“Then don’t argue. Go!”

Er’ril paused a moment, locking eyes with Elena. She met his gaze. Her stony demeanor softened as she understood his consternation. “Go,” she said softly but firmly. “I’ll be fine.” Er’ril turned away. He had won her hand in marriage, but Elena was forever her own woman—and if truth be told, he would wish it no other way.

Tucking the Blood Diary inside his shirt, he hurried to join the others by the boat.

Alone now with Queen Tratal and Mama Freda, Elena returned to her duty. She lifted the queen’s hand and positioned their two bloody fingers near one another. The dagger’s slices still bled freshly from both wounds.

Mama Freda hovered at her shoulder. “Careful, child.” Elena barely heard the healer’s words, turning her ear instead to the song of her own magick. After practicing her arts, Elena understood the flows of her own power, but in this matter, sending a part of her magick into another, control was critical. Too much energy and she could burn Queen Tratal into a smoking cinder.

Taking a steadying breath, Elena lowered her finger to the queen’s.

Instantly Elena’s mind snapped away, flowing down the blood link into the queen’s prone form. Elena had done this before—with

Uncle Bol, with Flint, with Er’ril—but nothing had prepared her for what she discovered inside Queen Tratal.

Storm winds tore at Elena’s mind, threatening to tear her away from her own body. Elena struggled to hold her place, drawing more of her own energy to define herself in the maelstrom. Around her, dark clouds swirled; lightning flashed in silver streaks of fire. In that moment, Elena realized she was not inside Tratal—at least not in her body of flesh and blood.

Instead, she had entered the storm beyond the city. The queen and the storm had become one—and Elena had joined them. * She wrapped her magick around herself like a cloak, struggling to hold herself in place. She could not stay long. It was hard even now to discern the tenuous connection back to her body in the throne room. It was a mere thread in the whirlwind.

As she floated, anchoring herself in the storm, she sensed even fainter threads spreading in an infinite web around her, stretching out in all directions. The overall effect was one of interconnectivity. She knew what she was sensing out here in the middle of the storm. It was life—every living thing connected together in an endless web of energy and power. Elena longed to follow it outward. It called to her from countless throats. But even she did not have that much power. She would be lost in that infinite maze, a mote in the vastness of life.

So instead she concentrated on the one single thread near her— that which connected the storm to the queen’s body.

As she did so, Elena felt eyes turning in her direction, a familiar icy stare. Queen Tratal. She must have sensed Elena’s presence. Words formed in the howl of winds around her. “Go, child. This is my battle.” Elena recognized the figure of a woman, formed of clouds and energy, swirling around her. “You’re dying,” she yelled into the howling winds.

“So be it. Death is not an end, and by using my spirit to fuel the storm, giving myself fully to it, I can save more of my people.”

Images formed in Elena’s mind. A woman of clouds wrapped around the ravaged city, holding it to her breast, speeding it faster over the volcanic peaks, making the city a harder target. Elena understood.

Queen Tratal intended to give her own life so more of her people might escape.

“I can help,” Elena argued. “You do not have to spend all your life’s energy. Use my magick!” A tired smile formed in the clouds. “You are truly King Belarion’s child.” The thin thread back to the queen’s body and the throne room blazed brighter. “But the path here is too fragile. Enough energy to make any difference would burn away this conduit, trapping you forever in this storm with me. I will not allow you to risk yourself.”

Elena sensed the truth of her words. Even the bits of energy she used to define herself here threatened the weak connection. “But what of you?”

“Away, child. This is my battle.”

Winds buffeted Elena, shoving her back along the thread. For a moment, she fought, refusing to give up.

But the energy to resist frazzled the connection, thinning it to the faintest strand. Realizing the futility of her actions, she yielded to the storm, surrendering herself to the winds.

Elena felt herself pass through Queen Tratal’s body. As she did so, she sensed the thin thread connecting the queen here to the storm snap away. Elena heard the last beat of Tratal’s heart as she fell back into her own body.

Elena sagged, slumping backward, suddenly weak. Mama Freda caught her. “You’re safe, child… safe.”

“The queen… ?” she asked faintly. “Gone.”

Elena grabbed the throne’s arm to pull herself up. In the seat, she found Queen Tratal’s shift crumpled on the cushions—but nothing more. Her body had vanished.

Typhon suddenly stumbled up to the other side of the throne, falling to his knees. He stared at the empty seat, tears running down his cheeks. He moaned. “She’s given herself fully to the storm.” Elena nodded. “She means to use her energy to speed the city over the lands of Gul’gotha, to buy more time for her people to escape.”

Wennar appeared behind Typhon. “Then we must hurry. We’ve already flown past the home mines of my people.” Mama Freda helped Elena to her feet.

“All the gear has been stowed,” the d’warf captain added, stepping away. “We must be gone.” Typhon stood, wiping tears from his eyes. “I will captain the skiff myself. I know the queen’s will in this matter—to get you safely to your destination.”

From behind the prince, a tall elv’in man strode forward and rested a hand on the prince’s shoulder.

Er’ril was with him. Elena recognized the stern newcomer from the Sunchaser. It was Captain Jerrick.

His face was smeared with soot, his hair and clothes soaked with rain. “No. I’ll not allow it, Prince Typhon. Your place is here.”

“But the queen’s command…”

“Tha queen is no longer. And with her sons gone to the far corners of the world, you are the next in line to the throne. You must serve as regent until such a time as one of them returns.” Prince Typhon’s eyes grew huge with horror.

Jerrick gripped his shoulder tighter. “You must lead our people from Stormhaven.”

“I… I can’t…”

“You will.”

Elena understood his pain and shock—the sudden thrust of power, the burden of responsibility.

“Take your Lady Mela,” Jerrick continued, “and lead as many away as you can. They are seeds cast to the wind. You must find them all a safe place to land.”

“But what of Elena and her companions?”

“I will take them myself. That is my duty as ship’s captain. Your duty is here.” Elena saw the young prince bow under the heavy mantle of leadership. For a moment, she thought he would break, but slowly he stood straighten Pain and sorrow shadowed his eyes, but he nodded. “Take them to the skiff. I will see to our people.”

Captain Jerrick nodded once, then lifted an arm to direct them to the ship. “We must hurry,” he said.

Er’ril stepped beside Elena, putting a protective arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right?” She leaned into him. “I’m fine.” She glanced behind her to see Prince Typhon standing stiffly beside the empty mahogany throne. He’ll make a better leader than I, she thought, and wished him strength for the hardships ahead.

At the gate, the winds had grown harsher. The small skiff bounced and rattled against its moorings. Elena saw that a burned hole in the sail had been hastily patched with a bit of tapestry ripped from the throne room’s walls. A sailor with a long needle was repairing the last rent as their group reached the gangplank.

Captain Jerrick yelled into the storm’s winds. “Clear off! Be ready to loose the moorings on my command!”

Elv’in scurried to obey, leaping from the rail or swinging on mooring ropes. Soon the deck was clear of all but Elena’s party. The wit’eh crossed to join Tol’chuk, nodding to the gathered d’warves, who looked like a gaggle of drowned geese in their drenched clothes. Elena moved to a spot near the stacked crates, seeking shelter against the wind. She was still dressed only in her nightclothes, but Er’ril joined her with a fur-lined cloak under each arm.

JAMhS

L’t M £ in ; pa

“This should could keep you warm until we can get to your eked clothes.” Teeth chattering, Elena accepted the cloak and wrapped its thickness around her. Warm gear was passed to the others. Soon they were all huddled under cloaks and blankets.

Captain Jerrick took his place near the skiff’s tiller. “Ready to cast off!” he yelled to the elv’in manning the gate.

Knots were tugged loose, and the skiff lurched forward. Elena bumped into a neighboring crate.

“Keep low!” Jerrick ordered, his words directed at the skiff this time. The mast’s boom swept by overhead, and the craft turned smartly in the wind. “It’s going to get rough from here!” Elena sighed. Doesn’t it always… ?

The skiff circled out from the palace. By now, four of the building’s twenty spires had fallen away, and another three burned, casting flames high into the air. Below, the city fared worse. Fully three-quarters of it was lost to the fires or destroyed by the rain of fireballs. But for the moment, there seemed a respite from the attacks. The night sky was empty of flaming juggernauts. It seemed Tratal’s efforts had not been in vain. The elv’in queen must have succeeded in accelerating the city’s flight—but for how long?

Overhead, other elv’in ships, crowded with peering faces, trundled past, many heading toward the walls of the ravaged city. A handful of others patrolled the lower city, searching out those still living, offering one last lifeline.

“What of those still in the palace?” Elena asked, glancing back to Jerrick.

“Stormhaven takes care of its own,” he answered cryptically.

Elena turned to stare back at the retreating castle as the skiff drifted downward.

“Where are you heading?” Er’ril asked.

Jerrick pointed to the deck. “Straight down through the heart of the storm.”

“Is that safe?” Er’ril said.

Jerrick wiped soot from his eyes. “Is anywhere safe?” he mumbled. But after Er’ril’s expression darkened further, he added, “I’ll get us through. Don’t you worry. I’ve plied the storms since I was a boy.”

Elena watched the elv’in citadel fade behind them, then gasped as vv l I CH liATE

all the remaining towers fell away like toppling sticks. “Oh, no! Prince Typhon… the others…” But she need not have worried. A wondrous sight appeared. Trie walls of the central keep shed away, revealing the hidden heart of the castle. A gigantic ship rose from the wreckage of the palace, lifting atop an iron keel that glowed with the light of a rising sun. Slowly sails unfurled and caught the tempest’s winds, billowing out. The ship hove gracefully away, leading the myriad scores of other ships, both large and small, away from the burning city.

Then the sight vanished as the skiff swept into the storm’s edge. “Hold tight!” Jerrick called out.

The bow end of the craft dipped steeply as the captain dove the skiff into the storm’s depths under the city. Instantly winds tore at the craft. The sails whipped and snapped. Rains sluiced across the deck, soaking them to the bone. But Jerrick seemed little fazed by the bucking skiff. He manipulated his tiller, and energy danced along his hands as he touched his own magick.

As they fled through the clouds, lightning chased them. Thunder roared and pummeled the skiff. But the captain rode the storm’s lines: coursing swiftly along downdrafts, banking steeply through eddies and rapids.

Elena held white-knuckled to the rail, while Er’ril did his best to shelter her. Overhead, the sail’s patch began to tatter, its rent edge snapping in the winds. Jerrick’s lips drew tighter, bloodlessly thin, but he continued to work his tiller.

Elena turned forward just as the skiff suddenly bucked, coming close to spilling end over end. Er’ril clutched hard to her as her knees lifted from the planks. Then the skiff slammed back to an even keel.

She and Er’ril fell with a hard bump back to the deck.

“We’re through,” Jerrick said simply, as if they had been merely gliding along a calm stream.

Elena pushed up and was immediately struck by the heat. After the endless chill, the air was stifling, reeking of sulfur and molten rock. She stared past the rail and saw the spread of dark peaks under them, aglow with the infernal light of volcanic cones. It was a sight to burn away her resolve. How could they hope to survive down there?

“A loathsome place indeed,” Mama Freda mumbled.

“It wasn’t always this way,” Wennar said. “The land grew sick vvith volcanoes and quakes only after the Nameless One corrupted our people. It was once a green and hale place.” Searching below, Elena could never imagine that to be true. She turned her face away.

Overhead, swirling dark clouds swept past. Distantly, Elena saw bits of the hidden city fall through the storm’s belly to litter the landscape below. Off to the side, a section of a building tumbled from the clouds, hit the peak of a mountain, and disintegrated into an explosion of broken planks. Elena stretched her neck and searched for escaping ships. There was no sign.

“Stormhaven slows,” Jerrick said, noticing the direction of Elena’s stare.

Elena realized he was correct. At the edges, the storm was fraying. Clouds drifted away. The queen’s energy must be fading.

“Gul’gotha will again sense Stormhaven’s passage,” Jerrick said dourly. Punctuating his statement, a volcanic peak exploded a league away, belching out another fireball. The flaming shot of magma arced brilliantly, disappearing into the storm front with an immense hiss. “The attack renews,” Er’ril said.

The captain’s face became lined with worry as he returned his attention to the skiff. “My people’s ships and boats will not have enough time to escape safely.”

As the skiff spun in a slow spiral toward the cursed landscape, Elena stood and tossed off her wet cloak.

“I’ll not let that happen.” She slipped free her wit’ch’s dagger. ‘’Elena…“ Er’ril warned.

“If it’s energy the storm needs, then it’s energy I’ll give it.” She sliced the meat of both thumbs, releasing coldfire from her left hand and wit’chfire from her right. Inside the swirling clouds, Tratal had warned her that passing magick into the queen’s body would only burn away the tenuous tie between the woman and the storm, but Elena saw no such risk now. Tratal was gone from this world.

Elena studied the swirl of clouds. She did not know how much of Tratal still rode the storm, but there was one energy that the storm should be able to feed upon.

Lifting her right hand, Elena formed a fist and called for the power of the sun—touching its heat and fire.

Energy built to a feverish blaze inside her clenched palm. Her hand grew to a bright ruby blaze. Elena next raised her left fist and summoned the magick of moonlight—cold and ice. Her fist grew to match the other; the only difference was a slight azure hue to the ruby glow.

Power sang in her blood and heart, rejoicing, crying for release. Elena was well-used to the song of the wit’ch and ignored the chorus of chaos and wild magicks. Instead she brought her two fists together, knuckles to knuckles. The trapped energy shook her very frame. Finally, when she could hold it no longer, she shoved her arms toward the sky, unfolding her fingers like an opening rose. A rage of energy blew skyward, a mix of wit’chfire and coldfire, the two becoming one in a blaze oistormfire.

Magick shrieked skyward, a tumble of ice and fire. Elena gasped, her back arching as energy spasmed out of her. Her stream of stormfire struck the storm and disappeared into it. Lightning radiated from the point of impact, like spokes on a wheel. But as she fed more and more of her power into the dark clouds, the lightning forked and forked again, becoming a blazing net of energy spreading through the entire bank of clouds.

“Elena!” Er’ril screamed into her ear, but she hardly heard him. Magick sang through her blood. “Elena!

Look to the left!”

His words sank through the chorus of her power. Her gaze slowly turned, and she saw a fireball arcing directly at them. From the corner of her eye, she watched Jerrick fight his tiller. The captain must have been so fixed on her display that he had failed to notice the threat until it was too late. The boat could not move out of the path of the flaming boulder in time.

Though Elena should have felt terror, magick was too ripe in her. She rang with invincibility. Swinging her arms down from the skies, she separated her hands and flung a spray of pure coldfire at the magma ball, snuffing its flames and freezing it solid. With hardly a thought, she followed next with a blinding lance of wit’chfire, striking the boulder when it was less than a dozen spans from the boat. The frozen ball of magma exploded with its touch, shattering into dust that plumed harmlessly over the skiff, coating them all.

Once done, Elena sagged to her knees, her magick spent. Er’ril was there, tossing her cloak back over her shoulders and hugging her tight.

JAMES <^LEMKNS

“Get us down into the valleys!” Er’ril yelled. “We can’t risk being shot at again.” Jerrick dove the skiff at a steep angle.

Elena sank into her knight’s arms. Her bones felt like butter.

Er’ril squeezed and rubbed her arms. “The wards here must be attuned to magick, whether from the elemental energies or your own power.” v

“I was foolish,” she mumbled. “I should have thought before acting.”

“You were following your heart,” Er’ril whispered.

Tol’chuk pointed behind the stern. “The woman in the clouds. She returns!” Elena glanced skyward, staying in Er’ril’s arms.

Above and behind them, the storm churned and roiled with lightning. But there was no mistaking the gigantic figure formed of clouds and framed by lightning.

“Queen Tratal…” Jerrick said, his voice cracking.

The elv’in woman floated along the tempest’s belly.

As they watched, the storm grew thicker, its edges more substantial. The wide bank of clouds rolled more swiftly away from them, propelled upon unseen winds.

The figure in the clouds stared back down, a sad smile on her lips. Words swept toward them upon a gust of wind. “You’ve saved us.” The words echoed and faded away. “Saved us all.”

“Queen Tratal,” Elena murmured.

“Godspeed, Elena Morin’stal.” The woman dissolved back into the storm—but one final message whispered back to her: words only meant for Elena. “Remember your promise.” Elena stared as the storm streamed toward the dark horizon. “I will,” she said firmly. And in her heart, she knew she spoke truly. In some distant time, some other place, the elv’in houses would be reunited again.

But not here, not now. That was another’s story, not hers. Elena leaned to the rail and stared below.

The skiff glided toward the blasted landscape of Gul’gotha: a maze of craggy red mountains, deep-clefted valleys, stunted trees, and blighted streams that glowed a sickly green. This was her future.

BROKEN CROWNS

Mycelle kept a wary watch on the dark forest around them, her breath billowing white before her.

Nearby, Krai built a fire of deadfall wood to prepare their midday meal. Even the large mountain man’s fingers shivered as he struck steel on flint. The days since leaving Castle Mryl and the Northwall had grown more frigid with every step. The skies, what could be seen of them, were now a blank slate of gray, and last night, a gentle snow had sifted through the monstrous twisted branches. In the morning, the entire wood was dusted in white.

Mycelle stared around her. Normally a snow-cloaked forest held a certain calm beauty. But here in the Dire Fell, the sight was disheartening, like a frosted corpse, contorted by the ice.

The only warmth came from their own camp. Nee’lahn sat on a knobbed root of a tree and played her lute softly. The strings thrummed with hummingbirds and green leaves, ringing of soft-petaled flowers and long summer nights. It was no surprise that the Grim wraiths held back. It was the song of their True Glen, of the lost Lok’ai’hera. How it must pain them to be reminded of their past, here among the twisted boles and tortured branches of their ancient trees. Even Mycelle felt a twinge of the loss as she listened to the nyphai’s gentle playing.

Meric stepped up to Mycelle. He rubbed his hands together, blowing on his bare fingers for warmth, but his eyes were on the sky. “It’ll snow again tonight.”

She nodded. The elv’in lord had a keen weather sense.

“We cannot keep going like this,” he continued, moving nearer and lowering his voice. “If and when we pass this sick forest, the cold and winds will only grow worse. We need to find warmer gear for the road ahead.”

“I know. I saw Mogweed eyeing Fardale earlier. He had a look in his eye like he wanted to skin his brother for his warm pelt.” Mycelle frowned. They each had thick cloaks and.leather boots to keep the worst of the chill away, but they would need furs and warmer bedrolls to reach Tor Amon and the Citadel of the Mountain Folk.

“If only the Stormwing could have crossed the Wall,” Meric mumbled.

Mycelle sighed. It was a constant wish by them all. But shortly after escaping Castle Mryl, they had contacted Meric’s ship through the use of Lord Tyrus’ silver coin. Xin had reported that not only was the Northwall too tall to pass over, but even the breach in the wall was blocked by the monstrous trees. Any attempts they made to pass had triggered the forest to attack the ship with whipping, clawing branches, guided by wraiths perched in the trees’ limbs. The Stormwing could not fly high enough to escape their assault.

“We’ll manage,” Mycelle said.

“I hope so,” Meric said, and wandered back to the camp as Krai finally managed to coax the smoldering pile of dead leaves to take his flint’s spark. Tiny flames sizzled up, drawing all their eyes.

The tiny snap of a twig sounded behind Mycelle. She whipped around, swords in both fists. A dark shape slinked from the scrubby brush. It was Fardale, returning from scouting the forest; the broken branch had been his way of warning her of his approach. His amber eyes glowed toward her. The image of an empty path appeared in her mind’s eye, indicating the immediate region was clear of any wraiths.

“I’ll tell Nee’lahn,” she said. “Go warm yourself by the fire.” Tongue lolling, Fardale padded past her.

Mycelle watched the huge treewolf with a worried narrowing of her eyes. Since entering the forest, his sendings had grown rougher, his responses now curt and often unintelligible. It would not be long until Fardale was lost completely to his wolfish nature. According to Mogweed, the twins were little more than a moon away from settling into their current forms. Time was running out for them both—as well as it was for them all.

L

Working around the camp’s periphery, Mycelle approached Nee’lahn. The small nyphai glanced up at her. Nee’lahn’s eyes were haunted, shadowed with dark circles. Day and night, she had been forced to play her lute to keep the wraiths at bay. Only when the woods seemed clear could the woman take short naps. The burden vvas taking its toll.

Mycelle laid a hand on her shoulder. “Rest. Fardale says the woods around us are safe for the moment.” Nee’lahn nodded and eased her lute to her lap. She stretched her fingers, working free the knots and kinks from her cramped playing. Mycelle noticed her worn nails and the raw tips of her fingers. Nee’lahn searched through her pockets for the numbweed balm.

“How are you faring?” Mycelle asked. “Will your fingers hold out until we reach the end of the forest?” Nee’lahn stared dully at the forest around her. “It is not the playing that wears at me.” Mycelle understood. As much as her lute’s song pained the Grim, so the dark wood drained Nee’lahn’s own spirit. This had once been her home. Mycelle offered what consolation she could. “It won’t be much longer. From my calculations, we should reach the far edge of the Fell in another two days.” Nee’lahn did not react. She only stared toward the north. “Come. Let’s get you some food.” Mycelle helped her stand and guided her toward the growing fire. By now, Krai had managed to work up a solid blaze.

Once Nee’lahn was settled beside Mogweed at the fire, Mycelle returned to her sentry duty. With the lute’s magick ended, the wood had to be closely watched against the encroachment of the Grim. During the first couple of days, any halt in the music had almost immediately resulted in their wailing assault. But now, several days deeper into the wood, the Grim were slower to respond. Either their numbers were not as great here or the music had by now succeeded in chasing the wraiths far from their path. Still, caution had to be taken. Eyes had to watch for shifting shadows, and ears had to remain pricked to the smallest sounds of the forest.

Mycelle nodded to Lord Tyrus on the camp’s far side. The two would watch the forest during this break in the day’s trek, circling around and around the camp until they were on the move again. Mogweed came over with a tin plate of boiled roots mixed with roasted snails. Mycelle ate on her feet, picking through the thin fare with her fingers. Hunting was poor in the Fell. Few creatures still lived among its twisted roots and haunted bowers: bony rabbits, burrowing moles, a few rangy birds. But at least the waters were fresh. Streams and brooks were frequent.

Mogweed kept pace with her for a few steps while she ate. The thin man eyed the forest with clear trepidation. “I heard you tell Nee’lahn that we should be out of this cursed woods in a couple of days. Is that so?”

“If my maps are accurate.”

Mogweed chewed his lower lip, eyes narrowed. “And what then?” He lowered his voice. “Are we really going to try and sneak into Krai’s old home up in the northern mountains? I heard him say that the snows up there never thaw, not even in the summer. And if the weather doesn’t kill us, the d’warves surely will.

It’s not like we can surprise them. The encampment in Castle Mryl will surely send a bird reporting our escape.”

Mycelle let the man drone on, then finally shrugged. “Who knows what we’ll face up in the mountains?

But I suspect d’warves and snow will be the least of our worries.” She could tell that her words did little to ease Mogweed’s mind. His eyes grew wider as he obviously imagined the horrors ahead.

Mycelle sighed. “Don’t fret so much about the future, Mogweed. It’ll come whether you’re ready or not.

We’ll deal with the cold as best we can. As for the d’warves, I imagine they’ll think the wraiths have consumed the lot of us.”

He nodded, appearing slightly relieved by this small bit of reassurance as he stumbled back to the fire.

Mycelle shook her head. Despite her words, Mogweed’s concern had set a seed of misgiving in her own breast. What were they going to do?

Finally, with the hole in their bellies somewhat filled, the party broke camp and moved out once again.

Nee’lahn took up her lute, while Fardale patrolled the near woods. The remainder of the group trudged after them. Slowly more leagues passed under their boots. Few words were spoken.

Krai hung back, watching their back trail. But as the afternoon wore on, his post seemed unnecessary.

No sign of the Grim threat-ened. Not even a distant wail was heard. Krai moved forward to join Mycelle.

“I don’t like this quiet,” he mumbled.

Mycelle nodded, then frowned as the small snake that roosted around her upper arm squirmed and tightened its grip. After traveling for so long with the large man, she had come to notice his presence often aggravated the tiny beast. She had always attributed this response to the man’s strong elemental energies.

The magick of deep caves and rock ran strong in Krai’s blood. But then why didn’t the snake respond to Meric or Lord Tyrus? Both were just as endowed in the Land’s gifts. With no satisfactory answer, she pushed her misgivings aside and concentrated on the more immediate threat.

“The Grim have been growing less bold for the past few days,” Mycelle said, staring out into the oddly silent forest. “Maybe at last Nee’lahn’s music has succeeded in driving them fully away.”

“What music?” Krai grumbled.

Mycelle opened her mouth to answer, then realized the mountain man was correct. The nyphai’s lute had gone silent. Mycelle glanced forward and saw the small woman standing far ahead, frozen atop a slight rise in the land.

“Something’s wrong,” Mycelle said, and hurried forward. Krai followed.

Mycelle closed the distance, collecting Meric and Tyrus en route. Neither of them had noticed Nee’lahn’s lapse either. All afternoon, her music had been slowing and drifting lower. When it had finally stopped, no one but Krai seemed to have been aware.

As a group, they jogged forward. Nee’lahn continued to stare forward, the lute hanging limp in her fingers.

“What’s wrong with her?” Tyrus whispered breathlessly as they reached the top of the hill. A light snow began to drift down from the gray skies. The sun was close to setting.

Mycelle glanced to the girl, then followed the line of her vision. In the hollow below, a small lake filled the lower lands, but what caught her eye was a huge tree on the lake’s far side. Its bole, as thick around as a small cottage, stood straight as a sword, cutting up from the tangle of twisted trees around it. Its branches, though bare of leaves, splayed out in gentle terraces, like a hand offered to a tired traveler. It seemed so out of place among its tortured brethren.

“Nee’lahn?” Mycelle asked gently.

The nyphai’s mouth moved, but no words came out. She licked her lips and tried again. “It’s my tree.” She turned finally toward Mycelle. Tears ran down her cheeks, streaming freely. Her voice became a sob. “It’s… it’s my home.”

Nee’lahn fell to her knees. The pain in her heart was too much. She stared at her love, so tall, so stately.

Though naked of its lush greenery and heavy violet flowers, Nee’lahn could never mistake its form. She had not thought to find her mate so untouched. It was as if it were only sleeping, not dead and lifeless. On her knees, her eyes drank in the sight of her spirit tree. She had not even meant to cross near its resting place, knowing the pain it would cause, but her tired feet must have led her here, drawn to the only home she had ever known.

Mogweed stepped to her side. “It’s so… so normal looking.”

Nee’lahn wiped at her eyes. “I know. I don’t understand… the Blight…” She waved an arm to encompass the rest of the forest.

“Come,” Mycelle said gently, and helped her back to her feet. “Do you want to go closer?” Nee’lahn covered her face with a hand. She wanted to run as lithe as a deer, but she did not know which way—toward her tree or away. It tore at her heart to see her love again. But she knew that as much as it pained her, she had to go on.

Clutching the lute to her breast, she nodded forward. “I… I must go.” Before a single step could be taken, Fardale came loping up the slope from the lake’s edge, tongue lolling. His amber eyes glowed. Mycelle matched his gaze. After a moment, she turned to the others.

“Fardale senses someone hiding ahead.”

“One of the wraiths?” Tyrus asked.

“No… if I understand right, it’s a man.” Mycelle turned to Mogweed, clearly seeking to see if he understood his brother any better.

The small man shrugged. “He grows too close to the wolf,” he mumbled under his breath. “I can barely understand him any longer.”

“What’s someone doing way out here?” Krai grumbled. He unhitched his ax and slowly pulled the snow leopard pelt off its iron blade. “Anyone who can survive among the Grim is surely tainted by the Dark Lord.”

“Krai is right,” Meric said, his eyes narrowed. “We must proceed with caution.”

“Why proceed at all?” Mogweed said, stepping back. “Why not leave here, circle far around? Why invite danger?”

“Perhaps we should heed the shape-shifter,” Tyrus said.

“And put an unknown enemy at our back?” Krai said. “I say we flush him out.” Nee’lahn swallowed hard. “Either way, I must go. Even if it’s alone.” Gazes swung in her direction.

Before anyone else could speak, her lute began to play softly. Gentle notes wafted out and upward.

Nee’lahn lifted the instrument in amazement. Her fingers were not touching the strings, yet the music began to grow fuller. A chorus flowed forth, bright as a summer moon, while around them the snow began to fall thicker. As soft as the falling flakes, the music floated over the lake.

Krai growled. “Quiet the cursed thing before it gives us away.” Nee’lahn pulled the lute away from him as he snatched at it. “No!” Krai’s warning proved too late anyway. As the music reached the far side, warm yellow light appeared, glowing forth from several small square openings in the tree’s wide trunk.

Mogweed gasped and hid behind Krai.

“Windows,” Meric said with amazement. “Someone’s made a home inside your tree.”

“Fardale’s lurker,” Tyrus commented, his family’s fine sword in his grip.

“He must have heard the music,” Mycelle said. “He’s inviting us forward.” Krai squinted his eyes. “More likely inviting us into a trap.”

“No, it’s no trap.” Nee’lahn stepped forward.

“How can you know that?” the mountain man gruffed.

“The music.” Nee’lahn lifted her lute. “The wood rejoices. There can be no danger.” And in her heart, she knew this to be true. She moved down into the hollow, meaning to follow the lake’s edge. * She heard the elv’in whisper behind her. “I trust Nee’lahn. As corrupt as these woods may be now, they were once her home. Come. Let’s see what mystery lies here.” As Nee’lahn reached the lake’s edge, a bit of melancholy infused • the lute’s song. She understood why.

Once this small lake had teemed with fish and tadpoles. Fireflies had lit the boughs that overhung the still waters, reflecting their beauty, while around its banks, flowers had always been in bloom. But now the lake was black and featureless, edged by dank algae and clinging weeds. So much beauty lost.

Nee’lahn turned her eyes to the overhanging limbs of her love. Only its branches still spread over the lake, shooting strong and straight from a trunk so thick around that thirty men couldn’t join hands around it. New tears flowed on her cheeks. Oh, my bonded, how proudly you still stand while all around you has fallen to grief and madness.

As she led the others, she studied the lights that glowed forth from the trunk of her handsome tree.

Though she should have felt anger at the violation of her beloved, the warm yellow glow cheered her heavy heart. A spark of life inside the dead. She found her feet hurrying.

The others followed.

Once they had reached the far side of the lake, a doorway swung open in the base of the tree, framed by the large roots, kneeing up from the soil. A figure stood bathed in the light. No threat was offered.

“We’ve been waiting so long for you,” the figure at the door said in a gravelly voice.

Nee’lahn slowed as the lute’s song faded away. “Who are you?” The figure stepped clear of the door’s brightness. It was a large man, dressed in simple rough-spun cotton. He was wide-shouldered, and though once clearly strong of limb, he was now gray-haired and leaned on a wooden crutch for support. “Have you forgotten me already, Nee’lahn?” She shook her head. “Sir, I have no—”

He waved away her words with his crutch. “Och, it is of no matter. My eyes may have gone bad, but not my ears. All that matters is that I’ve not forgotten the voice of your lute. But then how could I?” He lifted a frail hand. “It’s a voice I helped forge with mine own fingers.” Understanding struck Nee’lahn. “Rodricko?”

“Ah, the girl does remember the simple woodcutter.” She hurried forward, pausing a moment to recognize the man’s sharp eyes and beaked nose that shadowed over a thick gray mustache. When last she had lain eyes on him, the mustache had been black as oil. The last fifteen winters had worn the man. Satisfied that it was indeed her old friend, she hugged him tight, holding her lute to the side.

Once done with their greeting, Nee’lahn pulled back. “Have you remained here, in the Fell, the entire time?”

He fingered his mustache, and the brightness in his eyes grew dark. He glanced from her lute to the twisted forest beyond. “Aye, lass.”

“But why? How?” Nee’lahn tried to comprehend what had happened since she had left with her lute.

Mycelle stepped forward. She still had her swords bared. Nee’lahn realized Tyrus and Krai were armed as well. “Indeed. How have you managed to survive out here among the Grim without being consumed?” Rodricko eyed their weapons. “Be at peace here, travelers. Sheathe your blades and come inside. If it’s stories you ask, then it’s tales I’ll tell—but not before we get out of this snow and in front of a warm fire.” Nee’lahn cautiously reached and pushed Mycelle’s blade down. “Rodricko can be trusted. It is he who carved my lute. He and his family have been friends of the nyphai for untold generations. They are as near to nyphai as any human can be.”

Mycelle hesitated, then nodded. She swung her blades back into the crossed scabbards on her back.

She waved the others to follow suit. Lord Tyrus slipped his Mrylian-steel sword away, and Krai slowly hitched his ax to his belt. Meric remained weaponless, arms across his chest. Mogweed hid in his shadow.

“Come inside,” he urged them, holding the door open. “Just follow the stairs here to the room above.” Nee’lahn led the way, stepping reverently back inside her home tree. A mix of feelings swept through her as she mounted the winding stairs that led upward. The smell of wood oil and sweet camphors triggered a response that strummed through her as if she were a lute string herself. Old memories stirred. Joy and sorrow rang in chorus. The dust of the last fifteen winters’ roads washed off her. Her hand rose and touched the bare wood, seeking the heartsong of the great tree. But she felt nothing there. It was empty.

Her legs trembled, but the fingers of her other hand squeezed reassuringly around the neck of her lute.

Here was where her tree’s spirit now resided.

As she moved up the stairs, trailed by the group, Nee’lahn suddenly realized the path they were taking.

The nyphai never made their homes inside their own trees. Instead, they built shelters and bridges among the branches. Only the bonded to a tree could enter inside the gentle giants, and it was a mingling of spirits, not a physical intrusion, like now.

She glanced behind her. Only once before had she entered her tree like this. Her eyes caught upon Rodricko’s. He nodded and urged her onward.

Where she reached the head of the stairs, a large room opened up, encompassing the full diameter of the tree. A single thick pillar stood in the center of the floor, while around it the space was crammed with cabinets, chairs, and tables, all formed of the deeply whorled, rich wood. The woodwright had kept himself busy over the past fifteen years, making himself a cozy home here.

But Nee’lahn ignored all this. Instead, her eyes were drawn back to the central column, the true heart of her tree. She slowly circled it, searching until she found the spot in the column where a hollow had been carved from it. She held her lute up to it. The two shapes matched.

Rodricko stepped to her side. “Its true home.”

She turned to him, glancing briefly around the room. “And I see you’ve made your own home here, inside my tree.” A slightly accusatory tone crept into her voice.

“Like some burrowing worm,” he said with a sad sigh. “Drilling and coring through a dead apple.” Nee’lahn touched his hand. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to imply—”

“No, lass. It ain’t natural. I’ve been among the nyphai too long not to feel the same way.” He looked to his boots. “But after you left, the tree called to me.”

“What?”

He shook his head. “Though its spirit had retreated into the lute, there was still magic in its root, enough to fuel a trace of its spirit. On the day you set off on your journey, I came here to gather my tools, and the tree spoke to me—well not rightly spo^e, more a feeling inside my heart and head. It was not done with me yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed. “Come by the fire, and I’ll explain all.” He leaned on his crutch and led the way toward the tall stone-lined hearth dug into one wall of the chamber.

Her friends were already gathered around it. Fardale lay sprawled before the hearth, almost laying in the flames, content, tail thumping slowly. The others stood, wary, ignoring the many wide chairs.

“Sit,” Rodricko said. “Someone’s got to use these chairs I’ve been whittling away these many long winters. Relax. I’ve warmed elderberry wine beside the fire. And afterward there are rooms and beds above.”

Slowly the group settled to the chairs, and wine was passed from hand to hand, warming the chill from their bones.

Rodricko returned from a small pantry with cheeses and a platter of chestnuts for roasting on the hearth.

“I promised you all my story,” he said, shaking the pan of chestnuts as they popped and sizzled.

Mycelle nodded. “How did you survive out here when nothing else can?” Rodricko groaned a bit as he stood, then settled to his own seat. “It’s not a short tale I must speak, so let me start where all stories should start—at the beginning, with Cecelia.”

“Cecelia?” Nee’lahn asked, shocked to hear the name of the ancient elder of the grove.

Mycelle set her mug of warm wine down. “Who is that?”

“Cecelia is the keeper of the True Glen,” Rodricko said. “The eldest sister of the nyphai. She was bonded to the oldest tree of the grove, and when her tree began to twist and bend to the Blight, she herself was also tortured. Fevered dreams, delirium. It went on for three moons. But at last, when I was certain the end was near, she had a vision—of Lok’ai’hera sprouting to life in a lake of red fire. A fire born of magick. She bade me carve the heart from Nee’lahn’s tree so that Nee’lahn might be free to search the lands of Alasea for this magickal cure to their doomed forest.” Nee’lahn stared into the fire. “It was Cecelia’s prophecy that set me on my path.” She raised her face to Rodricko. “But what of you? Why did you not leave? Your duty here was done.”

“So I thought, but as I mentioned, the tree called to me, entreating me to one last task.”

“But what of the Grim?” Krai asked.

“They do not bother coming near here, Nee’lahn’s tree reminds them too much of what they lost. It stands straight and tall while all the rest lay twisted and tainted. The sight is too much for the wraiths to bear. So they stay away.”

Mogweed knelt by the fire and checked the chestnuts. “But all this?” He nodded to the surroundings.

“You have to have traveled to bring all this here. The chestnuts, the wine.” Rodricko nodded. “Twice each passing winter, I’ve journeyed to mountain hamlets for supplies. That is, until just recently.”

Mogweed sat on his heels, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Yet even on the woodland trails, the wraiths did not attack you?”

“I was still under the protection of the tree.”

“How?” Mogweed squeaked.

Rodricko lifted the wooden crutch from where it rested between his legs and thumped it on the floor. “As Nee’lahn’s lute was carved from its heart, I hewed a branch of this great tree as my walking stick.” He pulled his hands away from the crutch’s grip to reveal a single sprout of green near its apex.

Nee’lahn leaned closer. “Leaves!” A sprouted patch of tiny green leaves grew from the dead wood.

Though each leaf was no longer than a fingernail, they were clearly koa’kona. “How… ?”

“A bit of magick and a bit of spirit keep it fresh.” Nee’lahn bent nearer, too—then she stared into the woodsman’s eyes. “It draws off your own spirit.”

“Magick alone was not enough.” He lowered his cane back down. No wonder the man had seemed to age so much since last she had seen him. “But why?” she asked. “What was so important?” He met her gaze. “Hope.”

“Hope for what?”

Rodricko leaned back and closed his eyes. “My family has served the True Glen for as far back as we can remember. It is our home, too. If there is a way to bring the Grove back, I would do anything, give up my own blood if necessary.”

J A M h S

“But I still don’t understand. What did my tree ask of you?” He opened his eyes. “It’s easier to show you.” Rodricko struggled to his feet. “Come. The answer to all lies above.”

Nee’lahn stood, biting back a twinge of misgiving.

The old woodwright crossed to a narrow, curved staircase. It led up to a landing above the hearth room.

Without another word, he climbed the stairs with^ the rest trailing behind.

Nee’lahn heard Mogweed mumble, “I don’t like this.”

On the landing above, small rooms branched off. But Rodricko led the way to the innermost doorway.

He rested a hand on the iron latch and glanced to Nee’lahn. His eyes were full of pain—and something else.

Her worries flared brighter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and pulled the door open. “You had better go in first.” Inside was another circular room, similar to the hearth chamber, only smaller. In this room, a central pillar also ran from floor to ceiling. And like the column below, this one had been carved. It contained a cubbyhole no larger than a pumpkin.

A soft gentle light wafted out from the opening.

Nee’lahn knew that faint purple light. It was the same glowing hue as given off by a blooming koa’kona.

Alone, she moved nearer. Something rested inside the cubby.

Rodricko spoke behind her. “For almost a full winter, the tree had enough magick stored in its taproot and enough traces of residual spirit to keep its branches full of leaves… even flowers.” Nee’lahn glanced back to the doorway, where the woodwright leaned on his crutch. She recalled the day she had left her bonded, remembering it as clearly as if it were a moon ago instead of fifteen winters. Her tree had looked untouched.

With a feeling bordering on dread, she turned back to the carved cubby and what rested inside.

“The tree somehow knew it bloomed its last flowers,” Rodricko said with a low voice. “It called out with its dying breath. One last time.”

Nee’lahn barely heard his words, or the question asked by tMycelle.

“What do you mean?” the swordswoman asked.

“When a koa’kona is re^dy for its flowers to go to seed, it calls for another spirit, a kindred sister to leave her own tree briefly and mingle her spirit with its own, like a bee passing pollen from one flower to another. So Nee’lahn’s tree called for someone to join with it.”

“But there were no nyphai left,” Mycelle said. Rodricko lowered his voice. “Not true. Though the Grim are twisted, they are still nyphai. One came to the tree’s call. It pushed past its own pain to respond to the tree’s summons.”

“Are you saying one of the Grim joined with Nee’lahn’s tree?” Rodricko’s voice cracked. “It was Cecelia, the keeper. She was still fresh to the Blight and new to her madness. She came and shared her spirit so the tree’s last flower could go to seed.”

“Sweet Mother,” Lord Tyrus said. “What happened?” By now, Nee’lahn stared into the cubby. The answer lay within. A small babe lay cradled in the cubby. The source of the glow was easy to spot. It came from a plum-sized purple seed protruding from its lower belly, where a human baby’s navel would be. She reached but was afraid to touch the seed or babe. It germinated, she realized with shock.

Rodricko continued. “A new nyphai was born from the fertile seed. Normally, the tree and its bonded would nurture the young sister until it was strong enough to plant her seed and grow another koa’kona tree, spreading the grove. But something… something went wrong here.” Nee’lahn saw that clearly enough. The germination from the seed looked to have proceeded naturally enough. All nyphai grew slowly from their seeds, like the trees themselves. And this young one, though appearing only an infant, was growing well for only fourteen winters. But Rodricko was most correct—

something was dreadfully wrong here.

Rodricko continued. “I don’t know what happened… or what it all means. Maybe it was due to the union with a Grim, a tainted and twisted spirit. I just don’t know.”

“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked.

Nee’lahn turned from the pillar, her legs swooning under her. “The new nyphai… it’s a boy.” The next morning, Kral climbed down the stairs to the main hearth room. The scent of warm bread and the sizzle of pork flesh had drawn him from his goose-feather bed and quiet chamber. After almost half a winter on the road with only the hard forest floor as his bed and his rucksack as a pillow, he had slept soundly throughout the night and well into the late morning.

He stretched the kinks from his arms and entered the room. He was clearly the last to rise. The others were already seated around a wide table spread with breads, fruits, boiled eggs, and meats. He also noticed a stack or gear piled on the room’s far side: fox-fur gloves, hooded cold-weather cloaks trimmed in ermine, even slabs of dried and smoked beef and hard cheeses.

Mycelle noticed his approach. The banded viper on her arm hissed at him, then settled back to its curled perch. “Kral, sit. Eat. We’ve much to discuss and plan.”

He nodded, his nose filled with the scents of the table. His stomach grumbled appreciatively. He settled into his seat as Rodricko filled a stone mug with hot kaffee.

“I’ve done my best to put together warmer clothes and additional fodder for your trek from here,” Rodricko explained. “But I don’t know what good it will do. The snows are beginning to fall, and the upper passes of the Ice Trail will be impassable before much longer.”

“We’ll leave today,” Mycelle said, “and set a hard pace. With your generous supplies, we can move faster and stretch each day’s march a bit longer.”

Mogweed groaned from across the table, but he remained otherwise silent. Kral could understand the man’s consternation. A few more days here at this warm, well-stocked place would suit him, too. But he also understood the necessity not to delay. Mountain storms were unpredictable, especially this time of year. Blizzards, ice storms, and cold fogs were more likely with each day’s delay.

“But how are we to travel the remainder of the Fell?” Meric asked, his thin fingers wrapped around his stone mug. “If Nee’lahn remains here with the child—”

“But she must,” Rodricko interrupted. “The tree’s seed has sustained the child until now but will not for much longer.”

Nee’lahn glanced up from beside Mogweed. Her eyes were shadowed and tired. Clearly she had not found her sleep as restful as Kral. She faced them. “The boy nears the age when he will separate from his birth seed. Afterward, he will need the tree’s song and spirit to sustain him.”

“So you must stay?” Tyrus asked.

“I have no choice. Boy or not, the foundling is the offspring of my beloved. I cannot abandon it. The song of the lute will help sustain the strange child while I care for him and protect him. I don’t understand the significance of a male nyphai, or why this has come to be, but I must see it through.” She stared around the table. “I’m sorry.”

“I can take you through the woods,” Rodricko said. He nudged his wooden crutch with its little sprout of leaves. “The fresh, untainted branch will be as much a bane to the Grim as Nee’lahn’s lute. We should be safe.”

Krai read doubt in the man’s eyes. The short length of wood had protected the woodwright, but there was no guarantee its meager protection would extend to their party.

The others must have sensed the man’s worry. A heavy silence grew around the table.

Distantly, a wailing echoed through the wood walls. A lonely sound that was soon joined by another…

and another. As they sat stone still, the horrid chorus grew and swelled.

Krai smelled the sudden fear in their host. Rodricko’s voice trem-ored as he settled his pitcher to the table. “They’ve never come so near.”

Mycelle stood. “They must know we’re here.”

The others quickly gained their feet, and weapons were gathered.

“What are we to do?” Mogweed asked. “Will they attack?”

Rodricko crossed to a broad window that faced south. Krai and the others followed the woodwright.

Beyond the window, the woods were bathed in early morning sunlight, but due to the perpetual cloud cover, it was wan and lifeless. Snow frosted the twisted branches of the surrounding trees, creating a stark landscape. Even the small lake was a black mirror.

As they watched, the shadows of the deeper woods stretched toward them, swallowing up the trees and snow, descending and sweeping into the hollow. It was as if a black fog were consuming the world.

“Wh-what is happening?” Mogweed asked, backing away, his fingers reaching for his brother.

Nee’lahn stood still. “The Grim gather. I’ve never seen its like.” Krai knew what she meant. The wraiths were generally solitary creatures, hunting the forest trails on their own. It was one of the reasons that the Northwall had withstood their numbers until now.

But as Krai stared out at the force gathering around the hollow, he understood how the great Wall had fallen. The Grim were now a unified force, a dark army. Krai remembered the ill’guard wraith who had possessed King Ry’s dead body, animating it. Was this demoness the reason for the change in the Grim as a whole? If so, what control did she bear on these other wild, mindless creatures? How had she joined their madness to her own foul cause?

Outside, the wail of the wraiths grew to a fevered pitch.

The beast inside Krai stirred. How it wanted to howl along with the mad screams and cries, add its voice to the wild chorus. But Krai fought this urge. Now was not the time for Legion, not yet.

He closed his eyes and sent his beastly senses soaring. Touched by the Dark Lord, he felt a familiar thrill running through the gathered dark army. She’s out there, he realized. The demoness herself led this force to their doorstep. She hid amid the wraiths, but she could not hide from another ill’guard. Krai understood who led this assault, but could not alert his companions without exposing himself.

Nee’lahn spoke up, drawing his attention back to the room. She lifted her lute. “I will go out to meet them.”

Mycelle placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know if even your lute’s song will be strong enough against such numbers.”

“You will be a single note against a storm,” Meric said. “Their chorus of wails will swamp the song of a single tree.”

“I must try. We have no other means to drive them away.”

“I will help,” Rodricko said, lifting his crutch. “The bit of living spirit along with the lute’s song may prevail.”

“But we must all be ready,” Nee’lahn said. “If I can drive a wedge through their forces, then you must be as fleet of foot as possible.”

“What do you propose?” Lord Tyrus asked.

“Pack and stow the gear.” She nodded to the stacks of warm clothes and food. “If Rodricko and I succeed in opening a breach, you all must take advantage and flee immediately.”

“And you?” Mycelle asked.

Nee’lahn’s eyes were haunted but determined. “I must stay and protect the child.” Mogweed shifted his feet, eyes darting everywhere, searching vainly for a means of escape. “Why not take the cursed child with you? If this tree is dead anyway, why do you need to stay here? W don’t e

stand a chance in the woods on our own.”

Nee’lahn opened her mouth to dismiss this thought, but Mycelle interrupted. “Mogweed’s right. The child will always be in danger here. It is only two days’ march out of the forest. If you could whisk him away…”

Rodricko agreed. “Perhaps you should heed their counsel Nee’lahn.”

“But I can’t just—”

“This place is an empty tomb. As long as the child is at your side and you have the lute, he should remain safe.” The woodwright stared out at the gathering darkness. “Besides, the boy is close to ripening and dropping his seed. Perhaps it is best if that were not done here, in this Blighted soil. Maybe that’s the reason you were all drawn here—to take the boy away.”

“I… I don’t know,” Nee’lahn mumbled.

“Well, someone had better make a decision,” Mogweed said, pointing to the windows. “Or it will be made for us.”

Beyond the lake, no trees could be seen. A solid wall of darkness spread all around them.

Nee’lahn bit her lip, then turned to Mycelle. “Gather up the boy. Wrap him well against the cold. At his tender age, he’s still susceptible to frost. You others grab as much gear as possible.” They all moved quickly, goaded by the rising howl of the wraiths. In moments, they were dressed in warm gear with packs of food and supplies on their backs. Mycelle had the additional burden of a child strapped to her chest. Encumbered as she was, she would be useless in a swordfight, but Krai knew it was not the point of a blade that would win freedom here.

He studied Nee’lahn as she held her lute in her arms, staring into the darkness. All their hopes were weighed upon this lone woman. Krai smelled the fear in her, but also her resolve and determination.

She must have sensed his gaze. She turned. “Let’s get this done.” Krai nodded, turning away, but not before glancing one more time at the gathered horde. Again, he scented the Dark Lord’s touch out there. The ill’guard demoness hid in that cloak of blackness, one wraith among many.

But to what purpose, what end?

Nee was the first through the door. After the warmth in-side, the sudden cold struck her like a fist. She gasped. It was an unnatural cold. As the wraiths drew the life from a victim, they now drew the warmth from the air. ‘t

She stepped away from the threshold and clear of the large tree roots. The lake lay ahead, rimmed in frost. Its edges had frozen overnight. Nee’lahn moved to its shore, facing the wall of blackness that circled the hollow, surrounding them. Closer, she saw that the wall whorled and churned as the massed wraiths writhed at the valley’s edge.

“Sisters,” she mumbled, praying. “Hear me and depart in peace.” As she lifted her lute, the group gathered behind her. Rodricko stood amongst them, his bit of living wood held out before him like a sword.

Taking a deep breath, Nee’lahn strummed her strings, and sweet notes spread into the gale of cries and screams. The music, though soft and sweet, fought through the cacophony. “Hear me, Sisters,” she repeated, now singing forth with the lute’s melody.

The notes swept across the cold water to strike the wall of darkness like a thousand arrows. Holes were rent through the solidness as individual wraiths wailed and fled. Glimpses of the snow-crowned forest peeked through the throng, but the tears did not last long. The holes quickly disappeared as the remaining Grim closed ranks.

Nee’lahn’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of this action. What was driving the wraiths forward? What was making them fight their natural urge to flee the touch of the True Glen?

A sharp scream split the air. Nee’lahn swung around and saw a wraith rip forth from the others and fly at her companions. It was a dark mist against the white snow.

Rodricko stepped forward, guarding the party with his crutch. Nee’lahn’s fingers hesitated on her strings, fearful for her friends.

“Keep playing!” Mycelle urged, wincing against the railing screams. “Don’t stop!” Rodricko swept his bit of wood between him and the scrap of darkness. “Begone!” he yelled in the face of his enemy.

The bold wraith hesitated, then stabbed a stream of darkness toward the woodsman’s chest. Rodricko danced back, surprisingly spry on his feeble legs. His stick sliced through the deadly shadow Where it struck, light flared, the violet of blossoming koa’kona flowers. The wraith blew apart into ragged fragments. Its bits of shredded spirit fled back into the mass of wraiths. Krai bellowed in triumph.

But Mycelle’s eyes swung to Nee’lahn. “Play! Play if you want to live!” Nee’lahn returned to her lute, strumming with renewed energy. The wall of wraiths squirmed in clear agony, screams chasing screams. Nee’lahn turned in a slow circle, casting her music in all directions.

“Hear the song of the True Glen,” she sang softly as the music carried her words far, echoing out over the hollow. “Remember the spring shoots rising with the new sun… Remember the hills of a summer’s night, aglow with blossoms… Remember autumn’s display of brilliance and the endless rain of leaves, a warm blanket against the winter to come… Remember the winter’s crisp breath when the sap runs slow and the stars shine like silver in the night sky. Remember it all. Remember the Glen. Remember life!” Her words cast a spell on the wraiths. They began to flow and ebb to her music. The wail became less sharp, more mournful. Breaks in the wall grew all around them. Bits of darkness shot high in the air and away, crying in pain and sorrow. “It’s working,” Meric said.

Nee’lahn continued to sing, now in the Old Tongue. She sang of flowers, and sunshine, and drops of morning dew, while the lute rang with woodsong and a call for communion. It was all too much, even for the strength of the gathered horde. More wraiths fled.

A pair tried again to attack the group, more in an attempt to stop the pain of her song than in true malice.

But Rodricko quickly dispatched them.

Nee’lahn kept singing. Sensing victory, she let her voice grow in strength, but eventually she realized she did not sing alone. Another voice had crept in on hers, blending into her song so smoothly that Nee’lahn was not aware of it until it was too late. It came from the fraying wall of darkness. The new voice twisted Nee’lahn’s song, subtly and skillfully, changing the bright to the dark.

“Dream of the sun’s warm touch…” Nee’lahn sang.

“… and the burn of an endless drought,” the unseen singer chorused.

“Sing of petals soft with the first bloom…” Nee’lahn fought back. “, . and worms that eat out the flower’s tender heart.” Frowning, Nee’lahn struggled to chase the other off, singing more fiercely, ringing with the voice of the True Glen. But the parasitic voice would not let go, wrapping its song around her own, strangling it with whispers of dead wood and rotting roots. Slowly Nee’lahn realized she was outmatched. The singer was older, more experienced. The voice sang with the echoes of centuries.

Nee’lahn could not resist it. Her voice began to warp; her lute’s music shook with disease and crumbling bark. All around the hollow, the wraiths regrouped, fortifying the dark wall.

“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked, moving nearer, clutching the small child to her chest.

“I don’t know,” Nee’lahn said, slowing her fingers on the lute’s strings, struggling to think of a means to attack. “Something… something’s out there… Something stronger than I…” Krai moved to her other side. He growled. “It comes.” Mycelle glanced to him, then out to the gathered wraiths. A black cloud bloomed from the wall, a swirling formless fog. It drifted across the lake, slowly, laconically, as if it cared little for the small band of people or the music of the lute. Nee’lahn and the others retreated from it.

Upon reaching the near shore, the cloud roiled inward on itself, fog becoming substance. The vague figure of a slender woman took shape on the frozen lake’s edge. Silver energy traced her form. Her eyes opened.

Nee’lahn sensed here stood the singer who had so skillfully corrupted her song.

Fardale growled, baring his teeth, and Rodricko stepped forward, the branch held before him.

The dark woman smiled at the man’s response. “A brave knight carved of wood,” she said disdainfully.

“The last protector of the True Glen.” Yet despite her words, she held back.

“I know you,” Nee’lahn said, recognizing the screechy voice and where she had heard it last. “You’re the wraith who possessed

King Ry.“

The wraith’s smile broadened, while growing colder at the same time. “Ah, yes… it was good to wear flesh again.” She glanced to Lord Tyrus. “Even a moldy form as distasteful‘ as that old man.” The Mrylian prince lunged forward, but he was blocked by Krai “You’ve no weapon that can harm an ilj’guard,” the mountain man warned, holding fast to the prince’s elbow.

The wraith ignored the men and swung her gaze back to Nee‘-lahn. “As you know me, so I know you, Nee’lahn.” A laugh, empty of mirth, escaped the shadowy lips. “You caught me by surprise back at the castle. I had not been expecting you to pop out of the granite like that. But now I’ve had time to adjust to your presence. The Black Root has strengthened me against your pretty little song.”

“You’ll not have us,” Nee’lahn warned. “I will fight with every spark of life in me.” This earned another laugh. “You’ve grown full of yourself, little one. But it is not you I want.” The figure’s gaze swung to the child held by Mycelle, then back to Nee’lahn. “I want the boy… My boy.“

Nee’lahn jerked a step back. “Y-your boy?”

Again the laugh. “I thought you said you knew me, Nee’lahn.” The smoky figure coalesced tighter, firming the vague form into someone familiar.

“Cecelia.” Nee’lahn gasped, stunned. Rodricko stepped forward. “The keeper of the Grove.” Nee’lahn moaned. No wonder her song had been thwarted. Before Cecelia’s corruption, the elder’s age had numbered in centuries. She was the wisest of the nyphai, full of knowledge and guile.

The wraith glanced down at the woodwright. “Are you still here?” She glided closer. Rodricko swung his stave. “No!” Nee’lahn called out.

The branch swept into the shadowed woman. Violet light again flared, but this time no harm was done to the wraith. Cecelia smiled, staring down at the wooden crutch imbedded in her chest. “Your tree’s spirit cannot harm me. Our two spirits have mingled. We are one.” A tendril of darkness swept out of the woman’s chest to wrap lovingly around the branch.

“Get back, Rodricko!” Nee’lahn urged.

“I… I can’t move…”

The wraith smiled. “I smell your spirit in the wood, brave knight.

j-Ias it been feeding on you? Such a cruel act, dragging out the inevitable so slowly. Let me show you the benevolence of the Dark One.“ The tendril spasmed on the branch, and Rodricko fell to his knees.

In less than a heartbeat, the woodwright’s life was sucked through the branch and into the dread wraith.

He shriveled with a scream on his lips, then tumbled dead to the snowy ground, a twisted, empty shell.

The tree branch (ell to cinders in his hand.

“A shame. So little life was left in him,” the demoness whined, kicking aside the branch. “It did nothing but whet my appetite.”

Nee’lahn felt her legs weaken. “Rodricko’s family served you for generations. What have you become?” Krai appeared at her side, holding her up. “Do not look for answers here. She is lost to the Black Heart, twisted to his will.”

“Twisted?” The forest rang with her laughter and bitterness. “Look around you, man of the mountains. It was the Land itself that twisted my forest. The grief, the loss… it is unimaginable. And when Nee’lahn’s dying tree summoned me, the pain grew a hundredfold. I could not stand it, touching the pure spirit with my taint.” A mournful wail blew up into the sky.

Around Nee’lahn, her companions fell to their knees at the despairing cry. Only Nee’lahn remained standing.

Cecelia’s keening moan slowly died away. She continued in a quieter voice. “In my weak and defenseless state, the Black Root found me. I let him do what he wished. What did it matter any longer?

Afterward I was glad that I’d not fought. The Black Root’s touch unwove what was tangled by the Land’s curse. His fire returned my mind and revealed my true enemy.”

“And what enemy is that?” Nee’lahn asked.

The wraith stared hard at her. “The Land, my dear! The cruel, harsh, unforgiving Land. The Black Root promised vengeance. I used my skills to gather the Grim to our mutual cause, to bring down the Northwall, to guard the paths up into the mountains. Nothing must interfere with his design.” Nee’lahn stood stunned. Mycelle spoke up, still on her knees in the snow. “What does he plan to do?” Cecelia’s eyes shone with madness. “He’ll make the Land wail as my sisters do. Twist it the same as my handsome forest.”

After a stunned moment, Mycelle slowly stood. “And what of this child? What role does he play?” This question seemed to shake the demoness. Her gaze fixed on the swaddled child held in the shape-shifter’s arms. “He… he’s mine.”

Mycelle remained quiet, then whispered. “The Dark Lord doesn’t know about your child, does he?

You’ve kept a secret from your master.”

The figure trembled. “He… he’s mine,” she repeated.

“Your last bit of purity,” Mycelle pressed.

The edges of the shadow began to fray.

Nee’lahn stepped forward, sensing a weakness to probe. She tenderly stroked the lute’s strings. The music wafted so gently that no human ear could hear it. She wove an ancient song—of birth and death, the cycle of life. Distracted, the wraith seemed unaware of it.

“Let us take the child from here,” Mycelle urged. “Take him where the Blight can never touch him.” The wraith hesitated, becoming more cloud than woman. “There is no such place. Not until the Black Root destroys the Land. Only then will the boy be able to grow hale and straight.” Mycelle nodded her understanding. “Let us keep him safe until that day.”

“He is safest with me. No harm will come to him.”

“But how can you be so sure? Did you escape the Blight? Did your sisters? The Dire Fell poses the most risk to the boy. His only safety lies in escaping here, as Nee’lahn did.” The black cloud swirled in indecision.

Nee’lahn continued to weave her song around the wraith, gently drawing out the motherly instincts of this tainted creature, holding tight to that seed of sanity buried deep inside.

“I can’t… I can’t part with him,” the wraith moaned. Mycelle persisted. “Would you rather the boy was raised on the wails of the Grim or the pure woodsong of Nee’lahn’s lute? Which is more likely to leave the child hale? You’ve produced something new, something wondrous, something pure. Let us help you protect it.”

Nee’lahn complemented Mycelle’s words with her music. She wove the image of autumn leaves falling, crumbling back to soil and loam, feeding the next generation, preparing the forest floor for new sprouts.

The cycle of life’s sacrifice. The dead giving back to the living- The selfless act of love and birth.

Something finally broke inside the wraith. The dark cloud blew into the air, coursing over the lake. “Take the child,” the wraith wailed. “Take my boy from here.”

Her cry spread across the sky, shattering the wall of wraiths. As the ill’guard demoness flew through the forest, her sisters followed, only too glad to flee.

Nee’lahn crossed and “knelt by Rodncko’s body. She touched his cheek gently, wishing him a safe journey to the next world, and silently thanked him for all he had done. His sacrifice, as much as any, had brought this new life out of a dead forest.

Mycelle stepped near Nee’lahn, watching the darkness shred apart around them. “Cecelia is mad and not to be trusted. It took your music to sway her to her own nobler instincts.” Nee’lahn raised her eyebrows as she stood, surprised Mycelle had heard her lute.

“I have the ears of a shape-shifter,” she explained. “I heard your song plying Cecelia’s will. But we can’t trust your enchantment holding for long, especially when she realizes where we’re headed. She could turn back on us in a heartbeat.”

“Then let us be gone far from here before that happens,” Nee’lahn said, and slipped the lute over her shoulder. Her arms free, she took the child from Mycelle. Nee’lahn stared down into the tiny face, then back up at her tree, dead but still stately. Tears welled.

“Do you wish a moment to say good-bye to your home?”

Nee’lahn turned her back and stepped away, holding the child close. “This wood is no longer my home.

Lok’ai’hera is dead. All that I love, I carry with me now.” Mogweed’s legs ached, and his lungs burned both from the cold and the air’s thinness. He stared ahead at the narrow mountain trail. It wound up and up, higher and higher. For the six days since leaving the Dire Fell, the group had been continually climbing upward. There were only brief respites when the trail wound down into a short valley. Otherwise, for league after league, they climbed the granite peaks of Alasea’s northernmost mountains.

But at least they had left the Grim behind in their twisted homeland. Here a forest of pine and redwood towered around them, boles as straight as arrows, limbs hanging heavy with snow.

It had been such a cheerful sight once they had climbed from the woods, but within a day’s travel, they had come upon their first mountain hamlet. It had been torched. Singed chimneys stood amid burned and cracked timber, and heads had been staked in the town’s central square—clear work of marauding d’warf raiders. Any hope of replenishing their supplies died as they tromped through the sacked hamlet.

The only boon gleaned from the township was a scraggly, bone-thin pony found in the near woods.

After discovering the ruined hamlet, Krai had guided the group from the wide Ice Trail, deeming it unsafe.

“After bringing down the Wall,” Krai had said, “I’d wager the d’warves have cleared all the townships along the road here, fortifying the main approach to the Citadel. There’ll be lookouts and guard posts all along the main pass. We’ll be less likely to be spotted on the smaller, steeper back trails.” So the group had left the gentler, wider trails for the winding, cliff-hugging tracks. Near the head of the group, Nee’lahn rode the thin pony, nestled over the small child. She was the only one light enough for the small horse to carry. Mogweed scowled at the nyphai. He was not that much heavier than she was.

Besides, the pony would have served them all better if it had been slaughtered and sun-cured. With the hamlets sacked, their supplies had dwindled rapidly.

At last, as the sun fell behind a ridge of snow-tipped peaks, My-celle lifted an arm, signaling the end of the day’s trek. “We’ll set up camp near the stream,” she called out, and pointed to where a creek chattered along a series of short falls off to the right.

“Thank the Sweet Mother,” Mogweed mumbled. His thighs and calves were cramped knots. He stumbled away from the thin deer trail and followed the others to the flat shelf.

The camp was quickly assembled. After so long on the road, everyone knew their duties. Krai dug out a fire pit and cleared the dead pine needles from around the night’s hearth. Bedrolls were laid out around it.

Meric and Tyrus gathered wood and kindling, while Nee’lahn fetched water. Mogweed fished through the packs for their cooking gear and their dwindling fodder. He snatched a bit of hard cheese and popped it into his mouth, then pulled out some strips of dried mutton.

Mycelle stepped to Mogweed’s side. He had to swallow his stolen tidbit quickly, but the woman’s eyes were on the forest. “Have you seen any sign of your brother?” Mogweed frowned. “No, not since last night.”

“Fardale must be hunting wide off our trail. But I’d be happier knowing he was safe.” Mogweed straightened with a pan in hand. “He’s safer in the wood than with us. Out there, he is just another lone forest creature.”

“It’s not the dangers of the forest that worry me.” Mycelle glanced back to him. “It’s his own will. The wolf inside draws close to claiming him completely.”

“We’ve another moon at least before we settle.”

Mycelle craned her neck toward the twilight skies. The moon hung full above. “I hope you’re right.” She stalked away.

A chill crept through Mogweed as he searched the surrounding forest. Where was Fardale? His brother had never disappeared for a full day before. And last night, before slinking off to hunt the dark

. 1-1 UA 1 K

forest, Fardale had turned to him, sending fuzzy images. They had made no sense. Even his eyes had not glowed as bright. Mycelle was right. The wolf was near to claiming him completely.

Mogweed, at least, wore a human form and was less prone to such urges. It was known that the wilder the beast, the quicker someone settled. Still, Mogweed could not dismiss that he had grown more and more comfortable in his current body. He recalled how at first his sallow and thin-limbed form had grated, how even wearing boots had chafed him with each step. But now, after so long, Mogweed wore his body with ease. In fact, he had grown to be possessive of it, and the fervency of his longings to melt from this flesh into another shape had dimmed. And even when he did crave to shape stronger legs or sprout a warmer pelt, it was always with the knowledge that he’d return to this same body.

Mogweed shivered. As much as he wanted to ignore these changes in perspective, he knew in his heart what it meant. He, too, was close to settling. The human in him threatened his true heritage. Even Mycelle understood Fardale better than he did. Not only were Fardale’s sendings coarser, Mogweed’s ability to receive was fading.

Mogweed stared up at the moon, full and bright in the darkening sky. One more moon… then all is lost

.

“Quit stargazing,” Krai grumbled, off to the side. “Get the cooking gear over here.” Mogweed turned and saw the mountain man had already managed to raise a small fire. With pots and pans in hand, Mogweed moved to Krai’s side. The large man fed sticks into the flames, his black beard dripping as the ice melted from its dark curls.

“Where’s that elv’in with some real wood?” Krai said. “I can’t hold this flame without something more substantial to feed its hunger.” The mountain man’s eyes shone with a matching smolder.

Mogweed set his pots and pans down and stepped away, not turning his back. He had lived all his life in the deep forest, and even though he was close to settling, his woodland instincts were deeply instilled. He sensed something wild and savage in the tall man. And like Fardale, each day the beastly nature seemed to grow stronger, less hidden. Mogweed had assumed it was because they neared Tor Amon, the mountain folk’s ancient homelands; perhaps that had Krai’s old animosities burning brighter. But when near the man, as now, Mogweed was less sure of this explanation.

)AMF.S LLEMENS .5 ^ /

“I… I’ll go look for Meric and Tyrus. Help them gather more wood.”

“Make sure they each bring an armload,” Krai growled, his eyes on the skies now. “We’ll see snow tonight, and the cold will grow savage.”

Mogweed nodded and moved away. He had no intention of looking for the others. That was not his chore. Besides, the woods had grown dark, and there was no way he was going to search for the others in those deep shadows. Instead, once out of direct sight of Krai, Mogweed slinked toward the river. He heard the voices of Nee’lahn and Mycelle. Moving on his toes, he crept close enough to overhear.

“How’s little Rodricko doing?” Mycelle asked, referring to the nyphai male child. Nee’lahn had named the child after the old dead woodwright. Mycelle scooped a pail into the stream and hauled it out.

Nee’lahn took the pail from her with a shy smile. “The-babe fares well and draws strength from my tree’s spirit.” With her free hand, Nee’lahn hitched the babe’s sling higher, then touched her chest. “But he’s not the only one. My own breasts have begun their swelling. They’ll be ready to suckle by the time he drops his birth seed.”

“And how much longer will that be?” Mycelle asked, picking up a second pail slopping with fresh water.

“It’s hard to say. But no longer than a couple moons.” bo soon?

Nee’lahn nodded. The two women moved in the direction of Mogweed’s hiding spot. He scrambled behind a granite outcropping so as not to be seen, then followed them back to camp.

From his new vantage under the boughs of a redwood, Mogweed spied upon the entire campsite. Meric and Tyrus had returned with ample wood, and Krai fed his fires. Nee’lahn placed her pail of water down nearby, then settled to a stone seat and gently rocked the babe in her arms.

Mycelle moved away from the flames and brought her pail to the tethered pony. It ignored the water and continued to tug on the scraggly patches of green grasses. Mycelle wiped her hands and stared up at the full moon. Even from his roost, Mogweed saw her sigh heavily, eye the camp, then slip off to the side.

Mogweed’s lips thinned. He knew what she was about to do. He moved silently around, keeping Mycelle in sight. When he wanted Mogweed could slip as silently through the woods as his wolfish brother. ,

Mycelle crossed back to the stream’s edge, then tossed her cloak across a slab of flat granite. Next she worked off her swords’ belts and unbuttoned her leathers. Shortly she stood only in her linen underclothes—then, oblivious to the cold, she shed even these, adding them to the pile of her garments.

Once naked, she settled cross-legged atop her cloak.

Mogweed squirmed at the sight of her. He felt stirrings in his loins, a rush of heat, and licked his dry lips.

His eyes wandered over her curves and her long, muscled legs. He hunkered down for a better look.

As she sat, it was easy to see that Mycelle was not completely naked. Twisted around her upper arm, she still wore the rainbow-banded snake, the paka’golo.

Mycelle glanced to the moon again, staring at it for a long moment.

As Mogweed had hoped, it was time—time once more for Mycelle to renew herself with the snake’s poison. Carefully, Mycelle teased the tiny paka’golo from its perch and onto her hand. It squirmed with clear agitation. It, too, sensed the moment had drawn near once again.

Mogweed swallowed in anticipation, his eyes fixed on what was to come.

Mycelle lifted the snake and brought it to her throat, craning her neck to bare the tender flesh at its crook. The paka’golo writhed in her fingers, its tiny tongue flickering. It drew back to strike, jaws opening, fangs unhinging to expose their lengths.

Mogweed did not see the serpent lash out. One moment it stood poised; then the next its jaws were fastened to Mycelle’s throat. Mogweed watched the snake spasm as it pumped its poison into her.

Slowly the woman toppled backward limply, arms falling loosely to the side. Where the snake had struck, Mycelle’s flesh melted as the poison spread. First her neck and shoulder dissolved into an amorphous shape, an amber-hued gel that flowed and churned. Then, as the poison spread outward, so did the transformation. Her naked form melted like a wax doll placed too near the flames.

ames Clemens

Mogweed’s fists clenched with both frustration and desire. Here was the true form of the si’lura. How he longed to melt himself and share with Mycelle. The man in him had responded to her naked form; now his si’luran half rang out with desire. Mogweed could barely contain himself. Sweat pebbled over his skin. His blood rushed, his heartbeat thudding heavy in his chest. But he was not the one to share this moment.

The paka’golo, floating atop the gelatinous amber mass of Mycelle, now sank into her depths, swimming through her, inside her. Through the translucency, Mogweed watched the snake sweep and contort in S-shaped waves. Mycelle’s flesh seemed to ripple in response. Where the snake passed, the amber hues brightened. Soon her entire form glowed.

Once this was accomplished, the snake surfaced again, rising like a diver and floating atop Mycelle’s body. Slowly the rippling and churning calmed, and a form began to reshape itself out of chaos. In a matter of moments, limbs were sculpted again, and a body of smooth curves re-formed.

Mycelle was reborn again. Her lips parted, and she gasped her first breath. With her chest heaving, she remained upon her cloak, eyes still closed as the transformation wound to completion. The paka’golo again perched upon her upper arm, coiling into place.

Mogweed trembled at the sight of her. Then something cold touched the flushed skin of his cheek.

Mogweed yelled and tumbled backward, his arm raised in protection.

A large dark shape loomed over him. It took him a shuddering heartbeat to recognize his brother.

Fardale settled to his haunches, tongue hanging loosely in wolfish amusement.

Mogweed sat up and cuffed his brother, but his blow was shaky.

“Who’s out there?” a rasped voice called. It was Mycelle.

Mogweed cringed a moment, then scrambled to his feet. “It… it’s just me! I’ve found Fardale.” He moved forward as if he had just arrived. “I thought you’d like to know.” Pushing aside a branch, he found Mycelle already dressed in her linen underclothes. She nodded to him, eyes exhausted, then turned to her piled garments. “It’s good to see you again, Fardale.” The treewolf growled in acknowledgment, then crossed to the stream and drank heartily.

Mycelle and Mogweed shared a glance. Both had noted Fardale’s or mental greetings. He did not even try to communicate in the si’luran way any longer.

Muzzle still dripping, Fardale crossed to a bush and raised his leg. His hot stream steamed in the evening’s cold.

Again Mycelle glanced to Mogweed, an eyebrow raised. Mogweed stared in shock at his brother’s casual action. Once done, Fardale lifted his nose, sniffed the air, then loped toward camp, clearly drawn by the scent of the night’s stew pot.

Mycelle tugged on her leggings. “Fardale is close to full wolf. Are you sure you still have another moon’s time before you both settle?” Mogweed remembered his own response to Mycelle’s naked form. He had wanted so desperately to take her like a man. Even now, he was glad his own cloak hid how much he still felt that way. “I… I don’t know. No one’s been cursed like us before.” Mycelle touched his shoulder, and Mogweed had to fight down a shudder of desire. “If there is a way to stop this, we’ll find it.”

Mogweed nodded and stepped away. He glanced at her snake as she retrieved her jerkin. His eyes narrowed as a sudden flare of frustrated anger burned through his desires. It was not fair that Mycelle had been given back her shape-shifting gifts by the serpent. She had voluntarily settled into her human form but was still given this second chance.

The snake seemed to sense his gaze and lifted its tiny head. Their eyes met. A tongue flickered out at him, tasting the air between them.

Mogweed’s eyes narrowed, remembering the flow of Mycelle’s flesh. For the thousandth time, he wondered if some clue to his own problem was not hidden under his own nose. The old healer, Mama Freda, had claimed that the snake was tied to Mycelle since her resurrection, and its magick was linked solely to her spirit. But what if that link were somehow broken? What if a new link could be forged ?

Mycelle straightened and pulled into her jerkin. “We should get back to camp.” Mogweed nodded. He waited until she was fully dressed, then followed her down, watching her back.

As he strode, a new desire took hold of his heart: not the lusts of a man, but something darker. What if the link could be broken?

Perched in the limbs of a massive redwood, Meric counted the dwarves passing below. Ten. It was the second patrol the party had come upon as they neared Tor Amon. And like the other, this group had its guard down. The patrol’s guttural laughter and loud voices had carried down the mountain pass, giving plenty of warning to Meric’s group. Up here, the d’warves had grown lax. Then again, why shouldn’t they? Between the Grim of the Fell and their own entrenched armies at Castle Mryl, what did they need to fear out here? Who could threaten them?

Meric lifted a hand and cupped his lips. He let out a piercing cry of an ice eagle. In response, Fardale burst from behind a holly bush and rushed the last d’warf in the party. He slashed the warrior’s hamstring and was gone in a blur of shadowed fur. The wounded d’warf yelled and tumbled to his face. His fellow soldiers swung around.

With their attention diverted, Meric leaped from his perch and touched just enough of his wind magick to slow his fall to a graceful swoop. In his hands, a pair of crossbows hummed as their bolts shot free. One struck the eye of a d’warf; the other ripped through another’s throat. Meric landed lightly in a pile of pine needles, tossing aside his bows and sweeping out his thin sword. He stabbed the closest d’warf, moving faster than an eye could follow.

Behind the party, Krai and Tyrus suddenly appeared—one dark as the forest’s gloom, the other bright as a morning sun. The men rushed the unprotected rear guard with ax and sword. As they struck, Mycelle stepped from the trail’s side to slice into the patrol’s flank with her twin swords.

Caught by surprise, most fell with their weapons still sheathed. The slaughter was quick and savage. Krai cleaved through with his dire ax, blood and gore fountaining around him as he waded through the shattered patrol. Mycelle and Tyrus danced behind him, finishing off what the mountain man left in his wake.

Meric saw a d’warf break from the pack. This one was slimmer and longer legged than his companions.

A runner, no more than a youngster. Eyes wild with terror, he raced back up the trail, clearly hoping to raise the alarm, hoping to live. Meric lowered his blade and shook his head.

As the d’warf fled up the deer trail, roots rose to tangle his feet. He crashed to his face, but to his credit, he rolled quickly back to his feet. But it was already too late. Fardale leaped silently out of the brush and tore out the young d’warf’s throat.

Meric turned away as the wolf dispatched the r’unner. Around him, the d’warf patrol lay torn upon the woodland trail, blood steaming in the cold morning air. A d’warf slowly tried to crawl away, moaning, his right arm cleaved off at the elbow. Tyrus stepped behind him and removed his head with a double-fisted blow of his sword. The Mrylian prince remained expressionless.

Nee’lahn stepped from the cover of a hawthorn bush, the babe in her arms. Mogweed came with her.

Nee’lahn lifted an arm, and the roots that had tripped the d’warf runner sank back into the loamy soil.

She stared at the slaughter with numb eyes. Finally, she turned away. “It’s not right,” she mumbled.

Krai searched through the dead, recovering satchels of foodstuffs, checking weapons. He straightened.

His beard was soaked with blood, dripping. Meric winced. Nee’lahn had spoken truthfully: this was not right. He remembered the d’warf party accompanying Elena to Gul’gotha, the prisoners who had been freed of the Dark Lord’s reign by the sight of the Try’sil hammer. This same party was no less tainted, bent to the will of the Black Beast of Gul’gotha. Was it right to kill them—he stared at the light in Krai’s eyes—and to take so much pleasure from it?

Meric sighed and sheathed his weapon. What choice did they have? The Weirgate hidden at the Citadel had to be destroyed.

After hiding the bodies, the group gathered and continued up the trail. Fardale, tail in the air, swept ahead to scent out any further dangers.

The day stretched forever in the endless climb upward, but as the sun sank toward the shadowed western peaks, the party finally reached the height of the pass.

Meric was one of the first to reach the vantage point. A huge open valley stretched ahead, so wide the far peaks were barely discernable. Heavy mists hung in tattered shreds, bits of white against the dark pines. But all this was just a frame for the true wonder of the highland basin.

Below, all but filling the valley’s bowl, was a gigantic mountain lake, midnight blue and as glassy as a mirror— Tor Amon. Mogweed gasped as he stepped forward. “Sweet Mother.” JAMES LIEMEKS

Meric understood his surprise. Spanning the great lake of Tor Amon was a massive arch of granite. It crested over the waters, its legs rising from the waters themselves, its surfaces wind-scoured smooth. But its uppermost heights, its pinnacle, had been carved into a great castle of turrets, balustrades, and sweeping walls. Throughout the structure, torches glowed from windows and walls.

“The ancient home of the mountain folk,” Krai said, his voice cracking, his eyes’ fixed on the high castle.

“The Citadel of the Ice Throne.”

“It’s wondrous,” Nee’lahn said, climbing off her scrawny pony.

The arch and castle not only climbed the skies, but were also reflected in the still waters of the lake below, creating the illusion of a continuous circle. It was indeed a wondrous sight—but not without a certain starkness. Below the arch, under the castle’s battlements, hung massive icicles, formed from centuries of mists dripping from the stone and freezing in the thin, frigid air. They stretched toward the waters far below, their surfaces glinting in the last rays of sun like the icy fangs of some mountain beast.

Meric shivered, sensing the dark hunger flowing out from the place.

And he was not the only one. Tyrus scowled at the high castle. “It’s out there. I can smell it.”

“What?” Mycelle asked at his side.

“The griffin,” the prince answered. “The Weirgate. Can’t you feel it? A throbbing sickness, like a festering, feverish wound.”

Meric nodded. “I sense it, too. A black hunger drawing off all life here. A hole in the fabric of the universe.”

“I don’t feel anything but the cold,” Mogweed said, his teeth chattering.

“Neither do I,” Mycelle said. “Are you sure?”

A small muffled wail startled them all. They swung around. The babe in Nee’lahn’s arms cried, and its tiny limbs fought and kicked at its buntings. “The seed child feels it, too. As do I.” She slipped back and sought to quiet the child.

Mycelle turned questioning eyes to Krai.

He nodded. “An evil worse than any d’warf has possessed the castle.” Mycelle glanced around the group. “But only the elementals feel it.” WIT C H

“What do you mean?” Meric asked.

“Mogweed and I sense nothing out of sorts. But all of you do.” Her eyes narrowed as she returned to her study of the valley.

Meric pondered her words, then spoke? “Elena did mention that the Weirgates were tuned to magick and those who bore it. It has the capability of not only sucking magickal energies into its dark heart, but even people, if they are strongly enough imbued with magick.”

“Like those with elemental gifts.”

He nodded. “Er’ril was taken. Tyrus, too, briefly. And if we are to believe what was learned back at A’loa Glen, even the spirit of Chi himself is trapped inside.”

“Then you’re all the most at risk,” Mycelle said. “If we are to destroy this gate, then only Mogweed, Fardale, and I can approach the griffin safely.”

“But how will any of us destroy it?” Meric said, voicing a concern that had been nagging at him since the journey had begun. “If it can simply absorb our magick, how can we hope to fight it?” Krai stepped forward as the sun finally sank away, a dark figure against the gloom. He hefted his ax in his hand. “All this chattering is not getting us a step closer. No matter what happens, I will find a way to carve this evil from the Citadel’s heart. The Ice Throne will belong to the mountain folk again.” Mycelle sighed. “Krai is right. Nothing can be accomplished from here. We have no choice but to go on.”

With the matter settled, the party headed down the trail leading into the valley. With the way downhill from here, Nee’lahn freed her pony, fearing it might be more a burden than an asset, and continued on foot. Meric helped her, taking her lute wrapped in its protective furs over his own shoulder.

After a bit, Mogweed slipped up to the head of the line, holding his cloak tight around his thin figure. He nodded ahead. “And has anyone considered how we’re going to reach the castle? If it’s guarded by d’warves and atop a peak of arched stone…”

“There is a way inside,” Krai answered.

“What way?” Mogweed asked.

“The path by which my people fled the castle, five centuries ago.” Snow again came with the night, blowing and gusting in swirls around the party as they huddled in their cloaks and moved silently along the rocky beach. They hid in the shadows of the overhanging trees.

Krai led the way, his eyes narrowed, his beastly senses stretching outward. Full night had descended, and the lake waters were as black as oil. Krai stared at the white snow sweeping across the dark face of Tor Amon. Pausing, he sniffed the breeze. A storm was coming—a true blizzard.

“We must increase our pace,” he hissed to Mycelle behind him. She grimaced. “It’s more important to be cautious.” Krai stared out into the deeper forest that covered the valley floor. On the way to Tor Amon, they had come upon several d’warf encampments, but with their campfires, they were easy to spot and avoid. Even the occasional patrol was easily sidestepped, due to the d’warves’ continued lax guard.

Presently, the woods remained dark and silent.

“I suspect all our hens are nested for the night,” he answered. “D’warves don’t like the cold. They’ll have their heads tucked tight tonight.”

“Still, it pays to be cautious,” Meric said, overhearing them. “We don’t want to wake the whole henhouse.”

“A storm is coming,” Krai growled, angry. “A mountain killer.” Meric glanced across the lake to the north. “I sense it, too, but the blizzard might cover our approach.” Krai shook his head, icicles clinking in his frozen beard. “You might know the skies, elv’in. But you know nothing of the mountains. What comes this night will freeze you where you stand. We must be off the lake before it strikes.”

“How much longer?”

Krai cocked his head. Already the winds were beginning to howl.

“Not long.”

Mycelle nodded forward. “Set the pace. We’ll keep up.” As they continued, Mycelle drifted back to alert the others. Meric kept pace with Krai. After another league had passed under their feet, the snow began to fall thicker, now sticking in heavy flakes to the shoreline and tree limbs, accumulating quickly.

Meric spoke up, shaking snow from his cloak like a bird ruffling Wit c h (j ate its feathers. “How much farther to this secret path into your mountain Citadel?”

“We near it now,” Krai grumbled, not wishing to talk. With nightfall, the beast inside him grew in strerfgth. It was difficult to ignore and harder to keep in check, especially with the dark magicks swirling throughout the valley.

“Where?” Meric persisted.

Krai pointed out into the water, to where the nearest leg of the arch swept out of the lake and climbed high into the sky. The base was as thick around as most castles. From here, a stout wooden bridge could be seen linking the shore to the arch’s leg. Torches lit an iron door in a sheltered alcove. Krai knew it led to a long stair that wound up inside the stone arch to the distant castle above.

“The bridge is unguarded,” Meric noted with surprise.

“The Citadel protects itself. It takes a strong man a half day to climb to the castle heights. None can sneak upon it unawares.” Krai pointed to the tiny lights that dotted the sweeping leg of the arch.

“Lookouts and guard posts line the stairs all the way to the top. What is the need to watch a single door?”

Meric nodded, but his eyes remained narrowed with worry.

As they continued, Krai stared out at the giant granite arch. Now so close, Krai could sense both powers here—not only the dark power that thrilled through him, but also a deeper, more sonorous beat. Krai knew this voice. It was the call of the mountain roots, the deep vastness of stone. It vibrated up from below, chiming through the arch.

It was this same call that had first summoned the nomadic clans of the northern mountains, gathering the myriad Flames, the clans, to this place. It had taken his people a full century to mine out the tunnel that led to the arch’s heights. The upper arch had originally been used as an ancient lookout for guarding the entire valley, a mutual means of defense when the lands were wild and wars frequent. But eventually the lookout’s roost grew into a full castle and the many clans became one, united under the Senta Flame, Krai’s own family clan.

But that was no more. Krai gripped his ax in an iron hold.

Five centuries ago, the d’warves had come, armed with dark magicks and accompanied by monsters of the foulest ilk. The clans had no defenses against such forces. His people were shattered into indi-vidual families and scattered throughout the mountains, nomads again.

Krai listened again to the deep call of the Citadel. The pain was almost too much to bear. Even the beast inside him cowered from it, retreating deep into his heart.

“How are we going to get up to the top without being seen?” Meric asked.

“By not going up^‘ Krai answered, and turned to the dark waters of Tor Amon. The group gathered behind him. He tossed aside his winter cloak. ”From here, I must go alone to see if the old path remains open.“

“Go where?” Mycelle asked, joining them again. Krai stripped out of his outerwear until he stood only in his linen underclothes. He ignored the cold breezes across his naked flesh. He held his ax for a moment, then reluctantly added it to his pile of discarded clothes. “Someone gather up my gear. Take it with you.”

“Where?” Mycelle asked again, growing angry now. “Enough of these half answers. Speak straight.” Krai turned to her. “You and the others go ahead. Cross the wood bridge to the arch’s iron entry. Hide in the door’s shadows until I come for you.”

“And where are you going?” Mogweed asked, shivering. Krai turned again to the lake and pointed to the arch’s reflection in the dark waters, lit by moonglow through the thickening clouds and the torchlight of the castle’s heights. “I go to claim my birthright.” He glanced back to Lord Tyrus. “As the Land gave your family the gift to melt stone into water and swim through it, so the Land had given my family the mirror to your magick: to turn water back to stone.”

“I don’t understand what—”

Krai ignored their confused expressions. It was simpler to show them—that is, if the Land still remembered his clan and the oaths spoken long ago. Before anyone else could speak, he dove into the frigid waters, diving for the reflection of the arch in the midnight waters, praying the Land had a long memory.

The water’s cold struck him like a hammer to the chest. As his head crested back out of the water, he bit back a gasp and fought his muscles, which cramped from the water’s icy grip. He kicked and swept his arms, swimming for the shimmering reflection of the archway.

He paused to glance behind him. The group stood stunned on the shoreline. He waved an arm angrily at them, and Mycelle quickly guided the others to gather his things and move toward the bridge farther down the shore.

Krai returned his attention back to his own responsibility. Kicking smoothly, he drove hard for the distant reflection, a fiery glinting on the waters from the Citadel’s torches far overhead. As the cold sank through to his bones and his limbs grew leaden, Krai worried that he was on a fool’s errand. This was surely madness.

But as he finally struggled into the fiery reflection of the castle, the waters grew warmer around him. At first, Krai thought it was merely his own exertion warming his muscles, but soon the waters grew much too warm to ignore.

Tears choked his throat. The Land remembered… Fearing the miracle might disappear, Krai took a deep breath and dove into the depths. Under him, a glow spread deep into the water. Far below, he saw the fiery image of the Citadel reflected in the dark depths. He stared in wonder at the mirror image of his ancient homeland. Even a shimmering arch could be seen reflected in the watery depths, reaching up like welcoming stone arms. He remembered his first view of the valley: the archway spanning the lake, while at the same time, reflected in it, forming a complete circle. Half stone, half illusion.

Invigorated by the sight, Krai kicked and drove for the closest leg of the ghostly arch. As he neared it, a twinge of doubt again flared. What was this folly? What was he doing? Surely it was just old family stories, old clan tales…

He reached a hand toward the shimmering reflection—and his fingers touched stone.

Mycelle led her party cautiously around a granite outcropping. The bridge lay ahead. It appeared unwatched, but she held up a hand for silence as she listened, then waved Fardale forward to check the fringe forest for spies. They all huddled in the lee of the boulder, out of the worst of the fierce wind.

Mycelle glanced around her. The others were all shivering, cloaks dusted with clinging snow. Krai had been most correct in his assessment of the weather. They needed shelter from this storm as soon as possible.

She stepped back around the boulder into the teeth of the snowstorm and searched for Krai. There was no sign of him. The waters had grown still again. Where was he? What was he up to? Her earlier misgivings flared. Since entering the valley, the tiny snake on her arm would hiss and squeeze with his approach, clearly agitated, offering some strange warning. Could Krai be fully trusted? For the thousandth time, she wished she still retained the gift of seeking, the ability to sense the elemental energy in another, but it was gone with her rebirth. In such matters, she was as blind as any other. Still, gift or not, something had changed in him, of this she was certain. But had they not all changed on this long journey?

Lord Tyrus touched her shoulder. “Fardale’s back from his search.” Putting aside her suspicions, she nodded and followed the man back to the others. Nee’lahn huddled over her baby, while Mogweed leaned near Fardale.

“I can’t understand you,” Mogweed hissed at his brother.

Mycelle placed a hand on the thin man’s shoulder. “Let me try.” Both Fardale and Mogweed glanced up at her. The amber glow in their eyes, once so bright, was now the barest glimmer. They were both close to settling.

Mycelle knelt before Fardale, placing a hand on his shoulder. “What did you find?” A kaleidoscope of images swept across her mind’s eye.

“Concentrate, Fardale.”

A deep whine flowed from his throat, but the images slowed their spin: Two d’warvish guards… hidden in a smoky alcove in a tumble of rocks… crouched around a small brazier of glowing coals.

Mycelle straightened. “Spies watch the bridge from forest’s edge.” She turned back to the wolf. “Can you take us there?”

Fardale didn’t bother to answer, just spun on a paw, ready to lead the way. Mycelle quickly nodded to Tyrus. “You come with me. Meric, you nock up a crossbow and watch over the others.” The elv’in nodded. Tyrus stepped to her side, his hand resting on his sword’s hilt.

With a wave, Mycelle sent Fardale off, then she and Tyrus followed. They were all skilled at moving unseen, unheard. In a short time, Mycelle made out the weak glow of the makeshift camp shining from a tumble of boulders. It was a good vantage point: high enough to watch the bridge, but sheltered to keep the lookouts hidden.

With silent hand gestures, Mycelle passed instructions. Fardale flashed across the cave’s entrance, making sure he was spotted, then dashed off again. A startled grumble erupted from the cave. One of the pair of d’warves bumbled to the entrance, weaving a bit on his feet, a wine flask gripped by its leather neck in his hand. It seemed the glowing coals were not enough to keep this bored pair warm.

The d’warf stumbled another step out to make sure the wolf was gone. Fardale had vanished, but not Tyrus. The tall prince stepped before the d’warf and drove his sword through the startled guard’s neck.

Blood sprayed across the white snow, matching the sloshing wine that flowed from the flask he dropped.

Tyrus snatched the d’warf’s cloak and tumbled him away from the alcove’s opening. His crash was not silent.

“Did ye get the furry beast?” his companion called out, slurring in his d’warvish tongue. “I could use me some hot, bloody meat.”

Mycelle kept her post on the opposite side of the shelter’s opening. When the second d’warf stepped free, she drove both her swords through his chest, piercing his twin hearts. He fell back into the alcove, landing on his brazier and scattering coals around the rank space.

Tyrus stepped to her side, wiping his sword clean on a cloak stolen from the dead d’warf. He offered an edge to Mycelle so she could clean her own weapons. Once she was done, he handed the cloak to her.

“Mayhap it would be best if you resumed your disguise as a d’warf. We may run into others.” Mycelle hesitated. She was more comfortable wearing her own form. Still, it was a wise precaution if they were entering a d’warf stronghold. As she slipped out of her own clothes, she likewise slipped out of her familiar form. She changed again into the d’warf huntress that she had imitated at Castle Mryl. Her body remembered the previous transformation and flowed easily into it. Legs bowed out and grew thick.

Hair became ratted, and her face flattened and widened into the thick-browed visage of a d’warf. Once complete, she stole the outerwear of the d’warves and wrapped herself in the black cloak of the Gul’gothal soldiers.

Tyrus eyed her up and down, an amused expression on his face. It had been a long time since she had seen the man smile. She had forgotten how handsome he looked with that spark in his eye.

“What?” she asked.

He sheathed his sword and turned away. “You look better as a woman. Still, I was just wondering what it would be like to bed you… that flowing flesh and all. I’m sure it would be an interesting time.” Mycelle’s eyes widened; a blush crept over the wide cheeks. Prince or not, it seemed there was still a bit of the pirate in him. She trudged after him in her new body, shocked at his words, yet oddly pleased at the same time.

When they reached the camp, Meric came close to peppering her with his crossbows until Tyrus waved him away. “It’s Mycelle,” he said. “We figured a bit of subterfuge may come in handy.” Meric lowered his bows. “If nothing else, it’s certainly convincing.” Mycelle shoved forward in her bulky form and led the others around the boulder. “It should be safe to reach the arch now.” She lumbered out to the bare stretch of rocky beach and leaned into the storm. The winds blowing off the lake had grown fiercer, howling now. The drifting snow sped almost horizontal to the ground. The party fought the storm and hurried to the bridge.

Across the wooden span, a single torch still glowed in the doorway alcove. The other had sputtered out, stanched by the wet winds. As a group, they hurried across and gathered in the cramped alcove. The single torch did little to warm the small space. Whirlwinds of snow continually swept into the tiny cubby.

Mycelle tested the iron door. It was locked and latched.

“What are we going to do?” Mogweed asked, eyes wide with fear.

Meric leaned against a wall. “Krai said to wait here for him, so we wait.” , Mycelle had none of the elv’in’s stoic patience. She drew out her sword and pounded its hilt on the door.

Iron rang like a struck bell. “Stand back,” she ordered. “If there’s a d’warf guard, let him only see a d’warf at his door. And—”

The door crashed open. Mycelle fell backward.

A dark form filled the threshold, and a harsh voice barked out at them. “What are you all gawking at?

Get your arses in here.” The figure stepped forward into the torchlight. It was Krai, soaking wet and dripping. His sodden beard hung to the middle of his chest. “What took you so long?” They all hurried inside. Krai, his teeth chattering from the cold, eyed Mycelle’s new form as he dressed back into his own warmer clothes. Tyrus explained about the hidden spies in the rocks. “A good precaution,” Krai said, nodding approvingly.

Mycelle searched around the entrance to the arch. A wide stairway carved from the stone itself wound upward. On its lowest step, a dead d’warf lay sprawled facedown upon the stair. Blood still flowed and dripped down the steps.

Krai noticed her attention. “It seems you were not the only ones to come upon a hidden watcher.” She nodded and turned away. But the tiny hairs at the back of her neck quivered with warning. She tried to keep her stance and manner calm and disinterested. Something did not add up. Before Tyrus had spoken, Krai had recognized Mycelle in her d’warvish form. She had recognized the knowledge in his eyes and noticed the way he had sniffed at her like some woodland animal. And now the dead d’warf.

How had Krai killed him? The guard’s throat had been ripped out, sliced from ear to ear. But Krai had no weapon.

She studied him from the corner of her eye as he finished dressing and hitched his ax back to his belt.

What unspoken game was being played here?

At her side, Mogweed craned his neck and searched the space. He asked the other concern in Mycelle’s mind. “How did you get inside?”

The mountain man straightened, shoving his foot into his boot. “Let me show you.” He pointed an arm.

“Everyone on the stone stairs.”

They obeyed, careful of the slick blood and dead body. Krai joined them on the lowest step. Mycelle watched him. His eyelids lowered, and his lips moved silently.

After a moment, he leaned closer, studying the stone floor. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the group. “Link hands, flesh to flesh. No one let go, no matter what happens.” Mycelle took Krai’s hand herself, then reached to Tyrus. Nee’lahn bared her breast and tucked the child inside, skin to skin, then offered her free hand. The rest linked up.

At the line’s end, Mogweed grabbed his brother’s tail. “Ready,” he squeaked out.

| A M E S LLF.MINS

T°

“Then let us go. The first step is dizzying, so hold tight.” Krai made the last step, but never reached the floor. He seemed to fall, head over heel, tumbling, tugging Mycelle after him. Mycelle’s first instinct was to let go, but she held firm, committed to this venture. She fell after him, feeling her stomach lurch sickeningly.

Then she found the floor back under her feet. She turned and saw the others gathered behind her. They were simply in the anteroom again. Nothing had’changed.

“You can let go now,” Krai said. “We’ve passed the threshold.” Menc touched his forehead, his face somewhat green. “What just happened?”

“We’re right where we started from,” Mogweed said.

“No.” The mountain man pointed back to the staircase. “We’re in the nether arch.” Krai remounted the stairs. “We should hurry before a patrol finds the dead body of the guard.” Mycelle looked to the stair. The d’warf’s body was gone. The stairs were clean of any blood. “What is going on?” she asked. “Where are we?”

Krai sighed. “I will explain as we climb.” He started up the stairs. Once under way, Krai spoke. “We now walk in the reflection of the true arch—the mirror image that is cast upon the waters of Tor Amon.

When walked by one of the royal family, illusion becomes substance.”

“Water becomes stone,” Tyrus muttered, repeating the mountain man’s earlier words.

Krai nodded. “Lord Tyrus, the Land has granted my family a secret means of moving unseen through our arched home. We now walk behind the mirror of what is real.” Mycelle glanced out a passing arrow slit. The white snowstorm was gone. Only darkness lay beyond.

Pausing, she reached a hand through the window and touched water.

“The lake,” Krai explained, staring back at her. “As we climb these stairs, we are actually climbing into the depths of Tor Amon, following the reflection down into the waters.” He pointed to a wider window up ahead, a lookout post. The windowsill and wall were wet, as were the steps. “I climbed from the lake through there, then came and fetched you.”

“But why climb down… or up… or whatever to this watery castle? To what end?” Mycelle asked, wiping her damp hand.

“None will see us on this path. It is a way known only to the clans a way that can only be opened by one of the Senta Flame. We are safe, and once we reach the castle, we can pass through the mirror and back into the true world—back into the castle—with no one the wiser.” Mycelle pondered his plan. If he spoke truthfully, it would certainly give them an advantage. “Can you move easily between the two planes—real and reflection?”

Krai growled his assent.

Mycelle nodded and waved him onward. Suspicions still rang in her bones, but what choice did they have? The Griffin Weirgate had to be challenged. She followed after the mountain man leading their party.

The climb grew into an endless trek. The stairs seemed to flow forever. Several times along the way, they came upon old bones tumbled in a landing’s corner or sprawled across the steps. Krai’s voice was a hoarse rasp. “The bones of the wounded. Many were too weak and died on the steps as the last survivors of the bloody war fled down this secret path, led by my ancestor. Here they remain forever, the last guardians of the Citadel.”

In silence, as if walking a graveyard, the group continued up and up. Finally, exhausted and bone-tired, they reached the top of the stairs. A set of stone gates lay open. A wide echoing hall lay beyond, lit by netherlights, shimmering fiery glows.

“Reflections of the hall’s torches in the true world,” Krai explained, and led them through the wide gates.

Mycelle stepped forward. The hall was strangely empty, hollow, their steps echoing off the phantom walls. But at the same time, Mycelle seemed to sense the presence of others nearby. And she was not the only one to feel this way. The others darted glances around, as if spotting movement from the corner of an eye or hearing a whisper near an ear.

Holding back a shudder, Mycelle followed after Krai. “Where are we going?” she said in a hushed voice, afraid of being overheard by the ghosts in the hall.

“To the throne room,” Krai said. “If we are to start our search anywhere, it should be there.” Mycelle nodded. The mountain man increased his pace in his excitement. They left the entrance hall, climbed more stairs, and passed through a maze of tunneled corridors. Mycelle concentrated on remembering the way lest they get separated.

At last, they reached a wide hallway that ended at a towering, carved granite door. It stretched to the height of six mountain men and stood slightly ajar. Krai hurried forward.

“Wait!” Mycelle called, nerves jangling with warning.

But the mountain man was deaf to her. He slipped through the door and into the room beyond. Mycelle raced after him. “Keep up! He’s our only way out of this stony reflection!” Mycelle dashed through the door and into the cavernous chamber beyond. Here, too, strange fiery netherlights lit the expansive floor of polished granite and vaulted ceilings. But in the room’s center, an oily darkness stood, eating any light that reached it, a black whirlpool tipped on end. Its hungry eye stared back at them. Screams wailed up from its pit.

“Krai!” Tyrus yelled.

The mountain man knelt before the darkness—not in allegiance, but in terror. His hands and feet scrabbled for purchase, but it was clear he was being drawn, sucked toward the darkness. “I can’t stop it!” he yelled. “It’s drawing me out of the reflection and back to the real world!” The group rushed forward, grabbing Krai’s arms. But it was like trying to stop a ship from sinking. Krai’s body dragged forward, hauling them all along like fishes on a line.

“We’re not strong enough!” Tyrus said.

“But we can’t lose him either!” Mycelle spat back. “He’s the only one that can get us safely through the threshold and back to the real world!”

Krai’s feet vanished into the oily whirlpool. “It’s too late!” he cried.

Mycelle glanced to the others. “There is only one way to go from here. We stick together. Where Krai goes, we go!”

She reached a free hand to Nee’lahn. The nyphai took it. The others joined the link. Mogweed hesitated, glancing around the ghostly hall, then took Tyrus’ hand. Nee’lahn grabbed Fardale’s tail.

“Be ready!” Mycelle yelled.

As a group, they were tugged forward, tumbling into the dark void. Again there was the queer lurch. The world spun toe over heel, and then they were through.

Mycelle stared around her. The hall was the same as the one they had been in a moment before. But now instead of a whirling pool of darkness, she found them all collapsed before a monstrous stone statue of a winged black lion, its talons dug deep into the polished floor of the chamber, its fanged mouth open in a silent roar. It was the Griffin Weirgate.

Beside it stood a tall, plain throne of silver granite: the Ice Throne. Seated upon the chair was a massive d’warf, white-haired and so wrinkled with age that it was difficult to make out his features.

The ancient one’s hoary eyes stared down at Krai. “Ah, Brother,” the ancient figure croaked, his dry lips cracking into a wide smile. “Be welcomed home. The Dark Master has missed you.” Kral gained his feet, trembling with rage. To either side, a mass of armored d’warves closed in on his stunned companions as they lay sprawled on the granite floor. From galleries high on the walls, archers bristled with arrows. It was an ambush, and he had led their group into it.

But guilt had no grip on his heart. Fury and rage burned out all other emotions. To see a d’warf seated on his family throne was too much for Krai’s blood. He loosed the beast inside him, oblivious to all who witnessed it. He was past caring about secrets and allegiances. He had only one goal now—to destroy this d’warf king.

A roar burst from his throat as claws sprouted bloody from his fingertips. A snowy pelt shivered from his skin, and a muzzle of razored fangs grew forth from his face. Legion burst forth from the mountain man’s clothes, shredding through the leathers, wearing the muscled and deadly form of the snow leopard.

With the heightened senses of the beast, he heard Mogweed gasp and scramble away.

“He’s an ill’guard,” Mycelle called out, tugging everyone back.

Deep inside, Kral registered the lack of surprise from the shape-shifter, but he ignored it for now.

Instead, he turned his red eyes upon his true prey.

The ancient d’warf king also showed little surprise at Krai’s transformation. A thin smile cracked his features. “So the kitten wants to play?”

D’warves closed ranks before the throne and attacked from all sides, cleaving down with axes and swords. But Krai moved with the speed and grace of the leopard, vanishing before any blade could touch him. He was a white blur against the black granite.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his companions pinned against the wall. Tyrus and Mycelle kept a wall of steel between the attacking d’warves and the others, while Fardale shored up any weak spots in their defense. Behind them, Meric’s form danced with blue energies, calling forth a flurry of winds to confound the aim of any arrows. Krai growled, acknowledging their fierce hearts. But he knew they were doomed. The number of d’warves was too great.

Dismissing them, he ripped out the throat of a d’warf in front of him, and with a kick of a hind paw, he tore open the stomach of another. Imbued with dark magicks and armed with the natural instincts of a forest cat, he was an unstoppable force. Slowly, he worked toward the d’warf king seated on the Ice Throne. He maintained a wary distance from the Weirgate. Krai knew it had been the ebon’stone statue that had sucked him out of the reflection—knew to fear its powers. Still, Krai would not accept defeat, not until the last d’warf was slain in the Citadel.

With a wail, he dove into the line of d’warves before the throne, shredding through them with teeth and claw. At last, the way lay open to the king. Leopard muscles bunched under him, ready to leap and claim his family’s throne.

Still, the king did not move. He simply continued to smile, meeting Krai’s feral gaze with amused disinterest.

Krai’s feline instincts thrilled with warning, suspicious. Why was his prey not running?

“I know your secrets, Legion,” the king said. “The Nameless One has warned me of your special gifts—gifts you use to betray him now.” The ancient d’warf rubbed his crooked fingers along the chair’s granite arms. “Gifts to win back a throne.”

A howl of red fury flowed from Krai’s throat. He leaped with all the muscles in his limbs—and still the d’warf king did not flinch, but merely motioned with one hand.

Krai instantly knew his error. His body contorted in midair: claws sank away, fur vanished in a breath, sharp teeth blunted. Thrown off balance by the transformation, Krai’s leap fell short of his true target.

fie struck the steps that led to the Ice Throne, shattering his collarbone as his shoulder hit.

Gasping, Krai rolled to his feet naked, a man again. The leopard was gone. He tried to touch the beast within, but nothing was there. He swung around as swords encircled him.

A dwarf warrior stood in the center of the chamber. In one hand, he held Krai’s discarded ax—and in his other, the pelt of the snow leopard that had wrapped its iron head. He lifted the exposed weapon toward his king.

“You need a pelt to transform, don’t you?” the d’warf king said behind him. “Without an animal’s skin around your ax, you’re nothing but a man.”

The warrior tossed the leopard skin atop a torch borne by another d’warf. The fur caught flame.

Clenching his fists, Krai watched any hope of winning here burn away. He fell to his knees on the granite floor, defeated, hopeless.

The d’warf king cackled on the throne. “Do not despair, Brother. You’ve brought a bevy of elementals to my doorstep, additional kindling for the Dark Master’s flame. Where you have failed, these will be made into unbending instruments.”

Krai turned to see the ancient king creak up from his seat and step over to the monstrous winged statue.

A wrinkled hand ran along the black stone, tracing one of the silvery veins in the rock with a fingertip.

“You’re also in time to see the Master’s ultimate victory. As you’ve lost hope, so will all.” As d’warves ringed the group with ax and sword, Meric watched the game play out by the throne. He leaned closer to Lord Tyrus and Mycelle, who stood with their own weapons drawn. Both sustained bloody wounds from the recent skirmish. “We must not be captured,” he said. “I’ve withstood one assault by the Dark Lord’s twisting flame. I doubt I could withstand it again.” Nee’lahn agreed, clutching the babe tighter to her breast. “I’ll not become like Cecelia. Neither will I allow the child to be taken.”

“What are you saying?” Mycelle asked.

Tyrus answered. “The elv’in is right. All the elementals, myself included, must be slain. We cannot risk becoming tools of the Dark Lord.” *

Mycelle hissed back at them. “In my lifetime, I’ve poisoned scores of elementals to keep them from the Dark Lord and called it a kindness. I understand your sentiment… but… but…” Meric recognized the pain and guilt in her eyes. “We can’t lose hope. Not yet,” she insisted. Turning, she muttered pained words only meant for herself, but Meric’s sharp ears heard her. “Sweet Mother, don’t ask me to do this.

My hands are stained with enough blood.”

Meric stepped back to Nee’lahn. “If she can’t do this, we must.” Nee’lahn nodded.

Meric stared across the room crowded with d’warves. Overshadowed by the monstrous Weirgate, Krai was being trussed in iron shackles. What hope was there?

Nee’lahn touched his arm. “Hand me my lute.” Meric still had her instrument slung over his shoulder. He shrugged it off and peeled back its wrappings. “What are you planning?”

“The only thing I can to protect the baby.” She pulled aside a bit of blanket from her seed child and exposed his small arm. In her other hand, a dagger appeared. Before Meric could stop her, she sliced the little one’s palm.

The babe’s scream echoed off the walls, drawing all eyes in their direction. Nee’lahn smeared her fingertips in the child’s blood, then took the lute from Meric’s stunned arms. Without pausing, as the child continued to wail, she strummed the lute’s strings with her bloody fingers. Music and wailing wafted throughout the room, sailing out high windows and through open doorways. “What are you doing?” Mycelle hissed back at her. “Calling for those who would protect the child—calling to the one who would recognize his cries.” Nee’lahn met Meric’s gaze. “I’m calling for his mother.” Meric’s eyes flew wide. She was summoning the Grim.

Nee’lahn played her lute with all the energy in her body, weav-ing the babe’s sobs with chords of woodsong, striving to open a path to her sisters of the forest. “Come to me!” she sang in the ancient tongue. “Protect the child.”

Tied to her music, she felt the song swell out and beyond. As she plied her strings, the lines of force in the room became apparent, scintillating in the air. Near the Griffin Weirgate, strains of magickal energy swirled in a tight vortex around the statue, unable to escape, eddying down into the black well. Nee’lahn sensed its sucking hunger, and for a moment, she sensed the malevolence at the heart of the griffin.

Reeling back in horror, she glided her music away from the Weirgate, but found she was unable. Hooked like a fish, she was trapped. Her music jarred -to a stop, but it was too late. Lines of force now connected her to the Weirgate. She sensed that all that was elemental in her heart was being drawn into the statue.

“Nee’lahn,” Meric said at her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“The Weirgate,” she gasped, weakening on her feet. The lute fell from her trembling fingers, but Meric caught it. “I touched it with my magick. I… I can’t break free.” Meric caught her under the arms. “What can I do?” She shook her head. The room began to grow dark.

“I… I’m lost. Save the child…”

A darker shadow swept across her vision. Nee’lahn thought she was fading away—until a sibilant voice pierced through to her. “Is this how you protect my baby?” Meric yanked her away.

The dark mist coalesced into the figure of Cecelia, the wraith ill’guard. “I will not let them harm my child—not even to avenge the Land’s cruelty.” Her words balanced between madness and grief. “Sisters, join me!”

From the chamber’s shadowed corners, wraiths unfolded into the room, drawn forth upon the strands of Nee’lahn’s music. The bits of darkness sailed free, flitting and flapping on unseen winds. Where they passed, screams arose. D’warves fell dead to the floor. Bodies tumbled from the galleries, crushing others.

And still the darkness continued to flow into the chamber. More and more of the Grim fell upon their prey. D’warves twisted and writhed on the floor. Across the hall, guards circled the throne, protecting their king.

Mycelle and Tyrus pulled closer to the others, backing from the wraith Cecelia.

Nee’lahn suddenly swooned to her knees, dragging Meric down with her.

“What’s wrong?” Mycelle asked.

“She’s dying,” Meric answered, then faced Cecelia. “Can you stop this?” Cecelia swung on Meric. “Why should I?”

Meric stood up and pointed to the griffin. “The statue is drawing Nee’lahn’s power from her body, from her lute, from her spirit. Not only will she die, so will the last spirit of your trees. And with both gone, the babe will surely perish. If you love your child, if you love the future of your people, then stop what is happening to her.”

Cecelia’s darkness swelled out like a foul cloak. Her voice rose to a tortured scream. “I… I don’t know if I can.”

“Just try!”

Nee’lahn reached a hand and touched the baby’s head, which peeked from his blankets. “Please…” Cecelia stared down at her. A dark arm reached out. Nee’lahn was too weak to move away. An icy coldness brushed across her cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” the wraith whispered. “I ache to look upon you.”

Nee’lahn had no words left. She pleaded with her eyes. Cecelia turned away. “No matter the cost, I would rather my child grow as bright as you, than as dark as his mother.” The wraith swirled back into a dark cloud and shot up toward the vaulted ceiling, wailing the cry of the Grim. Around the chamber, the myriad shadows froze for a breath, ignoring their sprawled and twisted prey. As a group, they swept up to join their leader. The billowing darkness grew to fill the arched ceiling.

Throughout the room, d’warves cowered near the floor. From the darkness, words sailed forth. “Sisters, it is time to end our suffering. We are not meant for this world.” Nee’lahn, tied to her sisters by bonds as old as her tree, understood what was about to happen. “No!” she struggled to yell, but her voice was a weak whisper. Her dry lips cracked, and blood dribbled down her chin. She was almost spent.

“Ride with me into the flames, Sisters! Allow us this one act of penance for all we’ve become, for all the sins of our past.” A howl rose from the gathered Grim.

Around Nee’lahn, her companions fell to their knees, palms pressed to their ears against the crushing noise. Even the d’warf king collapsed by his throne.

Despite the cries, Nee’lahn heard Cecelia’s voice. “For the sake of Lok’ai’hera—for the sake of the last seed child—follow me!”

A bit of shadow broke from the flock and shot toward the statue. It hovered a moment. Nee’lahn sensed a gaze falling upon her from the dank mist. Words whispered in her ear. “Protect my child, little one.” Then the shred of shadow shot at the statue, diving through the open jaws of the griffin with a scream.

“Follow me!”

This final corrtmand of the last keeper of Lok’ai’hera could not be ignored by the Grim. A flow of shadows swept down from above in a continuous black waterfall.

“No!” the king of the d’warves yelled, gaining his feet. “Stop them!” But who could stop a shadow? The Grim swept down the black maw of the beast. Its hungry throat swallowed them all, feeding, slaking upon their elemental energies, consuming them entirely. “Stop!” the king yelled again.

Nee’lahn sensed the thin cord of power that linked her to the statue begin to burn away as the surge of energy swept through the Weirgate. As more Grim fled, wailing, into the griffin’s maw, their flow of power sliced her free, tossing her back against the wall as the tether snapped. Gasping, she rolled to her knees. “They’re sacrificing themselves!” she yelled as the last of the wraiths were swallowed away.

“They’re burning themselves away so I might live. All my sisters… gone…” Meric touched her shoulder and whispered, “I think it’s what they ultimately wanted: an end to their pain and a chance to secure a hope for the future.”

Nee’lahn stood up, determined to honor their sacrifice. Across the hall, the d’warf king glowered at the gathered party. An unearthly fire shone in his eyes. “You thought to destroy the griffin. But your efforts have only made the Weir stronger. I will burn you all upon the Master’s altar and see the Land destroyed!”

Nee’lahn’s eyes narrowed. The d’warf king had no understanding of the battle that had been won here.

“Beware the Gate,” she warned her companions. “Do not let your magick touch it.” One of the king’s guards blew a horn, and the scattered d’warf forces slowly edged back into the throne room, wary of the dead bodies scattered across the floor.

Mycelle stepped forward, still in her d’warf form. “We’ll only have this one chance. We attack now or be overwhelmed.”

Tyrus stepped to her side. “What’s your plan?”

“You all lead the attack against the d’warves. Leave the gate to me.”

“What are you going to do?” Mogweed asked.

Mycelle’s gaze fixed on the chained and defeated mountain man. “I have a plan.” She turned to Lord Tyrus and spoke rapidly. “But I’ll need Krai’s ax.” She pointed to where the weapon lay, clutched in the hands of a dead d’warf.

He nodded. “I’ll fetch it.” He set off across the floor, running low, sword at ready. But so far the d’warves were slow to regroup and offered little challenge.

As Meric stepped to Mycelle’s side, a flash of movement caught Nee’lahn’s eye. “Meric!” she yelled in warning.

The elv’in swung around, lifting an arm crackling with energy. But he was too slow to stop the arrow’s flight.

The barb flew true, ripping through Mycelle’s throat. Blood gouted from the wound as the swordswoman fell backward. She hit the floor, sliding, her blades clattering away.

Nee’lahn dove to her side, while Fardale joined Meric in raising a defense. Fierce winds blew a warding around them as the elv’in danced within the gale, sword in hand. At his side, Fardale ripped into any who drew too near. Even Mogweed recovered one of Mycelle’s swords and knelt on the other side of the wounded woman. “How is she?” Mogweed asked.

Mycelle struggled to sit up, but Nee’lahn held her down. “Don’t move.” Mycelle opened her mouth to speak, but only blood flowed out. Mycelle clutched Nee’lahn’s arm frantically, tugging her closer.

Nee’lahn leaned down.

Mycelle coughed to clear her throat, spraying Nee’lahn with gore, and managed to choke out a few hoarse words, waving toward the statue. “A sacrifice… like your sisters‘.” Blood again filled her throat, but she coughed. “The ax!”

Nee’lahn turned and saw Tyrus had recovered the mountain man’s weapon. He was returning with it in hand. “It comes,” Nee’lahn said. “But I don’t understand what good it will do us.” Mycelle scrabbled with her other hand and slipped out a dagger. She pressed its hilt into Nee’lahn’s hand and squeezed, struggling to get her to understand. Nee’lahn stared into the woman’s pained and sorrowful eyes. Mycelle’s lips moved, but no sound came out.

Still, Nee’lahn recognized the word she struggled to speak.

Shape-shifter…

Nee’lahn’s brow crinkled for a heartbeat. She stared at the dagger in her hand. Then her eyes widened with understanding and horror.

“Oh, Sweet Mother… no!”

Meric heard Nee’lahn’s outburst. “How fares Mycelle?” he called back as he lashed out with a gale of winds, blowing away any who neared.

“Her wounds are mortal,” Nee’lahn answered. “She dies.”

Meric held his sword out in front of him. It was his fault. He had let his guard down, let the deadly arrow through. “What can we do to help her?”

Nee’lahn did not answer. He risked a glance over a shoulder. The nyphai held a dagger in her hand. He recognized it as Mycelle’s. Nee’lahn leaned over the shape-shifter.

A growl drew his attention back around. Fardale pointed. Lord Tyrus returned, hacking through any who stood in his path. The man’s eyes were lit with wildfire, the pirate shining through the prince.

Meric did what he could to help, blowing away any arrows aimed in the Mrylian lord’s direction while maintaining the whirlwind around the others. Tyrus fought through the last of the d’warves, then dove forward.

Meric lowered his winds to allow the man inside, then cast them back up.

“How are you all doing?” Tyrus asked.

Meric opened his mouth to answer—then Tyrus saw Mycelle and dashed to her side, dropping Krai’s ax.

“Mycelle!” He took her hand.

Backing a step, Meric closed his winds tighter. His magick was not infinite. Eventually it would ebb away, and the winds with it. The d’warves must have sensed his already-weakening state and held back, waiting like wolves upon a wounded deer.

“Mother above!” Tyrus yelled. “What have you done?”

Meric turned as Tyrus elbowed Nee’lahn aside.

Meric now saw what the nyphai had been doing with Mycelle’s dagger. Shocked, his winds whirled wildly.

Mycelle lay on her back, her belly and chest bare. Her chest still moved, and blood bubbled from her lips and nose. But from her rib cage down to her navel, her skin had been flayed loose by the dagger wielded by Nee’lahn. To Meric’s horror, he realized the nyphai had been skinning the shape-shifter as he had guarded over them.

Knocked away, Nee’lahn still held the bloody dagger. “It’s what she wanted,” the nyphai mumbled. Only now did Meric see the tears running down Nee’lahn’s face. “We can’t win here on our own.” Mycelle reached out to the nyphai and nodded, her face a mask of agony. She was too weak to speak.

“I don’t understand,” Tyrus said. “What is going on?” Nee’lahn pointed to the mountain man’s ax. “She wants us to free Krai with her own skin.”

With dawning horror, Meric now understood. He had heard the d’warf king’s revelation of Krai’s ill’guard nature. The mountain man’s form was bent with a black magick that allowed him to assume the form of whatever beast’s pelt wrapped his ax. Mycelle wanted to use her own skin to grant the mountain man the full gifts of the si’lura, the shape-shifters.

“But he’s an ill’guard,” Tyrus argued.

“And one who hates the d’warves’ purpose here as much as we do,” Meric said, gleaning Mycelle’s goal. “Free him and he’ll destroy all in his way.”

“Including us,” Tyrus said.

Mycelle motioned the Mrylian closer. He leaned his ear to her lips, then straightened, paler than a moment before.

“What did she say?” Mogweed asked on the far side, clutching one of Mycelle’s swords.

“Prophecy,” Tyrus said. “ ‘She who would give her blood to save the Western Reaches.’ ”

“What does that mean?” Meric asked.

“It is what I told her back in Port Rawl. I was sent there by my father’s prophecies, to bring you all here: three shape-shifters and the woman who was both Dro and not Dro.”

“Mycelle,” Meric mumbled.

Tyrus took the shape-shifter’s hand. “My father said her blood would be the key to saving the lands from corruption. She means to see this foretelling come true.”

Everyone grew silent.

Tyrus held out his hand to Nee’lahn. She knew what he was asking for and placed the dagger’s hilt in his palm.

He bent over Mycelle. “It was my father’s prophecy.”

Mycelle sighed. She was finally understood.

As blood choked her throat, she closed her eyes, readying herself for the pain to come. It would only be a short time more. She prayed for forgiveness in these final moments. She had slain so many in the name of preserving Alasea. The faces of the hundreds of elementals murdered with her poison—some willingly, some without their knowledge—passed before her mind’s eye: children, women, elders. So many. Tears flowed down her cheek—not from pain of her wounds, but from the hollowness of her heart.