The Complete Duology

by M H Woodscourt

  Kive’s defiant voice seized Gwyn’s attention.

  “I will not release you.”

  Gwyn realized only now he didn’t hold the Crown anymore, and he glanced down to find it lying in the grass, teeming with threads of black. What should he do? He couldn’t let Kovien have it back, for while it was a thing of evil, alone it could do little. In Kovien’s grasp, it could do nearly all.

  Afallon, lend me strength. Help me know what to do.

  Magery couldn’t break or seal the Crown. Nor could the power of the Ilidreth. A unicorn was too pure to touch such wickedness unscathed—the Fiend was proof of that.

  What did that leave? Nothing temporal would suffice. Only the divinity of Heaven could combat this vile thing.

  “Gwynter.”

  He looked up from the artifact and found Lady Shalesta, Queen of Ilid, standing before him, wreathed in light. She held out her arm and uncurled her fingers to reveal the blue gem. “Behold, a starstone crafted for a mortal queen’s crown, twice used to save a life. It has one last use.”

  Gwyn plucked it up. He stared down at the Crown upon the ground. The surrounding grass had withered.

  “A crown against a crown,” he whispered, “and one last life spared: the world.”

  Gwyn knelt and pressed the starstone against the Crown of the Blighted. What would become of him, wielder of the stone, a mere mortal standing against immortal magic? Would this be his end?

  Kovien screamed. Broke free of his invisible chains. Raced toward Gwyn with magic flowing on his fingertips. But his stream of magic rebounded, broken by protections put in place in ages past. Kive tackled Kovien in the next second, drawing him to the ground.

  Surging power resonated from the Crown and the blue gem, pulsating and trembling. Pressure caught Gwyn in a kind of ethereal grip, as light and dark collided in a conflict unseen by mortal senses. He squeezed his eyes shut against a blinding stream of prismatic light as the ground quaked and rumbled. Yet he witnessed the struggle even still. Lightning crawled across the sky and the sun dimmed as the Weave leeched celestial strength from above to charge the stone. The Crown hummed a last furious note of wrath and ruin—and cracked in half.

  Kovien screamed the same ugly, piercing note, then fell limp beneath Kive’s grip.

  The sun returned. Birds trilled a question. Gwyn sank back against his ankles, frame racked with shivers. His blood ran cold and sluggish through his limbs and he gasped for breath. Gazing down, he found the stone too had cracked in half, and his heart throbbed for the loss of a star. It had sacrificed itself for Gwyn’s sake, because he asked.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, stroking a finger across the polished surface.

  Kive dragged himself to his feet. “Shiny. Shiny, are you well?”

  Gwyn looked up and offered a tremulous smile. “Y-yes, Kive. I am well.” His eyes slid down to gaze upon Kovien’s motionless body. “Is he dead?”

  Kive glanced at the Crow King. He bent toward him, cautious. “He does not—”

  The Weave pulsed. Kovien’s eyes flashed red, then he disappeared in the next instant, and a crow stood where he had been. In a flurry of black feathers, the crow took flight with a cry. Gwyn reached up, summoning the Weave to spear the Crow, but the magic sputtered and died upon his fingertips and his arm fell with a quiver to his side.

  “Shiny, Crow is getting away!”

  Gwyn tried to command Kive to stop Kovien from retreating, but his vision distorted, and he felt himself careening forward. Arms caught him. He resisted sleep, urging himself to rise—to give chase, but his body wouldn’t respond. He turned his head enough to watch as the Fiend bolted away, while Aluem looked on. The black unicorn didn’t race toward Crowwell as Kovien had, but along the highway northward, away from his master.

  Gwyn’s lips stretched in a smile. Perhaps the Fiend had been freed of Kovien’s grip. Perhaps he could find some measure of healing.

  Perhaps…

  He slumped forward and let oblivion claim him.

  Chapter 42

  “Tell me there are no new stars in the sky tonight.”

  Celin’Laen turned from the heavens to watch Nathaera approach, wrapped in her matted furs, hair braided over one shoulder. Her eyes carried a familiar glow of concern.

  He smiled to reassure her. “None, my lady. While a change has taken place, I do not yet understand it. Something has shifted.”

  She sat in the grass beside him. “A good or a bad shift?”

  Celin’Laen frowned and turned to regard the swaying wild grass of the hill where he had taken up the night’s watch. Moonlight coated the grass like silvery feathers. “A good shift, if I must guess. But I cannot say for certain.”

  “It’s Gwyn,” Nathaera said. “I woke from a dream about him. He defeated the Crow King.”

  Celin’Laen shook his head. “The tyrant yet lives.”

  “I didn’t say he killed him. He defeated him.”

  The Ilidreth smiled patiently. “If you insist, though you are not a soothsayer, my lady. Your dream may only have been that: a dream.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t profess to be clairvoyant. But I know Gwyn and I know he defeated the Crow King.”

  “Yet dark clouds gather on the horizon and the Weave speaks of war.” Celin’Laen turned his eyes southward. “Defeated or otherwise, the Crow King is not done fighting.”

  “I know that too. But Gwyn is alive.”

  He glanced at the human girl. “Yet you asked me about the stars.”

  “I had to be sure.” She drew her furs closer. “He’s the sort of man you expect will give his all to the cause he upholds. I fear he’ll fall before it’s over. I pray otherwise, but if Afallon claims him, what can I do?”

  “You place great faith in your god. Do not doubt that he will reward that.”

  She smiled and drew her legs to her chest. “I don’t. Not really. But Afallon’s rewards aren’t always what we covet.” She sighed. “Gwyn is a great man. A good man, but also great.”

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Such men are rare and often martyrs. But such men are needed after wartime, too. Surely Afallon raised Gwyn up not just to fight and win, but to rule a nation justly. To teach other men to be good and great men too. I believe that, Celin.”

  “As you should. Such faith is noble.” The faint thunder of light hooves down the highway drew his eyes toward the sound. “Hush a moment, lady. Something rides this way, and if my ears do not deceive me, it is the graceful gait of a racing unicorn.” He listened a moment more. “It carries two.”

  Nathaera let out a cry of joy as she leapt to her feet. “Does he return so soon?”

  “We are much nearer to Crowwell than before. It is possible the unicorn could cover the distance if his strides are long and true.” Celin’Laen rose to join her. “Yes, it is Aluem. He is but a few leagues away and riding swiftly. Come.”

  Nathaera pranced after him toward the silent encampment. They passed the dark tents and stood at the borders of camp to wait for Aluem’s arrival. Nathaera tugged on her braid, while Celin’Laen remained still, though the same needles of concern pricked his heart.

  There. A white shape appeared against the pitch-black night. Celin’Laen started forward, and Nathaera sprang past him, racing across the wet grass until the unicorn slowed before her.

  “Gwyn!” she cried, soft enough that the camp didn’t stir, though her voice rang through Celin’Laen’s sharp ears like a tolling bell.

  Aluem reached her side in the next second, as Kive shifted on the unicorn’s back to let them both see Gwynter’s face. The king lay unmoving, draped in Kive’s arms, limp and deathly white.

  “Kive, oh Kive, what happened?” asked Nathaera.

  “Shiny broke the Crown, Fairy Wren. Shiny broke the Crown, and the Crow flew away.”

  Celin’Laen’s soul shuddered at the implications. “The Crown, Kive? Do you mean the Crown of the Blighted?”

  ‘Indeed, he does,’ answered Aluem. ‘He broke
its power using the starstone of the Swan Queen. Alas, he is wounded from his action, and his arm needs tending to at once. It may already be too late. Behold.’

  Celin’Laen turned his gaze to Gwyn’s right arm. His fingers and hand were black, and already his arm darkened.

  “Prince Kive, give him to me,” Celin’Laen said, reaching out his arms. Kive handed Gwynter down without complaint or inquiry. Celin’Laen hoisted Gwynter, turned, and sprinted lightly toward camp. The others followed, anxiety taut on the wind.

  Celin’Laen brought Gwynter to the largest tent, where Prince Fayett sat up with a start and blinked at him sleepily from his bed. It took a moment for the young prince to comprehend what he saw, and Celin’Laen was already laying Gwynter out across a plush pillow on the floor as the prince cried out and bounded from his bed.

  “He’s returned!”

  “He is tainted,” said Celin’Laen shortly. He whipped around as Aluem entered the tent.

  ‘I am here. We may begin.’

  The unicorn trotted near and bent his head to touch his horn against Gwynter’s arm. Celin’Laen knelt, rubbed his hands together to banish the cold, then rested his palms against Gwynter’s icy fingers. “The star could not banish this?”

  ‘The star gave its life to destroy the Crown. It could do no more.’

  Celin’Laen nodded, closed his eyes, and drew upon his essence. The Weave flowed through him like a warm stream, light and laughing. It traveled down his arms at his urging—and recoiled as it touched Gwynter’s hand. Celin’Laen pressed it onward, and the Weave coiled around Gwynter’s fingers, humming as Aluem’s horn ignited with purest light.

  “Will he live?” asked Nathaera far away. Celin’Laen ignored her and gently pressed the Weave into Gwynter’s blackened limb. The Winter King remained still and cold, chest rising and falling faintly.

  “Can I help?” Fayett asked. “Can I do anything?”

  Celin’Laen ignored him too and drew from deeper within himself as the Weave weakened. The world’s magic was weary already from combating the Crown’s taint. He pressed harder, even as his body trembled.

  Aluem’s horn flashed with colors, all colors, some named and others not. The unicorn sank to his hindquarters and bowed his head as Celin’Laen thrust the last of his strength into Gwynter’s arm.

  With a shuddering sigh, he bowed his head and gasped for breath. “We have…done…all we can…”

  Nathaera stepped between the two of them to rest a hand against Gwynter’s forehead. “Will he live?”

  “It was never a matter of death, at least in the sense you understand. Whether he shall remain Gwynter as we know him, it is too early to tell. We will know with the dawn.”

  “What do you mean, as we know him? What else would he be?” asked Fayett.

  Celin’Laen curled forward to rest his head against the pillow. “The Crown began to taint him. Should it have reached his heart, he would become fallen. Not as Kive is fallen, for fae fall differently than man. It was the risk he took to break the Crown’s power, and the cost might have been his identity. If he wakes and knows us, we have acted in time.”

  “He might have forgotten us?” whispered Nathaera.

  “He might have forgotten all,” Celin’Laen murmured. “A fae cannot truly forget what he is, no matter how hard he might try. But a man is changeable, fluid, able to grow or to digress as no other creature. Unfortunately, this allows magic to write itself over him, given the chance. The Weave of itself would not; but a tainted magic like the Crown of the Blighted, whose purpose is to override the will of its wielder, would wipe away a man’s identity should it enter his heart.”

  “Did it?” asked Nathaera. “Did it enter his heart?”

  Celin’Laen lifted his weary head to meet her wide and frightened eyes. “Not so far as I can tell, but as I said, only the dawn will bear the answer. Now, my lady, prithee, let me rest.”

  Her feet retreated a step or two. “Of course, Celin. I’m sorry. Sleep. I’ll watch over Gwyn until the morning.”

  Fayett spoke, his voice distant and fading. “Help me move him to the bed, my lady. We should make him comfortable.”

  The dawn had never been so slow to arrive. Nathaera sat beside Gwyn, where he lay unmoving upon the bed. She’d prayed through the hours of night, making every promise she could think of that might improve her character, if only sweet Afallon would let Gwyn remember her. She’d gone from promises, to silent weeping, to more promises, to pacing, to more weeping. Now she stared at Gwyn’s face as the first rays of morning painted shadows across the canvas walls of the Fraeli prince’s tent.

  Fayett stayed close by, maintaining his own silent vigil, but he moved forward now as she leaned in. “Any sign?”

  She shook her head, but a faint moan escaped Gwyn’s lips as his eyes fluttered open. “He’s stirring.”

  Fayett closed the distance from his bit of floor and the bed and leaned over her to watch the king’s eyes flutter open again. “Your Majesty?”

  Nathaera scowled. “Don’t confuse him.” She leaned closer still and smiled. “Hello, Gwyn. How do you feel?”

  He blinked a few more times, then turned toward her. A smile spread across his lips. “Hello, Natty. I feel terrible.”

  Nathaera squealed and flung her arms around Gwyn’s neck, showering his face with kisses. “You’re all right! You’re all right!”

  He laughed weakly. “Of course I am.” He stiffened. “Nathaera.”

  She pulled back. “Yes, Gwyn?”

  “The Crow King got away. I broke the Crown’s power, but he escaped back into Crowwell. We must continue our march. We must take him down.”

  She opened her mouth to protest. Let the Crow King wait a day at least; Gwyn must recover his strength. But the firmness of the Winter King’s eyes told her that any attempt to dissuade him would waste time. She closed her mouth and nodded.

  Chapter 43

  It began with rumors. People whispered that the Crow King had murdered over a hundred men and women in the main thoroughfare before he rode out to duel the Winter King. There he’d been defeated, and many claimed they had seen him flying in the form of a crow back to Crow Castle to die.

  Too many reports agreed about the massacre in the streets and the subsequent duel for Towwen Stone to write them off as hearsay. But whether the Crow King was dead, he was far less certain. His gut insisted the Crow King wouldn’t die so easily, so quietly. And if it were so, where was the Winter King? Should he not ride into the royal city to declare his victory? Some whispers insisted Gwynter had died; that he had defeated the Crow King by sacrificing his own life.

  The only fact Towwen knew was that the city gates had been shut and no one could leave. After that, the looting began. Fear rode the winds. The people grew uneasy, then restless, then bold. Soldiers existed, but they appeared almost aimless, uncertain. Headless. Blood ran in the streets for days. Many people hid in the cathedrals and churches to escape the chaos.

  So it remained until a horn sounded from the gates. Towwen looked up from the letter he’d been composing and set aside his quill. Rindermarr’s eyes met his across the prayer room of Quee’avv Cathedral.

  “The Winter Army is here,” said the priest.

  Towwen let out a breath. “Blessed Afallon be praised. Could it be true?” He rose and bolted for the door, Rindermarr on his heels. They clambered down the passage steps and across the vaulted hall, out into the courtyard.

  Priests and refugees dared to venture forth, joining Towwen and Rindermarr in listening to the second volley of notes from the gate.

  “He’s truly come,” cried a voice, half-hysterical. “He’s come to free us!”

  A smattering of cheers echoed across the courtyard. Towwen looked at Rindermarr. “We need to reach the gates. We have to open them.”

  “Impossible. We’ll be cut down before we can get close.”

  The horn blasted a third time.

  “That’s the call to arms,” said Rindermarr. “Every so
ldier in the city will head for the gates. It’s a death sentence to go there now. We’ve done our part. We can only watch and pray.”

  Towwen shook his head, heart pounding. “I can’t be idle in such a moment. Shall the city stand by while others fight our battle? Nay, sir, I will not abide it. We must fight. We must call others to rally and take the gates.” His eyes widened. “The Scrawl!” He whirled and sprinted for the cathedral gate.

  “You’re mad, Towwen!”

  Towwen didn’t look back, but he laughed as he raced for the center of the city.

  It didn’t take long before a soldier noticed him sprinting through the streets. “You, stop!”

  Towwen barreled on, barely feeling the slap of his own feet against the hard ground. He heard the pounding of pursuant boots behind him and prayed he could keep up his stamina. He wasn’t much of a runner, inclined to study and thought rather than physical prowess, but if he survived this madness, he intended to take up a sword and learn to use it to defend others. Not because he relished the thought, but because if his countrymen were plowed under by a tyrant’s merciless war machine, he would not stand by to see it done again.

  Puffing for air, Towwen staggered through a jostling throng of frightened citizens intent upon the distant gates. The soldier barked orders for the people to stand aside, but no one heard. Towwen broke free of the crowd and threw the last of his strength into one last dash to the city’s center. He careened to a halt as he reached his goal and glanced back to find the soldier fast approaching.

  Towwen summoned the Weave and etched the keyword into the air. No message attached to the spell now, and so his own visage projected into the minds of all within Crowwell.

  Wheezing, he spoke as quickly as he could. “Citizens and countrymen, we the people have been silent too long at the ax and plow. What becomes of Simaerin now is upon our heads. Sit and watch or rise to fight—those are your only choices. You know the nature of the Crow King; you have seen and felt his tyranny far too long. Yes, those who opposed him have died, but even now an army stands outside the gates of Crowwell to resist such oppression. Rise, Simaeri, and grasp liberty with your very souls! Go to the gates and open them for our new king!”