The Crown

by Deborah Chester

  Partway up, the road leveled for a short distance.

  From ahead came the clattering sound of shod hooves, and two riders in Imperial armor rode into sight around the bend and halted, blocking the narrow road. They looked as startled as the mercenaries.

  “Mael’s bloody breath,” the commander breathed above Lea’s head. “Cover your hair. Quickly.”

  She obeyed him, drawing up her cloak hood and tucking her long braid out of sight. Her movements of course called attention to her, and one of the soldiers, a decivate, gazed at her hard.

  She stared back, her heart thudding fast with hope. This had to be the patrol that guarded Ismah Pass, the patrol the commander had worried about avoiding. The emblem of the Ninth Legion shone on their breastplates, and their rank insignias glittered in the sun.

  Certain that Captain Hervan would have reported her abduction to New Imperia, Lea believed the entire army must have been alerted by now that she was missing. Although she might be far from the province of Chanvez, where she’d been captured, all Imperial forces had surely received orders to watch for a woman of her description.

  She went on staring hard at the soldiers, knowing her pale skin and blue eyes could not fail to be noticed in this sunbaked province of swarthy people, but when a little prickling sensation drifted over her she realized with dismay that the commander had draped her in a thin veil of shadow magic. Gault alone must know how she appeared to the soldiers.

  The decivate who’d been staring at her blinked and shifted his gaze to the commander. Lea’s heart sank.

  Her throat swelled with the urge to cry out for help, but as though he could read her mind the commander pricked her in the side with his sleeve knife. Stiffening, she sat dry mouthed and miserable, her mind racing to think of some way to save herself.

  Riding sleek bay horses and wearing polished armor, the young officer and his aide looked strong, experienced, and capable. Unlike the mercenaries, they bore no blasphemous tattoos; their faces shone with health and were not raddled with dissipation.

  In contrast, the mercenaries were clad in mismatched armor and rags, their faces dirt-streaked and unshaven. Even the commander’s black armor was dulled with dust, ill cared for of late. But the mercenaries greatly outnumbered this pair of young soldiers. Lea saw the decivate glance at the ground where Commander Shadrael’s shadow should have been but wasn’t.

  “You there!” the decivate called out. “State your name and purpose on this road.”

  “Orders?” Fomo whispered from the corner of his mouth without glancing the commander’s way. “We can take ’em—”

  “Shut up,” the commander breathed.

  Lea noticed how Fomo’s cold, cruel eyes narrowed. He sat his horse alertly, keeping his face slightly averted from the soldiers to conceal the blasphemous army tattoo on his left cheek, a tattoo not crossed through to show him unsworn to Beloth. Although he rested his hand casually on his thigh, from her vantage point on the commander’s taller mount, Lea could see a dagger sheathed inside Fomo’s boot top, within easy reach.

  When Commander Shadrael remained silent, the decivate frowned. “You in the black armor—”

  “You will address me as Commander. I’ll take no impertinence from a decivate on his first posting.”

  The two soldiers exchanged swift glances, and the decivate reddened a little. “All right . . . Commander,” he said, putting a slight emphasis on the word. “I—”

  “Identify yourselves,” the commander broke in, his voice stern with authority. “By whose orders do you question me?”

  “Decivate Lukare and aide,” the young officer replied with equal crispness. “Ninth Legion, posted to keep order in this province by Imperial decree. No one can travel northward by this route without a pass. Produce that at once, and state your name and purpose for traveling.”

  “I’m Commander Buthrel, of the Legate special forces. My orders come from the Imperial Council and are sealed. Yield the road.”

  His tone and air of confidence as he lied had both the soldiers straightening, but neither saluted. Nor did they obey him.

  “I’m not interested in your orders, Commander,” the decivate said firmly. “Only in mine. Show me your pass, or you must turn back.”

  The commander snorted. “So the Ninth is still bandit chasing for the warlord of this sorry province. Wouldn’t you rather be slaughtering Madruns on the border and gaining glory for yourself?”

  Lukare’s eyes narrowed, and whatever expression crossed his face was too fleeting for Lea to recognize. She suspected, however, that the commander had somehow insulted him.

  “I may be chasing bandits, sir,” Lukare said stiffly, “but you and your men look like them. Once again, sir. Your pass.”

  Lea held her breath, expecting the commander to order an attack, but instead he produced a grubby fold of vellum, which he handed to Fomo. The centruin kicked his horse forward and gave it to the aide, who in turn handed it to the decivate.

  Lukare took it with an expression of distaste, his gaze lingering suspiciously on Fomo before he unfolded it. He read only part of its contents before glancing up in surprise.

  “This is a praetinor’s pass,” he said.

  “What of it?”

  “But you—I’m sorry, sir. This is a praetinor’s pass.”

  “And an old one,” the aide said, staring at it over Lukare’s shoulder.

  “There are no restrictions on praetinors,” the commander said harshly. “Or expirations.” He gestured, still holding his small knife concealed at Lea’s side, and Fomo leaned over to pluck the pass from the decivate’s fingers and return it to the commander. “Yield the road.”

  Lukare’s frown deepened. “But you’re—that is, where is the praetinor himself?”

  “Sealed orders. Yield the road.”

  “Sorry, but I must know your purpose.”

  “And I’m not permitted to give it.”

  They glared at each other. Lea could feel the commander coiling his shadow magic like a viper preparing to strike. The disguise spell he was holding over her shivered as though his control was slipping. When she drew an involuntary breath, his knife poked her sharply, and she froze. The gathering force of imminent violence pressed along her back. Not wanting these young soldiers to die, she surreptitiously slid her hand deep into her pocket and curled her fingers around the tiny gli-emerald. Its power thrummed gently within her touch, and she prayed the commander would not notice.

  “I think,” Lukare said, “that we had better escort you and your . . . men”—his nostrils flared in disdain—“to my cohort leader for further—”

  “Your refusal to yield to a praetinor’s pass is tantamount to disobeying a direct order,” the commander broke in. His voice held enough anger and threat that both soldiers reached for their weapons.

  The mercenaries drew theirs first, and the pair of officers froze although they still seemed unafraid.

  “That pass is stolen,” Decivate Lukare said firmly. “Just as your armor and horse are stolen. Legion armor, a horse under cavalry saddle, a praetinor’s pass written under the former regime, a band of thugs at your back, and a—a woman who—”

  The spell of disguise covering Lea vanished as the commander dropped it in order to fling shadow magic at the decivate. Lukare gasped, reeling as though he would topple from his saddle. Beside him, the aide grabbed a horn and blew it loudly.

  At the same time, Lukare straightened and spurred his horse forward recklessly, brandishing his sword. Commander Shadrael lifted his gloved fist and severed, reaching for his threads of life.

  The sudden explosive action caught Lea by surprise despite her anticipation. Her fingers pressed the small gli-emerald deep into her palm, and she closed her eyes, drawing swiftly on its power.

  Light flowed through her, buoyant and strong. She tried to cast it over the decivate as a shield but was too late. The commander snapped one of Lukare’s threads of life. The decivate screamed, doubling up, and Commander Sh
adrael turned on Lea, gripping her shoulder hard.

  When she struck his hand away, light and shadow collided with a terrific bang so loud it nearly deafened her. A buffeting force of magic swept Lea away from the commander and threw her between.

  Breathless and shaken, Lea picked herself up and stood looking about in a place she did not recognize. The sunlight and mountains were gone. Instead, she found herself on flat ground with featureless walls rising on all sides. They curved slightly overhead. It was as though she stood in the bottom of a bowl. The little gli-emerald was alive in her fist, pulsing hard and fast.

  Well aware that there were many layers of between, ranging from the deepest and darkest in what the followers of Beloth called the Hidden Ways, all the way to the joyous, rainbow-hued refuge where the chi’miquai spirits had sheltered her when she was a child, Lea supposed this must be neutral ground at neither one extreme nor the other.

  The little gli-emerald went on pulsing in her fist, casting a nimbus of light around her.

  Knowing how easy it was to become lost in such places, Lea dared take no step forward. A sound from behind her, however, made her turn.

  She saw Shadrael standing a short distance away. His threads of life stretched out from him in a dark knotted cluster, and most of his body was concealed by shadow. In contrast, Lea looked down and saw her own form glowing golden white as though illuminated from within.

  “Shadrael!” she called.

  He did not seem to see or hear her.

  She started toward him, but the air around her suddenly rippled and shimmered, and a warm fragrant breeze blew against her face.

  The sinuous grace of an air spirit flowed around her to hold her back. “Come away,” it murmured to her mind. “I will guide you to safety.”

  Shadrael cried out.

  Lea saw a dark, indistinct figure looming above him, clutching his threads of life in its talons. It tugged him this way and that like a puppet.

  Thorny vines grew around the commander’s legs and torso, tearing open his armor and rending his flesh. His eyes were glowing red like burning coals. He writhed about, trying to break free.

  Compassion filled Lea’s tender heart. “No!” she breathed. “What can we do?”

  “Come away,” the air spirit urged her. “Do not watch.”

  “I cannot leave him,” Lea said. “I must help him.”

  Shadrael looked at her, shouting something she did not understand. Flames came from his mouth, and flaming words and symbols flew at her. They struck the light shielding her, and exploded into ash.

  Startled, Lea felt neither strike her. But Shadrael recoiled as though the flaming words had smote him instead. With his face contorting in agony, he dropped to his knees.

  The thorny vines grew over his shoulders, trying to pull him down. Yet whatever held his threads of life yanked him upright with such cruelty Lea feared they would snap and destroy him.

  Pushing through the air spirit, Lea hurried to Shadrael. He was still struggling against the vines that nearly covered him. At her approach, some of the writhing brambles turned to lash at her, but the light glowing around her charred and crumbled them.

  “Shadrael!” Lea said as loudly as she could. “Come forth!”

  As she spoke, she reached through the thorns and gripped his hand. He was trembling violently, but she held hard to his fingers and pressed the glowing little gli-emerald against his flesh.

  His scream tore her heart open, and an unseen force knocked her away from between. She felt herself flying through the air in a confusion of light, sound, and blazing colors she could not comprehend. And all the while, the air spirit was murmuring in her mind, “It begins. It begins. It begins.”

  Chapter 4

  She landed back in the hard world of reality with a jolting thud. All went black and still for perhaps as long as one heartbeat; then she felt herself scooped up and dragged across the ground.

  There was a great deal of noise close by, whoops and talking and laughter. Over the commotion, someone was repeating her name insistently, but she did not care. This darkness seemed safe, just as when she was very small and her father’s stern voice would rise briefly in another room, forceful and harsh, its tone cold with censure.

  If I keep my eyes shut and do not move, Lea thought, I will be safe.

  Water splashed into her face, shocking her awake.

  Sputtering and sitting up, she blinked, and saw Fomo’s scarred face glaring into hers.

  “That’s right, witch,” he snarled. “You open those big blue eyes and get busy.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “Him!” Fomo pointed at the commander, lying unconscious in the scant shade cast by the hillside above them. “Get him up and moving.”

  “But I—”

  Fomo gripped her shoulder hard, his fingers digging in. Before she could even gasp, his dagger was at her throat. “One more protest from you, and zzsst!” he said, sliding the flat of his blade across her throat.

  She flinched, and he smiled without mirth, leaning so close she could smell his sour breath.

  “You done this to him. You undo it now. Get him moving. Hurry!”

  Lea turned her gaze toward the commander. Blood was running from his nostrils, and he looked ashen. Slowly she slid her hand into her pocket.

  Fomo shoved her hard. “Be careful, witch!”

  Lea righted herself, wondering how she was supposed to help the commander when Fomo was too frightened to let her move. “It’s the shadow magic that’s killing him,” she said carefully. “Each time he uses it, he grows weaker. You know that.”

  “I know you hit him with a spell. Now get busy.”

  Lea dared not argue with his illogic. She pulled herself unsteadily to her feet and saw the pair of Imperial soldiers lying dead and coated with dust, sprawled like the abandoned rag dolls of a careless child.

  Only this was no child’s game, Lea thought, feeling sick. The sun shone bright against her aching eyes. The smell of blood and male perspiration filled her nostrils. Surrounded by violence and na-quai, she could not achieve inner harmony. Miserably closing her eyes, she sought a prayer mantra for the soldiers she’d failed to save.

  “Keep quiet,” Fomo ordered the men, lashing one across the shoulders so that he yelped. “Get your gear and—”

  “Wait, Centruin,” one of the men protested. “It’s our right to strip ’em. You’ll get your share.”

  “Aye!” another man spoke up. “I need new boots and—”

  “You can skin ’em and make their hides into a hat for yourself,” Fomo answered, “but keep quiet. Fools! That patrol will be coming soon.”

  The men rolled their eyes at each other, smirking without concern. As soon as Fomo turned away, they pounced on the bodies of the decivate and his aide, tugging and snarling over the loot like dogs. One man tried on the decivate’s boots, and another hacked off the stiff, coarse bristles of the young soldier’s helmet before trying it on for size.

  “You!” Fomo said hoarsely, returning to her. “I told you to get busy.”

  He shoved her over to the commander so hard she stumbled to her knees, banging one of them upon a stone. Pain filled her eyes with tears, but she checked her outcry. The commander had not moved. He looked ghastly. She feared she’d already done too much and dared not touch him.

  “Hurry,” Fomo breathed behind her. “Hurry.”

  “Centruin!” someone called out. “The commander dead yet? If you’re taking his armor, I want some of it.”

  Fomo whirled around, driving them back with the whip, his dagger ready in his other hand. “He ain’t dead, you hear? He ain’t dead!”

  The men looked sullen, nudging each other and muttering, but before they could challenge Fomo, a horn sounded in the distance. Lea’s head snapped around, and the mercenaries froze in alarm.

  “Mael’s eye,” one of them swore. “That’s a legion horn.”

  The mercenaries grabbed their packs and scattered like qualli into
the brush, abandoning Lea, Fomo, and the unconscious commander.

  Swearing, the centruin crouched by Commander Shadrael. “By the eye of Mael, you ain’t leaving me stiffed like this,” he muttered in determination. “Got something coming to me after all these years standing at your back. M’lord, to arms! We’re under attack!”

  But the commander did not rouse. Lea heard the faint thunder of galloping hooves echoing through the mountains and canyons. She could not tell how close the patrol was, but it was coming fast. As the horn blew again, she hurried to the center of the trail, her heart beating fast in anticipation.

  “Help!” she shouted with all her might.

  “Damn you!”

  Fomo grabbed her long braid and yanked her around, slamming her into the cliff wall. Half-stunned, she gasped in pain as Fomo marched her back to the commander’s side.

  “Ain’t telling you again. Fix him now, witch, or die here and now.”

  Wary of the wild alarm in Fomo’s eyes and the dagger jerking nervously in his hand, Lea said, “You won’t kill me. He needs me for payment.”

  “Your pretty scalp will do for that,” Fomo replied in his rasping voice. “I got nothing to lose. Take your spell off him now, or in Beloth’s name I’ll gut you.”

  Swallowing hard, Lea turned back to the commander, although her hands were shaking and her breath came shallow and fast.

  The commander lay as still as death. The pallor of his handsome face stood in stark contrast to the blood dripping from his nostrils. Despite what Lea had seen while they were between, here his armor and clothing were untorn. His flesh showed no wounds from the thorny vines of her vision, yet now she knew how cruelly they tore at the inner man. She did not know how he had borne such torment for so long without going mad. He had a depth of strength and courage beyond anything she’d ever known.

  Lea took his hand between hers. His flesh felt cold and strange, not quite like death but very wrong. Despite all that he was and had done, she felt fresh compassion overtaking her. I do this to him, she thought sadly. I want to help him, but I make him suffer more.