena accepted the claim ofry’th lor, she would be sentencing her liegeman to almost certain death. Yet if she refused, she would be married to Prince Typhon this night, and any hope for Alasea would die on her marriage bed.

“Make your choice, Elena,” Queen Tratal demanded.

Elena refused to turn from Er’ril. Her eyes met his storm-gray ones. He stared hard at her, then his head nodded imperceptibly. His face showed no fear, no indecision. His eyes said he would win this fight.

Elena drew strength from his gaze and stood straighter. She wiped her welling tears and turned to Queen Tratal.

Clenching her fists, Elena’s words were harsh and sharply spoken. “It is upon your hands, Queen Tratal, that blood will be spilled this

H VJ A I H

night. By your actions, you have doomed your nephew to his death. My liegeman will not fail me.“

“Then you accept his challenge of ry’th lor}” Thequeen’s voice snapped with anger.

Elena met her fury with her own. “You have given us no choice but to murder for the sake of our freedom. For this, I will never forgive you. I offer you this one moment to rescind your words. Put aside this claim of marriage, and we will part allies and friends. Insist on this course, and the blood of Prince Typhon will stain this hall’s floor.”

On the queen’s other side, a thin elv’in woman stumbled to her feet. Her eyes, full of tears, were fixed upon the young prince. “Please, Queen Tratal… listen to the wit’ch.” Prince Typhon waved the woman back to her seat and hissed, “Mela, sit down. You shame me.” The woman would not be so easily cowed. She reached to Queen Tratal’s sleeve. “I love him, my queen.

I would give him up freely to this wit’ch for the sake of the kingdom, but not… not to his death. I could not live with that.”

Queen Tratal snatched her sleeve from the woman’s thin-fingered grip. “Begone from my side!” she snapped. She flicked her wrist to a guard. “Take Princess Mela to her room. She seems to have fallen ill.”

“No!” the elv’in woman wailed. But two guards flanked her and took her arms. Mela fell limp in their grips, sobbing. Unperturbed, the stoic royal guards dragged the weeping woman from the hall.

Elena noticed the pained expression on Prince Typhon’s face. He had taken a step in Mela’s direction when she had first swooned, but a stern glance from the queen had frozen his steps.

The queen lifted her lightning scepter. “The claim oi ry’th lor has been accepted. Let the way be cleared for the challengers to the hand of Elena Morin’stal.”

Quickly, tables and chairs were pulled back from the foot of the raised dais. The celebrants now all stood, ringing a wide, empty space before the pair of thrones. Even the serving staff moved inside to cluster in corners or stand on chairs to view the coming battle. Elena turned to Er’ril. Guards stripped him of his sword. Queen Tratal lifted her voice to the crowded hall. “The challenger must meet the challenged with no weapon but the clothes on his back.”

Elena’s legs grew numb. Er’ril could not even don leathers to pro-JAMES ULtMEB! + u ¦ tect him. Only silk and linen. Yet despite the threat, Er’ril seemed little fazed.

He merely stepped around the royal table and leaped to the cleared floor.

The elv’in queen raised her left arm. “The challenged will be allowed the traditional weapons to defend the hand of his bridemate. Sword and dagger!”

Prince Typhon already had a sword strapped to his waist. He climbed off the dais to the other side of the floor. After shrugging out of his own jacket, he pulled free his sword and swept his thin blade in a deadly flourish before him, practicing, loosening his arms. The sword was a blur of silver. Polite clapping met this display of skill and swordsmanship.

Er’ril watched all this with dispassionate eyes. Queen Tratal turned her head slightly in Elena’s direction.

Her voice was a whisper meant for Elena’s ears only. “My blood is not so much ice as to refuse you one last chance, Elena. Dismiss this challenge and Er’ril will be spared.” Elena wanted desperately to take the queen’s offer. What hope lay between honed steel and bare flesh?

As if sensing her faltering heart, Er’ril turned to stare up at her. His eyes shone with pride and determination. All across the lands of Alasea and throughout the War of the Isles, he had been her protector and her champion. But since the war, Er’ril’s role had drifted into the background. And she had sensed his ill ease at this new role. But no longer. Here was the old Er’ril, the man she had known during the long journey to this moment. As much as she feared for his life, she could not take this challenge from him.

“I will not decline the claim,” Elena whispered back to the queen. “I will mourn the death of your kin.” The only evidence of the queen’s anger was the flare of energy that burst along the iron scepter’s length.

“So be it.”

Queen Tratal lifted both arms. “Let the strength of hearts now judge whose hand will be joined to Elena’s this night! Prepare yourselves!”

Prince Typhon repeated his sword’s flourish, moving now. He spun and twisted, weaving around him a deadly cloud of steel. More applause greeted his performance.

Er’ril watched for a moment, eyes narrowed, judging his opponent. Then he simply pulled out of his gray silk jacket and slowly stripped off the crisp shirt. Bare chested, he cracked the kinks from his neck and worked knots from his muscles. With hardly a concern, he wrapped his jacket around his left forearm, then twisted his shirt into a long whip. Once done, he simply stood still, staring across the way toward Prince Typhon.

The prince finished his bow to the audience, then faced his queen.

A long tense moment of silence stretched. Finally, Queen Tratal brought her scepter down. “Let the challenge begin!”

Er’ril waited for his opponent to come to him. Around the hall, the crowd cheered, and coins exchanged hands as bets were made. He forced it all away, focusing his full attention upon Prince Typhon. The elv’in swordsman crossed the polished pine floor with confidence, striding purposefully, the tip of his sword steady and aimed at Er’ril’s heart.

“I will make your death clean,” Typhon called as he approached. “I bear you no animosity.” Er’ril did not answer. His only response was the narrowing of his eyes. He studied his opponent’s movements: how his swordpoint dropped when he led with his left leg, how he was easily distracted by the crowd—his gaze flitting to the side when a celebrant yelled his name. Typhon had probably never fought amid the chaos and screams of a true battlefield. Isolated as the elv’in were, it was unlikely the young prince had ever even killed a man.

The same could not be said of Er’ril. He had slogged through battlefields muddied with blood and muck.

He’d had friends die at his side as he fought with sword or ax. The number slaughtered upon his sword were too many to count. Er’ril felt a twinge of pity for this young prince. Though he himself bore no edged weapon, he knew they were in fact evenly matched. And the lack of understanding in his opponent would be the elv’in’s downfall.

Typhon paused when only two steps away. He steadied his sword. “I will honor your memory.” Er’ril tightened his grip on the rolled linen shirt. Typhon took a deep breath as he prepared for the fight.

But unknown to the boy, the battle had already begun. Er’ril flicked his wrist and snapped the tip of the shirt at the prince’s face.

Typhon, caught off guard, danced back.

Taking advantage, Er’ril leaped forward. He knocked the boy’s J A

vvord aside with his jacket-wrapped left arm and spun past the youth. With a deft grab, he relieved the s

prince of the dagger at his belt and was away before Typhon could turn with his sword.

The young man’s blade swept through empty air.

From a step away, Er’ril spun the dagger’s hilt in his hand, testing its weight and grip.

The prince’s eyes grew wider in surprise as he realized the dagger was now in Er’ril’s possession. A twinge of concern entered Typhon’s gaze—but not fear. The boy was still too green to know when to be properly scared.

The crowd around them grew hushed by the turn of events. From the corner of his eye, Er’ril saw Elena still standing beside the elv’in queen. From this distance, side by side, Er’ril recognized her elv’in blood: the high cheekbones; the long, graceful neck; eyes as bright as ice in sunlight. Elena met his gaze, a fist held at her throat with worry.

He did not have time to acknowledge her. With a hiss, Typhon leaped at him. Er’ril was barely able to parry the blade with his dagger. The elv’in moved with unnatural speed now, tapping into the elemental energies inherent in his family. His blade was a blur. Er’ril danced back, reacting with pure instinct. The attack continued.

Er’ril saw no opportunity to turn defense into offense. Though the young prince was green in actual battle, he was a skilled swordsman. He offered no break in which Er’ril could slip through with the dagger. Er’ril simply waited. He knew from Meric that this artificial speed taxed an elv’in. The boy could not maintain this level of swiftness forever.

Still, neither could Er’ril. The prince’s sword sliced through his own defense, requiring Er’ril to block a fatal blow with his jacket-wrapped arm. The blade’s edge sliced easily through the silk material, biting deep into the meat of Er’ril forearm. Hot blood immediately soaked through the ruined jacket and ran onto the floor.

Er’ril grimaced, not with pain but frustration. Did this boy never grow tired?

Around them, the crowd began to grow boisterous again. Stirred on by the crowd and whetted by the sight of Er’ril’s bloody arm, Typhon fought more savagely—again proving his inexperience. He leaped at the wounded tiger, anticipating a kill, abandoning his art to attack with broad strokes.

Er’ril ducked under the sword and dove forward, driving his shoulder into the elvin’s knee. Both men went down. Er’ril doubted the prince had much experience with simple brawling. Er’ril spun and found the prince had managed to keep his sword in his grip. Ty-phon roared, twisting, and hacked his sword at Er’ril. But Er’ril was no longer there.

Er’ril rolled clear as the sword struck the pine planks with a thunk behind him. Before the prince could pull the sword away, Er’ril rolled back over the blade, laying atop it now, his dagger held between his chest and the sword’s edge, pinning it to the planks. Ty-phon tried to yank free his trapped sword. Steel screamed on steel. Er’ril had only a moment. He slammed the elbow of his bloody arm into the prince’s nose. Bones cracked. A cry of alarm burst from his opponent.

Er’ril next brought his elbow down upon the prince’s fingers, crushing them against the hilt. The sword fell free as the prince abandoned his last weapon. Nose bloodied, he tried to roll away.

Er’ril followed, kicking the sword well away with the toe of his boot. Before the prince could gain his knees, Er’ril leaped onto his back and drove him back to the planks, knocking the air out of the boy’s lungs. Now pinned under Er’ril’s heavier weight and weaponless, the prince began to sob, gasping, sensing his death to come.

Er’ril grabbed a fistful of the young man’s hair and yanked his head up, baring his neck toward the queen on her dais. Er’ril brought the dagger’s sharp edge to the prince’s throat. His own hot blood dribbled from his sliced arm, soaking the silver-blond hair of the defeated prince.

Er’ril turned to those gathered at the high table. The hall had grown silent. Er’ril stared hard at Queen Tratal. “I have defeated the suitor to Elena’s hand in honest battle. I have bloodied your champion. Do you accept my claim upon Elena now, or must I slay the blood of your kin? Must this young one die because of your pride?”

Queen Tratal still held her scepter aloft, energy crackling along its length. Her eyes were ice, her face unreadable.

Elena spoke up. “By your own law, Er’ril is the victor here. Please release him of the need to slay Prince Typhon. I can tell the prince’s heart has already been claimed by Princess Mela. Do not add sorrow atop sorrow.”

The energies began to die along the length of the queen’s scepter.

“I cannot lose the king’s line.”

“And you will not. The king lives both in my brother and me— and will again in our future descendants.

In exchange for the prince’s life, I give my word and promise that sometime our two family lines will be joined. The two royal houses will be one again.” Elena touched the queen’s arm. “But not today… not this night.”

The queen lowered her scepter. Energy faded from its red iron surface. She stared down at Er’ril. “By elv’in law, I declare the trial oiry’th lor to be ended. Er’ril of Standi is the victor. The hand of Elena Morin’stal is now claimed and sealed by blood.”

Er’ril bowed his head, accepting his victory. He climbed from Prince Typhon’s back and helped the young man stand. “Well fought,” he whispered in the prince’s ear.

Prince Typhon rubbed his neck where the dagger had been pressed and the fate of his life had hung.

Er’ril tossed aside his dagger and offered his hand to the young elv’in. The prince stared blankly at Er’ril’s open palm.

In the past, Er’ril had seen many a defeated man unable to accept his opponent’s good graces, too prideful and angry.

But Typhon slowly lifted his good hand and took Er’ril’s grip. He bowed his head. “It seems I’ve much still to learn.” Er’ril shook the man’s hand. “As does every man.” Typhon released his hand and stepped aside. Er’ril moved toward the dais. The entire matter had yet to be completely resolved. He spoke for all the hall to hear. “With Elena’s hand now free, I ask that you let us forego the marriage and allow us passage to Gul’gotha below.”

Queen Tratal glanced down to Er’ril with confusion. “It seems you’ve misunderstood the trial oiry’th lor.

You offered the challenge. Elena accepted it. You’ve proven the victor. As I said a moment ago, the seal has been forged in blood. It cannot be sundered.”

“What do you mean?” Elena asked, mirroring Er’ril’s own bewildered expression.

Queen Tratal stared back and forth between the two, then slowly sat down*shaking her head in defeat.

“In the eyes of the elv’in, you’re already married. You’ve just had your ceremony.” Elena turned, stunned, toward Er’ril.

Typhon clapped Er’ril on the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

With dawn not far away, Elena stood at the balcony overlook-ing the city of Stormhaven. She was still dressed in her bedclothes, unable to sleep. After the fight between Er’ril and Prince Typhon, the floors of the great hall had been quickly wiped of the combatants’ blood, and the celebration of Elena’s marriage had begun in earnest. Servants marched out course after course of food and wine: thick soups filled with onions and lentils, roasted quail wings in jellied orange sauce, salads made of a tumble of flower petals, breads rich in cinnamon and baked with raisins, fruits of every variety sculpted in shapes to delight, smoked duck curried with spices that burned the tongue, and finally velvety smooth chocolates accented with sips of port wine.

But the entire meal was just a long blur to Elena. After the fighting, Er’ril had been taken to the city’s healers, along with Prince Typhon. Elena had yet to see him, even after the celebration ended and she was led to her rooms. Everyone assured her that Er’ril was fine and the healers of Stormhaven were the best. Her only consolation was that Mama Freda had gone with Er’ril. Elena trusted her skill, and as the party wound down to dancing and slow ballads played by minstrels in the balconies, Mama Freda had returned to report that Er’ril was mending well. “Dragon’s blood will make short work of that little scratch on hfis arm.” After passing the news, the old healer had left to return to Er’ril’s bedside with the assurance that she and Tikal would watch over him.

As the party ended, Queen Tratal led Elena from the hall. Tratal had hardly spoken more than a word to her during the long night of celebration, merely picking at her food, nodding to those courtiers who attempted to engage her in conversation. But once free of the hall, Tratal had stopped Elena. “I will hold you to your word, Elena Morin’stal. One day, our two houses will be joined.”

“You’ve waited countless generations,” she had answered. “What ) is one or two more?” Queen Tratal had just stared with those ice blue eyes. Elena did not look away. “I will honor my word.

There will come a day when our two houses are joined—of this I am sure—but it JAMES Kj I, E M h n !> must never be by force. Only a hand freely given in love will unite the royal lines.“

The queen had then sighed, her mask of ice momentarily melting away. Her voice softened. “Love… For one so young, it is so easily spoken. But do you even know your own heart, Elena?” With those cryptic words, Queen Tratal had drifted away, leaving Elena to her guards. The climb to the tower suite was long, and at the top, Elena found no rest.

The queen’s words had nagged her. She was now married to Er’ril. And she did not know how she felt about it. On one hand, she knew it was merely a ceremonial act, and once free of the elv’in, it would mean nothing. But a part of her did not want it to mean nothing. She remembered the dance atop the tower, in Er’ril’s arms. She had never felt safer. Yet at the same time, she did not want her hand won upon the point of a blade, not even by Er’ril. There was too much unspoken between them. Until those words could be voiced aloud, Elena would never feel married. She did not need roses, rings, and flowing gowns of silk and pearls—only a quiet moment with Er’ril, a moment when the heavy silence between them could finally be broken.

But the thought of such a meeting terrified her to the core of her spirit.

Queen Tratal was right. She was not ready to face the secret hidden in her own heart. Not now, not yet.

The wit’ch and woman in her were carefully balanced on a knife’s edge. It took all her spirit to define herself amid the powers raging in her blood. She lifted her hands to the stars. Even now the power sang in her blood, a chorus of wild energies that threatened to overwhelm. Like the city of Stormhaven imbedded in the heart of the raging storms, so Elena stood in the eye of her own power. Here no one could protect her, not even Er’ril. Her only wall against these wild forces was her own resolve and determination.

So how could she ever hope to share her heart with anyone? To open herself completely? That path she must not risk—not even for

Er’ril.

Elena lowered her arms and leaned on the balcony’s balustrade.

Far below, Stormhaven was a spread of tiny lights: homes, shops, narrow streets. Above, a sprinkling of stars, so quiet, so peaceful, blind to the storm beyond the walls. But from her vantage high in the royal spire, she watched the flares of lightning brighten the churning black clouds, a pool of energies beyond imagination. There was power enough there to lift cities into the skies—or to lay waste to the same. Life and death were all a matter of balance. Elena knew this only too well.

To the left, the storm’s thunder grew louder, roaring now with the voice of giants. A sudden wind gusted forth to nip at the hems of her loose bedclothes. She shivered in the sudden cold. She wrapped her arms around her body and stepped back toward the open doorway and her bed beyond. Pausing at the threshold, she turned back to the dark storm. The hairs at the nape of her neck quivered. Something was wrong.

From the left, a huge fireball burst from the storm’s belly and arced high into the sky, like a meteor sailing back to the heavens. But it was not returning to the stars. It reached its zenith and began falling back downward—toward Stormhaven.

Trailing a fiery tail, the large flaming boulder crashed down into the city. The muffled crash seemed a small thing compared to the storm’s thunder, but the devastation was anything but small. The boulder punched through the city and set fire to all around it. Elena saw a four-story building, lit by the flames, topple into the ragged hole.

Distantly the strike of hundreds of gongs sounded the alarm from the city’s walls. Below, across the dark expanse, more lamps and lights flickered into existence as the city was shaken awake.

Elena again heard the telltale roar. She glanced up in time to see another flaming boulder belched forth from the storm—then another, and another.

From all directions, fiery arcs blazed across the night sky. The door to her suite suddenly burst open behind her. Wennar and two of the elv’in guards tumbled inside the room.

“Stormhaven’s under attack!” Wennar blurted out. “Come! We must reach the ships!” Elena fled the balcony. “The others?”

“They’re being gathered as we speak. Hurry, mistress.”

“What’s happening?”

Wennar shook his head. “We have no time to waste!” Elena glanced back through the balcony doors.

More and more flaming trails roared across the night sky. The strike of gongs be-

] A M

came more strident. Distant explosions rumbled, shaking the ensconced wall lamps.

As Elena followed the d’warf toward the halls beyond, the floor canted under her feet, tilting abruptly.

Caught off balance, Elena tumbled into Wennar’s arms.

He grabbed her, holding her steady as the floors continued to list at an ever-steepening angle. His eyes were wide with fear.

“Stormhaven falls!”

Aboard the Sunchaser, Tol’chuk woke with the first explosion and was on his feet before the echoes had died down. He tumbled out the door of his cabin. Up and down the lower passageway, other doors banged open. Faces peered out in confusion.

The dwarf Magnam tugged a shirt over his bare chest and crossed to Tol’chuk. “What is going on?” Crouched against the low beams, Tol’chuk shook his head. Distantly a low roaring could be heard.

“Something be wrong.” Confirming this, strident gongs began to clang. Tol’chuk turned toward the door leading to the middeck just as it burst open.

A wild-eyed elv’in sailor waved them toward the open deck. “Stormhaven is under attack!” Tol’chuk hurried forward, leading the d’warves and elv’in from their cabins. He clambered out to the open deck to find the winds had picked up. Free of the passage, his keen nose immediately picked up a trace of smoke upon the sharp breezes. Turning, he saw the source. A quarter league beyond the docks, flames danced high into the night air.

Magnam stepped to his side, gawking not at the burning city, but up at the sky. “What’s bloody happening?”

Tol’chuk looked up. A score of fiery trails arced across the night sky. He watched as one flaming boulder sailed past overhead and struck a steepled building, bounced off, then crashed into a bridge, smashing it to splinters as new fires sprouted.

J A

“Maybe the captain knows what’s going on,” Magnam said, point-¦ oward the starboard rail.

g t

Jerrick, temporary captain of the Sunchaser, stood with a long spyglass fixed to one eye. The elder remained steady as other flaming ¦ ggernauts struck the city, punching holes and setting homes and u

buildings ablaze. Tol’chuk followed the line of his spyglass toward the spires of the royal palace. With his keen og’re eyes, he discerned a flicker from the highest tower: a mirrored signal.

Jerrick lowered his spyglass and turned to those gathered around the deck. His voice boomed for all to hear. “Cast off the mooring lines! Send word to the rest of the ships! Free the skiffs! We’re to evacuate as many as we can from the fires!”

Elv’in sailors scurried to their posts. Ropes were tugged free and lines loosened. Sails tumbled down to snap in the steady wind. Along the harbor, other ships—both small and large—followed suit. A few drifted upward from their docks, their red iron keels glowing with energy.

By the rails, tarps were tugged from the smaller skiffs flanking the Sunchaser. Elv’in sailors scrambled to haul up the boats’ short masts and loosen the skiffs’ moorings.

After passing final orders to his crew, Jerrick crossed to Tol’chuk and the gathered d’warves. His eyes were worried, but his words were steady. “The word from the castle is to load you all into the Sunchaser‘s lead skiff. I’m to take you to the palace to join your companions. The queen suspects the attack is not upon Stormhaven itself, but set against the wit’ch.”

“What then?” Tol’chuk asked.

Jerrick shook his head. “I am to take you to the palace. Those were my orders.” He led the way to the ship’s stern. Beyond the rail, the largest of the skiffs was being readied. Sails bloomed from the short mast.

A splintering crash sounded off the port side. Tol’chuk watched a neighboring thick-bellied supply ship crack in half. A flaming boulder had struck its hull and arced over the tip of the Sunchaser’t masts. The heat of its passage burned like a passing sun. The damaged supply ship, its sails aflame, tumbled from the sky. In the fiery light, the small figures of sailors could be seen falling to their deaths.

Grim-faced, Jerrick waved Tol’chuk and the others onto the skiff.

“Get aboard. We must be under way.” As the d’warves clambered along the narrow gangway, the captain’s eyes turned to his city now aglow with scores of fires. The city itself began to tilt, sinking into the storm around it. Distant screams and shouts echoed out to them Tol’chuk crossed the short way onto the skiff. Jerrick followed last, his lips bloodless and tight. He waved a sailor from the boat’s tiller and took the place himself. “I can manage on my own,” Jerrick said. “Attend your duties on the Sunchaser.

I’ve left the first mate in charge.”

The elv’in sailor bowed, then scrambled back to the ship.

Once the last lines were loosened and the gangplank pulled in, the small skiff fell away from the Sunchaser. Its sails swelled, and it hove in a sharp turn toward the burning city, spiraling upward By now, a good quarter of the city was ablaze. Smoke choked the skies. Tol’chuk watched as a flaming boulder exploded out from the city’s center, punching through from below and shooting into the sky.

Splintered wood cascaded upward, catching fire and showering back down upon the homes and buildings. New blazes blew into existence.

Numb, Tol’chuk settled to his haunches near the mast. The d’warves huddled in smaller groups in the cramped boat. Magnam scuttled over to join Tol’chuk. “So much for sneaking up on Gul‘-gotha unawares,” he mumbled. “Someone knows we’re here.”

Now high enough, the skiff glided over the destruction below. Wafts of stinging smoke struck the small boat like rogue waves. Jerrick guided the craft with skill, shying from the worst flames and watching the sky for danger from above. Still the heat grew searing, and the smoky fumes watered the eyes and singed the nose.

Ahead, the spires of the royal palace drew nearer. Several of the towers listed like drunken sailors, threatening to topple at any moment. Tol’chuk glanced behind him.

Jerrick manned his post, his pale face smeared with soot and sweat. He, too, saw the danger, but maintained his stoicism, his sharp face fixed with determination. The captain’s gaze flickered to the flash of a signal fire from one of the listing towers. The silver light flickered in code.

In response, Jerrick leaned his shoulder into the tiller, and the skiff swept around toward the threatened tower. “Your companions are in there,” Jerrick said calmly, nodding forward.

j !‘t ivi r.

Tol’ch-uk swallowed. The spire continued to tilt, falling slowly, as if the flow of time had slowed. They would not make it in time.

Jerrick tried to aim the skiff on a steady and swift course, but the es wreaked havoc on the winds. The nr

swirl of cold and hot air created pocket tempests. Jerrick was forced to cut back and forth, buffeted by errant gusts.

As the captain fought the tiller, a roar like a thousand raging dragons sounded below.

“Grab hold tight!” the captain bellowed.

Tol’chuk dug his claws into the rail as another boulder shot upward from below, passing no more than a stone’s throw from the starboard side, a monstrous sun shooting past their tiny ship. D’warves scrambled away, crying out. The small skiff was pelted from below by splintered debris.

Tol’chuk turned forward in time to see a flaming section of a demolished house fly up in front of the skiff.

It flipped end over end, throwing off burning shingles. Jerrick angled the skiff up and away and avoided a collision by less than a handspan.

But they did not pass the flying house unscathed. A handful of flaming shingles rained over the skiff. The d’warves kicked and swatted the fiery bits off the deck, but one shingle struck the sail, burning through it and setting the sailcloth aflame.

Tol’chuk shoved to his feet and patted at the flames, scorching the hair from his fingers and arms, but the fire spread quickly, eating away their only sail. Other flames spat up around the rails. “The hull’s on fire!” Jerrick yelled.

As Tol’chuk and the others fought the flames, the skiff went into a steep tumble down toward the burning city.

Elena raced with Wennar down the spiraling stairs that led to the main keep of the elv’in palace. The steps were canted at a unnatural angle, as if this were all a fevered dream—but it was not. The air reeked of smoke. The heat was stifling in the tight stairwell. Screams echoed from afar. Through narrow windows in the tower, they caught passing glimpses of the destruction. Fires burned throughout the city.

Whole sections were just cratered ruins.

“Not much farther!” Wennar wheezed.

Ahead a pair of elv’in guards led the way. They were to gather in L’t M r.

the queen’s audience chamber on the palace’s lowest level. Elena glanced out a window and spotted a few elv’in windships aloft over the ravaged city. Lamps lit their riggings, and ropes’trailed down to rescue those most at risk.

Praying for the citizens of Stormhaven, Elena hurried after Wen-nar. As she ran, she pictured the face of the elv’in boy who had stolen a kiss from her cheek, his eyes full of life, full of joy. But now look what she had brought to his home: fire and death. Such was the fate of all who met her. And though the flames here were not lit-by her own hand, they might as well have been. She was ultimately to blame for the destruction here. The dark forces of the Gul’gotha must have sensed her presence here.

“Thank the Sweet Mother,” Wennar grumbled. Elena glanced ahead. The stairwell’s end came in sight.

As a group, they rushed out of the slanted tower and into the main keep. “This way!” one of the elv’in called.

In the main keep, the floors were still tilted, but it was now all downhill. They raced down the passage.

Other elv’in crowded these lower halls, many still in their bedclothes like Elena, seeking refuge in the lower levels of the towers. Panic and fear were bright in their eyes. But that was not all. Elena caught the narrow-eyed glares and whispered curses as she was led past by the guards. One thin man spat at her feet. “Begone, witch!” Wennar elbowed him aside and pushed Elena ahead. “Don’t mind him, mistress.” Elena bit her lip.

But others took up the man’s chant. “Begone, wit’chl” The noise drew other elv’in into the hall from neighboring passages. The guards were forced to bare their swords against the growing crowd. Their progress slowed. Behind them, the crowds now surged, pressing them from the rear.

“She’s murdered us all!” a woman shrilled.

To the left, a dagger appeared in someone’s hand. All Elena saw was a flash of silver. But Wennar was there, catching the attacker’s wrist and breaking the thin bones with a loud crack. The man fell to his knees in pain, but Wennar kicked him aside after relieving him of his weapon.

Now armed, Wennar sheltered Elena in front of him, keeping her close to the backs of the guards. The double doors to the queen’s private audience chamber lay ahead, but the way was packed with a swelling mob. They could not move forward. “Kill the wit’chl” Wennar grunted as a piece of broken chair leg was thrown at his head, clouting him on his ear. His feet stumbled, but he kept his place. “We need to get clear of this passage.” Elena glanced to her ruby hands, ripe with power. Could she slay these panicked folk? Kill them so she might live? She clenched her fists. Sweet Mother, do not ma/{e me do this.

Then the doors to the audience chamber crashed open. All eyes swung around. Queen Tratal towered in the threshold. Though her form was clothed in a long shift and her hair fell loose to the small of her back, there was no mistaking that royalty stood before them. Her skin was as pale as fresh snow; her eyes blazed with ice-fire. All along her bare arms, blue cascades of energy shimmered. Even her hair was alive with power.

When she spoke, her voice rumbled with the threat of thunder. “What is the meaning of this?” A man answered from down the hall, brave in his anonymity. “The wit’ch has brought this destruction upon us all! We must be avenged!” Murmurs of assent wafted through the crowd.

A dagger appeared in Queen Tratal’s hand. She held it out toward the crowd. “Then kill me” she said, her words crackling down the hall. “It is I who brought Elena here against her will. If anyone is to blame for this night, it is your own queen. It is my pride that has brought ruin down upon us all.” Elena was close enough to see the tears in Tratal’s eyes. The dagger trembled in the queen’s fingers—not from fear, but agony and sorrow.

“Take this knife and plunge it into my own breast!” The hall grew deathly silent. “No!” those nearest answered. The sorrow of their queen quickly spread outward. People fell to their knees, into each other’s arms, sobbing. Like ice floes in spring, the crowd began to break up around them, falling away.

Tratal lowered the blade with a look of regret, almost as if she wished someone had taken up her challenge. Her eyes met Elena’s, and the fire died in them. “Come,” she said. “We’ve not much time.” Elena pushed past the guards and stepped around those weeping on the slanted floor. Once at the queen’s side, Elena touched Tratal’s bare arm, a silent gesture of sympathy.

Queen Tratal placed her hand gently atop Elena’s. “I’m sorry.”

“Is there nothing I can do to help save your city?” Tratal shook her head. “We’ll take flight on our ships, save as many as we can.” The queen led Elena into her audience chamber. The room was deep and long.

Its walls were draped in tapestries, and a throne of polished mahogany stood at one end. While normally serving as a hall for the queen to settle disputes and oversee her city, now it was a rallying point for the royal household. Elv’in of all ages and dress scurried about the room, preparing to evacuate the palace.

Elena stared at the organized confusion, frowning at a row of elv’in elders bent over strange devices along the far wall. “What of my friends?” she asked.

Tratal nodded across the chamber. Elena finally noticed Mama Freda bandaging up Er’ril’s arm. The plainsman sat atop a crate of their gear. Even from across the room, Elena recognized the Blood Diary in his lap; he guarded it even now.

Tratal led her toward them. “I’ve also sent for your companions on the Sunchaser. They should arrive at any moment with one of the smaller skiffs. In the confusion, you should be able to slip away as the city is pursued.”

Er’ril spotted Elena and stood, trailing a length of ripped linen from his left arm. “Elena, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she answered, waving him back down. “Let Mama Freda finish her work.” The old healer yanked on her length of bandage. “He’s been pulling at these reins since the first fireball, wanting to gallop to your side.”

Er’ril opened his mouth to protest, but Elena silenced him with an upraised hand. She directed her next question back to Queen Tratal. “These fireballs… do you know where they came from? Or who attacks?”

Queen Tratal nodded to the four elv’in elders and their bronze devices. “Come. We’ve not much time.

But you should this see yourself.” Elena and Wennar were led quickly across the room to the four stations just behind the throne. The men sat upon high stools before wooden columns sprouting bronze contraptions. They had their faces pressed to oval cutouts in the columns while their fingers manipulated bronze mechanisms.

As the queen approached with Elena, one of the elv’in straightened, pulling his face away from his station.

“My queen,” he said with a bob of his head. “I’m afraid we’ve discovered no safe path for the city.” Queen Tratal placed a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Ger-mayn. You and the other farseers should attend to your own families. But first, could you show Elena what you’ve seen?” He bobbed his head again. “Certainly, my queen.” He hopped off his seat and patted the stool. “Sit, child.”

Elena, her brow wrinkled with curiosity, climbed the seat. Wennar was offered another station. Once settled, the old elv’in coaxed the two to peer into the cutout in the column. The oval shape was a perfect fit for her face, the wooden edges worn smooth from ages of use. Within the column, Elena found only darkness, but sensed the column was hollow.

“Let me open a farseer channel,” the elder said.

Elena heard the elv’in swivel the bronze controls. Queen Tratal spoke as he worked. “We’ve crystal eyes set on the city’s underside to pierce the belly of the storm. Ancient architects of the city devised a x.

complex of mirrors and prisms to allow us to spy upon the world below us.”

“There we go,” the elder mumbled. An echoing click sounded.

The interior of the dark column lit up, drawing a shocked gasp from Elena. A fiery view of a blasted landscape was reflected in a mirror tilted in front of her face. Elena instantly knew at what she was staring.

Wennar named it aloud, his voice strained. “Gul’gotha.” Below Stormhaven, a mountainous terrain spread in all directions. Even in the predawn darkness, the landscape was easy to discern. Sprinkled amidst the dark peaks glowed hundreds of volcanic cones. Crimson magma churned in their craters, some brighter than the midday sun. It was an infernal land of smoke, fire, and ash.

As she watched, one of the cones exploded forth with a fountain oflava. From the volcano’s fiery throat, a large, flaming boulder coughed skyward. It was no random event. With her face pressed to the farseeing device, Elena saw other peaks cast out fireballs, all aiming in fiery arcs toward the city.

Elena pulled away, shocked, the blood draining from her face. “The Land itself is attacking the city.”

“So it would seem,” the queen said. “Scout ships and my farseers had deemed the volcanos dormant.

But once the city passed over it, the peaks began to erupt. Whether a foul hand directs the assault or whether it is some unnatural defense triggered by our presence, no one is able to say. All we know with certainty is that we’ve flown into this trap with no safe passage to escape it. Our only hope is for evacuation aboard our smaller, swifter ships.”

Elena and Wennar climbed down from their stools. “Are there enough ships?” she asked.

Queen Tratal turned away, her pained expression answer enough. Across the hall, near one of the narrow windows, an elv’in sentry with a spyglass called out to the queen, drawing all their attentions.

“I’ve spotted Jerrick’s skiff!” The young sentry turned, and Elena realized it was Prince Typhon, his nose bandaged. “But it’s taken flame! It burns!”

Queen Tratal glanced down to Elena with concern.

“What is it?” Elena asked.

“It’s your friends’ boat,” the queen said in a rush, hurrying toward Typhon. She yelled to her guards as she strode his way. “Open the Storm Gate!”

Elv’in scurried to obey, exposing long chains hidden behind narrow tapestries at the back corners of the room. As the chains were worked, old gears groaned overhead. The entire wall behind the throne began to rise, opening an expansive view across the city of Stormhaven.

As the monstrous gate winched open, smoke billowed into the hall. By now half of the city was aflame.

Standing by the throne with the queen, Elena coughed and blinked against the fumes. Below, ships of all sizes drifted above the carnage. Rope ladders dangled down from the open hulls, crowded with fleeing townsfolk.

Elena glanced to Tratal. It was more than stinging smoke that drew tears from the queen’s eyes. “What have I done?” Tratal moaned.

Prince Typhon stepped to their side. “There!” he said, pointing out into the maelstrom of smoke and fire.

Off to the left, a tiny boat swept in a steep dive toward the palace. Its keel trailed smoke and flames. Its mast was a torch in the darkness. “They’ll burn to cinders before they can reach here.”

“No,” Queen Tratal said firmly. “I may not be able to save my city, but I can rescue this one ship.” She lifted her arms, eyes closing.

The young prince stepped away, drawing Elena with him. He stared back upon the queen with a mix of awe, love, and concern. “The queen weakens rapidly. All this horrible night, she has fought to bolster sections of the city, to keep the broken sections aloft long enough for ships to rescue as many as possible. But even here in the heart of the storm, her power is not limitless.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Elena asked.

He shook his head. “She is mistress of the storm. This is her domain.” Er’ril, his arm bandaged from wrist to elbow, joined them. Mama Freda shadowed the plainsman with Tikal on her shoulder.

“I smell lightning in the air,” Mama Freda whispered.

“It starts,” Typhon said.

Elena glanced to him. “What?”

“The queen seeks the storm’s heart.”

Near the Storm Gate, Queen Tratal’s arms crackled anew with blue energies. She gave a strangled gasp, and her hair blew into a nimbus around her. Rivulets of sweat trailed down her face as her kin grew translucent—but beneath her glassy skin was not bone. Instead, storm clouds churned amid flashes of lightning. She was becoming the storm itself.

As the queen stood, her limbs started to tremble. Prince Typhon rushed to her side, catching her as her legs gave out, holding her up. Suddenly Tratal’s neck arched backward, and a scream ripped from her throat.

Singed and blistered, Tol’chuk continued to bat at the flames as the conflagration ate the last of the skiff’s sails. It was hopeless. Flames raced along the rails. The deck burned underfoot. Tol’chuk bellowed his frustration.

Then, as if the skies themselves had heard his protests, an answering cry pierced the storm’s thunder.

Tol’chuk searched the skies. Far off to port, a stream of clouds broke over the city wall and raced toward their ship. Tendrils broke from its foremost edge, spreading outward. Tol’chuk’s eyes grew wide.

Lit by the fires below, the race of clouds looked like a giant’s arm reaching out toward them, fingers spreading above.

The d’warves aboard the skiff stopped their attempts to stanch the many fires. “What new horror is this?” Magnam asked.

With a scream of winds, a spat of lightning danced among the giant’s fingers. Thunder blasted, throwing them all to the deck.

Only Jerrick maintained his position, standing at his tiller, eyes filling with tears, face exposed to the winds. “My queen…”

Overhead, the clouds split open, and a downpour flooded over the burning ship, drenching, pelting, swirling. Near Tol’chuk, the burning mast hissed angrily as it was doused by rain. Tol’chuk rolled to his feet. Than’t the Sweet Mother! “Look!” Magnam said, pointing toward the city wall. Tol’chuk turned from the mast. Out beyond the towering wall, the storm clouds swirled, afire with lightning. At first, Tol’chuk failed to see what had caught the small d’warf’s attention, but as his vision broadened, he began to discern a form hidden among the clouds.

No… not hidden in the clouds, but made of the storm itself.

He saw a woman crouching in the storm, with lightning for eyes, her arm reaching out over them, drenching their boat with life-saving rain.

From this distance, Tol’chuk recognized the pain and sorrow in her face. Even the thunder seemed to moan with the grief in her heart.

“Who is that?” Magnam asked.

Jerrick answered softly, sobbing, as he fell to his knees by the tiller. “My queen…” Er’ril watched Tratal fall limp in Prince Typhon’s arms. He hurried forward with Elena at his side. “Let me help you,” Er’ril said, bending down. He handed the Blood Diary to Elena, who clutched the book to her chest, her gaze fixed on the queen. “Let’s get Her Highness away from this open gate.” Typhon nodded gratefully, his eyes wide with concern. Between the two of them, they were able to carry Queen Tratal to her throne, gut Er’ril could have carried her on his own, even with his injured arm. Her body was as light as spun cotton.

Once the queen was settled in her cushioned chair, Mama Freda joined them and ran her hands over Tratal’s body. “She’s cold as the grave.”

Typhon glanced between the queen’s prone form and back to the open gate. Smoke continued to billow into the hall. Overhead, a fireball sailed past the top of the palace spires, smashing the highest levels to burning splinters, showering flaming debris across the gateway. The prince took a step toward the opening, but his gaze shifted back to the queen. His fists clenched in frustration. “I should help oversee the landing of Jerrick’s skiff, but…”

“Go! I’ve enough help here. See to the boat!”

He nodded, relieved to have the decision taken from him, and raced to join the other elv’in at the gate.

“I should go help him,” Wennar said. “It is my d’warves who are aboard the boat.” Elena nodded, giving him permission. Once he stepped away, she moved near the queen and Mama Freda. “What can I do to help?”

The healer fingered Tratal’s throat. “The beat of her heart is faint.

She is fading.“

Elena held up one of her ruby hands. “What if I lent her some of iny magick?” Er’ril stepped closer to protest, but one look from Elena kept him quiet. Though he may now be her husband by elv’in law, she warned him that this was not a matter up for discussion. Er’ril bit his lip. Elena had lent her magick to others in the past to help bolster their spirits—once with her Uncle Bol as the old man’s heart had failed, and once even with Er’ril when he had been poisoned by a goblin’s dagger. But it was not without risk to Elena herself.

Mama Freda patted Elena’s hand. “I don’t believe your magick will help here, child. It is not her body that is fading, so much as her spirit. It is not sickness that casts the queen out, but her own will.”

“But if I strengthen her body… ?”

Mama Freda shrugged. “I am no wit’ch. I cannot say.”

Er’ril sighed and spoke. “If the queen is doomed, what harm could it do to try?” Elena glanced to Er’ril with surprise. He maintained a fixed stare at Mama Freda. Though he might not like Elena’s choice to risk herself for a queen who had betrayed them, he was still her liegeman. ‘ He would offer whatever advice and counsel that he possessed.

The old healer shrugged again. “As I said, I am no wit’ch.” Er’ril reached to his belt and pulled free a rose-handled dagger.

“My wit’ch’s blade!”

Er’ril held out the dagger to Elena. “The queen had them return all our gear taken from the Sunchaser.” He nodded to the stacked crates.

Elena passed the Diary to him in exchange for the dagger, but Er’ril kept his grip on the knife. He stared hard into Elena’s eyes. “Be careful,” he warned under his breath.

She nodded grimly at him as he relinquished the blade. Next, Elena knelt beside the throne. She took Queen Tratal’s hand and bloodied a finger with the tip of the dagger. A drop of blood welled up on the queen’s skin. Elena glanced nervously to Er’ril.

He touched her shoulder, striving to instill his own strength into her.

Taking a deep breath, Elena pierced one of her own ruby fingers. Against the dark crimson stain, it was hard to say if blood had been drawn, but Er’ril saw Elena stiffen slightly—not with pain, but with the release of her pent magick. Her eyes closed narrowly, lips parting. A breath escaped her throat.

She leaned closer to the queen, but before she could mix their blood, a loud crash echoed through the hall. The floorboards jarred. Elena grabbed the throne to keep from tumbling.

Behind the throne, Er’ril saw the cause of the interruption. A large boat had slammed broadside into the edge of the Storm Gate. Elv’in scurried at the opening, tossing ropes, shouting orders. Smoke and steam billowed from the beaten craft, but Er’ril spotted the large bulk of Tol’chuk near the stern.

Prince Typhon called out to them, hauling on a rope as the winds tore at the rocking boat. “The skiff is docked! We must load up your gear!”

Er’ril spotted Wennar already hurrying toward the crates. The d’warf could not handle the stack by himself. He stepped in the d’warf’s direction, but stopped, hesitating.

“Go!” Elena said. “Get everything aboard. I will attempt this, then we must be off.”

“We don’t have much time.”