James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 3

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: James Clemens

Name: Wit’ch War

Series: Banned and the Banished 3

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Wit’ch War

Book 3 of the Banned and the Banished

-James Clemens

FOREWORD TO WITCH WAR

(NOTE: The following is an open letter from Professor J. P. Clemens, the translator of The Banned

and the Banished series)

Dear Students,

As the historian of this textbook, I welcome you back to this series of translated texts and beg a moment of

your time to comment on my work and some of the rumors surrounding it.

As is well known, the original scrolls were lost to antiquity, and only crumbling handwritten copies

discovered over five centuries ago in caves on the Isle of Kell yet remain of this most ancient tale. Because

this language has been dead for over a millennium, hundreds of historians and linguistic experts have

attempted to tackle the reconstruction and translation of these Kelvish Scrolls. Yet under my supervision at

the University of Da‘ Borau, a team of distinguished colleagues finally accomplished the impossible: the

complete and truest translation of the tale of Elena Morin’stal.

In your hands is my life’s work. And I wanted to state that I believe my translations should stand on their

own merits.

Yet, over my objections, my fellow scholar, Jir’rob Sordun, had been assigned to write forewords to the first

two books, to warn readers about the devious nature of the scrolls’ original author.

Now were these doleful warnings truly necessary? As much as I respect Professor Sordun, I believe these

ancient histories of Alasea’s “black age” do not need embellishments or extravagant introductions. Though

this ancient age of our land is cloaked in mystery and muddled by conflicting accounts, any person of sound

mind will know the tales herein are just the twisted fictions of some ancient madman. Do we really need

Sordun to point this out to us? Let’s look to the facts.

What do we truly know of this “black age”? We know Elena was a true historical figure—there are too

many contemporary references to deny this—but her role during the uprising against the Gul’gotha is

obviously a whimsical tale. She was not a wit’ch. She did not have a fist stained with blood magicks. I

wager that some charlatans had painted her hand crimson and propped her up as some anointed savior,

milking the simple village folk of their hard-earned coppers. Among this troupe of tricksters was obviously a

writer of some modest skill who created these wild stories to bolster their fake leader. I imagine he regaled

the farmers with these fabrications, which he passed off as real events—and so the myth of the wit’ch was

forged.

I can picture the gap-toothed farmers staring slack jawed as the story teller related tales of highland og’res,

woodland nymphs, mountain nomads, and silver-haired elv’in. I can imagine their gasps as Elena wielded

her magick of fire and ice. But surely in today’s enlightened Alasean society, there is no need to warn

readers so vocally that such things are fictions.

So with that said, I must make one confession. As I translated these series of scrolls, I began to believe

them just a bit. Who wouldn’t want to believe that a young girl from some remote apple orchard could end

up changing the world? And what she accomplished at the end—what the author claimed occurred—who

wouldn’t want to believe that to be true?

Of course, being a scholar, I know better. Nature is nature, and what the author proposes at the very end of

the scrolls is obviously a falsehood that can only weaken our society. For this reason, I have also come to

accept that my translations should be banned and kept only for the few enlightened, for those who won’t be

duped by its final message.

However, even with these tight restrictions, I’ve begun to hear absurd rumors surrounding the required

fingerprint that binds each text to its reader. It is whispered in certain circles that some readers— those

who have marked each of the five textbooks with their finger-

prints and bound the compiled series in silk ribbon, or so the story goes—have found themselves beguiled by

ancient magicks that have reached out from my translated words. I believe the fault for this ridiculous

notion lies with the university press that produces this series. The requirement to mark each of the five

volumes with the print from a different finger of the right hand only fosters such foolishness. For a publisher

to require such a thing, especially when the story in these books suggests that powerful magick can be

wielded by a wit’ch’s hand, is downright negligent on the part of the publisher.

Though I am flattered at such supposed power behind my work, I can’t help but be shocked and befuddled

by such blatant foolishness.

So perhaps I judge too harshly my illustrious colleague. Maybe it is best after all to warn all potential

readers.

So let me repeat Jir’rob Sordun’s final word of caution as printed in the foreword to the first text:

Remember, at all times,

in your waging hours and in your dreams,

The author is a liar.

Sincerely and humbly,

J. P. Clemens,

Professor of Ancient Histories

Assignation of Responsibility for the third scrott

This copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, alteration, or destruction

will result in severe penalties, as stated in your local ordinances. Any transmission, copying, or

even oral reading in the presence of a nondassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and

placing your fvnger-print, you accept all responsibility and release the university from any

damage it may cause you—or those I aroundyou—by its perusal.

Signature

Date

Place inked print of the middle jmger of your right hand here:

*** WARNING ***

If you should perchance come upon this text outside of proper

university channels, please close this book now and alert the

I proper authorities for safe retrieval. Failure to do so can lead to your

immediate arrest and incarceration.

TOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

WITCH WAR

Heralded by a dragon d roar

an? born in a maebtrom of ice and flame,

this is the way the war began.

Through my open window, I can hear the strum of a lyre’s chords and the tinkle of a minstrel’s voice rising

like steam from the streets below. It is the height of the Midsummer Carnivale here in the city of Gelph. As

the searing heat of the day winds down to the sultry hours of evening, townspeople gather in the square for

the Feast of the Dragon, a time of merriment and rejoicing.

Yet I can’t help but frown at the gaiety of the celebrants. How much the fools have forgotten! Even now

as I sit with pen and paper and prepare once again to continue the wit’ch’s tale, I can hear the screams of

the slaughtered and the blood roar of dragons behind the music and happy voices outside my window.

The true meaning for this celebration has been lost over the ages. The first Midsummer Carnivale was a

somber affair, meant to cheer the few survivors of the War of the Isles, a time for wounds to heal and for

spirits torn by blade and betrayal to be restored. Even the meaning behind the ritual exchange of fake

dragon’s teeth and baubles painted like precious black pearls has been forgotten by the present revelers. It

was once meant to signify the bond between—

Ah… but I get ahead of myself. After so many centuries, with my head so full of memories, I seem

constantly to find myself unhooked from time’s inevitable march. As I sit in this rented room, surrounded by

my parchments and inks, it seems like only yesterday that Elena stood on the bluffs of Blisterberry and

stared out across the twilight sea at her dragon army. Why is it that the older one gets, the more valuable

the past becomes? What once I fled from is now

what I dream about. Is this the true curse that the wit’ch has set upon my soul? To live forever, yet to

forever dream of the past?

As I pick up my pen and dip it in the ink, I pray her final promise to me holds true. Let me finally die with

the telling of her tale.

Though the day’s heat still hides in my room as the evening cools, I close my window and my heart against

the songs and merrymaking below. I cannot tell a tale of bloodshed and treachery while listening to the gay

strains of the minstrels’ instruments and the raucous laughter of the Carnivale’s celebrants. This part of the

story of Elena Morin’stal is best written with a cold heart.

So as the Feast of the Dragon begins outside among the streets of Gelph, I ask that you listen deeper. Can

you hear another sort of music? As in many grand symphonies, the opening soft chords are often forgotten

in the blare of the horn and the strike of the drum that follow; yet this forgetfulness does insult to the

composer, for it is in these calm moments that the stage is set for the storm to come.

So listen and bend your ear—not to the lyre or the drums outside my window—but to the quieter music

found in the beat of a morning surf as the tide recedes with the dawn’s first light. There lies the beginning

of the grand song I mean to sing.

With only the crash of waves for company, Elena stood by the cliffs edge and stared out across the blue seas.

At the horizon, the sun was just dawning, crowning the distant islands of the Archipelago with rosy halos

of mist. Closer to the coast, a single-masted fishing trawler fought the tide to ply its trade among the many

isles and reefs. Over its sails, gulls and terns argued while hunting the same generous waters. Nearer still,

at the base of the steep bluff, the rocky shore was already occupied by the lounging bodies of camping

sea lions. The scolding barks of mothers to their pups and the occasional huffing roar of a territorial bull

echoed up to her.

Sighing, Elena turned her back on the sight. Since the seadragons of the mer’ai had left fifteen days ago,

the routines of the coastline were already returning to normal. Such was the resiliency of nature.

As if to remind her further of the natural world’s strength, a stiff morning breeze tugged at her hair,

blowing it into her eyes. Irritated, she pushed back the waving strands with gloved fingers and attempted

to trap the stray locks behind her ears, but the winds fought her efforts. It had been over two moons

since Er’ril had last cropped her hair, and the length had grown to be a nuisance—too short to fix with

ribbons and pins, yet too long to easily manage, especially with her hair beginning to show its curl again.

Still, she kept her complaints to herself, fearing Er’ril might take the shears to her once again.

She frowned at the thought. She was tired of looking like a boy.

Though she had readily accepted the necessity of the disguise

while traveling the lands of Alasea, out here in the lonely wilds of the Blisterberry bluffs, there were no

eyes to spy upon her and no need to continue the ruse as Er’ril’s son—or so she kept telling herself. Yet

she was not so sure her guardian held these same assumptions.

As a caution, Elena had gone to wearing caps and hats when around Er’ril, hoping he wouldn’t notice the

growing length of her locks or the fading black dye that had camouflaged her hair. The deep fire of her

natural color was finally beginning to reappear at the roots.

She pulled out her cap from her belt and corralled her hair under it before hiking back up the coastal trail to

the cottage. Why the appearance of her hair should matter so much to her she could not put into words. It

was not mere vanity, though she could not deny that a pinch of pride did play a small role in her subterfuge

with Er’ril. She was a young woman, after all, and why wouldn’t she balk at appearing as a boy?

But there was more to it than that. And the true reason was marching down the path toward her with a

deep frown. Dressed in a wool sweater against the morning’s chill, her brother wore his fiery red hair

pulled back from his face with a black leather strap. Reminded of her family by Joach’s presence, Elena

was ashamed to hide her own heritage under dyes any longer. It was like denying her own parents.

As Joach closed the distance between them, Elena recognized the character of the young man’s

exasperated grimace and his pained green eyes. She had seen it often enough on her father’s face.

“Aunt My has been looking all over for you,” he said as greeting. “My lessons!” Elena darted forward,

closing the distance with her brother. “I’d almost forgotten.”

“Almost?” he teased as she joined him.

She scowled at her brother but could not argue against his accusation. In fact, she had completely forgotten

about this morning’s lesson. It was to be her last instruction on the art of swordplay before Aunt Mycelle

left for Port Rawl to rendezvous with the other half of their party. Krai, Tol’chuk, Mogweed, and Meric

were due to meet with Mycelle there in two days’ time. Elena wondered for the hundredth time how they

had fared in Shadowbrook. She prayed they were all well.

j’ts she and her brother marched back up the trail toward the cot-2e Joach mumbled, “El, your head’s

always in the clouds.” She turned in irritation, then saw her brother’s quirked smile. Those were the same

words her father had used so often to scold Flena when time had slipped away from her. She took her

brother’s hand in her own. Here was all that was left of her family now.

Joach squeezed her gloved hand, and they walked in silence through the fringe forest of wind-whipped

cypress and pine. As Flint’s cottage appeared on the bluffs ahead, Joach cleared his throat. “El, there’s

something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Hmm?”

“When you go to the island…” he started.

Elena inwardly groaned. She did not want to think of the last leg of their journey to retrieve the Blood Diary

from the island of A’loa Glen—especially given Joach’s own accounting of the horrors that lay in wait.

“I’d like to go back with you. To the island.” Elena stumbled a step. “You know that’s not possible. You

heard Er’ril’s plan, Joach.”

“Yes, but a word from you—”

“No,” she said. “There’s no reason for you to go.” With a touch on her arm, Joach pulled her to a stop. “El,

I know you want to keep me from further danger, but I have to go back.”

Shaking free of his hand, she stared him in the eye. “Why? Why do you think you need to go? To protect

me?”

“No, I’m no fool.” Joach stared at his feet. He still would not meet her gaze. “But I had a dream,” he

whispered. “A dream that has repeated twice over the past half moon since you arrived from the swamps.”

She stared at her brother. “You think it’s one of your weavings?”

“I think so.” He finally raised his eyes to hers, a slight blush on his cheeks. Joach had discovered he shared

their family’s heritage of elemental magicks. His skill was dreamweaving, a lost art preserved by only a

select few of the Brotherhood. It was the ability to glimpse snatches of future events in the dream plane.

Brother Flint and Brother Moris had been working with Joach on testing the level of his magick. Joach

nodded toward the cottage ahead. “I haven’t told anyone else.”

“Maybe it’s just an ordinary dream,” Elena offered. But the part of

her that was a wit’ch stirred with her brother’s words. Magic’t. Even the mere mention of it fired her

blood. With both her fists fresh to the Rose, the magick all but sang in her heart. Swallowing hard, she

closed her spirit against the call of the wit’ch. “What made you think it was a weaving?”

Joach scrunched up his face. “I… I get this feeling when I’m in a weaving. It’s like a thrill in my veins, like

my very being is afire with an inner storm. I felt it during this dream.”

An inner storm, Elena thought. She knew that sensation when she touched her own wild magick—a raging

tempest trapped in her heart screaming with pent-up energy. She found her two hands wringing together

with just the remembrance of past flows of raw magick. She forced her hands apart. “Tell me about your

dream.” Joach bit his lower lip, suddenly reluctant. “Go on,” Elena persisted.

His voice lowered. “I saw you at the top of a tall spire in A’loa Glen. A black winged beast circled the

parapets nearby—”

“Black winged? Was it the dragon Ragnar’k?” Elena asked, naming the ebony-scaled seadragon who

shared flesh with the Blood-rider, Kast, and who was blood-bonded to the mer woman, Sy-wen. Joach’s

fingers wandered to an ivory dragon’s tooth that hung from a cord around his neck; it had been a gift from

Sy-wen. “No, this was no dragon.” His hands fought to describe the figure, but he gave up with an

exasperated shrug of his shoulders. “It was something more shadow than flesh. But that’s not the important

part of the dream. You see…” His voice died, and his eyes drifted away to stare out at the ocean. Her

brother was hiding something from her, something that scared him deeply.

Elena licked her dry lips, suddenly wondering if she truly wanted to know the answer. “What is it, Joach?”

“You were not alone on the tower.”

“Who else was there?”

He turned back to her. “I was. I stood beside you bearing the poi‘-wood staff I stole from the darkmage.

When the creature dove toward us, I raised the staff and smote the creature from the sky with a spellcast

bolt.”

“Well, that proves it was only a nightmare. You’re no practitioner of the black arts. You’re just dreaming

that I need your protection. It’s

hably worry and fear that ‘thrilled’ your blood in the dream, not

Saving magicks.“

prowning, Joach shook his head. “Truthfully, after the first dream, posed the same. Papa’s last words to me

were to protect you,

i tnat has weighed heavily on my heart ever since. But when the , m came to me again, I was no longer so

sure. After the second dream yesterday, I crept out at midnight—out here alone—and I… T sooke the spell

from the dream while holding the staff.“

Elena had a sick feeling in the root of her stomach. “Joach… ?”

He pointed behind her. Elena turned. Only a handful of steps away stood a lightning-split pine, its bark

charred and its limbs cracked. “The spell from my dream worked.”

Elena stared with her eyes wide, suddenly weak in her legs, not just from the thought that Joach’s dream

might be real, but also from the fact that Joach had called forth black magicks. She shivered. “We must tell

the others,” she said in hushed tones. “Er’ril must be warned

of this.“

“No,” he said. “There’s still more. It’s the reason I’ve kept silent

until now.“

“What?”

“In my dream, after I smote the beast from the sky, Er’ril appeared from the depths of the tower, sword in

hand. He ran at us, and I swung the staff toward him and… and I killed him, like the beast, in a blaze of

darkfire.”

“Joach!”

Her brother could not be interrupted; the words tumbled from his mouth in a rush. “In the dream, I knew he

meant you harm. There was murder in his eyes. I had no choice.” Joach turned pained eyes toward her. “If

I don’t go with you, Er’ril will kill you. I know it!”

Elena swung away from Joach’s impossible words. Er’ril would never harm her. He had protected her

across all the lands of Alasea. Joach had to be wrong. Still, she found her eyes staring at the charred ruin of

the nearby pine. Joach’s black spell—a spell he learned in a

dream—had worked.

Her brother spoke behind her. “Keep what I’ve told you secret,

Elena. Do not trust Er’ril.“

Not far away, Er’ril woke with a start from his own trouble^ dreams. Nightmares of poisonous spiders and dead

children chased him from his slumber. They left him restless and sore of muscle, as if he had held himself

clenched all night long. He tossed aside the blanket and carefully eased himself from the goose-down bed.

Naked chested, dressed only in his linen underclothes, he shivered in the chill of the early morning coast.

Summer waned toward autumn, and though the days still warmed to a moist heat, the mornings already

whispered of the cold moons ahead. Barefooted, Er’ril crossed the slate floor to the washbasin and the

small silvered mirror hanging on the wall behind it. He splashed cool water on his face as if to wash away

the cobwebs of the night’s dreams.

He had lived so many winters that his nights were always crowded with memories demanding his attention.

Straightening up, he stared at the black-stubbled planes that were his Standi heritage. His gray eyes stared

back at him from a face he no longer knew. How could such a young face hide so completely the old man

inside?

He ran his one hand over the boyish features. Though he looked outwardly the same, he often wondered if

his own long-dead father would recognize the man in the mirror now. The five centuries of winters had

marked him in ways other than the usual graying hair or wrinkled skin. He let his fingers drift over the

smooth scar on his empty shoulder. No… time marked men in many ways.

Suddenly a voice rose from the corner of the room. “If you’re done admiring yourself, Er’ril, maybe we can

get this day started.”

Er’ril knew the voice and did not startle. He merely turned and stepped to the chamber pail. He ignored the

grizzled gray man seated in the thick pillowed chair in the shadowed corner. While relieving himself of his

morning’s water, Er’ril spoke. “Flint, if you’d wanted me up earlier, you had merely to wake me.”

“From the grumbling and thrashing as you slept, I figured it best to let you work out whatever troubled your

slumber without interruption.”

“Then you had best let me sleep another decade or two,” he answered sourly.

“Yes, yes. Poor Er’ril, the wandering knight. The eternal warden of A’loa Glen.” Flint nodded toward his

old legs. “Let your joints grow as hoary as mine, and we’ll see who complains the louder.”

p ‘ril made a scoffing sound at his words. Even without magick, had eroded little of that older Brother’s

strength of limb; in-i pint’s many winters spent on the sea had hardened his frame , storm-swept oak. “The

day you slow down, old man, is the I will hang up my own sword.”

“W ll h b

y I will hang up my own sword.

Flint sighed. “We all have our burdens to haul, Er’ril. So if you’re i ne feeling miserable, the morning is half

over, and we still have the Seastvift to outfit for the coming voyage.”

“I’m well aware of the day’s schedule,” Er’ril said bitingly as he dressed. His night’s disturbed rest had left

him short-tempered, and Flint’s tongue was rubbing him especially raw this morning.

The Brother sensed Er’ril’s irritation and softened his tone. “I know you’ve borne a lot, Er’ril, what with

hauling that lass across all the lands of Alasea while pursued by the hunters of the Gul’gotha. But if we are

to ever free ourselves of that bastard’s yoke, we cannot let our own despair weigh down our spirits. On the

path ahead, the Dark Lord will give us plenty to plague our hearts, without the need to look to the past for

more.”

Er’ril nodded his assent. He clapped the old man on the shoulder as he passed to the oak wardrobe in the

corner. “How did you grow so wise among these pirates and cutthroats of the Archipelago, old

man?“

Flint grinned, fingering his silver earring. “Among pirates and

cutthroats, only the wise reach a ripe ol‘ age.“

Retrieving his clothes, Er’ril pulled on his pants and began working his shirt over his head. With only one

arm, the chore of dressing was always a struggle. After so many centuries, time had not made some things

easier. Finally, red faced, he accomplished his task and tucked his shirt in place. “Any word from Sy-wen?”

he finally said, searching for his boots. “No, not yet.”

Er’ril raised his eyes at the worried tone in the old Brother’s voice. Flint had grown protective of the small

mer’ai girl since plucking her from the sea. Sy-wen, along with the mer’ai army, had been sent to the

oceans south of the Blasted Shoals in search of the Dre’rendi fleet. Also named “Bloodriders,” the

Dre’rendi fleet were the crudest of the dreaded Shoal’s pirates. But old oaths bound the mer’ai and the

Dre’rendi, and Flint hoped to gain the Bloodriders’ aid in the war to come.

Flint continued. “All I hear from my spies upon the seas is foul rn_ mors of A’loa Glen. Perpetual black

clouds cloak the island, sudden vicious squalls beat back boats, storm winds scream with the cries of

tortured souls. Even farther out from the island now, trawlin» nets are pulling up strange pale creatures

never seen before, beasts of twisted shapes and poisoned spines. Others whisper of flocks of winged

demons seen far overhead—”

“SkaPtum,” Er’ril spat, his voice strained with tension as he picked up one of his leather boots. “My brother

gathers an army of dreadlords to him.”

Flint leaned forward and patted the plainsman’s knee as Er’ril sat down on the bed. “That creature

masquerading as the Praetor of A’loa Glen is not your brother any longer, Er’ril. It is only a cruel illusion.

Put such thoughts aside.”

Er’ril could not. He pictured the night five centuries ago when the Blood Diary had been bound in magick.

That night, all that was just and noble in his brother Shorkan and the mage Greshym had gone into forging

the cursed tome. But all that remained of the two—the corrupt and foul dregs of spirit—had been given to

the Black Heart, to use as pawns in the Dark Lord’s dire plans. Er’ril’s jaws clenched. Someday he would

destroy the foulness that walked in the shape of his beloved brother.

Flint cleared his throat, drawing Er’ril back to the present. “But that is not all I have heard. Word from

down the coast reached me this morning by pigeon. It’s why I came to fetch you from your bed.”

“What is it?” Er’ril worked his boots on, his brow dark. “More dire news, I’m afraid. Yesterday, a small

fleet of hunting boats put in at Port Rawl, but the fishermen on board had been corrupted. The men were

like wild dogs, attacking townsfolk, biting, slashing, raping. It took the entire garrison to fend them off.

Though most of the berserkers were killed, one of the cursed ships managed to break anchor and escape,

carrying off several women and a few children.”

Er’ril laced his boots, his voice strained. “Black magick. Perhaps a spell of influence. I’ve seen its like

before… long ago.”

“No, I know the magick you speak of. What was done to these fishermen was worse than a simple spell.

Ordinary wounds would not kill these berserkers. Only decapitation would end their blood lust.”

gr’ril glanced up, his eyes hooded with concern. “A healer examined the slain and discovered a thumb-sized

hole bored into the base of each skull. Cracking the skulls open revealed a SITiall tentacled creature curled

inside. A few of the beasts were still alive* squirming and writhing. After that horrible discovery, the

carcasses of the dead were immediately burned on the stone docks.”

“Sweet Mother,” Er’ril said sullenly, “how many new horrors can the Black Heart birth?”

Flint shrugged. “The entire town reeks of charred flesh. It has the townsfolk edgy and jumping at shadows.

And in a town as rough as Port Rawl, that’s a dangerous mix. Mycelle’s journey there to search for your

friends will be fraught with risk.”

Er’ril worked silently as he finished tying his boots. He pondered the news, then spoke. “Mycelle knows

how to take care of herself. But this news makes me worry if perhaps we shouldn’t set sail on the Seaswift

earlier than planned.” He straightened to meet Flint’s eyes. “If the evil of A’loa Glen has reached all the

way to the coast, perhaps it’s best to leave now.”

“I’ve had similar thoughts. But if you want your friends to rejoin you, I see us leaving no earlier than the

new moon. Besides, it’ll take at least until then to man and outfit the Seaswift, and who can say if the seas

will be any safer than where we are right now?”

Er’ril stood up. “Still I don’t like just sitting here idle, waiting for the Dark Lord to reach out for us.”

Flint held up a hand. “But if we rush, we may find ourselves placing Elena right into his foul grip. I say we

stick to our plan. Sail at the new moon, and rendezvous with the mer’ai army in the Doldrums at the

appointed day. With the growing menace at A’loa Glen, we must give Sy-wen and Kast time to reach the

Dre’rendi fleet and see if their old oaths will be honored. We need their strength.” Er’ril shook his head.

“There is no honor among those pirates.” Flint scowled. “Kast is a Bloodrider. Though he now shares his

spirit with the dragon Ragnar’k, he was always a man of honor, and his people, worn hard by storms and

bloodshed, know the importance of duty and ancient debts.”

Er’ril still doubted the wisdom of the plan. “It’s like putting a wolf at our back when facing the Dark Lord’s

army.”

“Perhaps. But if we’re to succeed, any teeth that can rip into the flank of our enemy should be welcome.”

Er’ril sighed and combed his stubborn hair into order with his fingers. “Fine. We’ll give Sy-wen and Kast

until the new moon. But whether we hear word from them or not, we sail.”

Flint nodded and stood. With the matter decided, he fished his pipe from a pocket. “Enough talk,” he

grumbled. “Let’s find a hot taper and welcome the morning with a bit of smoke.”

“Ah, once again proof of your wisdom,” Er’ril said. A smoke sounded like a perfect way to set aside the

foul start of the morning. He followed willingly after the grizzled Brother.

Once they reached the kitchen, Er’ril heard a familiar scolding voice echo through the open window next to

the cooking hearth. The shouted complaints were accompanied by the occasional clash of steel. Apparently,

the swordswoman, Mycelle, was finding her pupil’s last lesson to be less than exemplary.

It seemed everyone was having a sour morning.

Mycelle batted Elena’s short sword aside. Then with the flick of a wrist, she sent her pupil’s blade flying

through the air. Stunned, Elena watched the small blade flip end over end across the yard. The move was

so swift that Elena’s gloved hand was still aloft as if bearing her sword. Elena slowly lowered her arm, her

cheeks red.

The swordswoman gave her pupil a sorrowful shake of her head, fists resting on her hips. Mycelle stood as

tall as most men and as broad of shoulder. Her coarse blond hair hung in a thick braid to her waist. Dressed

in leathers and steel, she was a formidable swordswoman. “Fetch your sword, child.”

“Sorry, Aunt My,” Elena said, chagrined. Mycelle was not truly Elena’s blood relative, but the woman had

been as much a part of her life as any real relations. The woman’s true bloodlines traced back to the

shape-shifters of the Western Reaches, the si’lura. But Mycelle had given up her birthright long ago when

fate and circumstance had convinced her to “settle” into human form, abandoning forever her ability to

shift.

“Where’s your mind at this morning, girl?”

Elena hurried over to her vagrant sword and grabbed its hilt. She knew the answer to her aunt’s

exasperated question. Her mind was still on Joach’s earlier words, not on the dance of blades. Returning to

her position, Elena held the sword at ready.

“We’ll try the Scarecrow’s Feint again. It’s a simple move, but when mastered, it’s one of the most

effective methods to lure an opponent to drop his guard.”

Nodding, Elena tried to push back the nagging doubts that Joach had raised in her mind—but she failed. She

could not imagine Er’ril ever betraying her. The Standi plainsman had been steadfast in his loyalty to both

Elena and the quest. They had shared many a long afternoon together, heads bowed in study, as she

learned simple manipulations of her power. But beyond their words and lessons, there was a deeper bond

unspoken between them. Through sidelong glances, she occasionally caught the trace of a proud smile on

his usually dour features as she concentrated on some aspect of her arcane arts. And other times, though

his lips were frowning at some mistake of hers, she spied an amused glint in his gray eyes. Though he was

a complex man, Elena suspected she knew his heart. He was a true knight in spirit as well as word. He

would never betray her.

Suddenly Elena’s fingers stung with fire, and she found herself again staring at an empty glove.

“Child,” her aunt said in a tone that bordered on fury, “if your attention is not on this lesson, I could be

saddling my mount for the journey to Port Rawl.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt My.” She crossed once again to her fallen sword. “Magick is unpredictable, Elena, but a

well-oiled sword will never lose its edge when you need it. Remember that. You must become proficient at

both. Once skilled in magick and sword, you will be a two-edged weapon. Harder to stop, harder to kill.

Remember, child, where magick fails, a sword prevails.”

“Yes, Aunt My,” Elena said dutifully. She had heard it all before. She raised the sword and cast aside any

further doubts about Er’ril.

Mycelle approached across the packed dirt of the yard, feet poised, sword balanced easily in her left hand.

Her aunt’s other sword was still sheathed in one of the crossed scabbards on her back. When armed with

both her twin swords, Mycelle was a demon of steel and

muscle.

James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 3 - Witch War

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