James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 4

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DO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICAL

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Book Information:

Genre: Epic Fantasy

Author: James Clemens

Name: Wit’ch Gate

Series: Banned and the Banished 4

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Wit’ch Gate

Book 4 of the Banned and the Banished

-James Clemens

FOREWORD TO WITCH GATE

Proctor Serwa Deia, Chairman and President of University Press

Treach.er.y, trech‘ 3.re, n. (i) breach of allegiance, faith, or confidence (2) an act against the

Commonwealth (3) disparagement of the Law by word or print (synonyms: betrayal, knavery,

double-cross, villainy, treason, Scroll-kissed)

—Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth Edition

Read again the definition above; then look around the class-room, a chamber once filled with

bright-eyed, eager scholars. How many students still remain after the study of the first three Kelvish

Scrolls?

See the empty seats.

By this point, statistically, two-thirds of each year’s students fail to pass the rigorous psychological

examinations following their study of the Scrolls. As you know, those who were found wanting were

shipped to the sanitariums of Da Borau, where they await the painful surgeries to dull their minds and

remove their tongues. But I am not here to speak of the fallen ones, those slack-jawed unfortunates

dubbed the “Scroll-kissed.” Instead, I write this foreword for those of you who have successfully passed

these tests and have been deemed of sufficient constitution to read and study the fourth of these banned

texts.

This warning is for you.

In the past, many students have grown haughty after succeeding this far in their course of study, but now

is not the time to lift toasts to one another—for ahead lie pitfalls that may yet capture the unwary. Herein

lies the path to treachery.

The forewords to the other texts admonished you about the nefarious nature of the Scrolls’ author,

declaring the madman of Kell to be a liar and a deceiver—a snake in the grass, if you will. Now it is my

turn to expand upon the dangers that yet await you.

In the past years of study, you have experienced the hiss of the snake. You have carried the beast in your

hands, in your school bags. You have fallen asleep with it at your bedside. But do not be lulled by its

pleasant caress or its pleasing colors. They mask the hidden poison of the beast.

Only now, while you are dulled to the danger, will the snake begin to show its true demeanor. In this

book, while you look elsewhere, the snake will raise up and strike! That is what I’ve come to warn you:

This book has fangs.

So beware its bite!

Even as I write these words, I can hear the whispered scoffing. Do you doubt me? Look around your

hall once again. Not at each other, but at the empty seats. Already the Scrolls have claimed many of your

fellow classmates.

In this fourth volume, the author will continue his assault upon your sanity, to try to win you to his will, to

spread his poison throughout your body. But I hope to give you the antidote to this toxin.

A cure in two simple words: knowledge and guidance.

To attempt to read these cursed scrolls on your own would be like pressing a viper to your breast,

inviting death. Scholars of the past have devised this course of study to keep the poison from your minds,

so be mindful of your lessons.

It is imperative that you listen to your instructors. Obey their every order, complete every assignment,

and most important of all, do not read ahead on your own. Therein lies your only hope. Even a single

page could corrupt the ill-prepared. So do not stray from the path of instruction, a track well-worn by

the heels of previous scholars. Without this guidance, you would surely be lost among the weeds and tall

grasses—where the snakes are waiting.

So be forewarned one last time: There is poison in these pages.

Poi.son, poi‘ zon, n. v. (i) a substance that taints, corrupts, or destroys (2) the act of administering a

toxin, venom, or deadly draught (3) to alter one’s perception of right and wrong (i.e., “to poison

another’s mind”), (synonyms: corruption,perversion, venom, bane, miasma, contagion, disease)

—Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth Edition

Assignation of Responsibility for the Fourth Book

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 nonclassmate is strictly forbidden. By signing below and

placing your fingerprint; you accept aft responsibility and release the university from any damage

the text may cause you (or ‘t those aroundyou) by its perusal.

Signature

Date

Place inked print of the fourth finger 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

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

your immediate arrest and incarceration.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

WITCH GATE

Sung in ice but born in thunder, So the Land wad torn asunder.

I FIND MYSELF GROWING RESTLESS AGAIN. LATELY, THE WIT’cH HAS BEEN

calling to me in my dreams to complete her tale; she whispers in my ear as I walk about the city. At

times, I swear I feel her breath on my skin, like the itch of a rash. Nowadays, as I go about my errands, I

hardly see the streets and avenues of my home. I picture other places, other sights: the sun-seared ruins

of Tular, the broken granite shield of the Northwall. I find myself living in the shadowy half-world

between past and present.

I’ve begun to wonder: If I write again, will I be forever lost in the past? Will this land constructed of

letters and ink become more real than the air I breathe? Will I become mired in memories, doomed for

eternity to relive old terrors and rare triumphs?

Though I know the risk must be taken, I find I cannot write. I know it is the only way to lift her curse of

immortality. Only by completing her tale will I finally be allowed the balm of death. Yet, in the past

moons, I’ve begun to doubt her promise. What if her ancient words were a trick, a final act of malice on

the part of the wit’ch?

So for too long a time, I have sat frozen, hovering between terror and salvation.

That is, until this morning—when she sent me a sign!

As I woke with the crowing of a cock and splashed cold water on my face, I discovered a miracle in the

mirror above my washstand. Nestled within my dark locks rested a single gray hair. My heart clenched at

the sight; tears blurred the miracle. As the morning’s fog melted in the rays of the rising sun, I refused to

move. I dared not

Wit ch (jate even finger that single strand, afraid it might be an illusion. I could not face such cruelty. Not

now, not after so long.

In that moment, I felt something long dead in my heart spring to life—hopel

I fell to the floor, knees too weak to hold me up any longer. I sobbed for what seemed like days. It was

a sign, a harbinger of old age, a promise of death.

Once I regained control of my limbs, I rose and touched the strand of gray. It was real! The wit’ch had

not lied.

This realization shattered the impasse. Without eating, I gathered the tools of my craft—pen and

scroll—and set to work. I must finish her tale.

Outside, the winter days have grown muted, as if all color has been bled from the world. People huddle

down drab streets, wrapped from head to toe in the browns and grays of heavy woolens. Beyond the

city walls, the snowy hills are stained with ash and soot from the hundred smoking chimneys of Kell. It is

a landscape done in shades of gray and black. Even the skies overhead are cloaked by flat, featureless

clouds—a massive blank slate.

Midwinter.

It is a storyteller’s season, a bare canvas that awaits the stroke of a pen to bring life and substance back

into the world. It is a time when folks crowd around hearths, awaiting tales full of brightness and sharp

colors. It is the season when inns fill up, and minstrels sing bawdy stories of other lands, of fire and

sunlight. In other seasons, stories are bought with coppers—but not in winter. In this season of dull skies

and somber hearts, even a poor storyteller could find his pot blessed with silver and gold. Such is the

hunger for tales in winter.

But, of course, with this tale, I seek not gold, but something more valuable, something all men are granted

at birth but that was stolen from me by a wit’ch. I seek only death.

So as the world huddles in the quiet of a winter’s cloak, I once again begin Elena’s tale. I ask you to

close your eyes and listen. Beyond this season of whispers, angry voices are raised. Can you hear them?

Men using words like swords, hacking and parrying one another… And there sits one lone woman,

caught in the midst of their fury.

I

Elena found her throne an uncomfortable seat. It was a chair meant for someone harder and more

age-worn than she. Its high, straight back was carved in twining roses, the thorns of which could be felt

through her silk robe and dress. Even its seat was flat and unforgiving, polished ironwood with no pillow

to soften its hard surface. For ages past, it had been the seat of power for A’loa Glen. Both kings and

praetors had sat here in judgment, sea-hardened men who scowled at the comforts of life.

Even its size was intimidating. Elena felt like a child in the wide and tall chair. There were not even

armrests. Elena did not know what to do with her hands, so she ended up simply folding them in her lap.

One step below her, though it might have been a league away for as much as they paid her any attention,

was a long table crowded with representatives from every faction willing to fight the Gul‘-gotha. Elena

knew what the majority here in the Great Hall thought of her. All they saw was a slim woman with pale

skin and fiery hair. None noticed the pain in her eyes, nor the fearful knowledge of her own dread power.

To them, she was a pretty bird on a perch.

Elena brushed aside a strand of hair from her face.

All along the length, voices cried to be heard in languages both familiar and strange. Two men on the far

end were close to coming to blows.

Among the throng, there were those Elena knew well, those who

*_ n vj /‘t had helped wrest the island of A’loa Glen from the evil rooted here. The high keel of the

Dre’rendi Fleet, still bearing his bandages from the recent war, bellowed his demands. Beside him, the

elv’in queen, Meric’s mother, sat stiffly, her long silver locks reflecting the torches’ radiance, a figure of

ice and fire. At her elbow, Master Edyll, an elder of the sea-dwelling mer’ai, tried continually to force

peace and decorum amid the frequently raucous discourse.

But for every familiar face, there were scores of others Elena knew only by title. She glanced down the

long table of strangers— countless figureheads and foreign representatives, all demanding to be heard, all

claiming to know what was best for the war to come with the Gul’gotha.

Some argued for scorching the island and leaving for the coast; others wanted to fortify the island and let

the Dark Lord destroy his armies on their walls; and still others wanted to take the fight to Blackhall itself,

to take advantage of the victory here and destroy the Gul’gothal stronghold before the enemy could

regather its scattered forces. The heated arguments and fervid debates had waged now for close to a

moon.

Elena glanced sidelong to Er’ril. Her sworn liegeman stood to the right of her seat, arms crossed, face a

stern, unreadable mask. He was a carved statue of Standish iron. His black hair had been oiled and

slicked back as was custom along the coast. His wintry eyes, the gray of early morning, studied the table.

None could guess his thoughts. He had not added one word to the countless debates.

But Elena noticed the tightness at the corners of his eyes as he stared. He could not fool her. He was

growing as irritated as she at the bickering around the table. In over a fortnight, nothing had been

decided. Since the victory of A’loa Glen, no consensus had been reached on the next step. While they

argued, the days disappeared, one after the other. And still Er’ril waited, a knight at her side. With the

Blood Diary in her hands, he had no other position. His role as leader and guide had ended.

Elena sighed softly and glanced to her gloved hands. The victory celebration a moon ago now seemed

like another time, another place. Yet as she sat upon her thorny throne, she remembered that long dance

with Er’ril atop her tower. She remembered his touch, the warmth of his palm through her silk dress, the

whisper of his breath, the scuff of beard on her cheek. But that had been their only dance. From that

night onward, though Er’ril had never been far from her side, they had scarcely shared a word. Just

endless meetings from sunrise till sundown. But no longer!

Slowly, as the others argued, Elena peeled back her lambskin gloves. Fresh and untouched, the marks of

the Rose were as rich as spilt blood upon her hands: one birthed in moonlight, one born in sunlight.

Wit’chfire and coldfire—and between them lay stormfire. She stared at her hands. Eddies of power

swirled in whorls of ruby hues across her fingers and palm.

“Elena?” Er’ril stirred by her side. He leaned close to her, his eyes on her hands. “What are you doing?”

“I tire of these arguments.” From a filigreed sheath in the sash of her evergreen dress, she slipped free a

silver-bladed dagger. The ebony hilt, carved in the shape of a rose, fit easily in her palm, as if it had

always been meant for her. She shoved aside memories of her Uncle Bol, the one who had christened the

knife in her own blood. She remembered his words. It is now a wit’ch’s dagger. “Elena…” Er’ril’s

voice was stern with caution. Ignoring him, she stood. Without so much as a word, she drew the sharp

tip across her right palm. The pain was but the bite of a wasp. A single drop of blood welled from the

slice and fell upon her silk dress. Still Elena continued only to stare down the long table, silent. None of

the council members even glanced her way. They were too involved voicing their causes, challenging

others, and pounding rough fists on the iron wood surface of the table.

Elena sighed and reached to her heart, to the font of wild magicks pent up inside. Cautiously, she unfurled

slim threads of power, fiery wisps of blood magicks that sang through her veins, reaching her bloody

palm. A small glow arose around her hand as the power filled it. Elena clenched her fist, and the glow

deepened, a ruby lantern now. She raised her fist high.

The first to spot her display was the aged elder of the mer’ai. Master Edyll must have caught the glow’s

reflection off his silver goblet. As the elder turned, the wine spilled like blood from his cup. He dropped

the goblet with a clatter to the tabletop.

Drawn by the noise, others glanced to the spreading stain of wine. Gaze after gaze swung to the head of

the table. A wave of stunned silence spread across those gathered around the table.

Elena met their eyes unflinching. So many had died to bring her here to this island: Uncle Bol, her parents,

Flint, Moris…

And she would speak with their voices this day. She would not let their sacrifices be dwindled away by

this endless sniping. If Alasea was to have a future, if the Gul’gothal rule was to be challenged, it was time

to move forward, and there was only one way to do this. Someone had to draw a line in the sand.

“I have heard enough,” Elena said softly into the stretch of quiet. From her glowing fists, fiery filaments

crawled down her arm, living threads of reddish gold. “I thank you for your kind counsel these past days.

This night I will ponder your words, and in the morning I will give you my answer on the course we will

pursue.”

Down the table, the representative from the coastal township of Penryn stood up. Symon Feraoud, a

portly fellow with a black mustache that draped below his chin, spoke loudly. “Lass, I mean no insult, but

the matter here does not await your answer.”

Several heads nodded at his words.

Elena let the man speak, standing silent as fine threads of wit’ch fire traced fiery trails down her arm,

splitting into smaller and smaller filaments, spreading across her bosom and down to the sash of her

dress.

“The course ahead of us must be agreed by all,” Symon Feraoud continued, bolstered by the silent

agreement of those around him. “We’ve only just begun to debate the matter at hand. The best means to

deal with the Gul’gothal threat is not a matter to be decided over a single night.”

“A single night?” Elena lowered her arm slightly and descended the single step to stand before the head

of the table. “Thirty nights have passed since the revelries of our victory here. And your debates have

served no other purpose but to fracture us, to spread dissent and disagreement when we must be at our

most united.”

Symon opened his mouth to argue, but Elena stared hard at him, and his mouth slowly shut.

“This evening the moon will again rise full,” Elena continued. “The Blood Diary will open once more. I

will take your counsel here and then consult the book. By morning, I will bring a final plan to this table.”

Master Edyll cleared his throat. “For debate?”

Elena shook her head. “For all your agreements.”

Silence again descended over the assembly. But this was not the stunned quiet of before, it was a

brewing tempest—and Elena would not let that squall strike.

Before even a grumble could arise, Elena raised her glowing fist over the table. “I will brook no further

debate. By dawn’s light tomorrow, I will make my decision.” She splayed open her hand; flames

flickered from her fingers. Lowering her hand, she burned her print into the ironwood table. Smoke

curled up her wrist. She leaned on her arm as she studied each face. Flames licked between her fingers.

“Tomorrow we forge our future. A future where we burn the Black Heart from this land.”

Elena lifted her palm from the table. Her handprint was burned deep into the ironwood, smoldering and

coal red, like her own palm. Elena stepped away. “Anyone who objects should leave A’loa Glen before

the sun rises. For anyone left on this island who will not abide by my decision will not see that day’s sun

set.”

Frowns marred most every face, except for the high keel of the Dre’rendi, who wore a hard, satisfied

grin, and Queen Tratal of the elv’in, whose face was a mask of stoic ice.

“It is time we stopped being a hundred causes and become one,” Elena declared. “Tomorrow Alasea will

be reborn on this island. It will be one mind, one heart. So I ask you all to look to your hearts this night.

Make your decisions. Either join us or leave. That is all that is left to debate.”

Elena scanned their faces, keeping her own as cold and hard as her words. Finally, she bowed slightly.

“We all have much to decide, so I bid you a good night to seek counsel where you will.”

Turning on a heel, she swung from the table where her print still smoldered, a reminder of who she was

and the power she held. She prayed the display was enough. Stepping around the Rosethorn Throne, her

skirts brushed softly on the rush-covered flagstone. In the heavy hush, time seemed to slow. The heat of

the assembly’s gazes on her back felt like a roaring hearth. She crossed slowly toward Er’ril, forcing her

limbs to move calmly.

The swordsman still stood stiff and stoic by the seat. Only his gray eyes followed Elena as she neared

him. Though his face was hard, his eyes shone with pride. Ignoring the plainsman’s reaction, she stalked

past him and toward the side door nearby.

Er’ril moved ahead to open the heavy door for her.

Once beyond the threshold, Er’ril stepped to her side, closing the door behind him. “Well done, Elena. It

was time someone shook them up. I didn’t know how much longer I could stomach their endless—”

Free of the hall, Elena stumbled, her legs suddenly going weak.

Er’ril caught her elbow and kept her upright. “Elena?”

She leaned heavily on her liegeman. “Just hold me, Er’ril,” she said shakily, her limbs trembling under her.

“Keep me from falling.”

He tightened his grip and stepped nearer. “Always,” he whispered.

Elena touched his hand with her bare fingers. Though she appeared a grown woman in body, in truth, her

bewit’ched form hid a frightened girl from the Highlands. “Sweet Mother, what have I done?” she

moaned softly.

Er’ril turned her slightly and held her at arm’s length. He leaned closer, catching her gaze with his

storm-gray eyes. “You’ve shown them all what they were waiting to see.”

She glanced down to her toes. “And what is that? A mad wit’ch bent on power.”

Er’ril lifted her chin with a single finger. “No, you’ve shown them the true face of Alasea’s future.”

Elena met Er’ril’s gaze for a breath, then sighed. “I pray you’re right. But how many will still be at that

table when the sun rises tomorrow?”

“It doesn’t matter the number who stand at the table. What is important is the strength and resolve of

those hearts.”

“But—”

Er’ril silenced her with a shake of his head. Still holding her arm, he urged her down the hall. “We’ve

licked our wounds here long enough after the War of the Isles. Your instinct is right. It is time to separate

the grain from the chaff. Those who remain at the table at sunrise will be those ready to confront the

Black Heart himself.”

Elena leaned into the plainsman’s support as she walked. The halls through this region of the sprawling

castle ran narrow and dark, the torches few and far between. “I hope you’re right,” Elena finally said.

“Trust me.”

They continued in silence. Elena quickly regained her legs, pondering Er’ril’s words. Alasea’s future.

But what did it hold? Elena frowned. Who could know for sure? But whatever path lay ahead, it would

have to be tread.

Suddenly, Elena’s arm was jerked backward. She was yanked to a stop as Er’ril stepped in front of her.

“What are you—?” she started to blurt.

“Hush!” Er’ril’s sword was already out and pointed toward the shadows ahead.

From out of the darkness, a figure stepped forth.

“Stand back,” Er’ril barked. “Who goes there?”

Ignoring the plainsman’s brandished weapon, the figure moved another stride forward, into the torchlight.

He stood a full head shorter than Er’ril and was waspishly thin. Wearing only a pair of knee-length

canvas breeches, his dark skin shown like carved ebony in the flame’s glow. The white scar on his

forehead blazed, the rune of an opening eye.

Elena pushed Er’ril’s sword down and stepped nearer. It was one of the zo’ol, the tiny warriors who

hailed from the jungles that fringed the Southern Wastes. They had fought bravely at her side aboard the

Pale Stallion.

The dark man bowed his partially bald head. His single long braid of black hair, adorned with bits of

conch shells and feathers, lay draped over his shoulder.

“What are you doing skulking in these halls?” Er’ril asked brusquely, keeping his sword unsheathed.

The man raised his eyes toward Elena. They glowed with pain and anguish.

Elena moved a step forward and was surprised to feel Er’ril’s grip tighten in warning. Would the

plainsman’s suspicions never end? She shook free of his hand and approached the small shaman.

“What’s wrong?”

As answer, the man lifted his arm and opened his hand. Resting on his palm was a tarnished silver coin

imprinted with the image of a snow leopard.

“I don’t understand,” Elena said. She knew from talking with her brother Joach that this small man was

considered to be a shaman of his people, what they called a tribal wizen. She had also learned that the

man had some ability to use talismans to speak across vast distances. He had done so with Joach in the

past.

The small man raised his coin higher, as if this was explanation enough.

Misunderstanding, Elena reached for the coin, but the man’s fingers closed, keeping her from touching it.

He dropped his hand. “He calls,” the shaman said, backing up a step. “Death draws near to all of them.”

Er’ril moved to Elena’s side. “Who? Who calls?”

The small man’s eyes flicked toward the plainsman, then back to Elena. He struggled with the common

tongue. “Master Tyrus, the man who rescued my people from the slavers.”

Er’ril glanced to Elena. “He must mean Lord Tyrus, captain of Port Rawl’s pirates and heir to the throne

of Castle Mryl.”

Elena nodded. Tyrus was the man who had lured off Mycelle and a trio of her old companions: Krai,

Mogweed, and Fardale. For two moons now, Elena had heard no word of the party, except that they

sought to regain Castle Mryl and the Northwall from the Dark Lord’s forces. “What do you know of

them?”

The shaman bowed his head, struggling again with the common tongue. “I hear a whisper. Pain. Fear. A

call for help.”

Elena turned to Er’ril. “They’re in trouble.”

Er’ril’s lips tightened to a hard frown. “Perhaps, but if so, I don’t see what we can do. They could be

anywhere by now, lost deep among the endless forests of the Western Reaches.”

“But there must be a way,” she mumbled. She swung to the zo’ol warrior. “Did you learn anything else?”

The shaman shook his head. “I hear only one other word. I no understand. A curse, I think.”

“What was it?”

The small man’s dark face scrunched with thought. “Gr-graff-on.”

Elena’s brows pinched together. She frowned. What did that mean? It was nonsense.

Then Er’ril jolted beside her. “Griffin!” He stepped nearer the small man. “Did you say ‘griffin’?”

The shaman brightened, nodding vigorously. “Yes. Graff-on! Yes, yes!” His eyes were wide, clearly

hoping this was significant.

“I still don’t understand,” Elena said.

Er’ril stood silent, gaze turned inward, brooding on some past event. His voice was soft when he spoke,

breathless. “A Weirgate.”

The single word drew a gasp from Elena. Weirgate. The word froze her heart. She remembered the

massive statue of a monstrous black bird, a mythical wyvern. But it was more than just a loathsome

sculpture. Carved of ebon’stone, it was a foul construct of power, a portal to a well of dark magicks

called the Weir. Elena recalled her mind’s brief brush with the evil inside the statue. Her skin prickled

with just the memory. She had almost lost Er’ril to that evil.

Er’ril continued to speak. “Back when I freed the book, the dark-mage Greshym told me of the other

Gates. He said there were four. The wyvern we had already encountered, but also three more: a

man-ticore, a basilisk, and—” Er’ril’s gaze fixed back on Elena. “—and a griffin.”

Elena choked on her own words. “But… but a Weirgate in the Western Reaches? Why? What is it doing

out there?”

“I don’t know. Greshym hinted at some plan of the Gul’gotha. Something to do with positioning

Weirgates at key sites around Alasea.”

“Like at Winter’s Eyrie,” Elena added. She remembered that that had been the ultimate destination of the

Wyvern Gate before they had stopped it. “What could the Dark Lord be planning?”

“Even Greshym didn’t know,” Er’ril answered, but he nodded toward the zo’ol shaman. “But obviously,

whatever the Black Heart’s plan, it poses a danger to the others out there.”

Elena studied the small warrior. “Can you reach Lord Tyrus? Find out more?”

He raised the coin again. “I try many times. The coin has gone cold. Empty. A very bad omen.”

Elena straightened. “Then what do we do? We can’t just ignore this message.”

Er’ril finally sheathed his sword with a sharp snap. “It was their choice to venture into the western wilds.

We cannot spare any forces on a futile search.”

“But—”

“You have your own battles to fight, Elena. And a night to consult with the Blood Diary and decide on a

plan for the war council tomorrow. You have burned your commitment into the ironwood of the table.

You must honor your word.”

“But how can I? If Aunt My is in danger—”

“Mycelle is a skilled swordswoman and now a full shape-shifter again,” Er’ril interrupted sternly. “Like

the others, she must face the threat with her own strength and skill.”

Elena’s consternation could not be hidden.

Er’ril gripped her shoulders. “I will check with the Brotherhood’s library here. See what I can find out

about these Weirgates. But you must remain focused. You’ve a long night ahead of you. I suggest you

rest, sleep. Put aside these worries for this one night.”

“How can I?” she whispered softly and pulled away. “How do you shut out your heart?”

“By knowing there is nothing your worrying will do to help Mycelle and the others. If you take on their

burden and your own, both will suffer.”

Elena nodded, her shoulders slumping. Er’ril was right. She had made a commitment to point the various

factions in one unifying direction. She had asked the leaders around the long table to look to their own

hearts and be ready to put aside all distractions. Could I do any less now?

James Clemens - The Banned and the Banished 4 - Wit'ch Gate

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