“Ivanore! Stop!” he shouted just before the blast struck him on the shoulder. But it wasn’t enough. Erland shouted in pain. He dropped his sword and clutched his injured arm, but he was alive, Ivanore realized. He was still alive.
Ivanore’s legs crumpled beneath her, her strength depleted. She watched helplessly as the other Vatéz soldier rotated his sword and struck its hilt against the back of Jayson’s head. Jayson’s body went limp, and at that moment, something broke inside of Ivanore. She collapsed to the earth, not an ounce of power remaining. The last thing she saw was Erland running toward her before all went dark.
1
Auseret’s dungeon was made of hard, unforgiving stone worn smooth from centuries of prisoners. There was no window to give light or to refreshen the dank air. Breathing here was laborious, like breathing underwater, humid and putrid.
Ivanore sat in the farthest corner, her knees to her chest and her arms laced around them. Her dress was torn and smelled of smoke and blood.
The blood was not her own.
She had emerged from Jayson’s stables to find the big house, where Jayson had nursed her back to health, on fire. Many of the cabins were burning as well, and people were screaming in fear and pain. Vatéz soldiers were everywhere, scattered across the farm like locusts, their blades slashing and stabbing at anything that moved.
Ivanore had stood, taking in the scene of bodies, some already lying dead on the earth, others running, trying to escape their pursuers. She had to do something, and she had—until the magic had sapped her strength, leaving her vulnerable.
She had blacked out, and when she’d come to, Erland was kneeling beside her, holding her in his arms. She had tried to kill him but failed. Feeling his hands on her made her want to vomit. She struggled, trying to free herself of his grasp.
“Stop, Ivanore,” he had hissed at her, shaking her until her teeth rattled in her jaw. “It’s too late. It’s over.”
Jayson.
Terror exploded inside of her as she scanned the fields of Ashlin desperately searching for him. And then, among the chaos, she saw him lying motionless on the ground.
He had been fighting Erland, that she knew. She had called his name, distracting him long enough for Erland to get the upper hand. Or was it him? She couldn’t be sure. As someone’s sword sunk into Jayson’s flesh, his eyes, desperate and sad, had met hers. The connection was electric, tangible. Ivanore tried to reach for him, tried to will her body to move, but she had been weak. She had failed him.
From there, blackness faded in and out between glimpses of the farm and the flames, snatches of screams dimming into silence.
She had remained unconscious for most of the journey back to Auseret, but in those moments when she was half awake, she had no energy to do much of anything. Whether it was her physical or mental strength that was depleted she couldn’t tell. All she could manage was to replay that last image of Jayson over and over in her mind.
It wasn’t until she found herself and Erland riding through the castle gates that she seemed to find herself again. When Erland reached up for her, taking her by the waist, and helped her down from his horse, she acted the part of the conquered. But the moment her feet touched ground, she had snatched Erland’s sword from its scabbard and, in a single unplanned motion, had swung the blade that was much too heavy for her and sliced it across Erland’s chest.
His uniform split open revealing his flesh filleted like a fish. Seeing his blood filled Ivanore with satisfaction, even as he stepped toward her and yanked the sword from her hands. In the brief scuffle, his blood smeared across her dress. Then he had dragged her roughly across the courtyard, through the lower level of the castle and into the dungeon where she now lay. The smell of Erland’s blood upon her reminded her of how much she hated him.
Ivanore rejected the bread and soup brought to her, though she could not resist her own thirst and finally downed the tepid water left for her in a bucket. But she cursed herself for her weakness, for not being able to let herself die with her husband.
Jayson was dead. She had seen it with her own eyes. At first, she refused to believe it and spent the first endless hours curled up in the corner of the dungeon reaching out for him. She reached until her brain exploded in pain, until her own thoughts collapsed in upon themselves in shattered fragments of sanity. But still she tried. She should be able to see him! She had always seen Jayson, in dreams, in visions, in her conscious thoughts. They were interconnected in a way that was inexplicable to her. While her visions of the Vatéz and the Guilde were often unclear and confusing, Jayson was like a beacon of light cutting through the darkness. And now that light had been extinguished.
Finally, with all physical and mental strength drained, Ivanore collapsed onto the stone floor of the dungeon and sobbed until every last drop of energy had left her. And then her mind clouded over, and she fell into a dark, deep sleep.
2
Erland stood before the mirror, his ruined uniform in a heap at his feet. The diagonal crimson slice across his chest stung, but the bleeding had already stopped. It wasn’t as deep as it might have been and would heal soon enough. But the realization that Ivanore had meant to kill him, would have killed him if she had had the strength, pained him deeply.
He could not blame her, of course. And he had reacted out anger, taking her to the dungeon like a common criminal. How would she ever forgive him?
How would he ever forgive himself?
When he and his men arrived at Ashlin, the farm where the Guardians had been hiding, he could feel the tension in the air. His men had marched dutifully for many days. Though Erland had not explained the full intent of their mission, the men knew. Of course they knew. He gave the order to attack at midnight, and Erland said to his men, “Spare the children, if you can.”
It was those last three words he regretted now. If you can.
They were without teeth, without any real power. They were, in essence, permission to kill without remorse. For once the assault began, his men were uncontrollable, cutting down Guardians with frenzied abandon. With the Vatéz spread out all over the farm, there was simply no way to call them back, to curb their insatiable desire for blood.
And so the children fell.
And then there was Jayson. Arik wanted the Seer’s crystal, and Erland had hoped he could spare its owner, for Ivanore’s sake. If not for that one over-zealous soldier, things would have turned out so differently.
Erland kicked his uniform to the corner of the room. He’d have to have a new one made. He reached for the fresh tunic he’d laid out on his bed and pulled it on. The linen felt cool against his skin. Even now, his men lay in their barracks below the castle, sleeping. After Ashlin, it had taken several days to get back, and they were exhausted once they did. He would give them a week’s leave, enough time to visit their families, renew their strength. Then they would resume their drills in preparation for what Erland was sure would come next.
For not all of the Guardians lay dead at Ashlin. Many had escaped, and Arik would want them hunted down and destroyed. But for now, he had the Minister was waiting for him.
Two bad pieces of news Erland would have deliver today: the missing Guardians and—the missing crystal.
Strangely though, Erland did not fear Arik’s reaction. He would be irate, might even have Erland punished. But that paled in comparison to the dread Erland felt at having to face Ivanore again, to see the sorrow in her face. That was more than Erland could bear.
Tucking his tunic into his trousers and checking himself in the mirror, Erland made certain that he was as presentable as he could be out of uniform. He glanced at his sword laying across a chair, its blade still tinged red with his own blood. Then he reached instead for the dirty cloth pouch lying beside it, the one he’d taken from Ivanore when she was unconscious. He’d find a safe place for it, but for the time being he opened the chest beside his bed and dropped it inside. Then Erland turned heel and strode out of his room to deliver his fi
nal report on Ashlin to Arik.
3
Pain.
Jayson’s skull throbbed as though his brain were expanding beyond its confines and threatened to explode right through his eye sockets. But not just his head. His neck and shoulders, his back and chest and arms, all burned as if he were on fire.
Too much pain.
Jayson’s mind roiled with it, wrestling between consciousness and an all-consuming darkness. The darkness, he somehow understood, was a place from which he might not return, an impenetrable void that beckoned to him. Though it promised release from the pain, he resisted its pull.
He must not enter the darkness.
But the pain was too great, tearing at him as if a thousand animals gnawed at his flesh. He could almost see them, chewing at his skin. He batted his arms trying to shake them loose, but still the pain ate at him.
Through it all, though, his mind was pricked with thoughts of Ivanore. Smiling over her shoulder at him as they ran through the forests on Imaness. Her warm breath against his lips. The touch of her body pressed against his. It had been so long since they were together. So long. So long.
Tears filled his eyes and escaped down his cheek.
He could not bear it — the agony of their separation — the tormenting pain. His eyes remained tightly shut against it all.
Somewhere in the distance he heard a voice calling his name, but it was just a whisper, a phantom. It was the angel of death calling him into the darkness, curling its fingers into its palm, over and over. “Come, Jayson,” it seemed to be saying. “Come with me where there is no pain and no sorrow.”
Soon, Jayson felt his resolve weaken. He would fight on if Ivanore was beside him. He would fight eternally for her, but she was nothing but a dream now, wasn’t she? Had she ever been real?
Jayson’s muscles slackened, his will dissolved, and he followed the beckoning figure into the dark.
***
He awoke with a start. His eyes flew open with a sudden gasp of breath. At first, he saw nothing but darkness, and he knew he was dead. He had given up the fight. But then he noticed a red glow to his right, a hovering indistinct ball of light. He blinked. And blinked again. The ball of light resolved into a small pyramid of orange flame, its twisting fingers reaching out through blackened wood.
A fire.
He blinked again and saw how the light from the fire cast a pale glow on his surroundings: straight wooden walls, a chair, a table.
He was on a bed, he realized, with a blanket draped over him. And he was warm. Relaxed. The pain, the intense pain that had driven him into the dark was gone. Only his head still ached a little. He slid his fingers across his skull and was surprised to find it swaddled in coarse cloth. His hands too, he noticed, were wrapped in the same type of cloth so that only his fingers poked through.
He tried to lift his head, but the ache instantly transformed into stabbing pain. He laid down again, and the pain subsided.
Above him near the bed was a window through which he could see a black sky and a few stars. Where was he? This was not his bed in the big house. This was not his room. He recognized none of it. He turned his head to examine the room and spotted a figure lying on the floor, a woman curled up beneath a blanket. For a moment, a thrill went through him. Was it Ivanore? Was she here with him after all?
But the woman stirred and rolled toward him. Dark hair, dark skin. Not Ivanore. But he knew this woman. Her face was familiar. He knew her, or should know her. He stared at her trying to connect her features with his memory. Why wouldn’t it come to him? Her name. Her name was just out of reach, like someone running ahead of him in the mist, laughing as she darted away from his grasp.
Her name.
And then it slid into his mind, sluggish and uncertain.
Dianis.
Jayson opened his lips and tried to form the sounds on his tongue. Dianis. Why wouldn’t the sound come out? Why would his mouth not obey?
Instead of the sounds he knew should be formed, all that rolled forth was a groan, the sound of an animal. It appalled him.
The woman, Dianis, opened her eyes. She sat up and blinked around the room, as though letting her sight adjust to the dim light. Then, once it had, her eyes fell on Jayson.
Suddenly, she was on her knees beside him, her hands wrapped around his.
“Jayson? Jayson, you’re awake.”
Were those tears in her eyes?
Before he could answer her, or at least attempt to, Dianis was on her feet. She ran away from him into the darker part of the room where he couldn’t see.
“He’s awake!” she cried. “Get up and see. Teak! Agnora! Jayson’s awake!”
It was as if she had assumed he might never wake, that finding him so was miraculous. He thought of the bandages on his head and arms. The pain in his head. What had happened to him?
From a far corner of the room a light appeared, like a smaller twin to the fire nearby. A tiny flame. A candle? The word came to him slowly. The light drifted toward him, and behind it were two partly illuminated faces. One he recognized almost at once. A young man with a serious expression. Dianis had said his name, hadn’t she? Jayson grasped at the fleeting recollection of the word — Teak. Yes, that was it.
The other face belonged to a woman, her face etched with years. This must be Agnora, the other name Dianis used, but Jayson could not find her in his memory.
Teak set the candle and holder on the small stand beside Jayson’s table. He looked down on Jayson with disbelief in his eyes.
“It’s true then,” he said to Dianis with an almost doubtful tone. “He made it.” Teak’s voice broke, and he turned away.
The older woman made a clucking, disapproving sound with her mouth. “Of course he made it,” she said. Her hands, cool and calloused, were on Jayson’s neck, their fingers pressing gently but surely against his skin. “Fever’s broke,” she added with a nod. “It was close for certain, but he’s pulled through.”
“Thank the Gods,” said Dianis. She returned to her knees beside him and brushed a delicate touch over his face. Jayson closed his eyes a moment, taking in the sensation.
He wanted to speak, but his throat was dry. His lips cracked. He tried to form a word, but again only a coarse sound escaped.
Dianis responded immediately, and a moment later Jayson felt cool wetness on his lips and the hard metal rim of a mug against his mouth. He drank like someone who had been lost in a desert for days. He swallowed and swallowed until he had to stop to gasp for breath. Dianis removed the mug and set it beside the candle.
“What do you want to say?” she asked gently.
Jayson licked his lips. His tongue felt thick and heavy, but he was determined to speak what was on his mind. He willed the sound to begin in his throat and coaxed it out through his lips.
“Where am I?”
4
When Ivanore finally awoke, sunlight spilled across her face. She felt its warmth before she registered its glow, and blinked against its brightness. As the image before her cleared, she realized that the light was coming from a window, a wide clear pane of glass through which she could see a brilliant blue sky dotted with cottony clouds.
Her next sensation was the softness beneath her body and the thick luxury of a quilt spread over her. Her fingers tested this unexpected setting as if making sure it wasn’t a dream. But it was real. She was no longer in the dungeon but in a bed. Her own bed, in her own room.
Ivanore’s heart dropped. For a fleeting moment, she had imagined herself back home on Imaness in her old room in the Fortress where she was raised. She felt comforted, relieved, until the moment passed and recognition solidified. The room was the one Arik had given her when he had first betrayed her and brought her to the castle in Auseret. This was the room from which she had escaped such a short time ago. But she hadn’t escaped, she realized now. She had been betrayed once again. Tricked into leading the Vatéz to the Guardians and to Jayson.
She pressed her eyes shut again,
her gut tightening against the memory of what had happened. Jayson was dead, and it was all her fault.
She heard the now horrible sounds of the lock turning and the door opening. The shuffle of boots on the floor. The dull thud of something heavy being set down on the table beside her bed.
“Open your eyes, Ivy,” said Arik’s unwelcome voice. “I know you’re awake.”
Ivy opened her eyes. Arik stood beside her dressed in a brown tunic and trousers, not his customary finery. His hair was mussed, and his eyes swam with emotion.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Ivanore did not answer. Instead, she turned her face away from him. She preferred the scene outside the window than to look into the face of her betrayer.
“I know you’re angry,” Arik said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me or to understand—”
“Forgive you?” The words burst from Ivanore’s lips before she could stop them. Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she would not give her brother the satisfaction of letting him see her cry. “Forgive you,” she repeated with a sardonic laugh. “For what you have done there is no forgiveness, Arik. Not here. Not in the world to come. Not even hell would satisfy the demands of your crimes.”
Arik stood silently for a moment. Ivanore pictured his false expression of remorse. Even if he did feel it now, his regret would be short-lived. She had learned not to trust even his sincerity.
“So, you hate me then,” he said in a resigned whisper.
Ivanore swallowed back the emotion that threatened to explode out of her. She measured her words like measuring the weight of coins. “Yes,” she said, “I hate you.”
Arik said nothing. Ivanore heard the scrape of his boots against her floor. What was he plotting now, she wondered? How to take a limb from her and then apologize for the inconvenience? Had he no heart? Had Arik lost all sense of humanity? Or was it easy for him to send Erland to do his dirty work, to let the blood of innocents stain someone else’s hands?
The Crystal Keeper BoxSet Page 21