Only, here, there were no moans or whimpering, no one calling out for help or wandering in the streets. Not a single sound of life reached my ears. Is it possible? Are they all dead? Did I kill every single soul—an entire city?
Struggling for each breath—holding my queasiness in check by a thread—I raised my gaze higher. The sloping forested hill was a vibrant orange, consumed entirely by fire. The castle at the top, a once-gleaming bastion of Rella’s power, lay in pieces, snapped and toppled, like a child’s broken toy.
Closer, in the corner of my eye, something moved. A survivor?
If there’s one, there could be more.
My hope died as the shape broke clear of the smoke. Jarryd.
He must have seen me too, as a fresh round of his anguish barreled through the link. Raw and unchecked, it struck like a club to the gut—and I lost control of the nausea. My stomach lurching into my throat, I turned, and let the meager contents out onto the ground. Shuddering, retching until I had nothing but bile and regret inside me; I heaved that out, too.
Gradually, the spasms waned. Breathless and near to collapsing, I wiped a wrist across my mouth. Anguish and disgrace had climbed to such a level, I couldn’t feel them anymore. There was only a distant, underlying sense of self-loathing. Everything else inside me was… Numb. Dead. This is what it’s like, I thought; to be him, the other version of me. This is how he lives every day. Detached and hating himself.
This is how he kills.
I stared at the crown in my grip. And this is the only time he feels.
I looked up at a sound. Jarryd was closer now.
He stood amid the rubble, watching me. I met his gaze, and the rest of the world dimmed. The chaos lost meaning, outdone by his dark emotions slamming into me like an ocean tide. Jarryd’s stare was penetrating, brimming with recrimination and pain. I couldn’t hold it. The sheer weight of trying pulled my own eyes down.
I dropped my head in defeat and waited for the repercussions.
Chapter Twelve
I brushed the ash away from my swollen eyes. The rancid smoke was inescapable. Dust swirled, dancing in dark clouds around my legs, billowing among fallen buildings, coiling over twisted limbs and sprawled bodies. The corpses looked much the same, thinned with emaciated skin or reduced to blood-spattered, crispy flakes. Some bore the look of both. Their over-cooked pieces broke away, clinging to my boots.
It wasn’t just Kabrinians. There were many Langorian soldiers mixed in among the dead. What we came here for was done. The occupation was over. Draken and his army were destroyed. But so was Kabri. All of it. All of them. My people. Ian’s victims.
And mine.
This time, he didn’t bear the blame alone. I found him. I brought him back. I put my faith in him. We all did. Ian was the Champion of Rella, the man who would save us from another brutal war. Meeting him changed my life. Our connection was a brotherhood deeper than I thought possible. It was also camouflage for a threat greater than any invading army.
I didn’t see the danger. And it destroyed us.
I asked too much of him. I pushed him to be something he’s not.
I begged Ian to come back to Kabri and use the Crown of Stones to eradicate the Langorians bleeding my home dry. He didn’t struggle with the decision. His hatred for them matched mine. His inherent need to save the innocents came from a less-than-noble root, but it didn’t diminish his courage or his willingness to sacrifice.
But none of that brought him here. I did. And something else.
It was hidden inside him, so well, even he couldn’t see it. Having a more objective view, I recognized it the moment we met: a hope for redemption. Given time, it might have risen to the surface. Our magical connection was but weeks old. As it grew, I might have helped Ian understand that part of himself. Now, it was too late.
I wasn’t sure what made this day different. Why it was any harder than the last. I only knew that something, some stray thought or emotion, skewed his intentions. Resolve crumbled. Lines disappeared. Right and wrong merged. Morality yielded to compulsion, distorting his aim, until he lost the ability to distinguish friend from foe. And both died.
We set out to free Kabri, and our liberation became a massacre.
It was over in moments, yet each breath felt like an eternity, as bodies spontaneously ruptured and fell; lives ruined by his spell as easily as wood and stone. Some were pulled into the rifts as the ground cracked, others were crushed beneath the folding structures as street after street collapsed. The rest became food. Skin withered and shrunk on their bones, right in front of my eyes. I watched life drain away without thought or ceremony, and I hated him for it. I hated myself for allowing it to happen. I pitied us both.
And I grieved for what had to come next.
The job fell to me. There was no one else. I was the one he trusted—and the only one left alive. On some level, I owed him for that.
Picking my way through the rubble took effort. My heart ached. My legs were shaky, like I’d marched for days on end. Yet, I was doing far better than Ian. On his knees among the carnage, shoulders sagging, hair blood-splattered, with the crown hanging limp in his hands—as he heaved out his guilt on the street.
I’d never seen him so beaten.
Gradually, like he was dragging it up from a heavy bog, Ian’s head lifted. Our eyes met, and I tried to curb my reaction. I didn’t mean it to be so violent, full of unabashed disgust and grief. But my condemnation had a life of its own. It blasted out of me before I could tone it down, and his gaze dropped away again.
His response came a moment later, as pain stabbed through my center. I stumbled, pressing a hand to my chest. The ache wasn’t physical. It was Ian’s rage, at himself and at… Someone else? Some unknown target. I couldn’t grasp who. I could barely breathe.
Then it was gone. Ian shut our link with the force of a slamming door, and the abrupt absence was dizzying. Catching myself on a slant of stone, I watched him release a wrathful cry and hurl the crown from his grip. It bounced and bumped over the wreckage. Landing near one of the fissures in the street, it wobbled a moment before settling, dim and harmless, on the edge.
I moved closer. Debris shifted under my feet, making my approach loud. I knew Ian heard me. He saw my shadow growing. But he didn’t move, didn’t look up. He just knelt, staring at his empty hands. Because he knows, I thought.
Once was forgivable. Twice was intentional.
He knows… And he’s waiting for me.
There would be no resistance. Ian was too honorable to run. Even if he wasn’t, there was no more fight in him. It bled out along with his magic. He would offer no argument, either. Sorrow had crushed his spirit, and there wasn’t a single justification for what he’d done. Not this time. To unleash in the middle of a city, with the same reckless might he once did on a battlefield; there was no defense for such an action.
He’s left me no choice. I have to kill him.
And a part of myself in the process.
I stopped a few feet away. I wanted him to acknowledge me. I wanted him to say something, anything to give me a reason to change my mind. But his silence persisted.
I let infuriated, harsh words slip out. “I trusted you.”
He still didn’t look, didn’t move.
A moment later, he replied, thick and parched. “That was your first mistake.”
“Gods, do you have to be like this?”
“How should I react, when my friend has come to kill me?”
“Like less of an ass.”
“And more of a hero?” He grunted; eyes locked on the ground. “Fuck, Jarryd. We both know I’m not that.”
“You’re right. Heroes don’t get pleasure from hurting others. They don’t slaughter innocent women and children.” I said it to make him flinch. He didn’t. Can he really be that far gone? “How did you even pull off those spells? Soldiers can’t rip the ground apart.”
He shrugged. “Here… I can be anything.”
Ian’s
self-deprecating acceptance didn’t surprise me. His odd words did. “If you have an explanation, now would be—”
“I don’t. Nothing can change what I did or what you have to do. I channeled the crown. I leveled a city. And it felt better than anything has in a long time. So can you get on with it?” Ian’s head bent more, exposing his neck for a killing blow.
I stared at it. “I…don’t think I can.”
“You have to. And you will. Then it’s on to the next round.”
“What? What round? What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Just, please, Nef’taali. Do it. I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I raised the bow and readied an arrow. I drew the string back, and at the faint creak of wood, Ian finally lifted his head. Drawn and pale, like a man already dead, his unfocused gaze sharpened. I let out a slow breath, wishing, not for the first time, that I had his strength. If the link were open, he would give it to me. Without a doubt or a moment’s hesitation, he would give me the courage to kill him.
Ian Troy was never a hero. But the bastard had his moments.
I took aim at his heart. I expected him to issue some last, final remark that would haunt me the rest of my days. Instead, his gaze moved from my face to my hands—like he’d just this moment realized what I was holding. And something in him changed. His expression lightened. His frown lifted into a weary smile. Ian shook his head and surrendered to a laugh.
Confused, I squinted at him. The sound didn’t belong here. Ian’s amusement, deep and genuine, with an unusual amount of cheer, disturbed me as much as the timing.
I tightened my aim as it threatened to waiver. “Ian…?”
“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, “but… Gods it’s good to see you hold that so confidently again. I’ve missed it.” Studying my stance, he gestured at me. “I’d forgotten how steady you were. Are you even breathing?”
“Forgotten? From when? An hour ago? And why wouldn’t I breathe?”
“Malaq thinks you came out of the womb with that thing in your hand.”
“That’s almost a compliment,” I said. “Doesn’t sound like him.”
“There was a fair amount of ale involved.”
“Ah. Makes sense, then. When did he say that?”
“He hasn’t yet.”
“I—what? Are you drunk?” I said, grasping for an explanation.
“I wish. Though, hunting for a drink is what got us into this mess.”
I shook my head. “Goddammit. Do you even know what you did?”
“I lost,” he said. “The battle. The war. My self-respect.”
Anger bubbled up as I reminded him, “Lives?”
“They’re not real. None of this is.” Tilting his head back, rage jumped into Ian’s voice as he shouted at the sky, “I’m coming for you, Isuara! Do you hear me?” His gaze drifted back to me. “Wherever you are, Jarryd, I will find you. I promise.”
“Find me? What the hell, Ian? I’m right here.”
“The real you.”
“I’m not real, either? You’re starting to scare me.”
“Of course, I am,” he chuckled. “Fear is their goal.”
“Whose goal? Who were you yelling at? The gods?”
“If these assholes are gods, we’re in even deeper trouble than I thought.”
“I don’t know what happened, but if you’ve gone mad…it changes nothing.”
“You’re still going to kill me? Good. Let me make it easier.” A groan thinned his voice as he pushed to his feet. Moving closer, with an unsteady stride, Ian stopped when the tip of my arrow touched his chest. “How’s that?”
“I don’t understand. Why are you acting like this?”
“Ending this nightmare moves me onto the next. It gives me another chance to figure out how to win. Or kill them. Whichever comes first.”
“Kill who? Win what?”
“The islanders. My ship. A way back to the real world.”
I studied him a moment, looking for a clue to his babbling. Ian wasn’t intoxicated or injured. There was no bump on his head or slur to his voice. His eyes were clear and honest. “You’re serious,” I said. “You think this world isn’t real. You think I’m not real.”
He shrugged like my concern meant nothing. Maybe it doesn’t.
Ian often praised me for seeing to the heart of a matter, but his very blood let him perceive things I couldn’t. If he was seeing something now… Maybe it’s not madness.
Maybe it’s magic.
If this isn’t real, they’re not all dead. Kabri isn’t gone.
Summoning hope I didn’t have, I glanced around with an uneasy bite of my lip. “Are you saying this is all some oracle spell or shared dream-weave, something your father cast on us? None of this happened? You didn’t—”
“Betray you?” Ian’s stare was hard and steady. “What I’m saying, Nef’taali, is…” He hesitated. “It’s been years since I last saw you hold a bow so steadily. Months since I’ve seen you with one at all. When we left Mirra’kelan, you moved on.”
“Years? We left Mirra’kelan? What do you mean move on? I would never…” Fear burned through me like a cold wind. Uncertainty dropped my arm, and the arrow trailed harmlessly down his chest. I stepped back. “Why? Why would I give it up?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Not to you. But I’d never stop pulling arrows on my own. If you’re telling me I did, then something happened. I want to know what.”
“It won’t make a difference.”
“It might,” I argued. “If this is a spell, maybe the truth will break it. Make me believe you, Ian. Tell me.”
Muscles tensing, he backed up. “What is this?”
“It’s me,” I sighed, “trying to understand why you’re raving like a lunatic.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not you. It’s more of Isuara’s bullshit. Fuck it.” Ian ripped the dagger from his boot. “I’ll do it myself.”
Seeing where the blade was headed, I dropped the bow and grabbed his wrist. “Nef’taali—stop!” Steel nicked the skin of his throat, as I yanked his hand away. “Damn it… Ian…” I grunted, wrestling him for the blade. “Drop it or—”
“What? You’ll shoot me? You had your chance.”
Keeping my grip tight, I shouted at him. “Go ahead! Slit your own throat and save me the trouble. But you’re going to answer my question first. Why did I give it up?”
“Because they broke you!” Ian dropped the dagger with a hiss. Resignation lent a tremble to his words. “I should have protected you. I should have been there.” Absently, he wiped at the trickle of blood on his neck. “But I wasn’t. And they took you.”
“Who?” I swallowed. “The Langorians?”
Jaw tight, Ian shook his head. “This is a waste of time.”
I snatched up the bow and shook it in his face. “If this isn’t real, we have all the time in the world. Where did they take me?”
He held my stare a long moment before yielding. “Darkhorne. They took you to Darkhorne as a prisoner of war.”
There were stories of the terrible conditions inside Langorian prisons. The one in the mines, built directly underneath Draken’s keep, was rumored to be one of the most terrifying places in all of Mirra’kelan.
“I tried to get to you,” he said. “I tried to bargain with Draken to let you go.” Fingers wandered absently to the black shard at his throat. “I offered my life for yours. He took us both.”
“You were there, too?”
“No. I was held in another prison in a different part of Langor. But none of it matters. Not this conversation. Not Kabri. Not your,” his gaze roamed over me again, “your goddamn hands.”
I looked at them. “You said they…broke me. Did you mean—” The words choked in my throat as I saw it: flesh furrowed and torn, knuckles swollen, fingers contorted. I felt it: an ache so penetrating, it radiated through my entire body. Mocking voices promised no respite, vowing I’d—never hold a bow again. Never
see the sun. Never leave.
Panic squeezed my chest. Air evaporated from my lungs.
He won’t come for you.
No one will ever come for you.
My grip became nonexistent. I watched the bow slip from my deformed fingers.
It disappeared before it hit the ground.
The weight of the quiver vanished off my back.
I staggered, baffled, as my wounds repaired themselves. Bones mended. Swelling decreased and scars formed. Puckered marks tightened and thinned in the blink of an eye—then faded as they healed. By magic, I thought, vividly recalling Sienn’s careful ministrations.
She straightened bones, fixed damaged nerves and muscles. It took time for my strength to come back. Even longer for the trembling to stop. They’d never be like they were, but they were better. Functional. Healed. But still broken.
He’s right. I remember.
I looked up, to tell Ian I believed him, but other changes stole my attention. All around us, in a gradually widening circle, traces of the city were disappearing. Bodies were fading from view. Rubble was evaporating. The cracks in the ground were sealing shut. My Kabrinian uniform vanished, replaced by lightweight, cotton garments. My fine, soft-soled boots became sturdy and weather-beaten. I recognized the feel of them. The fabric of my shirt smelled of salt.
Ian was talking, but I couldn’t hear him. Images were in my head, similar to the first few moments after re-establishing a blocked link. Only these weren’t Ian’s memories, racing into me after a long separation. They were mine.
It was hard to make sense of them. Too much was overlapping: battles and faces, streets and taverns. My adrenaline soared with the roar of clashing blades and shouting men. A sense of renewed pride struck me, as I swung a pair of finely-crafted knives. My mouth watered at the smells, as I wandered through Kabri’s market: whole and full of life. Wind slapped my face, as the ship rocked on storm-swept waves.
The Wandering Isles Page 14