A’stoc threw the cloth to the ground in disgust. “Enough of your prodding, elf girl. I told you I would go.” He glanced at her. “With you.” He searched drunkenly for his shoes, finally finding them at the end of the cot. After several tries he managed to slip them on his feet and stand up.

  “Wait here,” he said, working his way slowly down the stairs to the magepool.

  Chentelle moved to the edge of the tier and watched.

  A’stoc’s steps became steadier as he neared the pool. The surface of the well glowed faintly, and the mage stood near its edge for a time, seeming to draw strength from the water. Then he spoke a single word. The water started churning, though not as violently as it had the night before. Mist rose from the pool, taking the shape of two giant, long-fingered hands.

  The mage started chanting, and the hands reached down into the pool. Misty fingers pushed into the water and pulled it apart as if it were solid. A hollow channel formed, reaching down into the depths. Suddenly a shaft of brilliant light exploded from the opening. A wooden staff floated upward inside the light.

  A’stoc gestured, and the staff drifted toward his hand. As soon as his fingers touched the wood, the light died, and the walls of water came crashing together.

  The staff was gnarled like the root of an ancient oak. Magical runes were worked expertly into its surface, carved to blend smoothly with the natural contours of the wood. The tool radiated power, power similar to the magic of the unicorns but far stronger. It pulsed with life.

  This was the Thunderwood Staff. It could be no other.

  A’stoc held the Staff with both hands, his knuckles white with the force of his grip. “Well, then,” he said. “Let us go see the High Bishop.”

  Mom, Kimmy, Cheryl

  For all the beautiful enchantresses in my life

  …and for Becky,

  who shared her heart with me.

  —JR

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Enchantress

  2. Legion Lord

  3. Holy Man

  4. Apprentice

  5. Aftermath

  6. Holy Land

  7. Enlightenments

  8. Quest

  9. Kennaru

  10. Village

  11. Hel’s Crown

  12. Escape

  13. Tribulations

  14. Tel Adartak-Skysoar

  15. Westlands

  16. Covenant’s Keep

  17. Reunited

  18. Erietoph Forest

  19. Marble Falls

  20. Karsh Adon

  21. Fallen Star

  22. Transformations

  Authors’ Notes

  Prologue

  Chentelle felt the dream surround her.

  She walks along a rocky beach, approaching a small camp. The human huddles near the fire, working a marionette that looks exactly like himself. He dances the puppet at the edge of the fire, moving it closer and closer until the figure catches fire. Then he throws it in the sand and stamps out the flames. Chentelle reaches out to him, but he whirls away from her. With a bitter snarl, he picks up the puppet and starts to make it dance.

  Again, she thinks. Always the same.

  A star flares brightly overhead. It rips through the night sky, leaving a jagged scar in its wake. As the star disappears in the west, darkness bleeds through the tear: deep, cold, absolute. It spreads inevitably, swallowing everything in its path. One by one, the stars are extinguished.

  Chentelle watches the emptiness grow, waiting to wake. But this time the dream doesn’t end.

  Mirroring the sky, blackness swells and swirls on the ground. Shadows deepen and coalesce, and shapes emerge from the darkness: twisted, grotesque figures with pale yellow eyes. They move forward, surrounding Chentelle, pressing her back closer to the flames.

  She turns, looking for the human. But he’s gone. The fire seems tiny now, near death. Chentelle feels a wave of cold as the eyes move closer. Suddenly she is not alone.

  A man encased in metal armor stands beside her, his shield decorated with twin suns. He draws a glowing sword and walks calmly forward. He attacks, driving the shadows back. Each time his sword strikes, a creature falls.

  But there are too many of them. They swarm over him, tearing at him with icy claws. He fights back valiantly, but Chentelle knows he cannot prevail.

  Then, the human is back. He stands in the middle of the fire, wearing a wizard’s cloak and clutching a gnarled staff. Beside him is an old man dressed in robes of the Holy Order. An aura of peace surrounds the priest. He rests one hand on the wizard’s shoulder and holds the other out to Chentelle.

  She takes his hand, and the world explodes in thunder and flames.

  The sound still echoed in Chentelle’s ears as she woke. It took her a second to identify the sound of wings: a gray dove had landed on her windowsill. Surprised but not frightened, she put her hand out to it. It came to her, as creatures did, even when not tame. A small parchment was tied to one of its legs.

  1

  Enchantress

  Chentelle hurried through the forest. Her elven eyes had no trouble following the narrow path in the faint red glow of first-light. She saw the forest’s edge in the distance and picked up speed, hoping to be out of Lone Valley before truedawn. But as she passed the final line of trees, a branch reached down and snared her arm.

  “And where do you think you are going?”

  Chentelle started to scream, but cut it off when she recognized the rough, womanly voice. She twisted her arm free of the branch, struggling to regain her calm.

  “Willow,” she said, keeping her voice to a loud whisper. “You scared me.”

  Willow leaned her trunk closer to Chentelle. Her hollow eyes glowered discouragingly from beneath an axe-hacked frown.

  “Answer the question, little one,” she said. “Why are you sneaking out of the forest this early in the morning?”

  “Well, I—ah—”

  The dendrifaun reached out a limb and brushed the pack slung over Chentelle’s shoulder. “Taking a trip, I see.”

  The sight of the open plains danced tantalizingly between Willow’s branches. Chentelle was so close! But already Deneob was fully risen over the eastern hills; Ellistar would not be far behind. She saw that the dendrifaun’s roots were still firmly buried; it was too early for the living tree to be fully active. Chentelle could run for it, but Willow would only rouse the elders and tell them where Chentelle was headed. She had to convince the dendrifaun to let her pass.

  “Please, old one,” she said, adopting the formal mode of address. “You have to let me by. I’ve told you about the dream, the one that has come to me every night since I saw that falling star. Well, it came again last night. Only, it was different this time. It was telling me something, leading me somewhere. I can’t explain it, but I know I have to follow it.”

  “Have you spoken of this to the elders?” Willow asked.

  “No,” Chentelle said. “You know what would happen if I did. They would debate the matter for several weeks and ponder it for a few more. Then Mother would convince the others that I am too young, too precious, too important to be allowed to go. Ever since—ever since Father died, she’s been afraid to let me out of her sight. But I have to go, and I can’t afford to wait.”

  Chentelle shifted guiltily in the silence. Her mother would be so worried when she found the note pinned to her child’s bed. But it had to be this way; the dream demanded it.

  Willow reached out and brushed her leaves across Chentelle’s hair. “Mothers worry. It is their nature. Besides, you are a special child, and not just for your golden hair.”

  “I know, I know.” The elf girl deepened her voice until it mimicked her mother’s rich tone. “You are an enchantress, Chentelle, the first born in Lone Valley for five generations. You have a responsibility to yourself and to the village.”

  “Exactly,” Willow agreed without mockery.

  “But don’t you see?” Chentelle said, returning to her normal voice. “I do have a responsibility. I have to find out what the dream means. And I’m not a child. I’m nearly two hundred.”

  Willow’s branches swayed with amusement. “You are one hundred and sixty-three, and I have told you stories and watched you grow through each of those years. Tell me, did I ever share with you the story of Fizzfaldt the Wanderer?”

  “Yes, old one, many times.”

  “Hmmph, well, then you see my point. Fizzfaldt, too, felt the need to leave the forest, to taste the soil of other lands. But he never returned. His stories are lost to us.”

  “Yes. That is too bad.” Chentelle did feel the loss, for the stories of the dendrifauns were good ones. But she mistrusted Willow’s point in this case.

  “I will let you go, little one, for I sense that you are caught in the middle of a great tale. When your mother comes to me, full of worry, I will try to comfort her. And when she asks where you are, I will conceal the direction of your travel. But you must be careful, Chentelle. And when your story is done, you must promise to return here and share it with the forest. It would be a sad thing for us to lose another story.”

  Chentelle threw her arms around the old dendrifaun’s trunk. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll bring back a special story just for you. I promise.” Then she turned and sprinted out of the forest.

  “My dear,” Willow murmured to her retreating form, “I am sure you will.”

  Chentelle paused once she reached the open plain. Gently rolling hills
glowed like copper in Deneob’s soft light, stretching into the horizon. The emerald wall of the forest, with all of its seclusion, all of its protection, lay behind her. Far to the east, the first glow of truedawn heralded the rise of Ellistar, the Golden Sun. This was the point of no return.

  Deliberately, Chentelle pulled off her pack and undid its ties. She reached inside and pulled out the dove. The bird slept comfortably, still reassured by the spell she had placed upon it last night. She unrolled the note and read it one last time.

  Wizard A’mond, find the apprentice to A’pon Boemarre. Bring the Staff to the Holy City.

  It was signed with the seal of Marcus Alanda, High Bishop of the Holy Order.

  Again, Chentelle pondered the message, and again she felt the twinge of an old sadness. A’mond had been wizard to the elves of Lone Valley for centuries, one of the few wizards to escape death at the Desecration Fault. The High Bishop had no way of knowing that A’mond had been killed in a freak accident last winter. So the dove had come to Chentelle, drawn by her magic. It was up to her to find this apprentice of A’pon Boemarre.

  A’pon Boemarre! That was a name well known to every inhabitant of the Realm: Boemarre the Mighty, greatest of wizards; Boemarre the Hero, champion of the Wizard’s War, slayer of the Dark One; Boemarre the Genocide, whose Desecration Fault swallowed entire races of giants and trolls.

  A’pon Boemarre—oh, yes, Chentelle knew that name. The man who had saved the Realm by unleashing death on thousands, numbers that included Chentelle’s own father.

  Chentelle fought back tears at the memory. It was the first time her Gift had manifested. She had felt the dreadful power shaking under the roots of the forest, the echo of the world’s pain when that force was unleashed. And she had felt the terrible emptiness of her father’s death.

  Chentelle shook her head, trying to clear the memory. She flipped the note over and scrawled a quick reply across its back.

  Wizard A’mond has died, but your wishes will be carried through.

  She signed the note and wrapped it back around the dove’s leg. Then she softly stroked its head, waking it from the slumber she had induced. “Time to fly, little one,” she said, tossing the bird into the air.

  As the messenger dove disappeared to the south, Chentelle regarded the plain ahead. It stretched two score leagues between here and the Quiet Sea. A long way to travel to the beach she had seen in her dream. She would need help to get there.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. As the air of the plain filled her lungs, the spirit of the land touched her soul. She felt the quiet rhythm of the grass, the rich life of the soil, the soft power of the wind. She felt the passionate harmony of nature and understood her own place within it.

  When the reality of the plain was complete within her, she sang. Her voice was music and magic. Her song captured perfectly the harmony she sensed. Her voice radiated across the plain, a surge of peace and joy begging to be shared. This was Chentelle’s Gift.

  Slowly, she altered her song. She began to sing not only of what was, but of what she wished to be. Her voice shaped an emptiness in the plain, and she filled that void with her desire, with her need, but most of all with her love. She crafted a song of beckoning and backed it with the full force of her Gift, letting it flow beyond the world of men and into the Realm of Dream and Fairy.

  Chentelle ended her song and waited. With her Gift, she could still hear her tune echo in the Fairy Realm. Soon, it was joined by another song. The empty places in Chentelle’s call were being filled. But where her song was one of harmony and melody, the new music was one of rhythm and percussion and driving, unrelenting beat.

  Chentelle snapped open her eyes, letting go of her Gift. Her face lit with a smile of undiluted happiness as she saw the unicorn herd charging across the plain.

  They ran as if it were their sole purpose in existence. They flowed across the land with a speed no ordinary steed could match. In moments they were surrounding Chentelle, prancing playfully and nodding their heads in greeting.

  As always, Chentelle was awed by the unicorns’ appearance. She admired their graceful white bodies, their flowing manes, the ivory horns that spiraled outward from their foreheads. They were beyond words of beauty.

  She stepped forward, careful to keep her movements slow and smooth. She knew that unicorns became nervous around mortal creatures.

  The herd parted at her advance, creating a channel through which one beast approached and bowed deeply. Chentelle immediately recognized Kah, the stallion of this herd and her friend. She returned his bow and then continued her walk. She hummed softly as she moved, reassuring Kah with the melody of her voice.

  The stallion tensed as she came near, but he did not run. Chentelle delicately caressed the unicorn’s cheek and mane. Then she ran her fingers down his horn, sensing the pure magic contained within. “I am glad you came,” she said. “It is a joy to see you again.”

  Kah danced away from her, nodding broadly. Then he stepped forward and laid his horn softly on her shoulder.

  “Your trust honors me,” Chentelle said. “I need to travel far and fast. Will you carry me to the Quiet Sea?”

  The stallion backed away from her, nodding once again. Then he knelt in the grass, indicating with his horn that Chentelle should mount. She slid smoothly onto his back; then he rose easily, accepting her weight as if it were of no concern. She got a good grip on his flaring mane, knowing what was coming.

  Kah trotted gently until they were beyond the circle of the herd. Then he neighed loudly and reared, pawing the air with his hooves. He was telling them to remain here. The other unicorns neighed in response and began grazing on the tender spring shoots. Kah spun eastward and took off with a surge of speed that stole Chentelle’s breath. She loved the sensation.

  The unicorn glided tirelessly through the rushing wind. Chentelle huddled close against the beast’s broad back, riding the music of his stride. She buried her face in his rich mane and reveled in the smooth rhythm beneath her. Kah used his horn to draw strength from the Dream Realm. He could run for days without stopping, but she was only mortal.

  A scent of wild strawberries in the wind forced Chentelle to recognize her hunger. She whispered into Kah’s ear, and the fairy beast pulled to a stop. Quickly, she gathered the berries, still wet with dew. But she couldn’t bring herself to rush the meal; the tangy-sweet morsels deserved to be savored. She satisfied her hunger and then picked a few more handfuls, adding them to her pack for later.

  Then she climbed a second time on Kah’s back, and they were on their way again. The leagues passed rapidly beneath the unicorn’s thundering hooves. Chentelle was forced to call occasional stops to ease her tired muscles or sate her appetite, but they still made steady progress.

  By the time Deneob disappeared into the west, Chentelle could smell salt in the air. Buoyed by the scent, she started to sing softly, matching her song to Kah’s beat. In response, the unicorn ran even faster. Soon, grassy plains disappeared into sandy hills. As Ellistar dipped below the horizon, they crested one final hill and looked out on the wide, calm waters of the Quiet Sea.

  As Kah slowed to a walk, Chentelle reached out with her Gift. She felt the shifting spirit of the sand and the sharp awareness of the birds. And she felt the sea: vast, patient, incredibly powerful, and teeming with life. So much life! She felt fish and crabs and creatures whose names she did not know, all locked in an immense dance of survival.

  And she heard a song, an intricate, beautiful theme weaving its way through the waves: whalesong, she realized. But there was something wrong. The song was full of fear and distress. Chentelle tried to sense the cause of the fear, but it was too distant.

  “The water,” she said. “I have to get to the water, Kah.”

  With a fierce snort the unicorn galloped ahead. He ran headlong across the beach and pulled up just at the water’s edge.