Book Seven

With the sun setting at his back, Er’ril stood at an outcropping overlooking the gorge. Deep below, molten rock flowed like a river. Even from this height, Er’ril’s face grew hot as he glanced north and south. The gorge extended leagues in both directions. The d’warf kingdom lay only a short distance ahead, but there was no way forward from here.

Scouts had been sent in both directions, searching for some way across. While waiting for their return, the group had set up a night camp.

Er’ril frowned and headed down the short slope, fleeing from the heat of the gorge. Since beaching the elv’in skiff in these lands six days ago, the overland trek had been arduous and fraught with pitfalls: poisonous rivers, winds tainted by deadly smokes, barren stretches without a single blade of grass. And now this impassable molten valley. Er’ril stared around him. Mountains spread in all directions, jagged peaks and clefted gorges. It was as if they camped inside the fanged mouth of some monstrous beast.

As Er’ril approached the camp, he saw Elena kneeling with Tol’chuk and Mama Freda. The elder was busy changing the dressings on the elv’in captain’s leg, while Tol’chuk held the feverish man in place.

Elena hovered over them both, worried. Two days ago, Jer-rick had stumbled too near a tigersfang bush.

It had lashed out at him with its vines, lancing his leg with its finger-length thorns. Wen-nar had axed the trapped man free, but his wounds had continued to fester.

“How’s Jerrick?” Er’ril asked as he stepped into camp.

Mama Freda wiped her forehead. “The willow bark tea is not strong enough to break through the poison’s hold.” She placed her fingers on the elv’in’s wrist and shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll last till morning.” Her voice quavered at this last pronouncement, and her fingers lingered on the captain’s hand.

Mama Freda and Jerrick, both gray-haired elders, had grown closer on the long march here.

Er’ril frowned. So much death. If Jerrick died this night, he would be the third member of the party to fall on the six-day trek to reach this point. They had lost a d’warf scout to a fireworm and another who had stepped on a horned toad buried in the red dirt. The first had died immediately, but the other had screamed for half a day before succumbing to the poisons in the toad.

And now Jerrick…

“Maybe my magick can help?” Elena asked for the hundredth time, hands wringing together.

“No,” Er’ril said sternly, joining them. “We know this land is attuned to magick. It’s dangerous enough without awakening it further.”

“But—”

Mama Freda interrupted. “Er’ril is right. Your magick couldn’t save him anyway. It would only prolong his suffering.” Finished with his wraps, she sat back on her heels, frustrated and worried.

Jerrick’s writhing slowed.

Tol’chuk mopped the elv’in’s brow with a damp cloth.

The old healer sighed. Tikal, perched on her shoulder, pressed against her cheek. The pet only left her side to relieve itself. Otherwise, it seemed unwilling even to touch this poisoned land. “If only I knew these lands better,” Mama Freda said quietly, “I might be able to find a local cure. But I’ve never seen such a variety of sick creatures and plants.”

Wennar spoke as he approached out of the twilight gloom. “None of these ill creatures existed until the Nameless One stepped out of our ancient mines.” He glanced around him. “These very mountains were once covered in pine and redwoods; their bowers were full of deer, rabbits, foxes, and badgers.” Er’ril stared at the surrounding landscape as night descended. It was hard to believe Wennar. How could this land have grown so corrupted ?

JAMES CLEMENS

Elena sat atop a smooth stone by the campfire. “If we don’t stop these Weirgates, the entire world could become like this.”

“But how do we continue from here?” Er’ril glanced over his shoulder. The eastern skies glowed from the fires of the nearby molten gorge.

“We’ll have to hope my scouts find some answer,” Wennar said. Pairs had been sent out, two in each direction, armed with spyglasses. They were to climb the neighboring peaks to look for some end to the gorge, some way around it.

Er’ril glanced around the campfire. With the scouts gone, there were just Wennar and another six d’warves—too few to thwart any real danger. He did not like the odds here. Besides their dwindling numbers, the entire party had grown bone-tired. Many had developed illnesses from the sick air and tainted waters: coughs, fevers, and stomach cramps. But the d’warves seemed to fare the worst: not just from illness, but also from their despairing hearts. They spoke little, just staring numbly at their ravaged homelands.

Elena cleared her throat and pointed up. “A full moon rises this night.” Er’ril turned his attention back to her. He saw the light in her eyes and could guess the intent behind her comment. “You want to risk opening the Blood Diary?”

“If we’re to succeed,” she said softly, “we’ll need every resource available to us.”

“But your magick—?” Er’ril started.

“I need cast no magick to bring the spirit of Cho out of the book. The power is inherent in the book, wrapped in the ancient spell your brother cast. It should do nothing to alert whatever wards lie here.”

“We don’t know that. Perhaps it would be best if we wait until the scouts return.” As if hearing him, a scuffle of rocks sounded. Everyone was immediately on their feet. One of the camp’s sentries called out into the darkness and was answered in the d’warvish tongue.

Soon a pair of ragged d’warves stumbled into camp. But they were not alone. Trussed up in ropes and slung between them was a strange purple-skinned creature with bright yellow eyes. It looked somewhat like a frog, especially with its splayed fingers and toes, each digit ending in a little muscular sucker. “What is that?” Elena asked, bending closer.

Er’ril pushed her slightly back, wary of this creature.

One of the scouts shook his head. “We climbed a ridge and were searching the gorge to the north. It stretches and curves all the way to the horizon. There is no way across in that direction.” Er’ril suppressed a groan.

“But what be this creature?” Tol’chuk asked, pushing up into the firelight. “Can we eat it?” The purple creature spotted the large og’re and began to tremble all over, its yellow eyes wild. It tried to squirm away. “No,” it suddenly squeaked from its wide, blubbery lips. “Please, no eat poor Greegrell.”

“It talks!” Elena said.

One of its captors shook it. “Quiet down, you stinkin‘ pile of horse dung.” The creature cowered and whined; its trembling grew more violent.

Elena frowned and moved forward, pushing aside Er’ril’s hand. She knelt by the trussed-up creature and placed a palm on its arm. “Shh, it’s all right. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“We caught him trying to steal our spyglass. I set it down on a rock for a moment, but when I turned around, this little bugger was hopping away with it in his grubby little paws.”

“It nice thing… shiny,” the creature whined.

“We only caught it by a well-aimed throw of a stone,” the scout finished.

Er’ril rolled his eyes. “What is it?”

Wennar answered. “It’s a vorg. I’ve heard of their foul ilk. They have a crude intelligence, a half notch above goblins. The creatures used to plague miners: stealing tools, defiling shafts with their droppings, even bringing down rockfalls to trap d’warves.”

Behind them, Jerrick groaned, thrashing again.

Mama Freda backed to his side. “I’ll heat up some more willow bark tea.” The vorg stretched its neck high, attempting to peer over Elena’s head. Large yellow eyes blinked at the elv’in. Its slitted nostrils twitched. “Bad pointy poke,” he said, following with a slight roaring sound deep in his throat, mimicking the sound of a striking tigers-fang bush.

Elena met Er’ril’s startled gaze.

Er’ril lowered himself next to the beast. “How do you know what happened to him?” he asked sternly, pointing to Jerrick.

The vorg cringed back from his tone.

Mama Freda spoke up. “If this creature knows about the tigers-fang, maybe he knows a cure.” Elena edged Er’ril back, then faced the creature. “Greegrell,” she said softly and patted the vorg’s hand,

“do you know how to help this man?” She nodded back to the elv’in captain.

The vorg relaxed, leaning slightly nearer to Elena. “Greegrell knows.”

“You’ll show me?”

The toadish creature nodded.

Elena waved for the two scouts to free the vorg’s rope.

Wennar stepped forward and kept the scouts from obeying. “My lady, do not trust a vorg. They’re full of mischief.”

Sighing, Elena stood up. “If we don’t try, we’re certain to lose Jerrick. Keep a lead on the vorg if you like, but let’s see what it knows.”

Wennar nodded and secured a loop of rope around the vorg’s scrawny neck, then allowed its limbs to be untied. “Show us,” Wennar said, motioning as if he was going to kick the creature.

Elena frowned at him. “Let me take him.”

Before she could reach the lead, Er’ril took the rope. “You mind the vorg. I’ll mind the tether.” She nodded and touched Greegrell’s shoulder. “Go on, little one. Show us what can help him.” The vorg whined and hopped forward on its muscular hindlegs; its small forelimbs never touched the ground. “Come, come, come,” it mumbled with each leap. It headed away from the camp and out into the cooling night.

The vorg would leap, sniff with his nose up in the air, then move farther. Elena kept to its side, while Er’ril followed, flanked by Wennar and followed by Tol’chuk and Mama Freda. The creature worked his way down a short, scrubby slope, slipping from rock to rock, stopping at last by a pool of brackish water, thick with a greenish-glowing algae.

Greegrell bent down, leaning on one splayed hand.

“Will this help?” Elena asked.

Mama Freda hobbled up and peered at the pool. “Different algae do have remarkable healing properties.”

Elena glanced to the vorg, who still leaned beside the pool. “Can this cure—?” Suddenly the vorg twisted, and the rock under its hand shot out and cracked Er’ril in the knuckles. The rope dropped from his jarred fingers, and the vorg was off. It bounced into Elena, then away, leaping and careening from rock to rock and up a cliff face. Its suckered feet gave it amazing agility.

Caught by surprise, none were able to snag the rope or the vorg. It clambered to the top of the cliff, then turned back to them. Its dark form was limned against the rising full moon. “Sorry. Greegrell sorry,” it called back to them. “Green good. Green good for bad poke.” It waved its arm, something glinting in its grip, and vanished. Elena patted her waist, then swore loudly. “What?” Er’ril asked.

“It stole my dagger.” She turned to him, cheeks reddening both from anger and embarrassment. “My wit’ch dagger.”

“Curse the little thief,” Wennar grumbled.

“No.” Mama Freda straightened by the pool, straining a fistful of the brackish algae. “It was a trade. His secret in exchange for Elena’s dagger.”

Elena shook her head. “I guess if the algae can truly cure Jerrick, then it was a cheap price.” Mama Freda smiled gratefully.

They all stood for a moment more, feeling foolish, outwitted by the purple-skinned vorg, then headed back to camp. There they found the second pair of scouts talking around the fire.

“What did you find?” Wennar asked them.

Their report was just as grim as the first team’s. The gorge spread with no end and with no way to bridge it.

Er’ril turned to Elena. “Maybe you had better consult the Blood Diary.” Elena sat alone on a rock, the Blood Diary open on her lap. The full moon floated high in the hazy night sky, while around her spread the red, craggy mountains of central Gul’gotha. A short distance behind her, the others were gathered at the campfire, but Elena could feel the plainsman’s eye on her, ever watchful, but keeping a respectful distance.

She tugged her jacket, lined warmly with rabbit fur, tighter around her body and scowled as the apparition of Aunt Fila floated before her. They had been conversing for some time: Elena detailing the story of their journey here while Fila interrupted with questions. The course of the conversation was not going as Elena had hoped. “So you’re married?” Aunt Fila asked with a laugh. “To Er’ril?” Blushing, Elena stared down into the book, now an open window into the starry Void. “I’m married in the eyes of the elv’in only” she explained again. “It wasn’t exactly a mutual exchange of vows.”

“Well, with that royal blood in your veins, you’re certainly part elv’in. So I guess that makes you at least half married.” Aunt Fila smiled warmly, taking the sting from her teasing.

The subject was a tender one. While traveling here, Er’ril had been overly formal with her, unusually awkward. Whenever she had tried to glancingly broach the subject or make some light remark about it, he would find some other task to occupy his time: building a fire, hunting for grouse, or checking with the d’warf scouts who watched the trails ahead.

“Enough about my marital status,” Elena said, exasperated by the focus of her aunt’s attention. “I need your counsel on more important concerns.”

Aunt Fila smiled. “Fine, my dear. What is it?” Elena sighed. “We’ve almost reached the valley of the d’warves, but we can’t find a way past a deep gorge. A molten river flows through it with no way across.”

Aunt Fila’s shimmering face grew more sober. “What about the elv’in’s skiff?” Elena glanced down to the camp. “We considered going back for it. But we came close to crashing the boat to get as close to here as we did. Besides, the captain is gravely ill, poisoned by one of the foul plants here. We need some other answer.”

“So you want to know if Cho has some magick to carry you all over to the other side.” Elena nodded.

“I’ll allow her through, but I suspect she’ll not be much help.”

“We’ll take whatever help she can supply.” Aunt Fila smiled, then closed her eyes. When next she opened them, Elena knew she was gone. Though the face was the same, the warmth had vanished from the figure, and in her aunt’s eyes now shone the Void of the book: cold, distant, dispassionate.

“Cho, we seek your guidance,” Elena said softly.

The figure seemed not to hear her, glancing over a shoulder. “/ sense Chi is near.” The voice was as icy as her eyes.

Elena followed Cho’s gaze. It aimed toward the d’warf kingdoms beyond the gorge. “We believe in that direction lies one of the Weirgates—one of the black shackles that holds your brother trapped. It must be destroyed if—”

“The pain,” Cho interrupted. “/ can sense his agony.” The figure turned back, and Elena recognized a bit of human warmth in her sorrowful expression.

“We will find a way to help him, to free him,” Elena said. “This I swear, but first we must find a way across the flaming gorge.” She explained quickly about what blocked their path.

“Fire can be fought with ice,” Cho said. “Thus it has always been. Stars burn and the Void freezes

.”

Elena frowned. She needed clearer answers. “Surely there is a bit of magick you can teach me to bring us past this gorge.”

“Come to me,” Cho said, and waved a moonstone hand in her direction.

Elena hesitated, then stood, carrying the book.

“You have ‘tnown me, touched me, shared my spirit. I am the ice of the Void, the flame of the Star, and the storm that rages between.” Cho stared hard at Elena as she approached. “But I am also the Spirit that walks unseen.”

Elena knew she was referring to the various aspects of her magick: coldfire, wit’ch fire, stormfire, and ghostfire. “I understand.”

Cho held out her arms. “Understand more.”

Elena’s hands, bright with ruby magick, rose toward the figure, unbidden, uncontrolled. It was as if some unseen force had gripped her wrists. The Blood Diary slipped from her hands. Gasping, she tried to resist the pull, but failed.

Her hands drew into and through the ghostly figure of Cho, passing as far as her upper arms. Elena gasped as she felt the familiar surge of renewing. But she was already ripe with power. Frightened by the strangeness, Elena dug her heels into the rock and leaned against the tidal pull coming from Cho. What was happening?

Elena fell back as the control of her limbs returned to her.

She fell hard on her backside, wisps of smoke trailing around her. She coughed and lifted her arms. The sleeves of her jacket had been burned away; the edges still glowed and smoked in the cooling evening.

But it wasn’t the state of her jacket that made Elena cry out. Both arms, from her shoulders on down, whorled with blood magicks.

Elena scrambled to her feet. “What have you done?”

She heard footsteps behind her. “What’s wrong?” It was Er’ril.

Instinctively, Elena tried to hide her transformation, lowering her arms out of sight. But her smoking jacket drew Er’ril’s eyes. He came around and saw her arms, his eyes wide with shock. “Elena… ?”

“I don’t know what just happened,” she mumbled, eyes turning accusingly toward the apparition of Cho.

“The bridge is open,” Cho said, as if this were explanation enough.

Er’ril moved to Elena’s side. “Why have you done this?” he asked.

“Fire can be fought with ice.” Cho glanced over again to the glowing eastern skies.

Elena’s shock had faded enough for her to sense the magick in her arms. “It’s coldfire,” she mumbled.

“It’s all coldfire. Both arms.”

Er’ril glanced up to her as he retrieved the Blood Diary from the dusty ground. “What do you mean?”

“My right fist was renewed by the sun. Ripe with wit’chfire. Not only has the amount of magick more than trebled, but Cho has transformed my fistful of sun magick back to the moon.” Elena stared at Cho.

“I don’t understand.”

“Maybe we should talk to your aunt,” Er’ril said. “She may be able to translate the spirit’s meaning for us.”

Elena nodded. “Cho, I’d like to speak to Aunt Fila again.”

The figure turned back and nodded. “The one called Fila waits.” The transformation was immediate, as if a flame had swept into the moonstone sculpture. “Elena, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Cho would do that.”

Elena lifted her arms. “What did she do?”

“The bridge is open,” Fila said, repeating Cho’s earlier words. “In the past, Sisa’kofa could only link a small part of her body, her hands, through the meager connection of refracted light—but now the Blood Diary exists. It’s a portal to Cho, a direct well to the source of its nearly infinite power. When Cho chose you, a descendant of

Sisa’kofa, she attuned herself to your spirit as surely as she is tuned to mine now. As she shares with me, so she can with you.“

Elena rubbed her wrists, remembering the lack of control. It was as if something had taken control of her.

This thought frightened her more than the well of power coursing through her veins.

Aunt Fila must have sensed her distress. “I know this is disconcerting. It was the same for me when I first merged with Cho in the spirit plane, opening the bridge to the book. But it is not without its advantages.

When the moon is full and the diary open, all Cho’s magicks are available—all forms, all depths. During these times, there are almost no restrictions to your magick. You become, in fact, Cho.” Elena’s eyes grew wide. She knew that her aunt was trying to comfort her, but this revelation terrified her. She began to shiver uncontrollably, as if the coldfire in her limbs chilled her.

Er’ril was suddenly there, putting his arm around her and pulling her tight against him. She melted into his warmth, needing his touch. “This much power…” he said. “It risks burning her spirit away.”

“Indeed it does,” Fila said. “But I trust both Elena’s heart and your strength, plainsman.” She stared at them with an amused glint in her eyes. “And I don’t think it was just chance that the elv’in people joined you two in marriage. I believe there was more significance in that gesture than either of you understand—or are willing to admit.”

Er’ril stiffened beside Elena. He gave her a final squeeze, then awkwardly extracted himself, clearing his throat. “About… about this coldfire business,” he said, changing the subject. “How can this help us cross the river of molten rock?”

Aunt Fila frowned. “I’m not entirely sure. Cho sees things on a larger scale than you or I. She moves between worlds. It’s hard for her, I think, to fully understand details. To her, it is fire that blocks you, so she grants Elena ice.”

Elena rubbed her arms, sensing the coldfire beneath the ruby flesh. “Lots of ice.” Aunt Fila shrugged. “If there is an answer to crossing this gorge, I’d say to attempt it this very night. You only have another two evenings when the moon will be full enough to open the Blood Diary. Don’t waste them sitting here.”

Elena nodded. “I’ll try.”

“Then Cho and I should return to the book. We must ration this moon’s magick so it lasts all three nights.”

Elena bit her lip. She did not want Aunt Fila to leave.

The apparition drew nearer to her. Her words were whispered for Elena only. “You’ll be fine, my dear.

But remember what I said. Share your burden. You’ve a figure of Standish iron at your back. Lean on his support.”

With these final words, Aunt Fila swirled away, returning to the open book held by Er’ril. With the glowing apparition gone and the book closed, the night seemed darker, more empty. Just Er’ril and Elena.

“What did Aunt Fila say at the end?” Er’ril asked, holding out the diary.

Elena accepted the book, her fingers brushing his. “Just to keep warm.

On watch, Tol’chuk crouched at the edge of the gorge, staring across the molten valley. The heat from below wafted like the breath of a fiery beast, but Tol’chuk did not seek the shelter of the cooler shadows. Beyond the lava river was the d’warf kingdom, and though he did not have the Heart of his people to guide him, Tol’chuk knew his goal lay out there. After hearing the tale of Mimbly wad Treedle and the mines of Gy’hallmanti, Tol’chuk knew he had to reach those ancient tunnels. He had to honor the final plea from his father: to return the Heart to where it had been first mined.

But why? What was so important? How could any of this help rid the Bane’s curse from his people? And what did any of this have to do with his ancestor, the Oathbreaker, the great betrayer of the Land?

A rattle of rock alerted Tol’chuk to someone approaching. He glanced to the moon. It was too soon to be relieved. Maybe Elena had finished speaking to the spirits in the book. He prayed she had learned some way to cross this gorge. All his hopes depended on it.

Out of the darkness, a small shape hobbled forward, breathing hard. A voice called out to him. “Lord Boulder, I see you’ve found a warm spot to wile away the night. Who needs a campfire when we have this impassable hearth to keep the chill from our bones?”

U I“! VT A

Tol’chuk sighed. It was Magnam, the smallest of the d’warf party. “What be wrong?” Magnam shuffled up to join him, scowling at the gorge. “For once in this cursed land, nothing. As a matter of fact, that little frog-faced vorg was as good as his trade. The old healer says the captain rests well after applying that smelly poultice, and his fever seems to have broken, too. She’s drying the remainder of that green pond scum by the hearth.”

“It be good to hear Jerrick fares better.”

“Yes, I can tell from that grumbled tone that inside, you’re cartwheeling with delight.” Tol’chuk turned his back on the d’warf. “What do you want?” Magnam passed over a satchel. “A bit of warm meat and scrawny turnips.” Tol’chuk grunted.

“You’re welcome,” Magnam said, settling beside him uninvited.

Tol’chuk ignored the food and his guest and continued his study of the gorge.

“So do you want to talk about it?” Magnam asked.

“About what?” Tol’chuk grumbled.

“Ever since we’ve set up camp, you’ve been as antsy as a pig in a field of nettles,” he said. “I came out here to make sure you weren’t trying to swim across the river by yourself.” Tol’chuk scowled at the annoying little d’warf.

Magnam shrugged and leaned back on his hands. “I’ve been studying the maps. It’s just over yonder, if you want to know.”

“What?”

“Gy’hallmanti. Old Mad Mimblywad’s mountain.”

Tol’chuk sat up straighter. “Where?”

“Do you promise not to go leaping off this cliff and wading through that fiery river?”

“Where?” he asked again.

Magnam sighed and lifted an arm. “Just beyond that jagged point. Do you see that mountain shaped like a crooked fang?”

Tol’chuk peered past the glare of the gorge. It was hard to miss. It was one of the tallest peaks, stretching high into the sky. The moon seemed to teeter atop its pointed summit. At last, there stood Gy’hallmanti, “the Peak of the Sorrowed Heart,” the birthplace of I A M E S ULEMINS

both heartstone and ebon’stone, and the cradle from which the Dark Lord first walked these lands.

Tol’chuk stepped toward the cliff’s edge.

Magnam frowned. “Remember your promise. No leaping to a fiery death.” Before Tol’chuk could respond, voices arose behind them—many voices, excited and talking rapidly. He turned and saw most of their party hiking up the slope toward them. In the lead were Elena and Er’nl.

“I think you should consider this more fully,” Er’ril said. “The moon is near setting for the night,” Elena answered. “We’ve argued long enough. I say we attempt this now.”

“But it’s untested magick. You’ve never tried to harness this much energy. Maybe you should start a little slower.”

The pair climbed up to Tol’chuk’s watchpost, followed by Wen-nar and four other d’warves. Tol’chuk imagined Mama Freda was still overseeing Jerrick.

As Elena stepped fully into view, Tol’chuk immediately saw the change.

Magnam did, too. The d’warf gasped. “Sweet Mother, the lass is red all the way up to her pretty little chin.”

“What happened?” Tol’chuk asked as the party drew abreast. “Coldfire,” Er’ril said with a scowl.

“Enough, Elena believes, to freeze a path across the river.”

“Why else would Cho grant me such a font of power,” Elena said, “unless it was to use the coldfire against the molten rock? You heard what Cho said: ice against fire.” Tol’chuk sensed this argument had been going on for quite some time.

Magnam grumbled under his breath and shook his head. “That’s why I never got married.” Elena stepped to the cliff’s edge. “Power is power. I’ll unleash enough as a test. If it appears to be working, I’ll freeze as much of the river as I can until the magick ebbs, then renew while the moon is still up.”

Er’ril shook his head, clearly accepting her judgment under protest.

Elena nodded, as if satisfied, and turned back to the gorge. She reached to her belt and found her scabbard empty, clearly forgetting the vorg’s theft. Sighing, she turned to Er’ril. “Slice my palms.” The plainsman’s eyes grew round. He backed a step.

Magnam stepped forward, offering his own dagger, hilt first. “My lady.” She accepted the weapon. “Thank you.”

As the others looked on, Elena closed her eyes and took a deep breath, obviously centering herself. Her hands began to glow, rising quickly to a blinding hue.

“Careful,” Er’ril said.

Elena took another breath.

Sharing the cliff’s edge, Tol’chuk saw her lips tighten as she forced the brightness back to a deep, rich glow. Once ready, she took the blade’s edge to her palms, slicing one, then the other. Wincing, she reached both hands over the yawning gorge. Slowly, the red glow of her hands developed an azure hue.

Blood dribbled from her palms and fell down into the gorge.

ToPchuk’s sharp eyes followed the rain of drops until they disappeared into the fiery abyss. The reaction was almost immediate. The molten river exploded upward in a crown of fire, as if a boulder had crashed down from the cliffs. Near the edge, Tol’chuk suddenly remembered the attack on Stormhaven, how this corrupt land reacted to the touch of magicks. “Stop!” he yelled, and moved toward Elena.

But it was already too late.

From the molten river, a mighty bird shot forth, formed of molten rock and trailing flames. As it flew upward, its wings snapped wide, stretching from one side of the river to the other. Bits of molten rock were thrown from its fiery pinions, raining all around them.

One of the d’warves screamed as he was struck in the face by a gob of lava. He fell backward, his hair on fire, and was dead before he hit the ground. Mayhem ensued as everyone sought cover. Both Tol’chuk and Er’ril dove for Elena, who still stood at the cliff’s edge.

But neither reached her side. Elena’s arms shot upward, and both defenders were blown backward on icy gusts. Tol’chuk rolled to his feet, his skin half frozen.

Nearby, Er’ril screamed, “Elena!”

The firebird climbed above the canyon’s rim. Tol’chuk watched as a fiery talon snatched Elena from the cliff’s edge and flew into the air.

Elena’s form rang with power. The heat of the firebird’s talons could not penetrate her cocoon of coldfire. The ice spell had snapped around her spontaneously, the wit’ch power instinctively protecting its host. Not even Elena’s clothes were singed by the molten talons’ grip.

A trace of fear edged through Elena’s heart, but her wild magick thrummed in her veins, singing with immense energy. She stared up as the bird arced into the night sky. It was a dread sight: a molten statue flowing with the fire of the world’s core.

The creature’s head cocked backward to study its captured prey. Flaming eyes stared down at her, clearly wondering why she had not been burned to a cinder in its grip. Its beak opened, and a gale of fire erupted. Elena’s arms sprang up and cast a shield of pure ice magick before her, blocking the fire from ever reaching her.

Again it was an instinctive response, the wit’ch reacting without forethought. With so much magick flowing inside her, Elena had little control. She was but the tiller of a boat in a raging sea. This, more than anything, scared her. She had never felt so helpless. She fought against this chorus of the wild magick, this call of the wit’ch. But it was too strong. She was losing herself inside the magick. She began to fall away.

“Er’ril,” she moaned, knowing how much she would lose if she succumbed. Memories filled her: their single dance atop the tower at midnight, his strong arms holding her safe, the scent of his neck as she leaned against him. The woman inside her grew in strength with these thoughts and helped define her as a creature of flesh, blood, and human desire. She was not just a vessel of wild magicks and otherworldly senses, but a woman with a heart and a will. Elena fought for her spirit, shoving back the wit’ch in her.

As she did so, a realization struck her. She suddenly knew the true name of the wit’ch inside her. With this font of power instilled in her, Elena saw more clearly what had been sharing her body. Aunt Fila had all but told her. You become Cho.

Elena now understood. It wasn’t just wild magick and her own baser desires that had sought to overwhelm her, but also a sliver of Cho’s spirit, the spirit of a creature from the Void who had never walked a world, never worn flesh, never shared her heart with another.

Knowing this, Elena found it easier to draw herself out of the Void. She concentrated on her own body, her own flesh, her own blood: the beat of her heart, the ache in her legs, the hunger in her belly. But she reached even deeper. She remembered how this same body, a form aged by magick into the fullness of womanhood, reacted to Er’ril. She used this power now, a magick all its own, remembering how her skin flushed when Er’ril glanced at her, the surge of heat through her core when he was near, and the longing ache deep inside whenever he brushed against her.

She wrapped all these sensations around her. As the ice shell protected her from the firebird’s talons, so too did these sensual feelings insulate her from the wit’ch. She found a way back into her own body, back to the fight.

And as she did so, the world shattered with a scream.

Elena glanced up. The firebird had abandoned its attempt to burn through her shield and now roared in frustration. It swooped over the river now, wings spread from one side to the other. Elena felt the talons loosening, meaning to drop her into the river below.

Elena tensed and reached out. She was done reacting with just a wit’ch’s instinct. She took both hands, flaming with coldfire, and grabbed the claw that was holding her, refusing to be dropped into the river.

She fed ice into the talon, and molten rock froze into solid stone.

The firebird screeched and attempted to shake Elena free, but she was now locked in stone, and though jarred and tossed, she remained secure in its rocky grip.

Screaming again, the gigantic creature turned on a wing and swept back toward the gorge, gliding lower.

The river swelled below them as the firebird aimed for it. The desire of the creature was obvious: it intended to dive back into its molten den.

Elena studied the landscape below as a plan came to mind. She had to time this perfectly. She raised her arms and surged all the energy in her body up into her clenched fists, stanching the flow from escaping, building it to a raging force. Her hands grew as bright as cold suns. Her arms trembled with the pent energy, and the wit’ch in her screamed for release, but Elena held back, waiting until the right moment.

i l r. m’t i’t :

The firebird swept lower, almost to the rim of the gorge. Elena tensed. She felt, more than saw, the beast begin to tuck its wings for the final dive into the river below.

Now!

With a gasp, she opened her fists and released the twin fonts of pure coldfire. Her body arched backward in the bird’s stone grip as the magick ripped from her spirit. The backlash of hoarfrost blinded her, but she did not pause. She cast every bit of energy out of her body and thrust it at the firebird. Long ago, in the mountains of the Teeth, she had frozen an entire forest with only a fistful of coldfire. Now a greater miracle was needed.

A twinge of doubt grew as the last bit of magick escaped her body—then Elena was slammed forward.

Her head struck the stone edge of the firebird’s claw. Her arms fell limp, and darkness swept over her.

Er’ril ran along the gorge’s edge. A moment ago, the firebird had disappeared into a cloud of ice. Its piercing scream had shattered the night. When next he had seen it, the firebird had plunged out of the cloud, its flames doused and no longer molten. The bird was a plummeting sculpture of frozen rock. With stone wings spread wide, it crashed at a gliding angle into the gorge. But rather than plunging into the molten river, it was stopped by its own monstrous wingspan. The stone bird had jammed itself into the gorge only a few spans down from the rim of the molten canyon, imbedding itself in place, becoming a stone bridge across the gorge.

Er’ril stumbled to a stop at the cliff’s edge, staring down at the crashed bird. Elena! He fell to his knees, searching. Then he spotted movement from under the bird: a pale arm moving weakly. Elena hung limply in one of the stone talons—but she was alive!

Tol’chuk appeared behind him, as did Wennar.

Er’ril turned. “Get the climbing ropes.”

In short order, d’warves were scrambling down the slope and atop the stone wing of the bird. Er’ril was lowered to the talon in a rope sling. The heat rising from below made it hard to breathe, searing his lungs.

He swung to where Elena slouched in the claw’s grip. Once there, he anchored his legs against a stone claw and waved a pinch of herbs supplied by Mama Freda under Elena’s nose.

Her head jerked back from the smell, and her eyes blinked open. She startled for a moment and struggled away frdm him.

He grabbed her arm.

Elena’s eyes widened as full consciousness returned. “Er’ril?” He smiled at her. “Next time, let’s practice that maneuver first.” She stared up at the stone bird, then back at him. Suddenly she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Thinking her frightened, he tried to console her. “Don’t fear, Elena. I’ll get you out of here safely.” She tightened her grip and whispered in his ear. “You’ve already saved me.” Carrying the d’warf hammer on his shoulder, Tol’chuk trudged up the face of the high ridge with Magnam at his side. The mountains on this side of the gorge were even more desolate, covered in scrub bushes and twisted trees, red rocks and yellow lichen. Around them, hundreds of steaming vents cast noxious gases into the midday sky. Overhead, the sun was a pale shadow in the greenish haze.

But at least they were past the gorge.

In the early morning light, scouts had cautiously traversed the stone bird, reaching the far side safely. The others had quickly followed, not trusting the bridge’s stability. As they crossed, little rocks had fallen from the cliff faces to rattle across the stone surface, making them all cringe and sweat. But they had made it safely and had rested briefly before setting out into the mountains again.

Even Jerrick fared better today. His fever had broken overnight, and he had refused to ride the makeshift sling this morning. He hobbled ahead of Tol’chuk with the use of a staff hewn from one of the stunted trees. The party was spread out up the slope of the steep ridge, moving slowly along a thin, zigzagging trail. Tol’chuk and Magnam were the last in line.

“Dragonback,” Magnam mumbled.

Tol’chuk glanced questioningly at him.

The small d’warf swept an arm before him. “It’s named Dragon-back Ridge. Beyond here lies the d’warf kingdom. It is said the ridge circles all our lands, a jagged crown of rock.” Tol’chuk glanced up. The ridge’s heights were indeed jagged, but rather than a crown or a dragon’s back, they reminded the og’re of the fangs of some beast.

As he craned his neck up, Tol’chuk’s nose caught a familiar scent. In the dark caves of his homelands, the sense of smell was sharp in all og’res. He sniffed, then spun around, catching a brief glimpse of something darting behind a boulder.

“Show yourself!” Tol’chuk bellowed, lifting his hammer.

Magnam stopped, as did Jernck. Farther up the slope, faces turned in his direction.

“What is it?” Magnam asked.

Tol’chuk held up a clawed hand for silence.

Slowly, from behind the boulder, a small face peered out: bulbous yellow eyes; flat-splayed nose; and wide, blubbery lips. The purple creature edged from its hiding place, hands held up, offering the stolen silver dagger. “Shiny. Greegrell give shiny back.”

Magnam scowled. “The vorg again. Great. As if our ancient homelands weren’t fouled enough.” It edged up the slope, head low to the ground, bent in a clear posture of someone waiting to be beaten.

“Give shiny back,” it mumbled, sinking lower and lower as it crept forward.

“Don’t trust that purple-skinned imp,” Magnam said.

Jerrick slipped beside them, leaning heavily on his staff. “Is this the creature that saved my life?”

“Yes,” Tol’chuk said, not moving his eyes from the quivering vorg.

Jerrick bowed deeply before the creature. “Thank you for your help. I am in your debt.” Greegrell did not seem to understand. Its trembling grew worse. It set down the dagger and scrambled back a few steps.

“Do not fear,” Jerrick said, moving nearer and retrieving the knife. He slipped it into his belt, then offered his open palm to the vorg. “What do you ask of us? I will see if it can be granted.” The vorg’s yellow eyes shifted from Jerrick to Tol’chuk, then higher up the slope. From the scuff of boots on rock, the group was hurrying down here; the purple vorg scooted back. “Greegrell no mean bad. I give shiny back.” It pointed behind him. “You make good rock over… over…” It made a sound like the sizzle and pop of the molten river. “Greegrell now go home.” JAMtS

By now, the others were gathered at Tol’chuk’s back.

Mama Freda spoke. “He’s trading back the knife for the use of the bridge we built.” Elena moved forward. “But what does it mean about going home?” The vorg must have heard her. It patted the ground with its hand. “Greegrell home.”

“But how could that be?” Er’ril asked.

Elena moved slowly toward the beast, bent low. “Greegrell, how could this be your home? You were on the far side of the fire river.”

The vorg edged into her shadow, still cowering. “I go hunt. Leave caves. Go far for snipsnip leaves.” It shifted and revealed a flapped pouch on its belly, exposing a handful of leaves edged with red. “Make better bad belly. Many sick, sick, sick.”

“He was hunting for medicinal herbs,” Mama Freda said with shock in her voice. “He must be his tribe’s healer.”

Elena frowned back at them, then knelt on the rock. “What happened?” The vorg shook his head, cringing lower. “Then bad, bad, booming bad.” It made sounds of whistling explosions. “Sky angry. Boom. Trees fall from sky, burn, burn, burn.”

“The attack on Stormhaven,” Jerrick mumbled.

“Greegrell hide.” It covered its head with its hands. “Bad booming stop and Greegrell go look.” It mimicked peeking from under its arms. “Greegrell run home, fast, fast, fast. Then find—” It glanced to Elena. “—fire river. Bad burning bad. No go home.”

Elena straightened. “So the gorge formed when the Land attacked Stormhaven, and it kept him from returning home.”

“A second level of defense,” Er’ril said. “It means to protect what is hidden here.”

“The Weirgate,” Elena mumbled, and turned back. “Maybe the vorg knows something about the manticore.”

“Ask it.” Er’ril leaned nearer.

Elena nodded. “Greegrell, do you know of a great black stone? It has a body like… like…” She pointed to Tol’chuk. “Like an og’re but with the tail of a scorpion.” The vorg scrunched up its face, clearly not understanding.

Elena sat back on her heels and sighed.

Wennar spoke behind them. “Vorgs only have a small intelligence, just enough for mischief.” Tol’chuk turned to the d’warf leader. “Scorpions… be they native to these lands?” Now it was Wennar’s turn to squint his eyes. “No, now that you mention it. I don’t believe so.”

“Then how can this creature know what Elena asks?” Tol’chuk stepped forward, reaching to his thigh pouch. He pulled out his chunk of heartstone. It glinted dully in the weak light.

The vorg’s eyes grew huge at the sight of the jewel.

Leaning on the d’warf hammer, Tol’chuk bent down beside the vorg. He held the jewel up to the sun and pointed at it. “Greegrell, have you seen something that looks like the black creature inside the stone?” Greegrell did not seem to hear him. Splayed hands drifted up toward the bright jewel. “Pretty, shiny, pretty.”

Tol’chuk shifted the stone higher, beyond the reach of the vorg’s sucker-tipped fingers. “No. Look inside the crystal.”

Reluctantly, the vorg lowered its hands and stretched its long neck, cocking its toadish head and peering at the heartstone. “Shiny, pretty,” it continued to whine.

Then the vorg froze, and a choking sound strangled out.

Its eyes twitched between Tol’chuk and the stone. A flash of recognition flared. Then it cringed, scuttling backward. Its eyes were wide with terror. It made a warding gesture with both hands. “Bad, bad, nasty bad.”

Elena turned to Tol’chuk. “It knows.”

He nodded and stared hard at the cowering vorg. “Where, Greegrell? Where is nasty bad place?” The vorg covered its head with both arms and pressed its face against the rocky ground. “No, no, no.

Bad no go. Nasty black darkness bad.”

Elena slid closer and gently touched its trembling skin. “Please, Greegrell, tell us.” The vorg pointed a purple arm. Tol’chuk turned to see where he pointed. It was the same peak Magnam had mentioned in his stories. “Gy’hallmanti,” Tol’chuk mumbled.

The vorg jerked with the mention of the name and ducked farther down.

Magnam frowned at Tol’chuk’s side. “It recognizes the ancient name of our mine.” Tol’chuk gripped his heartstone harder. “Great evil has a way of surviving through the ages.” Er’ril turned to stare at the dread peak. “At least it confirms that the Manticore Gate is here.”

“Can you take us there?” Elena asked the vorg.

It squeaked. “No go. Bad nasty.”

“Please,” Elena whispered.

Greegrell just quaked and quivered.

Mama Freda hobbled next to Tol’chuk. “Maybe a trade,” she suggested. “The vorg seems to like to barter.”

Elena turned to Jerrick. “My dagger.”

The elv’in nodded and handed back the blade. Elena held the knife toward the creature. She turned it back and forth so it reflected the sunlight. “Greegrell…”

The vorg glanced up, drawn by the flashing blade. It sat up straighten “Shiny good.” A finger raised toward the dagger.

“Yes. It can be yours if you take us to the bad nasty place. Show us where the night stone lies.” Greegrell’s hand snapped away. “No go.”

“The dagger’s not tempting enough,” Er’ril said. He palmed the hilt of his sheathed sword. “But I’ve a span of steel that might goad him to cooperate.”

“We’ll not force him,” Elena said. “We have no right.” She sighed and wrinkled her brow.

Tol’chuk had an idea. He joined Elena and held out the Heart of his people. The stone glowed ruby in the light, refracting the sun’s brilliance. “Greegrell. Show us to the bad dark place. You don’t have to go there yourself. Show us and I’ll give you this stone.”

The vorg raised its head. Yellow eyes fixed on the chunk of heartstone. A tongue came out to lick its thick lips. “Shiny bright… Fetch many mates.”

“Ah,” Magnam said, “no wonder he wants our shiny things.”

Greegrell stared at the heartstone, then squinted at Tol’chuk. “Show? No go.”

“You need only take us to where it lies.”

The vorg leaned toward the heartstone, sniffing at it. One eye narrowed. It seemed unable to decide.

Tol’chuk started to shove the heartstone back in its pouch, but Greegrell’s arm sprang out. The suckered tips of its fingers clung to the stone surface.

“It seems the vorg’s not done bargaining yet,” Magnam scoffed. Greegrell looked up at Tol’chuk. “I take you. Quick, fast, fast, fast.”

Tol’chuk extracted his stone back from the vorg. “Only once you take us.” The vorg sagged, but bobbed its head.

With the matter decided, the party took off once again, climbing the switchbacks toward the heights of Dragonback Ridge. Greegrell led the way, scampering and hopping up the slope, impatient with their pace. The vorg also proved skilled at ferreting out hidden dangers along their paths. Even Wennar stopped complaining after Greegrell blocked the d’warf from stepping into the subterranean burrow of a spiderwasp.

Still, even with the vorg’s help, it took until the sun was low in the sky to reach the top of the ridge. The party stared at the wasteland ahead.

Magnam wiped at his eyes.

Spreading to the horizon were barren peaks and valleys. A few small hollows showed signs of green life, but the remainder of the landscape was pitted red rock and wind-blasted stone. The ancient mines could be seen from here, countless black holes riddling the bare mountains, making their slopes appear pocked with disease. Dry streambeds crisscrossed the region like old battle scars, and the peaks themselves, bare of any vegetation, had been eroded by storms and scoured by winds into twisted shapes. It was as if the entire kingdom had been reduced to its bones and left to the elements. Tol’chuk had never seen a more desolate place.

“I can smell the disease here,” Mama Freda said, her pet tamrink cowering on her shoulder. “It’s as if all the living energy of this place has been drained away.”

“Welcome to our home,” Wennar said sourly, turning away. Elena moved to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is the Dark Lord’s doing. His touch has poisoned your land, but it can be brought back to life. As long as there is blood in your veins, you can heal your kingdom.” Wennar nodded, but his eyes appeared hopeless. After a short rest, the party moved on, led by the vorg.

It hurried them down a steep slope of loose stone. Jerrick took a tumble on the sliding shale. Er’ril caught him and helped the captain down the remainder of the slope. The elv’in was weakening from the long day of hiking, but he refused to return to his sling and slow them down. Mama Freda hovered alongside him.

Luckily, once into the valley, their way became mostly flat, the going easier for all. They followed a dry streambed past steep cliffs and broken scree. Around them, nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Their footsteps sounded loud to Tol’chuk’s ears. He sniffed. Even the air was dead here.

By now, the deep gloom of twilight had set in. “Maybe we should stop for the night,” Elena said. “The moon will rise soon.”

Greegrell heard her. “No, not far.” The vorg pointed its arm frantically forward.

“He’s been saying that,” Jerrick complained, “for the past two leagues.” Tol’chuk grumbled deep in his throat. “Perhaps we should heed the vorg. We be not alone out here.” He nodded to where a few distant mines glowed with firelight. “The sooner we be done here the better.” No one argued; the pace even increased.

The night slowly wore on, and the moon crept up from the horizon. This was the second night of its fullness, when the moon was most bright. Elena pulled out the Blood Diary, and the gilt rose on its cover glowed with a brilliant light.

“Pretty, shiny,” Greegrell said, mesmerized by the book. “How much farther?” Er’ril asked, redirecting the vorg’s attention. Greegrell pointed forward as the streambed rounded a short peak. Ahead, no more than a league, the mountain climbed into the sky. It towered higher than any of the nearby peaks, a black shadow against the stars. Even its silhouette stirred dread in Tol’chuk’s heart. Here was where the Heart of his people had been mined, and from whose dark throat the Black Heart had entered this world.

“Gy’hallmanti,” Magnam mumbled. The vorg urged them along. “Quick, fast, fast.” Er’ril kept to Elena’s side, while Wennar maintained her flank.

The party continued onward, following the riverbed as it wound through an ever-narrowing defile. Soon sheer cliff faces rose on both sides. Tol’chuk began to grow uneasy. His eyes studied the ridges for movement. His skin began to itch with warning—but nothing moved.

The party closed ranks and proceeded more cautiously.

Ahead, the dark shape of Gy’hallmanti filled the sky, a monstrous black hole. The moon climbed toward its highest point, but still failed to shine upon the peak’s dark slopes. Tol’chuk understood how the mountain had gained its reputation. It was all shadow, no substance.

Tol’chuk tore his eyes from the sight. It seemed to sap his will.

At last, after another tense quarter league, the cliffs fell away to either side. The roots to the great mountain lay before them, spread to either side, as if a dark-cloaked figure were kneeling before them.

Tol’chuk could almost feel the eyes of this black stranger staring down at him. He feared looking up, afraid of what he might see.

The dry streambed led between the roots of the mountain to a hole in its side. Long ago, a deep spring must have once fed this waterway, but now it was all dust and dry rock, as dead as the peak itself.

“Does the Manticore Gate lie within?” Elena asked with clear dread.

The vorg pointed not toward the opening from which the old river flowed, but up toward the face of the mountain.

“Maybe he means one of the old mine shafts,” Magnam said. “The ancient peak is hollowed with old tunnels and pits.”

“If so,” Er’ril said, “we could spend an entire winter searching for where the manticore is hidden.” But the vorg pointed its arm more vigorously. “Bad nasty dark!”

“Show us,” Tol’chuk said. “Where?”

Greegrell sighed and pointed both arms, spreading them wide.

Er’ril scowled. “He must not know, or doesn’t underst—” Then the plainsman’s voice cut out. “Sweet Mother above!”

In the sky, the moon moved a fraction higher, now poised above the very tip of the jagged peak.

Moonshine flowed down the face of the mountain like a rush of silver water, washing away the shadows to reveal the peak at last—or what had become of it.

This entire face of Gy’hallmanti had been worked and carved, hollowed out and chipped, to form a towering granite figure. The detail must have been the work of countless masters slaving for decades: the strain in the figure’s face, the muscles bunching with both triumph and pain, the lines of anger around the eyes. It seemed as if the subject were climbing out of the bulk of the mountain, one arm stretched toward the sky, one leg still sunk in the rock. Behind its massive shoulders, its scorpion tail arched over its back, poised to strike.

“The manticore,” Elena gasped.

No one spoke for several heartbeats, too stunned by the sight.

“But it’s carved of granite,” Er’ril said. “Not ebon’stone.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Elena said, and pointed toward the outstretched arm of the figure. In its clawed grip lay a boulder as big as a small cottage. Its oily surfaces shunned even the moon’s brightness. It was as if the figure clutched living shadow, waiting to be molded into something sinister. Even looking at it chilled one’s blood. “There lies the true heart of this statue— ebon’stone. The first of the four Weirgates.” As the others stared in awe, Tol’chuk dropped the d’warf hammer into the dirt. He fumbled to his thigh pouch and removed the Heart of his people. His fingers ran over its surfaces, dreading what he would find, but already knowing the truth. He had carried the Heart across all the lands of Alasea. He knew every facet, every chink as if it were his own face.

Tol’chuk stared up, unable now to turn away. He now knew the source of the dread that had clamped around his heart. Deep inside, a part of him must have known it all along.

Magnam spoke, pointing toward the sculpture. “The depiction of the manticore climbing forth from Gy’hallmanti. It must represent the Nameless One’s rise from the heart of the mountain. We may be the first in centuries to peer upon the face of the Nameless One.” Tol’chuk’s legs weakened, and he fell to one knee. He held up the Heart of his people toward the ebon’stone boulder, praying the two were not the same. His prayer was shattered as he lifted it high.

They were an exact match. But that was not the worst—not by far.

Nearby, the vorg was the first to realize the horrible truth. The WIT C H bATE

toady creature stared at Tol’chuk, then back up at the manticore statue. Its eyes flicked back and forth, then grew huge. It squeaked and backed away from him, trembling with terror; then it fled back down the narrow defile.

The others turned to see Greegrell scramble away.

Lowering his arm, Tol’chuk slumped in despair. There had been so many hints: The Triad choosing him for this mission. The shape of the Bane in the stone. And deep in the cellars below Shadow-brook, the d’warf lord who had tortured Meric and Krai had fled from Tol’chuk in terror—just as the vorg did now.

But it wasn’t only fear in their eyes, but also something worse: recognition.

Tol’chuk opened his eyes.

Slowly, one at a time, their faces paled with dawning realization. Heads turned to the manticore, then back to Tol’chuk.

Elena was the first to state it aloud. “The carving… the face and body of the creature… it’s Tol’chuk.” Magnam backed a step. “The Nameless One.”

Dropping his heartstone, Tol’chuk covered his face with his hands. “Our people call him by a different name. Not Dark Lord, not Black Heart, not Black Beast…”

“What name then?” Magnam asked.

Tol’chuk dropped his hands, hot tears flowing down his face. “Oathbreaker.” He sagged to the ground, crushed under the realization of his true heritage. “He betrayed the trust of the Land and cursed my people. His blood runs in my veins.”

Elena moved up to him. “But he is not you.”

“It does not matter.” Tol’chuk glanced up to the statue. “The stone does not lie. I am the last born of the Dark Lord.”

Elena pushed aside her shock. She recognized the grief, guilt, and despair in Tol’chuk’s face. She had felt similar emotions when confronted with her own heritage. She went to Tol’chuk and gently touched the crown of his head. “A heart is stronger than one’s blood, and you’ve proven your heart in countless battles. You’re no monster.”

Tol’chuk would not look up, only mumble. He reached and squeezed the chunk of heartstone. “I’ve failed my people. The Heart died in my care. I be no better than the Oathbreaker.” Magnam moved closer and shrugged. “Better or worse, what does I

it matter? At least you scared the vorg off.“ He placed his fists on his hips and searched around. ”So we’re here… Now what?“

Elena knelt beside Tol’chuk. “We go on. We destroy the Gate as planned.” Er’ril stood behind her. “We all go on. You were sent by your Triad, guided by the Heart of your people. Both elders and spirits judged you the best one to right the wrong of your ancestor. Whether you name him Oathbreaker or Dark Lord, you don’t have to accept his name as your own. You can forge your own future.”

Tol’chuk finally lifted his head.

Elena stared him in the eye, urging him up. “We’ll stand by your side.”

“Or at least behind your back,” Magnam added with a snort.

Tol’chuk pushed up, wiping his nose on his forearm.

Wennar moved forward and lifted the Try’sil from the dirt. He offered Tol’chuk the rune-carved handle.

Tol’chuk shook his head. “I be not worthy.”

Wennar thrust the hammer farther forward. “Long ago, the hammer was used to shape ebon’stone and doomed our lands at the hands of the Nameless One. Use it now to free us. Destroy what has been wrought in his cursed name.”

Tol’chuk lifted his arm and gripped the handle. “I will try.” Wennar nodded and stepped away.

Jerrick hobbled up to them. His face shone with a returning fever. The day’s exertion had worn the captain’s health. “If we mean to continue this night, we should move on.” With the matter decided, Er’ril led the way with Wennar. Elena kept beside Tol’chuk, sensing the og’re needed support. It seemed their two lives were intertwined by more than just a chance meeting long ago in the highland forests of Winter’s Eyrie. Their twin stories stretched back generations—hers to the wit’ch Sisa’kofa, and his to the Dark Lord himself.

“We’re not our pasts,” she said softly to the night.

Tol’chuk nodded. “I know this in my head, but it be hard to convince my heart.”

“Then trust those around you,” she said. “Trust me.”

The og’re turned in her direction.

She met his gaze. “I know in my heart that you are a spirit of goodness and honor. I will never doubt otherwise.”

He swallowed hard and turned away, his voice a whisper. “Thank you.” The group continued in silence. Four d’warf scouts fanned out to survey the empty stretch of bare rock that led to the mountain. The party seemed small as it fell under the shadow of the manticore.

Elena craned her neck. The statue towered above them.

Jerrick spoke at her shoulder. “We’ll need to find a way up onto that arm. I almost wish that sticky-fingered vorg were still here.”

“No need,” Mama Freda said. “Tikal is just as agile and has sharper eyes. He may be able to hunt a way to the top.”

But as they neared the mountain’s base, they discovered neither of the creatures’ skills would be needed.

Carved into the granite, a steep stair led up the mountain’s face toward the statue.

“An old work trail,” Wennar guessed. “Crude, narrow, meant for the sculptors as they labored here.” A d’warf scout stood a few steps away, a spyglass fixed to his eye. “It’s too dark to say with good certainty, but the stairs do seem to climb all the way up.”

“Then let’s go,” Elena said.

Wennar led the way. The stairs were only wide enough for a single d’warf, but two people could walk abreast. Elena now marched with Er’ril, Tol’chuk on the step behind them. Jerrick had attempted to keep up, but it was soon evident the elv’in captain was too weak and worn from his recent fevers to continue. His pale face glistened with fever sweat, and his breath had grown ragged. A short way up the cliff face, they abandoned him on the steps in the care of Mama Freda.

“Tikal and I will watch over him. You all continue on.”

Elena was loath to leave the two elders alone and ordered three of the d’warves to watch over them.

“They can also guard our back trail,” she added before Mama Freda could protest.

With their numbers lighter, they set a harder pace. Elena’s last view of Mama Freda and Jerrick was of the old woman taking the captain’s hand. The sight buoyed her spirit. Even in this cursed land, a bit of love could grow.

With this thought held in her heart, she continued up the long staircase with Er’ril at her side. The d’warf scout had proven to have good eyes. The steps climbed to a tunnel near the base of the statue, where the leg of the og’re stretched out of the mountainside.

Elena tugged a glove from her right hand and nicked a fingertip with the tip of her wit’ch dagger. They had no torches and had to risk a bit of magick to light their path. She cast free the tiniest thread of wit’ch fire and wove it around and around like a skein of yarn, forming a ball of fire. It floated just above her fingers. Lifting it high, she stepped to the tunnel. The fiery light revealed a spiraling staircase leading up.

“More steps.” She glanced over a shoulder.

Wennar took the lead again. His long shadow, reflected in the firelight, stretched upward. They followed again.

Elena wove a spell to keep the ball of wit’ch fire floating above her head, attached by the thinnest thread of magick to her right hand.

Er’ril marched beside her. Their climb slowed as side tunnels branched off periodically. The party approached each with caution, fearing attack from unknown monsters. But each passage proved empty, with only the wind moaning through the dark throats.

“Where are the defenders?” Elena finally asked.

“In this desolate land, what is the need?” Er’ril said. “It seems this land protects itself with its fireballs, poisons, and ill creatures. Besides, considering the vorg’s reaction to this place, I doubt any will near it.” But even his own explanation did not seem to satisfy the plainsman. He kept a tight grip on his sword and studied every shadow ahead.

The others, too, grew more wary with each step. The climb seemed endless. But at last they reached a cavernous side tunnel. It gaped so wide that the entire party could have walked abreast.

Elena stared down the passage. “Are we high enough to have reached the arm of the statue?”

“I think so, my lady,” Wennar said. “I’ll go see.”

Elena detached a thumb-sized ball of fire from her own sphere and sent it sailing down the tunnel. “To light your way.”

Wennar nodded, then departed with one of the d’warf scouts, disappearing into the darkness. The remainder of the party rested on the stair, the globe of fire floating above them all. Elena leaned against Er’ril. He put his arm around her.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, and nodded to the fireball. “Is it sapping much of your strength?” She shook her head. “It’s but a drop.” After the events at the gorge, Elena had renewed both fists: one in sunlight, one in moonlight. She rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, sharing his warmth and breath.

For a moment, as they waited, exhausted and worn, Elena dozed off in his arms—but it was a short respite. A horrible scream shattered out from the cavernous tunnel. They all jerked to their feet, but the cry was sliced from the air. Distantly, the strike of iron on stone reached them.

“It seems we aren’t the only ones here,” Magnam said.

Elena stepped toward the tunnel, but Er’ril had a hand clamped on her shoulder. She turned to him. “We have no choice but to go on. The fate of Alasea lies in destroying the Weirgate here.” She fed more energy into the small fireball, no longer worrying about keeping her magick hidden. It swelled out and shone deep into the tunnel.

She cast the fireball ahead and followed it. “We cannot turn back now.” A bellow of rage echoed down the hall toward them.

“It’s Wennar,” Tol’chuk said. “He’s still alive.”

“But for how long?” Elena asked.

They ran at a fast trot, the ball of fire rolling across the roof of the tunnel ahead of them. It lit the passage for some distance.

“Up ahead!” Er’ril warned.

Elena saw it, too. Moonlight flowed from around the curve ahead, signaling the end of the tunnel.

Their pace slowed to a more cautious approach. Er’ril led the way, flanked by a pair of d’warves on each side. Tol’chuk kept near Elena’s shoulder, the d’warf hammer ready for battle.

They rounded the corner and saw a sight born of nightmares. The tunnel did indeed end ahead, but it was not open. Something blocked the passage. At first Elena thought it was a huge spider crouched in a web across the opening, but as her ball of wit’ch fire rolled forward, the true horror revealed itself.

It wasn’t a monstrous spider, but something much worse.

Lodged in the opening and held in place by ten articulated legs was a single creature. Its main body hung in the opening, gray and glistening, like a netherworld slug, striped in slashes of black and red. But mostly it was all mouth: a black maw that writhed with poisoned tentacles. A tangle of stalked eyes as black as polished obsidian waved above the razor-lined mouth.

Elena knew this creature. She had battled one in the highland forests of her home after it had killed her Uncle Bol. It was a mul’gothra, one of the birth queens of the skal’tum. Elena watched its thick gray body convulse in a violent spasm, and something green and steaming squeezed from its lower belly and fell with a wet plop to the tunnel’s floor.

The queen was in the middle of birthing.

The object roiled on the stone, steaming a noxious green cloud; then damp wings unfolded and claws sprouted as it scrabbled to stand on its own. A new skal’tum was born into the world.

Above its newborn, the creature hissed, belching out a flurry of suckered tentacles at the lone combatant before it.

Wennar.

But the d’warf ignored the looming creature. He was out of reach of its tentacles and had more immediate concerns as he danced with an ax in one hand and a sword in the other.

A pack of newborn skal’tum surrounded him.

Dripping with fetid slime, the bony beasts raked at him with claws and hissed like a pit of snakes. His blades bounced off them harmlessly as dark magicks protected their flesh. All he could do was keep them at bay. Newborn skal’tum were impervious to most harm until they had their first kill.

Behind Wennar, the mul’gothra continued to push more of its abominable children into the world, its belly churning and spasming.

“Free him,” Elena said, waving an arm to Er’ril and the d’warves. “Get him out of harm’s way.” She pulled her dagger from its sheath.

Er’ril hesitated for a moment, met her eyes, then nodded. He and the remaining d’warves ran to Wennar’s rescue. Tol’chuk kept to Elena’s side, protecting her back.

Elena drew a line of fire across each palm with the sharp tip of her silver blade and rallied the magick in both fists. Across the way, the sudden appearance of new foes startled the immature skal’tum. Most scurried away toward their mother, while the few that remained were beaten back by the larger force.

Free, Wennar sagged toward the ground, but he was caught by two of his fellow d’warves. He was dragged away as Er’ril and the others guarded their retreat.

Wennar gasped as they returned to Elena’s side. “I didn’t see it until it was too late.” WIT C H V j ATE

Lost to her magicks, Elena barely heard him. Energy surged through her. She stepped forward and raised her arms. Lacing her fingers together, she merged fire and ice, building up the storm between her palms.

Across the way, the skal’tum regrouped, gaining courage from their numbers. They hissed and clambered. Tiny wings snapped and beat at the air, but they were still too young to fly.

Elena stepped toward them. “Stay back,” she warned her companions.

Moving slowly, building her storm to a trembling that raged between her palms, Elena edged closer.

Beyond the pregnant mul’gothra, limned in moonlight, Elena saw the outstretched arm of the manti-core statue and the shadowy chunk of ebon’stone.

She almost looked away, but a flash of movement caught her eye. Out on the granite arm, she spotted three other skal’tum, newborns like those huddled under their mother, scrabbling toward the ebon’stone boulder. Curious and concerned, she hesitated, watching.

The first newborn reached the stone. It appeared frightened, cowering back, but it seemed unable to stop its legs. It reached the stone and with a screech, fell into it, as if diving down a black well, and was gone.

She heard its small cry of terror fade away. The others followed.

Elena’s attention swung back to the mul’gothra. She suddenly understood what the creature was doing here, what they had interrupted. The mul’gothra, when ripe with offspring, must be drawn to this place like a moth to a black flame. They then used this high perch to hatch their foul offspring, feeding them through the Weir to be bent and enslaved to the Dark Lord. Here was the source of the Black Heart’s endless winged armies—the Manticore Gate.

More than ever, Elena knew it had to be destroyed.

“What are you waiting for?” Er’ril said behind her, stepping in her direction.

“Stand back,” she repeated, and pointed her arms at the gathered skal’tum. She bloomed open her fingers and cast out a raging torrent of ice and fire. Lightning crackled, and winds screamed in fury. Elena swept her stormfire across the floor of the tunnel, keeping its focus tight to rip through the extra protections of these newborn demons.

Deep inside her, she felt her magick strike the gathered skal’tum.

She sensed their sharp flames of life snuff out, one after the other, buffeted and blown away by the rage of her magick.

The wit’ch in her sang with each death, much louder than usual, harder to resist, as if the veil had thinned between wit’ch and woman. Elena fought to keep her focus, to maintain her control. But something had changed inside her, something following her intimate sharing with Cho last night. The wit’ch in her had grown stronger, wailing its wild lusts, buffeting against her inner shields.

Standing in the eye of her raging magicks, Elena again sensed the tenuous connection of all life, especially the ties among those in the room. She felt the flickers of energy from her companions and tasted the raging fire of the mul’gothra.

Across the tunnel, the wit’ch continued to consume the tiny flames of the newborns—but Elena knew, if left unchecked, the wit’ch would never be satisfied with such a small feast. It wanted to burn all away—not just the mul’gothra, but also her companions. It did not discriminate. It wanted everything, even Elena herself.

Cringing against such lusts, Elena reined in her magick. Slowly the fire died in her hands. The mad chorus of the wit’ch faded, replaced by the mewling cry of the mul’gothra.

Elena’s eyes refocused here. She saw the smoldering and burned bodies of the skal’tum. Only a single newborn remained, cowering under the belly of its mother. Its sibilant hiss had turned to a plaintive wail.

The mul’gothra lowered itself over its last offspring, continuing a piping mewl of pain and sorrow. It drew its tentacles gently around the newborn and pulled it closer, protecting its child.

Er’ril stepped to Elena’s side. “Why did you stop? Finish it off.” Elena bit her lip, then spoke. “I… I can’t.” She had seen the tiny flames of the slain beasts. Life was life—and this mother only wanted to protect its offspring. The mul’gothra here was as much a slave as any other. It did not want to feed its offspring to the Weir-gate, but it had no other choice. Dark magick had bent its instincts to this unnatural purpose.

Stepping toward the monster, Elena waved her hand. “Go! Take your child and leave!” The mul’gothra hissed at her motions, cringing down over her child, but when Elena did not attack, it mewled again, frightened and confused.

Elena waved her arm. “Begone!”

WIT C H UATE

Thousands of orbed eyes watched her, studying her—then in a flurry of movement, its legs jerked, and the muFgothra shot out of the tunnel and into the air, carrying the child in its tentacles. Huge wings snapped open to catch the late night’s breezes. It swung once in a tight circle, then shot out over the jagged mountains and was gone.

“Why did you let it go?” Er’ril asked.

Elena shook her head. “I needed to.” She moved ahead. “Let’s finish this.” As a group, they climbed through the burned remains of the skal’tum and out into the night. Elena took a deep breath, clearing her lungs of the reek of charred flesh. The granite arm of the statue stretched ahead, a wide bridge that led to the massive chunk of ebon’stone resting in its palm.

Tol’chuk took the lead this time, the Try’sil hammer in hand.

Elena followed with Er’ril.

She stared down. The arm’s upper surface was flat and easy to cross. She could only imagine the long litany of horrors that had transpired here. Ahead, Tol’chuk reached the arm’s wrist and paused. Before him lay the stone hand. Clawed fingers circled the ebon’stone like beastly pillars.

Elena stepped to Tol’chuk’s side. “You can do this.”

He nodded. “I can.” Then he turned and climbed atop the stone palm, lifting the hammer high. “This is for my father’s spirit!” Tol’chuk slammed the hammer down with all the strength in his og’re shoulders.

But the blow never struck. The iron head fell into the stone as if the boulder were merely cloud.

Tol’chuk, thrown off balance, fell forward and struck the side of the stone. On his knees, he twisted around and lifted his arm. He gripped only the rune-carved handle. The hammer itself was gone.

Behind her, Wennar fell to the stone and wailed. “The Try’sil!” Elena stared at the unharmed stone. What had just happened? The hammer had been used to sculpt the cursed stone. It had been destined to be returned here and free the d’warves from the Dark Lord’s yoke. Why had it failed?

For just a moment, Elena felt a twinge of suspicion of Tol’chuk. But she forced such thoughts away. It was impossible. The og’re had saved her life many times, had served the Land with all his heart.

But Wennar did not know Tol’chuk as well. The d’warf burst to his feet, pointing an arm. “You! You did this! You’ve doomed our people just like your cursed ancestor!” Tol’chuk covered his face.

Elena raised an arm between them as Wennar made a lunge toward Tol’chuk. “No! It’s not his fault!”

“Then whose?” Wennar asked, his face almost purple.

Er’ril answered, moving to Tol’chuk’s side. “We’re all at fault.” Wennar blustered, but Magnam placed a restraining hand on his leader’s arm. “Listen to him.” Er’ril turned to face them. “We failed because we’re all victims of prophecy. We assumed we knew their import, but we were all obviously blinded by our own hopes.” He glanced over his shoulder to the chunk of black rock. “I’ve traveled through the Weir before. It’s a lodestone for elemental magick.

Anything—objects or people— ripe enough in power will be drawn into its black heart.”

“The Try’sil…” Wennar moaned.

“It was rich with the wind magick of the elv’in. We should have never let it near the Gate, but we were blinded by our faith in prophecy. And if there is one thing I’ve learned from my brother, placing one’s full faith in prophecy can be damning.”

Tol’chuk climbed to his feet. “Then what can we do? How do we destroy it?” Elena spoke up, her voice full of dread. She glanced to the moon. It was low in the sky, close to setting.

“I must consult the Blood Diary. It was Chi who fell into the Weirgates long ago and fused the four into this well of dire magicks. Cho, his sister spirit, may have some answers.” Er’ril nodded. “But back well away. I don’t want you or that book near this stone.” Without arguing, Elena stepped farther down the wide arm.

Er’ril positioned a wall of d’warves between her and the ebon’stone boulder. He then joined her as she pulled the book free. Glancing up, she found his eyes on hers. Er’ril reached and clasped his hands over hers as they held the book between them. “You’re trembling,” he whispered.

“Just the cold.” Elena turned away and tried to pull her hands free.

But she could not free her hand. The plainsman could turn to stubborn Standish iron when he wanted. “I don’t know what is troubling you, what happened back in that tunnel to frighten you, but

<- M VJ A 1 h know this, Elena. I’m your liegeman. I’ll always be at your side. My strength is yours to call upon.“

She felt that strength now. The warmth of his palms calmed her trembling. She leaned toward him, and he drew her in, hugging her. “I may not have faith in prophecy,” he whispered into her hair. “But I have faith in you.”

She fought back tears and huddled in his embrace. After a moment more, she took a deep, centering breath and stood straighten He let her go, but she still felt his warmth wrapped around her. It was enough.

She turned away and opened the Blood Diary.

Er’ril watched Elena turn away and clenched a fist, worried for her. Though he did not see her open the book, he knew when its cover had been cracked. A blast of light exploded forth, and Elena flew backward into his arms.

He held her. Over her shoulder, he watched the flare of light empty out of the pages of the book and shoot skyward. He caught a peek into the Void: stars, and ribbons of glowing gases, and the edge of a blinding sun. Then a cry arose from the swirl of light overhead. It took on the form of a woman sailing high into the air.

“Chi!” The name was yelled like a striking bell, piercing the night and echoing off the surrounding peaks.

Holding the book, Elena stepped forward. “Cho! Calm yourself.” “I hear him!” Her voice became a wail. “He cries and screams for me.” The apparition swept down and along the arm, passing through the line of d’warves. It aimed for the ebon’stone boulder. Tol’chuk stood, raising to his full height, arms up, blocking Cho’s way. But like the d’warves, she swept through his body and into the stone. “No!” Elena gasped.

But the stone had no more effect on Cho than Tol’chuk’s body had. The shining apparition shot out the other side, arced back around, then dove through again and again. “He screams and screams. I must go to him!”

Cho continued to dart back and forth through the stone, like a glowing will-o‘-the-wisp. “/ can hear him! He is so close.”

Elena glanced at the sky. Er’ril knew what held her attention. The moon. It was near to setting. They were about to lose this night.

X

“Cho!” Elena called again. “You cannot reach Chi. You have no substance here. Listen to me!” The sailing figure sobbed and slowed, hovering above the black stone. “He needs me.” Elena passed the Blood Diary to Er’ril. “I must calm her,” she whispered to Er’ril. “Guard the book.” Next, she raised her arms. “I know, Cho. I once lost my brother. I understand the pain. But I need your guidance. I am your vessel in this world, your physical connection to this plane.” Cho drifted from the rock and settled to the stone palm. One hand reached back and touched the rock, passing through its substance. She was obviously loath to leave her brother’s side. “It is only together that we can free my brother.”

Elena relaxed. “Exactly. Together.”

Cho turned in her direction. Eyes full of the Void stared back, cold and with an intelligence unlike any on this world. Then, for the briefest moment, Er’ril saw the flash of something human behind those eyes. It was Fila. The apparition’s lips moved. “No! Elena, no! You must not—” Fila vanished, swept back into the Void. Only Cho was there.

Elena tensed, moving back into Er’ril’s shadow. She glanced at him, confused. What had Fila been warning? she seemed to ask.

“Together…” Cho echoed.

Er’ril saw some seed of understanding—and terror—dawn in Elena’s eyes. She swung back around as Cho dove forward, sweeping through Tol’chuk, through the d’warves, too fast to follow, like a reflection of moonshine off water.

“Break the bridge!” Elena yelled. “Close the book!”

Er’ril attempted to obey, but he was too slow. The spirit struck Elena, folding in, around, and through her. Er’ril was blasted back in a searing explosion of magick. Flying, he landed on his back and slid along the arm, keeping his fingers locked on the Blood Diary.

He sat up, his eyebrows smoldering from the brush of wit’chfire.

Down the granite arm, he stared at what remained of Elena. She still stood where she had a moment ago, but all her clothes had been burned from her body. Even her hair had been singed away. She stood naked to the night. From toes to scalp, her skin whorled with crimson magick, a ruby statue sculpted in the shape of woman.

Slowly, she began to step forward, toward the ebon’stone.

In her wake, a glowing mist formed, swirling down into the familiar form of the book’s spirit, but it was less distinct, blurring at the edges. “Elena…” From the pain in the voice, Er’ril knew it was Fila rather than Cho.

Er’ril hurried forward.

The apparition lifted an arm. “No, Er’ril, stay back.” She raised her voice. “All of you. Stand aside. Do not try and stop her! She can kill with a touch.”

Though Er’ril could easily have walked through Fila’s ghostly image, he held back. “What has happened to her?”

“Cho will not be stopped. She has heard her brother’s tortured screams and must go to him.”

“And Elena?”

“The girl was right. The only way Cho can effect any change in this plane is through Elena. Cho has merged almost all her spirit into the girl.”

“Then she’s taken over Elena’s body?”

“No, Cho is in the Void. Elena still exists somewhere inside there, but the sudden surge of immense energies has unmoored her. She is lost to the desires of Cho, unable to break free, and her body responds. The only question is if Elena’s strong enough to fight back to her own self.” Er’ril made a move forward, determined to help.

“No, Er’ril. Any interference could doom her.”

Ahead, Er’ril watched Elena pass Tol’chuk and step up to the ebon’stone boulder. She stopped before it, ruby against black stone. Her neck craned, studying the ebon’stone as if she had never seen it before.

Elena, he prayed, move bac’t.

Cocking her head, she reached forward.

“No!” Er’ril yelled. “Elena, stop!”

Without a look back, she stepped through the Weirgate and vanished.

Still dazed by Cho’s assault, Elena found herself without any bearing. A part of her, as distant as an echo, felt her body carried forward and through the Weirgate. But it felt unnatural, like a dream after waking, hard to grasp and easily forgotten. Energy of unfathomable depths surged through her. The wit’ch thrummed in every fiber of her body, singing, wailing, crying out. It was a chorus of wild power and passions.

Her own spirit was but a mote in this frenzied storm.

Elena resisted the raging current. / must not lose myself. She forced her mind to stop its panicked attempts to fight against the tidal forces inside her. Instead, she pulled herself inward, using the swirl of these foreign energies to draw herself down to a single flickering flame of intense brilliance, a beacon in the dark storm. From this island of security, she fortified herself.

Once steady, she slowly extended her perceptions outward, riding the currents of power this time, rather than fighting. She first became aware of her own heartbeat, slow and steady. This helped reassure her.

She was still alive.

Reaching farther, she followed her blood as it fanned throughout her body. As she did so, the sense of her limbs returned: bone, muscle, sinew. It was as if she were rebuilding herself from the inside out, incorporating Cho’s power in each bit, redefining herself in this new context. With care, she stretched farther and steadily rediscovered her senses.

The wit’ch’s mad song dimmed as Elena now listened through her own ears. A great silence blanketed her. It was not so much an absence of sound as an unsettling pressure—like diving into a lake. Just the pressure and the quiet.

But Elena knew this was no mountain lake.

This was the Weir.

Floating in this strange otherworld, Elena kept her eyes closed, fearing what she might see. Cho, what have you done?

Tentatively, Elena reached out with her other senses. She smelled no scent, tasted nothing in the air. The only sensation she did discover was a tingling burn that seemed to paint her entire body. She willed her arms to move and was surprised to discover control had returned to her limbs. As she swept her arms, struggling for anything solid, the burning grew worse from hands to shoulder, almost painful.

Swallowing back her fear, Elena risked opening her eyes—staring for the first time into the strange landscape of the Weir.

Around her was a swirling dense darkness, like a midnight sea— only this had the feel of something living. It caressed against her, but where it touched, her ruby skin flared brighter. As a matter of fact, her entire form burned like a tiny crimson flame in the darkness.

She studied herself and moved her arms through the substance of the Weir. Her skin flashed brighter.

Elena understood. Cho’s magic’t is protecting me, suiting me in ruby armor against the touch of the Weir.

With this realization, Elena stared around her. She turned and caught a flicker of movement. With a kick of her legs, she moved nearer, cautiously. The darkness seemed to clear, and she saw a surprising tableau: Er’ril and the others stood a short distance away, staring back at her. It was as if she were staring at them through a dark glass. She swam closer, her hands reaching forward. But her fingers ran into a solid barrier. She pressed against it. The group did not seem to see her Muffled words reached her. “How do we know she still lives?” Er’ril asked.

The ghostly form of Aunt Fila stood behind his shoulder. “Because I’m still here. If Elena dies, so does the magick of the book. I would not be here if the bridge were severed.” Er’ril glanced to the sky. “But the moon is setting. What then?” Fila only shook her head.

Elena tried to beat against the barrier, but it did no good. She was locked into the ebon’stone Weirgate.

“Er’ril!”

No one heard her.

She tried louder. “Er’ril!”

Tol’chuk jerked in her direction. He was closest to the stone.

“Tol’chukl Can you hear me?”

He leaned closer, placing a hand on the rock. “Elena?”

“Yes!” She almost wept with relief.

The og’re glanced over his shoulder and bellowed, “It’s her! Elena!” Er’ril hurried forward and pressed his hands against the rock, trying to find a way through, risking the Weir to come to her aid. But he no longer had magick in his blood. The Gate would not open for him

“Er’ril, I’m safe! Cho’s magick is protecting me.”

“Then leave while you still can!”

She beat a ruby fist against the barrier. “I can’t!”

Er’ril shoved harder, shoulders bunching. But it did no good.

Elena reached up and placed her hand over his, their palms separated by the magick of the Weirgate.

“There must be another way out,” she called. “Or a clue to destroying the Gates. I must go look.”

“Elena! No! We’ll find a way to get you out.”

Elena lifted her palm from his and drifted back. “I’m sorry. I must try. Too much depends on it.” And she knew this was true. Whether it was her own intuition or something gifted from Cho, Elena sensed an urgency to move on.

She pushed from the glass wall. The dark sea of the Weir swept back over the glass and swallowed the view of the others. Elena twisted around and delved deeper into the heart of the Weir.

The living darkness again surrounded her, featureless and forever. As she swam, Elena worried she would not even be able to find her way back. What if she never escaped here? How long would the ruby magick protect her? Her heart began to grow louder in her ears. A twinge of panic set in—but as she continued forward, she realized the pounding in her ears was not her own heart, but something beyond herself.

She paused, hanging in the dark sea, and concentrated on the source. She did not know what lay ahead, but it was better than the endless blank expanse. It was something.

She slowly swam forward again, aiming for the source of the deep, sonorous beat. After what seemed an endless time, she noticed the darkness grew lighter ahead, almost as if she were coming to another window to the real world. She kicked her legs more vigorously, creating a burn along her skin as the ruby magick flared brighter. Ignoring the pain, Elena sped faster.

The darkness continued to part until a white flame appeared ahead, floating in the black ether. It flared and dimmed in step to the thunderous beat.

Elena swept to a stop before it.

She knew what she was looking at. “Chi,” she said aloud.

But speaking the name caused no change. The light continued to ebb and flow like a living heart of white flame. Elena’s face, chest, and legs burned brighter with each beat, the two opposing magicks igniting against one another, like a match set to oil.

Elena finally understood. She swung around. The living sea through which she had swum and continued to float now… it was all one entity. It was all Chi.

Spinning in place, Elena was overwhelmed by the immensity. If only she could speak to him, as she did to Cho. But she had no bridge to this spirit. She settled to a stop, drifting closer to the center of the Weir, the heart of Chi. How could she ever hope to free him? How did you destroy the Gates that bound him here, especially when the stone statues were tied to such a bottomless well of energy? It was a riddle she could not solve alone.

Cho, she silently prayed, if you know some way to communicate with your brother, help me.

Elena expected no answer. Cho was not truly inside her, just the spirit’s energy. In some ways, Elena was like the Weir herself: a vessel full of power and energy. But unlike the Weir, she did not hold Cho’s true heart inside her. It was still somewhere out in the Void.

Elena stared around her, wishing she had a better understanding of Cho and Chi, of the flows of power here. Then an idea formed. She did not know if it would help. A spell—one of the first magicks she had ever learned, one born of her own blood.

Raising a hand, Elena placed her forefinger between her teeth and bit into the skin at its edge. She tasted blood on her tongue, and as she pulled her finger free, a ruby radiance flamed forth from its tip. Craning her neck back, she squeezed her injured hand and dribbled

JAMES LLEME N S

a drop of fiery blood into each eye. The pain was almost too much. She gasped and clamped a hand over her eyes. It had never stung like this in the past.

Slowly, the pain dulled to a scratchy burn, and Elena risked opening her eyelids. She held her breath, fearing she had blinded herself. But she was fine. The sting had just been the Weir reacting to her magick.

She stared around. A new landscape opened, revealed by the magi-ckal sight imbued in her blood. The sea of the Weir was still dark, but now it was veined with glowing lines of silver. Elena could not help but be struck by the similarity to ebon’stone: a black rock streaked with silver.

But these veins were not silver ore. Elena recognized the sheen to this power. She had seen it in Mycelle, Krai, and many others. It was elemental energy. Elena gaped around her. There was so much of it. The lines flowed under, around, and over her.

As she stared, the silver lines grew more substantial. She began to see a pattern stretching away into the darkness of the Weir. A far way off, the veins seemed to fuse and join, forming ever-thicker arteries. It was as if she were deep underground, tangled in the roots of a silver tree and looking up toward where the rootlets became thicker roots, which in turn became the trunk itself.

She glanced around and realized there were four trees, one growing in each direction of the compass.

Elena knew this had to be significant.

Four Weirgates, four ebon’stones statues, four elemental fonts. She approached the nearest, the one heading in the direction from which she came. She reached to the nearest vein and touched the silvery sheen. But nothing happened. Her hand passed through it without harm to either.

Then Elena had another idea. Her blood had opened her special sight. Could it do more? She brought her bitten finger, still blazing with blood, to the same vein.

As her finger touched it, her mind was torn away. She found herself staring back at Er’ril and the others, as if she again hung before the dark glass window. “There must be a way to free her,” Er’ril said.

Surprised, her finger broke contact. And she found herself back beside the flaming heart. It was a direct conduit to the Manticore Weirgate.

Elena glanced around her. She drifted around the giant flame to the neighboring tree’s roots and touched one of its rootlets.

Her mind again snapped away. She found herself staring at a dark room. A brazier of red coals lay open on the floor before her, covered with a grate ornamented with twisted beasts and fantastic creatures. The iron of the grate glowed a fiery red. Beyond the coals, she sensed tiers rising up the room’s walls: an amphitheater of some sort. She sensed eyes back there, spectators in the shadows.

Then movement drew her gaze closer. A cowled figure approached, guiding a naked, towheaded child of about four by one hand. The dark figure tossed aside his cowl to reveal a blasted and ruined face. It was as if someone had melted his features, then froze them in place. Elena gasped with recognition. It was Shorkan, leader of the Black Heart’s darkmages, and Er’nl’s brother.

Elena now knew she must be staring through the Wyvern Weir-gate, the statue whisked away by Shorkan as he fled A’loa Glen.

Shorkan moved nearer the brazier. “On this black night, the Master’s plan to break the Land upon his forge will come to fruition. As the moon sets, so will the hope of all the world. Let us praise the Black Heart!”

Voices cried from the dark galleries. “Praise the Black Heart!” Shorkan whipped up an arm, revealing a jagged, curved dagger. “A sacrifice in his honor! An innocent heart cast upon his flames!”

Elena’s gaze swung back to the cowering little boy. “No!” she cried out.

Ahead, Shorkan paused, his head cocking with suspicion. He seemed to lean toward her, eyes narrowed.

Elena froze. Could he see her? Sense her?

After a moment, Shorkan shook his head and straightened. Clearing his throat, he lifted the blade high again. “Praise the Black Heart!” The dagger slashed down.

Elena jerked her hand away. She could not watch.

She glided away from this foul tree, less sure, fearing she might have given her trespass away. As she slid around the flaming heart of the Weir toward the next elemental tree, she pondered Shorkan’s words: to brea’t the hand upon his forge.

She stared around at the flows of elemental energy that led from the Gates to here and began to understand. These were not so much

trees of energy as rivers spilling through the gates and spreading into a thousand streams. The Gates were sucking vast fonts of energy into the Weir.

Her eyes grew wide. She now knew why the ebon’stone statues had been placed so carefully. Across the lands, there were points where the Land’s elemental powers flowed stronger. She had learned this from Cassa Dar in the swamps of the Drowned Lands. The Dark Lord had tried to destroy such an artery long ago, a silver river of the Land’s energy under Castle Drakk. But there were many others throughout the world.

Clearly the Black Heart had not given up on his desire to harm the Land. He must have positioned the Weirgates at four of the world’s pulse points. But why? To tap the energy? Or was there a darker purpose?

Shorkan’s words echoed in her head: to brea’t the Land upon his 1 forge…

Elena gasped with sudden insight and horror. The Dark Lord broke individual elementals by using slivers of ebon’stone to draw off their energy and corrupt it, twisting the bearer in turn, too. This was also the Black Heart’s plan here—but not just to corrupt a single person or even a single land.

He meant to corrupt the entire worldl By placing his monstrous Weirgates at key points around the globe and tapping into the planet’s energy, he was going to forge the world into one monstrous ill’guard.

And if Shorkan spoke truly, this transformation was to occur this very night. Elena swam forward toward the neighboring nexus of elemental energy. Whether the Gates could be broken or not, a more immediate danger faced them all. If the Dark Lord succeeded, then they were all doomed.

Elena brought her flaming finger to a silver rootlet and touched it. She found herself staring into a gray granite room covered with dead bodies. D’warves, she realized, scores of them. The view shifted slightly, as if the window through which she peered were moving. It made no sense. Then the window turned, and she found herself staring at a familiar, shaggy, black-bearded face.

“Krai!” she yelled.

The mountain man fled backward in shock.

Behind him, Elena spotted other faces: Mogweed, Meric, and a sandy-haired man she did not know.

And standing among them was a sight that made no sense: Nee’lahn.

Meric stepped up beside Krai, though a little warily. “Elena? Are you inside the griffin?”

“I’m in the Weir! We don’t have much time! You must find a way to break the Gate’s connection to its elemental source! Can you do this?

Meric shook his head. “We’ve tried everything. The Griffin Gate now defends itself, coming to life, attacking any who near it.”

Elena thought quickly. // must be nearing the time of transformation. “Don’t worry about destroying the griffin! Find a way to separate the stone beast from the elemental connection upon which it’s feeding!

Now! This night! Before is all lost!”

Meric frowned. “We don’t know how.”

Krai elbowed Meric away. “I do.”

Meric tried to interrupt, but Krai faced Elena. “I will do this. Trust me.” Elena sighed with relief. “I must check the other Gates.”

He nodded and lifted an arm. “I’m sorry, Elena.”

Her finger lifted from the silver vein as these last words were spoken. She did not understand their exact import, but she did not have time to return and ask Krai. She didn’t know how many of the Weirgates must be broken to thwart the Dark Lord’s ambition, but she knew the surest course was to eliminate as many as possible.

She kicked and paddled over to the last of the silver flows, calculating in her head. The only Weirgate left was the basilisk, somewhere in the Southern Wastes. She slid up to the nearest shining branch and touched her finger to it.

A new view opened before her mind’s eye: a sandy-floored chamber in a cavernous room. She almost cried in relief. Sy-wen sat atop Ragnar’k. At least some of the desert team had reached the Basilisk Weirgate. The view swung around. Clearly this Gate had come to life, too. A third combatant was revealed.

“Joach!” she shouted.

The call of his name startled her brother. “Kesla?” He stumbled back, falling on his backside.

“No, it’s your sister!”

Sy-wen shifted her dragon back into view. “Elena?”

“I don’t have much time!” She rapidly repeated everything she had told Krai. “Can you find a way to break the Weirgate’s connection to the Land?”

“I don’t see how,” Sy-wen answered. “Not even Ragnar’k can near that monster.” Elena saw the long gash on the dragon’s chest, dripping with blood. She turned to the other party in the room. “Joach, do you know some way? Even a dark spell learned from the time you had Greshym’s staff.”

Her brother’s head had remained bowed during her explanation. He raised it now. His eyes held a lost, hopeless look. “I think I do.”

“You must try,” she urged. “Or all the world is doomed.”

Joach nodded, turning away, his voice pained. “Go. I know my duty.” Elena longed to reach through to him, to hold and comfort her brother, but instead, she pulled her hand back, and the sight vanished. Comfort must come another day. Elena floated in place. She had done all she could here. The rest was up to the others.

Elena kicked and swam back to the original silver river, then followed its course home. She had no idea how to accomplish what she had asked of the others. The Manticore Gate seemed invincible. She pondered her options, but she still had no answer by the time she reached the black glass barrier. She had secretly hoped that a way would reopen for her now. But as she swam up and pressed her hands against its surface, it was as impervious as ever.

With her spellcast eyesight, she now saw the flow of elemental energy piping up from the mountain and through the arm to the ebon‘-stone boulder. It seemed hopeless. There was no way to move the ebon’stone boulder or break the stone arm off. With so few here, it would take several moons to hack through this stone arm. If only she were free of the stone, she could attack with her magick.

Elena called to the others—they were still gathered near the sftme—and told them all she had learned.

Aunt Fila drifted closer. “So we must either break the Gate or sever its connection?” Elena nodded, then realized no one could see her. “Yes. It must be done this night, or the entire world will be corrupted.”

Er’ril shook his head, looking all around. “I don’t see how we can succeed.”

“What of your magick, my dear?” Aunt Fila asked.

Elena had already tried freshening her finger wound and using the magick to shatter through, but this attempt had failed, too. The Weir was too large, and she was too small.

“It won’t damage the stone,” she answered in a tired voice.

“That’s not what I was asking,” Fila said. “I was talking about Cho’s magick that’s protecting you. It’s not inexhaustible.”

Elena stared down at her limbs, noticing for the first time how much less her skin glowed. She lifted her arms. Her magickal armor was rapidly thinning. She stared out into the dark Weir.

She knew once her magick was gone, so was her life.

Wrapped only in a cloak, Kral stared at the circle of faces. They were fewer in number than when they had entered the throne room. Fardale had vanished, and Mycelle lay cold on the stone, covered in Tyrus’

cloak, the family sigil of a striking snow leopard blazed on top. As Kral stared, he could read the distrust in their eyes, and he had no answer to their silent accusations, no way to ask for their trust.

“How do we know you’re not still a pawn of the Dark Lord?” Meric finally asked. He pointed to the griffin, poised by the Ice Throne, its ebon’stone nails dug deep into the granite of the Citadel’s arch. Now wakened, there was no safe way to approach the beast. Any who neared was threatened with talons and fang. Meric continued. “You attack the griffin, fail, and it comes to life. How do we know you didn’t plan this?”

Kral hung his head, his fingers in his beard. “You can’t.”

Nee’lahn stepped to him, staring him hard in the face. She held her baby in her arms, rocking. “I don’t know,” she said.

Mogweed hung back. “I say we just leave. Strike out now while we still can.”

“You’re free to run,” Tyrus said, nodding to the open door. “You’ve regained your shape-shifting abilities. Go. Take your chances with the d’warves out there waiting to avenge their slain king.” Mogweed scowled but did not take up the man’s offer.

Tyrus held his family’s sword pointed at Krai’s heart. “I, for one, don’t mean to leave until we do what your young wit’ch asked of us. We need to break this griffin’s hold on the north.” He glanced to tv/

Meric. “And I don’t care a broken copper if this man is tainted or not. As a pirate of Port Rawl, I’ve fought beside cutthroats and brigands, and if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that as long as a man’s goal is the same as yours, then welcome him to your side, noble or not, tainted or not.” Meric seemed about to object, but Tyrus held up his free hand and continued. “I know Kral wants to rid the north of this evil as much as I. We are both men of stone—two sides of the same coin. I’m the granite wall. He’s the mountain’s root. If he says he can rid us of this cursed beast, then I say we give him our full support.”

A silence descended after this speech. Then Nee’lahn finally nodded. “I think Lord Tyrus speaks wisely.” Meric sighed and shrugged. “I guess we don’t have much choice. Sunrise is not far off, and he’s the only one with a plan.” Meric stepped forward, knocking aside Tyrus’ blade, and offered his hand to the mountain man.

Kral hesitated, then took it. “I’ll not betray anyone. Never again.”

“What is this plan of yours?” Tyrus asked, his sword still unsheathed but no longer pointed at Krai’s chest.

The mountain man straightened and faced them. “It was King Ry’s prophecy.”

“My father?” Tyrus exclaimed.

Kral turned to the hall, his eyes on the Ice Throne. “He predicted our victory in winning back my family’s throne.”

“Yes, so?”

“But have you forgotten the other part of the prophecy, words you told me on the docks of Port Rawl?” Tyrus shook his head.

“You said I’d win back my throne, but I’d wear a broken crown.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Kral held back the pain in his heart. He was free of the ill’guard curse, but not of his own guilt and shame. Losing his elemental powers was~a small price, hardly enough to wash away the deaths, the betrayals,‘and the countless lies upon his tongue. Though the Dark Lord’s taint was gone, Kral would be forever damned in his own eyes. He could still remember the rush of the chase, the taste of hot blood on his tongue, and the rip of life from a body. And free or not, a small part of him still thrilled to it.

Kral closed his eyes and swallowed. “There is another prophecy among my own people. I told it to Er’ril when first we met in Winterfell.”

“I remember,” Nee’lahn said. “You told us that the appearance of Er’ril, the Wandering Knight of legends, would mark the doom of your clans.”

Krai turned to Nee’lahn, tears in his eyes. “Even then I was a coward. I didn’t tell you all. My distress at that moment was not all for my people’s future, but also for myself. The prophecy predicted that whoever met the Wandering Knight would bring about this doom.” Tyrus frowned. “I still don’t understand the point. Broken crowns, prophecies of doom… what does it mean?”

Krai glanced one last time at his family throne. “By my own hand, I must break the crown of our people.”

“What crown?” Mogweed asked. “Where’s it hidden?”

Krai turned. “Our kings have never worn a crown. We have only the Ice Throne. The true crown of our people is here. You are standing in it. It is the arch rising from the waters of Tor Amon and reflected back in it—a circlet of granite and illusion. That is our crown.”

“And you can break it?” Tyrus asked. “Bring down this arch?” Krai nodded. “There is only one way.”

Nee’lahn spoke up. “And if you succeed, then the Griffin Gate will be severed from the font of elemental energy rising here.”

Krai bowed his head. “So I pray. May this one act help in some small way in salvaging my family’s honor.”

“Then let’s do it,” Tyrus said. “How do we begin?”

Krai searched their faces. “We must first return to the arch’s reflection.” He turned his back on the Ice Throne and stepped to the far wall. “Here is where we came in; here is where we must leave.”

“Can you still open the way?” Nee’lahn asked. “If your elemental power is gone…”

“It is the arch’s energy that drives the transition. It is only my royal blood that is the key. And elemental energy or not, I am still Krai a’Darvun of the Senta Flame.” He held out his hand for them to link up.

It gave him a small bit of solace when Nee’lahn took his hand without a second glance. The rest linked flesh to flesh.

“Are you ready?”

“Get on with it,” Mogweed snapped.

Krai nodded, then turned to the wall, closed his eyes, and took a step of faith. For a moment, he feared the arch would reject himfbut ever loyal to his family, it opened the way. Krai felt the familiar, head-over-toes disorientation; then they were through.

The same throne room lay before them again, but the bodies of the dead were gone. Shimmers marked the torches’ positions in the real world, creating a dim glow. Across the chamber, the mirror image of the Ice Throne stood tall, and beside it, the black whorling vortex that marked the griffin’s shadow. Only now the black well had grown larger.

“What now?” Tyrus asked. “What do you want us to do?”

Krai walked toward the Ice Throne, keeping a wary distance from the vortex even though he no longer was an elemental. “I want you all to escape.”

He reached the throne and sat down in it.

Tyrus stepped toward him. “I don’t understand.”

Krai pointed to the stairs. “Go down the way we came up. It should lead you back to the foot of the arch.”

“But we can’t leave the reflection on our own,” Nee’lahn said. “Not without you.”

“Yes, you can. When the crown breaks, so will the magick. You may get your feet wet, but you’ll be free.”

“And you?” Nee’lahn asked.

Tyrus answered instead. “He will win his throne but wear a broken crown.” Krai nodded. “Go… while you still can.” As they made to move away, Krai remembered one last thing.

“I’ll need a blade— something with a fine edge.”

Nee’lahn slipped a dagger from her belt, but Tyrus stayed her hand and unsheathed his own family sword. He crossed with care and offered Krai the hilt.

“I can’t take your sword. Any blade will do.”

Tyrus held the weapon at arm’s length. “It is for the honor of my people. They’re all gone. Mycelle was the last Dro warrior, and I’m the last of my line. Take my sword and accept a promise from me. Though this act will doom your people from ever returning to their ancestral home, I promise to seek your scattered clans and offer Castle Mryl as their new home. One granite castle for another.” He pushed the sword closer. “A pact sworn in blood.”

Krai did not wipe the tears that flowed down his cheek and into his beard. He simply took the length of fine Mry.lian steel in his palms. “Thank you, King Tyrus. May I be the first of my people to swear allegiance to you.”

“I accept your word with honor.” Tyrus bowed, then led the group toward the stairs.

Krai did not watch them leave. It was too painful. Instead, he stared at the handsome sword and closed his fingers around it, the ache in his heart suddenly lighter. He had a long wait in this cold seat.

He listened to the footsteps of his friends fade to echoes, then away. And still he waited. He needed to give the others as much time as possible to climb out of the depths of Tor Amon.

Yet he did not have forever. The edges of the black vortex continued to expand, stretching toward the neighboring throne. Krai knew he would have to act before that darkness reached the white granite. He could not risk losing this chance.

As he watched the shadows encroach, a frightening sight took shape in the center of the vortex. The griffin began to push out of the whorling eye of the pool, as if it were merging between the two planes.

Krai knew this was a bad sign. The corruption was beginning to wear through the veil between reality and reflection.

He stared, mesmerized, as the griffin grew more solid in form: wings, claws, the bulk of the lion, and jaws that seemed ready to swallow the world.

Krai knew he could wait no longer. “Godspeed, my friends.” He grabbed the steel sword in his bare fingers and slid his hands down the blade, slicing palms and fingers to the bone, wetting the blade with his own blood.

Once done, Krai tilted his hands up and allowed his royal blood to pool in his palms. As he did so, he watched the griffin’s wings begin to spread. Centuries ago, Krai’s ancestor, defeated by the Dark Lord’s forces, had not been brave enough to destroy the Citadel. But where his ancestor had faltered, he would not. Ready, Krai slapped his bloody hands on the arms of the throne.

Immediately, the ground trembled. A great quake shook upward, seeming to rise from the throne itself.

Krai held tight to the arms of his throne, bearing final witness to the end of the Citadel.

Off to the side, he noticed the strange change in the griffin, but he was beyond such mysteries any longer and entering a greater one.

He turned his gaze upward, toward the world. “To’ba’tnorisullcoruml” he called to his friends with all the breath in his lungs and closed his eyes at last.

Until the roads wind us bac’t home, you’ll always be in my heart.

Locked within the Southwall, Joach knew he had no other choice. He had to return to the dream desert.

“But Greshym is waiting for you down there,” Sy-wen argued. She stood beside her dragon, one hand touching his scaled flank to keep Ragnar’k from reverting back to Kast. They needed the dragon’s strength if any of the monsters attempted to attack from the tunnels beyond the basilisk’s chamber.

Joach stared at the ebon’stone statue. No longer threatened, the basilisk had grown quiet again, coiled in place on the sand, content with its single meal. Joach turned away as tears threatened to rise. Kesla…

“What do you hope to accomplish?” Sy-wen asked. “You’ve already tried attacking the Weirgate with your dream-sculpted creatures, but they just fell to sand with the basilisk’s touch. What more can you do?”

Joach had indeed thrown all his raw skill and power into sculpting something with which to attack the ebon’stone statue, but his forms were not strong enough. He needed to transform sand into stone—and he knew only one person with enough dark magick to accomplish this.

“I must go to Greshym. He may hold the key to destroying the Weirgate.”

“But he’s a creature of the Dark Lord. How can you trust him?”

“Because I have something he wants.”

“What?”

Joach shook his head. Here was the crux of his own concern. What did the darkmage want with him in the desert? “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “But he’s our only hope.”

“A very dark hope.” Sy-wen sighed. In her eyes, he saw that she grew resigned to his plan. What other choice did they have? The night wore thin, and daybreak was not far off. If they were to save the deserts, the risk had to be taken.

Joach stepped into the open sand. “Keep a watch on the basilisk.

“Be careful,” Sy-wen said. “And wary!”

Joach nodded and slipped a dagger from his belt. He slit his thumb, then held his wounded hand over the sand. Bright red drops fell and spattered into the sand. Joach closed his eyes, linking to the dreaming magick in his blood, and fell back away toward the dream desert.

Be careful… and wary!

He would be both. Joach pulled up short from fully entering the glowing desert of the dream. He hovered in the shadow between the real and the dream, where only true sculptors could walk. He saw Greshym waiting in the sands, his arms crossed, leaning on his staff.

“I see you, boy. Have you come to honor your word?”

“No, the bargaining is not yet finished.”

Greshym unfolded his arms. “What bargaining? You swore an oath.”

“I swore I’d return to the desert, but I didn’t say when.” Greshym’s one good eye narrowed. “It seems I taught you deceit too well.” The darkmage leaned forward. “What do you bargain for now? I’ve watched your little battle with the basilisk. Now you seek more answers? Must I do all your work for you?”

Joach clenched his single fist. “All I ask is that you lend me your staff. Give me access to its dark magick so I might sculpt an arrow strong enough to shatter the basilisk.”

“You want this?” Greshym held up his length of petrified wood.

Joach stared at it, sensing the flow of dark energies. Already attuned to that tempting song, Joach knew the staff was not just dream, but real. Greshym had somehow brought its physical form into the dream desert with him.

“If you want my staff,” Greshym said, stepping away, “you’re going to have to come get it.” Joach had expected nothing less of the darkmage. “And if I do, you’ll allow me to leave with it.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. The staff is yours.”

Sighing, Joach closed his eyes. He knew it was a trap, but he would have to risk it. In his mind’s eye, the length of petrified wood shone as a bright beacon. He must have the staff. Ever since first laying eyes on it, Joach had been fighting his lust for its touch. Now he used that sickness to give him the courage to step through the veil and into the dream desert.

°

Joach shifted and felt sand under his feet. He opened his eyes and stared back at Greshym. “I’m here. I have met my end of the bargain.”

“I hear such anger in your voice, boy. Don’t you trust me?”

“You swore to relinquish the staff.”

“It is yours.” Greshym held up the magickal length of wood. The darkmage’s hoary eyes glinted with amusement and something darker, feral: a black hunger.

Joach knew this was the trap, but he could not help reaching for the staff. His arm rose, and his fingers reached. In his mind, he reconciled the decision as necessity, but in his heart, lusts and anger merged to a burning flame of desire. He had watched Kesla die, her tiny flame of magick swallowed into the bottomless well of the Weir. He would see the basilisk destroyed, no matter the cost!

His fingers wrapped around the petrified wood, and images flashed across his mind: Shaman Parthus grabbing the same staff, Greshym’s form molding to mimic the elder.

Joach felt a jolt through his body. His vision grew dark. He felt the sands swirl around him in a whirling cyclone. His senses spun. Joach fought against a strange pull and dragged his awareness to the forefront.

He and Greshym spun within a sandy cyclone, linked by the length of magickal wood—Greshym at one end, Joach at the other. Flames of darkfire raged along the staff’s length.

As the twister spun faster, the darkmage’s laugh grew stronger. Drawn out by the force of sandy cyclone, Joach felt something vital pull from his body. He gasped. Across the way, the form of Greshym blurred. They spun so fast now that Joach’s image seemed to overlap Greshym’s, the two blending together. As he watched in horror, a savage jolt suddenly ripped through Joach’s body.

He screamed—and it was over.

Joach stood again in the sand, holding the staff in his grip, weak and dizzy.

Greshym stood across from him, but the darkmage had changed. His skin was smooth; his brown eyes were bright and clear; and his hair—a thick, rich copper—trailed to his shoulders. The darkmage straightened, unbending the crook in his spine. A laugh, full of vigor and substance, flowed from him.

“Thank you, Joach.” He released his grip on the petrified wood. “As promised, the staff—and all the magick in it—is yours!”

(.1-1 VT A

“What—?” Joach lifted his prize. The wood was gripped by a hand he did not recognize—a withered and bony thing lined by purplish vessels. He looked down at himself. His legs shook, thin as reeds now.

He planted the staff into the sand to keep from falling over. “What have you done?” His voice cracked.

“A small price to save your world,” Greshym said. “I have not slain you or corrupted you, just stolen your youth!” The darkmage waved a hand, and the mirage of a mirror appeared. Joach found himself staring at a bent-backed elder leaning heavily on a staff, his white hair trailing to his waist, his face wrinkled and splotched. But Joach knew this was no stranger. Green eyes—eyes he knew— stared back at him from the mirror.

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

“No, I’m afraid the shaman was just an ordinary dreamer, dealing with illusion. But you are a sculptor.

Changes wrought with your magick are real. The youth I stole from you is permanent.” Joach sensed the truth to Greshym’s words. He pointed the staff at the darkmage. “Undo it!” Greshym stepped back. He held a hand up, not to ward against Joach’s threat, but to admire the beauty of his own youth. “It’s simply wonderful. Youth, more than gold or power, is the truest treasure in life.” Joach reached for the dark energies in the staff. Though he may have aged, he could still wield magick.

He raised the weapon, but to his horror, he found the wood empty.

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

“You tricked me.”

Greshym waved his hand dismissively. “I played to your own base desires. You didn’t come here to save your world. That was just an excuse. You came because you lusted for the staff and its dark magick.” Joach’s legs trembled. He wanted to rail against Greshym’s words, but he didn’t have the strength to put up a false face. Deep in his heart, Joach knew the darkmage spoke truthfully. He hung his head.

Greshym sighed. “I do feel like I’ve sorely used you. So let me n—— ¦— ¦…‘

grant you this additional boon—for free, from the generosity of my youthful heart.“ Joach glanced up.

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

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

Joach drew himself up on his staff, hope flaring.

“You’re a sculptor. This is the dream desert. Draw this girl back to the sands.” Joach blinked. “I can do that?”

Greshym rolled his eye. “Oh, how I’d love to train you. You’re so unmolded.” He then sighed and spoke more soberly. “Of course you can resurrect her… if you concentrate hard enough.” Joach remembered Shaman Parthus’ warning about the figments of the desert: if you stare too long, they can become real. He faced Greshym. “But how can bringing Kesla back help? She failed last time.”

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

“Wait!”

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

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

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

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

Curse you, Greshym.

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

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

“Sir?” a voice spoke before him.

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

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

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

Her name spoken by a stranger clearly startled her. “Sir, do I know you?” Joach smiled sadly at the wary glint to her eyes. No matter the circumstance, it was wonderful to see her again. He stared and willed all his love toward her.

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

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

“Joach?”

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

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

°:

He opened his eyes, and tears flowed down his face, hot and burning. “Kesla…” She leaned into him, reaching her arms around him, pressing her soft cheek against his. “Oh, Joach, I thought I had lost you!”

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

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

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

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

“Joach… ?”

“Shush, my love. It’s only a dream.”

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

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

Joach, too heavy of heart to stand any longer, sagged to the ground, cradling Kesla’s limp form in his lap.

He brushed back a strand of hair from her face and wept.

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

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

“We must hurry!” Fila said.

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

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

Tol’chuk looked down.

“Elena!” Er’ril called.

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

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

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

He clenched a clawed fist in frustration. He wore the face of the Dark Lord, proof of his cursed lineage.

This thought kept him from being able to think clearly. It blanketed him with a sense of doom. He thrust it back now. He would not accept such a fate.

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

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

“Elena!” Er’ril called.

Tol’chuk turned, knowing all was about to be lost. He gripped the heartstone and stared at the boulder.

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

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

Er’ril glanced over his shoulder.

Tol’chuck lifted the Heart of his people. “It be without magick! The Bane killed it!” Er’ril frowned, wiping his brow.

Tol’chuk rushed forward. “The Land did not curse our people! It gave us the tool to avenge my ancestor’s betrayal!” He recalled the tale of Mad Mimbly, the miner who had first discovered heartstone.

In his ramblings, the d’warf had claimed that only heartstone held the power to defeat the coming darkness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Elena!”

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

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

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

“She’s dead!”

Meric stood at the edge of Tor Amon. He had kept his vigil all night, searching the dark lake for any sign of Krai. Earlier, the snowstorm had blown itself out, except for occasional gusts that carried a few flakes.

But he had refused to leave the lake until dawn. He had to be sure.

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

The fall of the Citadel had been sudden and rapid.

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

JAMES V, I. E M h N S

The others—Mogweed, Nee’lahn, and Tyrus—were hidden in a nearby cave, warming by a strong fire.

Meric glanced over his shoulder and made out the small glow of their hearth. He also noticed the eastern skies had paled, stars vanishing with the approach of dawn.

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

It left little time to mourn lost friends.

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

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

Tyrus stood guard near the entrance. He did not even bother asking if Meric had spotted any sign of Krai. “It was a fool’s errand,” the man had stated earlier. “The mountain man is gone.” Meric could not fault Tyrus’ assessment, but the prince had not shared the cellar under Shadowbrook with the mountain man. Both Krai and Meric had been tortured by the d’warf lord Torwren. Krai had come to rescue Meric, but the mountain man had ended up paying the ultimate price, while Meric had escaped with nothing but burns and bad dreams. Meric owed Krai. Guilt had forced Meric to search for a sign of the man, for some slim chance.

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

Nee’lahn looked with sympathy upon him. “I will write a song of him,” she said softly. “Of his sacrifice.

He’ll live on in my music.”

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

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

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

Mogweed shrugged, staring sullenly into the flame.

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

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

Mogweed was down on his hands and knees.

Meric reached for him. “Mogweed… ?”

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

“Then who—?”

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

Nee’lahn and Tyrus joined him.

“Fardale? How?”

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

“And Mogweed?”

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

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

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

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

Fardale stared at him, clearly not understanding.

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

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

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

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

JOACH STAYED WITH KeSLa’s BODY UNTIL THE SUN ROSE IN THE REAL

world and the dream desert dissolved around him, stealing Kesla from his lap. loach found himself back in the chamber of the basilisk.

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

“Are you all right, Joach?” Sy-wen asked.

“You aged a hundred winters right before our eyes.” Kast stepped aside.

Joach caught his first sight of the basilisk. He frowned. It still bore the same shape: a feathered serpent with the head of some foul carrion bird. But it was no longer sculpted of black ebon’stone. It now glowed with a soft ruby light, reflecting the torchlight.

“Heartstone,” Joach mumbled.

Kast straightened and glanced to the statue. “It happened not long after you aged.” He turned back to Joach. “What happened?”

Joach shook his head. He held an arm up for the Bloodrider’s help in climbing to his old legs. Bones creaked, and flares of pain lanced his joints; but he bit against the pain and stood. He took a step and tripped over something in the sand.

He glanced down.

“What’s that?” Sy-wen asked, and reached for it.

“Don’t!” Joach snapped harshly, frightening her back with his tone. Assisted by Kast, he bent down and retrieved the length of wood. “It’s mine.”

Joach had paid a high price for his prize. He was not about to give it up. He lifted the staff from the sand and leaned on it, not even hearing his own sigh of relief. With care, he hobbled toward the statue.

“Be cautious,” Sy-wen warned.

With his back toward them, Joach lifted a corner of his lip in a silent snarl. His fingers sensed the small amount of dark energy coursing through the wood. Empty before, the petrified wood must have absorbed the power from the black sands after he’d tossed the staff aside. Joach lifted it now and pointed it at the statue.

“Joach!” Sy-wen called with warning.

He ignored her. He reached to the magick in the staff and spoke the spell of balefire, a spell as familiar as his own name. His lips grew n vjr a i ji cold, and the tip of the staff bloomed black. He finished the last words, and a spear of darkness shot out and struck the bright stone, shattering the basilisk and spraying the far wall with thousands of ruby shards.

Joach lowered his staff and leaned on it as he turned.

“What happened to you?” Kast asked again.

Joach simply nodded toward the tunnel leading out of the chamber. “I’m done with deserts.” Atop the palm of the manticore, Er’ril stumbled out of the shards of broken stone and carried Elena free.

Weak with shock, he fell to his knees before the apparition of Fila, holding Elena’s body in his arms.

“She doesn’t breathe,” he struggled out, his throat clamped tight. “I feel no heartbeat.” Fila knelt in front of him. Her hands reached and passed through Elena’s form. “No, Er’ril, she’s still alive, only weakly so. The Weir has touched her and driven her far.” Er’ril sagged with relief. “She’ll live. She’ll recover. The healing properties of the Blood Diary…” Fila frowned and glanced to where the book lay open on the granite arm. “I’m not so sure. This is no bleeding wound or sick bowel. Her injuries go much deeper. Displaced so recently by Cho’s merging, Elena was especially fragile, her ties to herself weak. The Weir may have permanently ripped her from her moorings.”

“Elena’s strong,” Er’ril began. “She’ll fight back.”

“I don’t know if that is something she can do alone.” Fila stared back at him. “There are bonds between you two that go unspoken.”

Er’ril closed his eyes, hiding his shame.

“With her own tethers burst, she needs those bonds now. Your bonds. Something to help her find her way back.”

“I don’t understand.” Er’ril lifted his face.

Fila shook her head. “Men,” she sighed. “You must—”

In a whisk of light, Fila vanished. Er’ril turned to the book. It was still open, but the Void was gone, replaced by plain, blank white pages. He glanced to the sky. The moon had set, ending the book’s magick for this night.

Er’ril was alone with Elena. He swung to Magnam. “Go fetch Mama Freda.” J

The dwarf nodded and dashed away.

Tol’chuk appeared at his shoulder. “The healer will never arrive in time.” The og’re knelt beside Er’ril.

“And what ails her won’t be cured with herbs.”

Er’ril did not answer Tol’chuk. He knew the og’re spoke the truth. He simply nodded and waved the og’re away.

Er’ril bent over her body. There are bonds between you that go un-spo’ten. He touched her face, not caring who saw. Something deep inside him finally broke. The Standish iron in his heart melted, running hot through his blood. He could not hide his feelings any longer. He yielded to his grief. Tears flowed and fell from his cheek to hers. His throat choked as he leaned closer. “If you can hear me, Elena, come to me.”

He bent and allowed his lips to brush against hers. “Hear me; come back to me.” As he hovered over her, he felt the slightest brush of breath flow between her lips, the barest flutter.

She needs those bonds now. Your bonds.

He lifted Elena in his arms, wrapping her tight to him. He hesitated, then pressed his lips to hers. She was so cold, but he did not pull away. He warmed her with his breath, with his touch, with his tears. “Come back to me,” he whispered between their lips.

She hung in darkness, lolling, without a name, without sub-stance. She had no knowledge of a past or a future, just the endless moment of now, hanging in the cold abyss of nothingness.

Then a single word rang through to her. “Elena.”

It held no meaning.

She ignored it.

But soon a wave of warmth wafted through the darkness. And more meaningless words. “Come to me.” She pushed these aside, still far from understanding, and followed the river of warmth. A basic instinct: to warm oneself. She swept along and found the cold fall away from her. It was good.

As she sailed toward this pleasure, additional feelings swelled into existence, substance forming out of darkness. She allowed these new sensations to wrap around her, to become her. She learned she had an outer being, defined spaces—and she was rewarded. Warmth turned to heat, and it pressed against her, bright and hot.

-ro

Witch Gate

In this moment, one word crystallized—not a name, but a word she fought to understand.

Iron.

She wanted more of it. She wrapped it around herself. She pulled it closer and allowed it to move through her. With each touch, she understood more of herself: lips, skin, touch, moisture, breath, heat, and a scent that was musky and familiar.

“Elena.” That word again flowed to her.

She felt her newfound lips moving. “Er’ril…”

The heat around her surged stronger, everywhere, all around her. Encouraged, she repeated the name. It was a name’t “Er’ril…” She wanted to say more but could find no other words. She needed words!

Panic allowed the coldness to seep back in—but then he was there, calling to her, touching her, warming her.

“Elena, come to me.”

“Yes.” She spotted a brightness in the dark abyss and fled toward it. The voice came from there. Er’ril.

She dove into and through the light. Words and memories flooded—too much, too bright, too fast.

Darkness threatened at the corners.

“Elena, come back to me.”

And with a final spasm of light, sound, and memory, she did.

Elena opened her eyes, knowing who she was again. She found herself wrapped in strong arms, being kissed. Startled, she broke away.

Staring up, she found Er’ril, his eyes full of tears and something much deeper. “I love you, Elena,” he said, his voice hushed and pained.

Elena met his eyes and reached a trembling hand to touch her own lips.

The shine in Er’ril’s eyes dimmed. “I… I’m sorry.”

He moved to release her, but she placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned up to him. She kissed the lips that had saved her, tasting the salt of his tears. “No,” she whispered, and melted into him.

He closed his arms around her.

Here was where she belonged.

Elena hurried down the hall, the hem of her green dress sweep-ing through the rushes that lined the castle’s stone floor. She was late. The others should already be gathering in the Grand Courtyard.

She passed a mirror and brought a hand to her hair. After being burned away by Cho’s assault, her fiery curls had grown out to the length of four fingers. But they were still as short as a boy’s. She sighed.

Mama Freda had done her best. Two combs of silver and pearl and her dress’s high neckline detracted from her boyish hair. She looked at least presentable for the ceremony.

At last, she reached the restored glass-and-gilt doors that opened to the courtyard. Two d’warves armed with pikes stood sentry, but upon seeing her, they moved from their positions to open the tall double doors. Elena stared as morning sunlight poured through the panes depicting two roses twined together, the petals of heartstone, the leaves of emerald.

As the doors opened, the Grand Courtyard spread before her in all its spring beauty. While she had been away, the repairs on A’loa Glen’s castle had continued. In the yard, there was little evidence of the recent war.

Beds of roses and snow-white poppies filled the space, while rows of trimmed holly bushes lined paths of crushed white stone. Along the wall, saplings of dogwood were in bloom, their soft petals drifting on gentle sea breezes. Even the walls had been repaired, and veins of green ivy already climbed their surfaces. The only clear sign

CH VJ AT K

of the War of the Isles was the eastern tower called the Broken Spear. Scaffolding and piled bricks encircled its ruins as work continued.

Elena crossed through the doors to the steps. A small group gathered in the central circle of the courtyard. Er’ril noticed her and raised a hand in greeting, but she knew that exasperated set to his lips: she was late for the ceremony.

Hiding her smile, she climbed down the stairs, lifting the skirted edge of her dress, and headed across the crushed stone paths. This was the first time everyone had gathered in one place since Meric’s group had returned from the north. The party that had sought the Griffin Gate was the last to arrive back at A’loa Glen, coming almost two moons after Elena had returned and one moon since Joach had.

But everyone was here… finally.

As Elena crossed toward them, she remembered her own journey back. She had left A’loa Glen in early winter and had returned with the first buds of spring. The return journey had been arduous. With the Manticore Gate destroyed, they had set off overland back to Jer-rick’s skiff. The going was slowed by their injuries and their load of heartstone from the broken Gate. Tol’chuk had insisted they haul it out with them. “Mad Mimbly claimed it could destroy the darkness,” he had said. Elena hadn’t argued. The og’re and his heartstone had saved her.

Still, loaded or not, the true delay in reaching A’loa Glen had proven more ominous. Upon reaching Jerrick’s skiff, it was discovered that the elv’in had a harder time controlling his small boat. They had to make short hops with rest breaks in between, slowing their progress. There was no way they could cross the Great Ocean in such a state, so they worked their way overland to the coastal township of Banal and hired an ordinary ship with a few pieces of heartstone.

At first, Elena had attributed Jerrick’s weakness to his recent poisoning, but upon reaching A’loa Glen, she had learned it was a generalized ailment. A good part of the remaining elv’in fleet now rested atop the sea. And this malaise was not limited to the elv’in. All those with elemental gifts found it harder to touch their inner magick and exhausted more quickly. It seemed that, though the destruction of the three Weirgates had managed to thwart the Dark Lord’s design, damage had still been done. The Land had been weakened by the near-fatal assault, crippling the magickal gifts of all elementals.

JJ1ME! V.L£Mt«S Cjlg

Yet, despite this, one significant gain had been made.

As Elena reached the central circle of the courtyard, she spotted Wennar, outfitted in polished armor, with Magnam at his side. The breaking of the Manticore Gate had freed their people, shattering the Dark Lord’s yoke upon them. Meric had returned with several d’warves in tow. He had met these stragglers on his return journey, and he promised that legions more were already en route to help bolster A’loa Glen.

All in all, it was a bittersweet and costly victory. The Dark Lord had been thwarted, but Chi remained a prisoner, shackled by the last remaining Weirgate. And in addition, many good friends had given their blood to protect the Land: Mycelle, Krai, Richald, Queen Tratal. The list stretched even longer, with losses among the d’warves, the elv’in, and the desert folk.

Then again, it seemed no one who had ventured out on these journeys had returned unscathed. She stared around the circle of friends gathered here.

Meric stood on the far side. His eyes were still haunted, grieving for the loss of his mother and brother.

Each day he sent birds out, seeking some word of what had become of the refugees of his shattered home. But none ever returned. The fate of the denizens of Stormhaven remained unknown.

Beside the elv’in stood Lord Tyrus, dressed in black finery, both prince and pirate. He had offered her his allegiance and had already succeeded in rallying a rather unsavory lot from Port Rawl. The prince refused to return to his empty castle in the Northwall until the Dark Lord was defeated. “The Grim wraiths are gone from the Fell, but Mryl will never truly be secure until the Black Beast is driven from our shores,” he had told Elena.

At the prince’s shoulder, Fardale wore Mogweed’s face. Elena had learned of their strange transformation, two sharing one body. The “pair” made her uncomfortable. She always sensed the extra eyes staring out of the amber glow. Still, they had proven their loyalty. The two were simply wounded like so many others, and Elena would do her best to seek a cure. In turn, they had pledged their shape-shifting talents to her cause.

Crossing the stones, Elena stepped beside Er’ril. The back of her hand brushed his, and their fingers instinctively sought one another, wrapping and twining together. Er’ril squeezed her hand. On the long journey here, they had both decided to take their relationship slowly, one step at a time. They had not shared a be.d, but only tentatively sought to know each other in the quiet hours alone. And for now, that was enough.

“You’re late, wife,” he whispered teasingly.

“And you don’t have layers of petticoats and fancy dress to attend to, husband.” Elena hid her smile while shifting an imaginary lock of hair from her face.

Er’ril nodded to a shaded corner of the courtyard. A figure sat upon a bench staring toward them. “It’s good to see Joach abandon his books and scrolls for a short time.” Elena’s smile dimmed. Of all those who had returned from the various lands of Alasea, Joach was the most changed—not just physically aged, but also harmed in unseen ways. She had heard the tale of Kesla’s death from Sy-wen. Deep inside, her brother’s heart had been wounded past repair. Upon returning, Joach had been clearly happy and relieved to see his sister safe and alive, but otherwise he kept to himself, locked in the castle’s library, reading ancient texts for spells that might cure him. Some nights Elena had spied him in the training yards, practicing some arcane magick.

Er’ril scowled. “I just wish he’d left that cursed staff in his rooms. It shouldn’t be here.” Elena agreed. The sight of it made her stomach churn: its petrified wood was the gray of a corpse, and the tiny green crystals imbedded along its length reminded her of pus from a festering wound. It was a corrupt instrument, and she wished Joach would simply destroy it. But she also understood her brother’s obsession. The staff had stolen his youth, so it might still hold the answer to returning it. Er’ril sighed and returned his attention forward. “The staff, the age-ravaged body, even the stumped wrist—it’s as if he’s becoming the same darkmage he despises.”

Despite the day’s warmth, Elena shivered.

Er’ril glanced to her. “I’m sorry. This is a joyous moment and shouldn’t be marred by such dark thoughts.” He pulled her closer to his side. “Such matters can wait till another day.” She leaned against him. “Where’s Nee’lahn anyway? I thought I was the late one.” Er’ril straightened. “We were waiting on you.” He raised his j L’t M 1*. IN h other arm, signaling Kast, who stood a few paces off with his mate Sy-wen.

The Bloodrider lifted a horn to his lips and blew a single long note. It was a bright and triumphant sound that echoed far out to sea and served to drive away the bit of melancholy from Elena’s heart.

Rising on her toes, Elena craned for a better view as the small western gate of the courtyard swung open.

Tol’chuk stepped forth, leading the diminutive form of Nee’lahn.

The og’re wore a huge grin. It was one of Tol’chuk’s last acts before leaving for his homelands in the mountains. He would be returning the Heart of his people and seeking the counsel of the Triad. There was a mystery yet to be solved: the strange connection between ebon’stone and heartstone. The two crystals—one bright, one dark—had been mined from the same mountain. There was some dark link between the two, and even the spirits of the Blood Diary sensed an answer must be sought out. Tol’chuk hoped his own tribal elders might hold some piece to this ancient puzzle.

But even this mystery could wait. Today, Tol’chuk had been granted the honor to lead Nee’lahn forward, a giant leading a child.

Nee’lahn stepped to the crushed white stones, dressed in flowing silks that seemed to catch the breeze with each step, a petal in the wind.

As Tol’chuk led her, so Nee’lahn led another small figure. Her fingers gripped the hand of a child. The boy appeared no older than three, but Elena knew that the nyphai did not age like humans. When his seed was still attached to his belly, dormant and waiting, he had appeared no more than a babe. But a moon ago, when Nee’lahn had first set foot upon the shores of A’loa Glen, the child had shed his seed.

From that moment on, he had grown rapidly, from babe to toddling child in only a single moon.

Upon landing here, Nee’lahn had taken the dropping of the boy’s seed as a harbinger of hope—and on this spring day, she was responding in kind, taking a chance.

Nee’lahn led the boy to the circle of spectators. Once there, she took her place and guided the boy ahead of her. “Go on, Rodricko. You know what to do.”

He glanced up to the nyphai’s face. His eyes were the same violet as Nee’lahn’s, and his hair the same color of warm honey. “Yes,

Wit’ch G at e

Mama.“ He let go of her hand and ventured out into the center of the circle.

The boy glanced at those gathered around him. .He bit his lower lip, clearly shy of so many faces peering down at him. But he did not falter. He crossed to where stone ended and freshly turned loam began.

Along with the repair of the courtyard, the blasted root of the old koa’kona tree had been dug up from the central yard, and clean soil had been hauled in to fill the space. Nothing had been sown here by the gardeners. It was as if they had innately known that only one thing could be planted in this particular place.

Another koa’kona.

Little Rodricko, named after the caretaker of Nee’lahn’s own tree, stepped from the stone to the soft loam with a large seed clutched in his tiny hand. It was the seed from which he had been born, and now he was returning it to the soil.

He dropped to his knees, put the seed aside, and began to dig a hole. Once it was as deep as his own elbow, he straightened and grabbed up his seed. He glanced over his shoulder to Nee’lahn, who smiled proudly at his efforts. She gave him a small nod.

The child dropped the seed into the hole and slowly pulled hand-fuls of soil over it. Elena heard him sniff and wipe at his eyes. After being joined for so long—boy and seed together—this was certainly a difficult act, a rite of passage for the boy.

Once done, he climbed back to his feet. He stared down at his handiwork.

Nee’lahn coaxed him gently. “Go on, Rodricko. Try.”

The boy turned to his mother, tears glimmering in his eyes.

“Go on, my love.”

He nodded and swung back, lifting a hand over the newly filled hole.

Elena held her breath, as did everyone else. Nee’lahn clutched both her hands to her neck, clearly praying. The original koa’kona had died here, its roots drowned in saltwater when the island sank. Er’ril had warned Nee’lahn that this was not fit ground to plant the first new koa’kona. But Nee’lahn had been sure the boy’s seed-dropping on this shore was a sign. “A male has never been born to my people,” the nyphai had explained. “The boy is special, so certainly his tree must be unique. Maybe it will thrive where another could not.”

The boy continued to stand with his hand over his planted seed. Slowly, a slight greenish glow seemed to flow over the boy, as if the sunlight overhead were filtering through unseen leaves.

Nee’lahn made a small sound—half sob, half sigh of joy.

From the soil between the boy’s toes, a small green shoot wriggled up and climbed into the sunshine. It was bright and healthy and pure.

“It’s rooting,” Er’ril said, turning to her, his eyes huge with amazement.

She reached an arm around his waist and hugged him.

A cheer arose from the others. The little boy turned in a slow circle, a wide smile on his little face.

Nee’lahn rushed forward and scooped him in her arms, kissing his cheek.

Elena watched Nee’lahn with the boy and sank deeper into Er’ril’s arms. She stared at the little green shoot poking from the dark soil. It stood for so much: life from death, a new cycle beginning. Tears rose to her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Er’ril asked.

She could not answer. Her heart was too full. She glanced to the others, wounded but somehow surviving, celebrating. To her, to all of them, the green sprig represented one other thing.

Hope.

And here I’ll end this section of Elena’s tale, on a moment of hope, balanced on the tender leaves of new growth. All that remains is one last chapter, one last battle, one last chance. From here, all that has been hidden will be revealed. Truths will burn, lies will heal, and hearts will be broken upon a single word.

So enjoy this one scintillating moment in time. Savor it like the crystalline drop of the finest wine on the tongue. But know this: nothing lasts forever.

Not wine, not hope, not love… not even a wit’ch.