Merlyn's Arc

Chapter 8 of 19

Merlyn sat against the rock and tried to pull earth magic through his brands. Nothing came. The dead ash had swallowed his last thread of power. His tattoos stayed dark on his forearms. He could see the wood now with his own eyes, and he could see the branches begin to shift. "They're coming," Merlyn said. "Roots and vine folk. The tree drank them dry, and now the wood wants payment." He pressed his hand to the ground. No warmth answered. "I can't channel. There's no live earth to pull from here. All of it near the ring is dead." Kjell crouched beside him. Teeth and claws rattled on his beard. "You broke worse seals with me watching. Find something living." "Nothing near is living." Merlyn's voice shook like his hands. "The rune killed the tree and everything the tree fed. I'm empty." Thorin stood over them, axe ready, watching the tree line. "Then someone gives you a source." He said it plain, as if handing over a tool. He knelt and set his bare palm on Merlyn's brand. "Take it from me. I've bled for worse." Merlyn shook his head. "I can't pull life from a man and stay clean. The rune already cost me ten years." Gunnar had said nothing. He walked to a low stone shelf beyond the rock and struck it once with his hammer. The blow rang. He struck again. On the third hit the surface cracked, and dark water welled up from beneath. "Live spring," Gunnar said. "Stone told me. Water's still moving down there." He pointed. "Old rock. Never touched by the tree." Merlyn crawled to the wet crack. He pressed both palms flat to the cold, running stone. He reached down, past the dead crust, into rock that had never fed the ash. Deep water pulsed against his fingers. His brands flickered. Then they caught and burned bright gold up both forearms. The first vine broke from the ground three paces off. Merlyn slammed his hammer against the stone and drove a rune into the wet rock. Earth magic answered him now. A wall of loose stone heaved up and pinned the vine flat. He carved a second sign. The ground around the camp hardened to slab. The leaf-haired keeper did not cross it. It stood at the edge of the dead wood, orange eyes on Merlyn, and stepped back into the trees. Merlyn sagged over the spring, but his hands held steady on the hammer. "I have a source now," he said. "Live rock, not dead tree. I can channel again." Thorgar hauled him up by the pelt. Merlyn stood on his own feet for one breath before his knees gave. He caught the stone shelf. "Fixed one thing," Thorgar said. "Not your legs." Merlyn looked at the tome in his pack, then at the woods closing behind them. His power was back. His body was not. "Then we carry the book," he said, "and find deeper stone before the wood tries again."