Uncrowned (Cradle Book 7)

by Will Wight

  And the one he wanted to face the most was also the one he most feared.

  “Wei Shi Lindon Arelius of the Akura clan, chosen of Akura Malice. You face Sopharanatoth of the line of gold dragons, chosen of Seshethkunaaz.”

  Lindon's heart thrilled with excitement and fear at the same time.

  [Well, top sixteen is good,] Dross said. [Nothing to be ashamed of. Stiff competition this year, too, so really you should be proud of making it this far.]

  Lindon would have had to crane his neck to look at Sophara, but he imagined he could feel the heat from her spirit in the air.

  We'll get the tablet of her third round right after this, Lindon sent to Dross. Then we're spending the whole week training against her model.

  [That seems like a lot of work from me for a guaranteed loss for you.]

  Once again, Lindon saw blood dripping from Sophara's claws.

  Even if we lose...we're going to make her work for it.

  ~~~

  [Target Found: the Angler of the Crystal Halls. Location: Vroshir stronghold Tal’gullour, three months after the theft of the prototype scythes. Synchronize?]

  [Synchronization set at 99%]

  [Beginning synchronization...]

  The central world of Tal’gullour was a planet-sized fortress floating in space. When Iri left the Way and entered the reality, the behemoth spacecraft loomed over her.

  Hewn from entire moons’ worth of stone and metal, the fortress looked like a rocky cliff roughly shaped into a pyramid. It contained a full world of life and power within it—at least twenty billion men and women, with many times their number in plants and animals—but she could feel none of it. She felt only the Mad King.

  His aura was a blazing, implacable wave of chaos, like a tide of magma. To most, it would be intimidating, but she had traveled in style.

  She had left her ten-by-ten box back in [ERROR: location not found. Resuming synchronization]…She had left her ten-by-ten box hidden, and had come here in her own stronghold. Iri brought the Crystal Halls with her.

  The Abidan considered the Vroshir an enemy organization, but “organization” was too tidy a word for what they were. Vroshir like Iri and the Mad King had no common goals and no love for each other. Iri was fairly sure that the King would devour her whole if he got a chance.

  The Vroshir were united only in their methods: they liberated worlds.

  When they found a new Iteration, they would scoop up anything they wanted and most of the population and move on. The people would be relocated to one of the massive Vroshir Homeworlds, where their very presence would tether the world even tighter to the Way.

  Their old, depopulated home would be consumed by chaos, but who cared? The people were gone.

  Iri thought of herself as less of a liberator and more of a collector. The Crystal Halls were both her home and her greatest treasure. The stronghold did not lose out to Tal’gullour in size, easily as large as a planet, and definitely outshone the Mad King’s fortress in splendor.

  Iri’s home was a palace of fluted blue crystal spread like a pair of angel’s wings. It had been carved from an astronomically large diamond, and it glittered like a rainbow in the light of the nearby star.

  She kept a population of about a billion living in the planet-sized inner workings of the stronghold, both to keep the vessel shielded from chaos and to take care of her collection. For in carefully sculpted displays all throughout the stronghold, she held the universe’s most rare, beautiful, unique, and powerful objects.

  Which was why the Mad King had agreed to meet her.

  She arranged herself on a throne at the end of an audience hall carved from blue crystal. Every inch of the walls, ceiling, and floor was a masterwork sculpture, and she lounged in a throne made of living light, but she had made no effort to dress herself up. She wasn’t a treasure. Why bother?

  She still wore old, frayed pants and an ill-fitting shirt with her own name sewn onto the front. No shoes. Her hair was a long, electric blue mess that she hurriedly tied back before the King arrived.

  But her accessories were worth more than most Abidan would see in a lifetime.

  Above the crown of her head hovered the Halo of the Deep Earth, a featureless circle of what seemed to be lead. It carried within it the hopes and dreams of a long-dead people, their resolve and their sanity, and it anchored her existence. No Fiend of Chaos could touch her under its protection.

  It had a thousand other uses too, but that was the one that concerned her at the moment.

  From her back extended a pair of smooth, white-plated titanium arms, which fussed around as she tied her own hair back. They didn’t like her doing anything for herself.

  These Presence-guided selector arms were one of the earliest parts of her collection; they wouldn’t catch her eye now, but she’d made them herself from pieces that had once been difficult for her to acquire. They had a soft spot in her heart. When she lowered her own hands, the selector arms rushed in, smoothing her hair back and adjusting her tie.

  Sighing, she left them to it. They fretted like an old nanny.

  Her final accessory was Meloch’nillium, a bracelet that appeared to be made of raw starfire but was actually far more valuable. Its sheer radiance would blind any mortal who laid eyes on it.

  While she waited, she pinched the bracelet and fiddled with it, trying to get it to sit comfortably on her wrist. It was one of the greatest weapons in her arsenal, capable of striking a blow even against Gadrael, the Titan. She just hated wearing it. It was itchy.

  She had authority over all objects crafted by human hands, but she couldn’t control comfort.

  Chimes sounded throughout the Crystal Halls, a unique symphony that had never been heard before and would never be heard again. That was her intruder alarm.

  The Mad King, requesting a meeting.

  With a simple effort of will, she disabled her protections, and then the King stood before her.

  [WARNING: Synchronization reduced to 87%]

  He wore a full-faced helm of ancient bone with two horns rising over his head. Bone plates covered his body from shoulders to ankles, armor that he’d carved from the body of a Class One Fiend. At least its physical manifestation.

  A mantle of black-furred hide fell from his shoulders and brushed the floor behind him, this from a planet-devouring creature that he had slain.

  Within his helm, his eyes burned like red suns.

  Her sense of him was of overwhelming significance, an existence of such gravity that it warped reality around him. The crystal floor pushed away as though it melted beneath his feet.

  Without her protection, every mortal living in the Crystal Halls would have had their minds shattered by his approach. In Tal’gullour, the King had locked himself in self-sealed chambers. If one day his control slipped, he would kill everyone in the Iteration.

  It had never happened. But if he lost control of the Fiend imprisoned in his body, it would.

  After millennia of life, Iri knew many unpleasant truths. One in particular haunted her: she knew that the Mad King thought he had his Fiend under control.

  There weren’t many things that frightened Iri anymore.

  The King lifted a jeweled wooden box that he’d brought, head inclined as though to speak…

  [Synchronization interrupted.]

  The memory blurred, and Makiel felt his awareness returning to his own body. The voice of the Mad King had been enough to disrupt the flow of Fate through which he viewed the past.

  The King was one of the most troublesome Vroshir, a man who continued to exist only because the expense of eliminating him was too much for Makiel to justify.

  He was a true threat on the level of the Court of Seven, one of the few beings in existence that could match Razael, Ozriel, or Makiel himself in combat.

  Makiel’s heart hung heavy. He knew what he would see if he continued to watch. But he watched still, with only his eyes, viewing the events through the celestial lens.

  T
he Angler and the Mad King, two of the greatest enemies of the Abidan, exchanged conversation for only two-and-a-half minutes. The Angler acted like a bored child, squirming on her luminous living throne, while the King stood like a regal corpse.

  Finally, he offered payment.

  When the Mad King cracked open the box, even Makiel leaned forward. Inside was a ball of life and potential, a picture of hope and power, a condensed pearl of raw existence and authority. With the physical eye, it was hard to perceive it as anything other than a ball of light, but Makiel recognized it as one of the most valuable objects to ever exist.

  A Worldseed.

  Even the Angler scrambled forward to clutch at the box, desperate to put her hands on this jewel of impossible value. With disgust, Makiel realized she probably wouldn’t even use it, just display it to visitors as another part of her gaudy collection.

  The entire Abidan Court only had three Worldseeds to their name, and it was their fate to be used for true emergencies. There was very little a Worldseed could not do.

  The Mad King pulled back slightly, and one of the robotic arms on Iri’s back reached into empty space and pulled out a black scythe.

  Makiel sucked in a breath. He had personally forged the twelve prototype scythes that the Angler had stolen, so he would recognize any of them. This was an artful blend of them all, as though she had taken the best aspect of each of them and fused them together. It was masterful work, he had to admit.

  It might not match Ozriel’s original scythe…but it would come closer than Makiel had ever thought possible.

  Makiel felt his hope die, and he released the celestial lens. He had hoped that the Angler had been the one to eliminate Iteration 943 as a sort of test run. She was entirely self-interested, predictable, and therefore safe. If the Mad King had done it, this was only the beginning.

  The King hated the Abidan. He would do anything he could to tear them down. With a Scythe in his hands…

  Makiel realized his lens hadn’t closed. He looked back up into the purple-tinged screen.

  He met eyes like two red suns.

  The Mad King looked up at him as though he could see across time and space. This was nothing but a memory, a recording, an imprint left on the Way. There was no way to detect such contact before it occurred.

  Even so, the Vroshir locked eyes with the Abidan.

  Then he slowly reached out and gripped the Scythe.

  Chapter 18

  “Sixteen competitors remain,” the Ninecloud Soul announced to a roaring crowd. “Since we have such a wonderful even number, our patron Monarch Northstrider has decided to select this year’s Uncrowned with a round of single-elimination duels.”

  The crowd gave a verbal reaction, and the Ninecloud Soul provided a few more details. Once it had finished setting up the fourth round, it returned to the topic that most interested the competitors: the prizes.

  “At last, the rewards will begin. Between now and the day of the fourth round, each Monarch will bestow a gift on two participants other than their own. These are truly treasures that would inspire envy in any ordinary sect, and is a chance for the honored Monarchs to demonstrate their legendary generosity.

  “As each prize is awarded, we will make an announcement, to express to the world the fortune of our surviving Underlords!”

  ~~~

  Eithan popped out from behind a corner to surprise Veris Arelius.

  She, of course, was not surprised. She had turned to face him before he emerged, eyebrows raised. “Cousin Eithan, I was just about to sit down to dinner. Would you like to join me?”

  Jumping out of nowhere wasn’t nearly as satisfying when the other party could feel you coming. “Cousin Veris, a pleasure to see you again. I’m afraid I don’t have too much time, I just thought I’d make a request of your House. Could you perhaps consider not giving me a prize?”

  Her brow furrowed. “You’re the best candidate. We don’t have so many resources that we can afford to spend them outside the family, and you’re our opportunity to stay within the rules.”

  “Ah,” he said, “but not your only opportunity. It just so happens that there are two others with the surname Arelius in the top sixteen.”

  “Not blood members of the family.”

  “It’s not blood relation we need, is it?” he challenged. “It’s goodwill…and it’s money. This allows me to make sure my students get an excellent gift apiece from someone who appreciates them, while I can take a prize from outsiders.”

  Veris still looked doubtful, but eventually she cocked her head. “It seems like we were too late. Someone must have very much wanted to reward you.”

  “Yes,” he said, and they both looked in the direction of his room two floors up. “I had noticed that myself.”

  Within the center of his room, madra from the Path of Celestial Radiance shimmered in a pillar, holding the prize he’d already received.

  Veris nodded to him. “We’ll speak again before the tournament ends, but until then, don’t let me keep you. Go open your gift.”

  Grateful, Eithan obeyed.

  He wasn’t altogether excited about his prize. Besides House Arelius and the Akura clan, only one other faction would reward him so quickly. It would be nothing good.

  When he opened his room and saw the rainbow column drifting in the center, he sent a flow of madra into it. Instantly, the nine-colored light unfolded, presenting his prize: a majestic golden cloudship the size of his palm, drifting on a cloud of the same size.

  Reigan Shen’s voice echoed throughout the room.

  “Eithan Arelius,” the Monarch’s recording said. “This is a model of a full-sized cloudship, The Bounding Gazelle, among the fastest my Soulsmiths have ever produced. You can use the help, can’t you? I know how much you love running away.”

  The Monarch’s self-satisfied voice faded away, leaving the model of the golden cloudship drifting in midair.

  Eithan let nothing affect his mind, his expression, or even his spirit. Reigan Shen’s spiritual perception could be on him, so he did not allow himself to feel any cold anger, any desire for revenge, and certainly not any flicker of contemptuous amusement. If any emotion showed in his spirit, Shen might annihilate him.

  With a smile locked on his face, Eithan thanked the empty air.

  ~~~

  A woman’s voice lectured Mercy from within the column of rainbow light. “An Archlord’s archery is very different from an Iron’s. You should be studying deeper principles, or you’ll just be propelling sticks with string forever.”

  A mundane-looking scripted stone, a dream tablet, floated in the air. Mercy might not have been excited except that she recognized the voice in the recording: it was Larian, renowned archer of the Eight-Man Empire.

  She had the best archery tutors in Akura territory, but other than Akura Malice herself, none of them could measure up to Larian.

  “I’m going to study it right now!” Mercy promised, settling down into a nearby chair and diving into the tablet.

  ~~~

  Ziel rolled a smooth, round pill between his fingers. It was an inch across, far too big to swallow, and glossy as though sealed in wax. It was colored cream and pink, and it smelled of a thousand types of flowers.

  Emriss Silentborn’s voice was rich, motherly, and relaxed. “My Herald Chryleia refined this herself, from fruits and flowers gathered throughout the world as well as a drop of my own sap. It will not restore to you the power you’ve lost, but with time, it will begin to loosen your knotted madra channels. This will be painful. It will take time, and your soul will need great nourishment. However, with the blessings of heaven, you may function as a normal Underlord one day.”

  Ziel’s hands trembled as he held the medicine. Just like that, Northstrider was proven right.

  Unraveling his madra channels would not undo the damage done to them or to his body. It wouldn’t make him an Archlord again, or put him back on the path that might have made him a Herald one day.

 
But it would allow him to use his madra without pain and to exert the skill he had earned. When the pill finished its work, he would be a sacred artist again.

  He placed the pill in his mouth and sat down to cycle, holding it on his tongue and drawing lines of power away from it and into his core. He had to fight back his hope. Something would stop him. The pill wouldn’t work, or the Monarch would take it back, or he would restore his channels only to find that the damage was even more extensive than he’d realized.

  Something would go wrong. It always did.

  Sure enough, the Monarch’s voice continued after a long pause. “…do not push yourself too hard,” she said, “but I see only one way for you to become the man you once were. It will take the direct intervention of myself and several other Monarchs. Do you understand?”

  He did. There was only one way he would get such attention: if he won the Uncrowned King tournament.

  ~~~

  “It’s an elixir,” Altavian’s voice explained to Yerin. “I know it doesn’t look like one.”

  Yerin looked down at the fist-sized diamond in her hands. She’d grabbed it immediately, thinking it was a construct.

  “Put it in a bucket or a bowl and run your madra through it. It will dissolve into a liquid, and then you drink it one spoonful at a time.”

  Yerin held up the crystallized liquid to the light, wondering if it was worth the trouble, then dug around her rooms for a large bowl. She didn’t see why anyone wanted to live with so much space; it became a nightmare finding anything.

  “It’s called a Diamond Veins elixir,” the voice went on. “You have to cycle it a little at a time over the next three days, but it’s said to make your madra channels as pure and resilient as a diamond.”

  She raised her eyebrows as she dug through some cabinets. If the elixir did what it sounded like it would do, she couldn’t see why Altavian hadn’t taken it himself.