James Clemens - Witch Gate: The Banned and the Bannished Book Four

======================Notes:Scanned by JASC If you correct any minor errors, please change the version number below (and in the filename) to a slightly higher one e.g. from .9 to .95 or if major revisions, to v. 1.0/2.0etc..Current e-book version is .9 (most formatting errors have been correctedbut OCRerrors still occur in the text, especially the first word in every chapter.)Comments, Questions, Requests (no promises): daytonascan4911@hotmail.comDO NOT READ THIS BOOK OF YOU DO NOT OWN/POSSES THE PHYSICALCOPY. THAT IS STEALING FROM THE AUTHOR.--------------------------------------------Book Information:Genre: Epic FantasyAuthor: James Clemens Name: Witch GateSeries: Banned and the Banished 4 ====================== Witch GateBook 4 of the Banned and the Banished-James Clemens FOREWORD TO WITCH GATEProctor Serwa Deia, Chairman and President of University PressTreach.er.y, trech 3.re, n. (i) breach of allegiance, faith, or confidence (2) an act against theCommonwealth (3) disparagement of the Law by word or print (synonyms: betrayal, knavery,double-cross, villainy, treason, Scroll-kissed)Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth EditionRead again the definition above; then look around the class-room, a chamber once filled withbright-eyed, eager scholars. How many students still remain after the study of the first three KelvishScrolls?See the empty seats.By this point, statistically, two-thirds of each years students fail to pass the rigorous psychologicalexaminations following their study of the Scrolls. As you know, those who were found wanting wereshipped to the sanitariums of Da Borau, where they await the painful surgeries to dull their minds andremove their tongues. But I am not here to speak of the fallen ones, those slack-jawed unfortunatesdubbed the Scroll-kissed. Instead, I write this foreword for those of you who have successfully passedthese 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 nowis not the time to lift toasts to one anotherfor ahead lie pitfalls that may yet capture the unwary. Hereinlies 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 deceivera snake in the grass, if you will. Now it is myturn 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 yourhands, in your school bags. You have fallen asleep with it at your bedside. But do not be lulled by itspleasant 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 thisbook, while you look elsewhere, the snake will raise up and strike! That is what Ive 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 yourhall once again. Not at each other, but at the empty seats. Already the Scrolls have claimed many of yourfellow classmates.In this fourth volume, the author will continue his assault upon your sanity, to try to win you to his will, tospread 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 singlepage could corrupt the ill-prepared. So do not stray from the path of instruction, a track well-worn bythe heels of previous scholars. Without this guidance, you would surely be lost among the weeds and tallgrasseswhere 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 atoxin, venom, or deadly draught (3) to alter ones perception of right and wrong (i.e., to poisonanothers mind), (synonyms: corruption,perversion, venom, bane, miasma, contagion, disease)Encyclopedia of Common Usage, Fifth EditionAssignation of Responsibility for the Fourth BookThis copy is being assigned to you and is your sole responsibility. Its loss, alteration, or destructionwill result in severe penalties (as stated in your local ordinances). Any transmission; copying; oreven 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 damagethe text may cause you (or t those aroundyou) by its perusal.SignatureDatePlace inked print of the fourth finger of your right hand here:*** WARNING * * *If you should perchance come upon this text outside of-properuniversity channels, please close this book now and alert theproper authorities for safe retrieval. Failure to do so can lead toyour immediate arrest and incarceration.YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.WITCH GATESung in ice but born in thunder, So the Land wad torn asunder.I FIND MYSELF GROWING RESTLESS AGAIN. LATELY, THE WITcH HAS BEENcalling to me in my dreams to complete her tale; she whispers in my ear as I walk about the city. Attimes, I swear I feel her breath on my skin, like the itch of a rash. Nowadays, as I go about my errands, Ihardly see the streets and avenues of my home. I picture other places, other sights: the sun-seared ruinsof Tular, the broken granite shield of the Northwall. I find myself living in the shadowy half-worldbetween past and present.Ive begun to wonder: If I write again, will I be forever lost in the past? Will this land constructed ofletters and ink become more real than the air I breathe? Will I become mired in memories, doomed foreternity 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 ofimmortality. Only by completing her tale will I finally be allowed the balm of death. Yet, in the pastmoons, Ive begun to doubt her promise. What if her ancient words were a trick, a final act of malice onthe part of the witch?So for too long a time, I have sat frozen, hovering between terror and salvation.That is, until this morningwhen 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 themirror above my washstand. Nestled within my dark locks rested a single gray hair. My heart clenched atthe sight; tears blurred the miracle. As the mornings fog melted in the rays of the rising sun, I refused tomove. I dared notWit ch (jate even finger that single strand, afraid it might be an illusion. I could not face such cruelty. Notnow, not after so long.

In that moment, I felt something long dead in my heart spring to lifehopelI fell to the floor, knees too weak to hold me up any longer. I sobbed for what seemed like days. It wasa 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 witch hadnot lied.This realization shattered the impasse. Without eating, I gathered the tools of my craftpen andscrolland 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 huddledown drab streets, wrapped from head to toe in the browns and grays of heavy woolens. Beyond thecity walls, the snowy hills are stained with ash and soot from the hundred smoking chimneys of Kell. It isa landscape done in shades of gray and black. Even the skies overhead are cloaked by flat, featurelesscloudsa massive blank slate.Midwinter.It is a storytellers season, a bare canvas that awaits the stroke of a pen to bring life and substance backinto the world. It is a time when folks crowd around hearths, awaiting tales full of brightness and sharpcolors. It is the season when inns fill up, and minstrels sing bawdy stories of other lands, of fire andsunlight. In other seasons, stories are bought with coppersbut not in winter. In this season of dull skiesand somber hearts, even a poor storyteller could find his pot blessed with silver and gold. Such is thehunger for tales in winter.But, of course, with this tale, I seek not gold, but something more valuable, something all men are grantedat birth but that was stolen from me by a witch. I seek only death.So as the world huddles in the quiet of a winters cloak, I once again begin Elenas tale. I ask you toclose 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.IElena found her throne an uncomfortable seat. It was a chair meant for someone harder and moreage-worn than she. Its high, straight back was carved in twining roses, the thorns of which could be feltthrough her silk robe and dress. Even its seat was flat and unforgiving, polished ironwood with no pillowto soften its hard surface. For ages past, it had been the seat of power for Aloa Glen. Both kings andpraetors 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 evenarmrests. 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. Elenaknew what the majority here in the Great Hall thought of her. All they saw was a slim woman with paleskin 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.