The Crown

by Deborah Chester

  “About time!” he yelled at it. “Bring your master and hurry!”

  The bird wheeled above him and flew past Lea, making her flinch before it vanished into the darkness.

  “You cannot really mean to do this,” she said now, her eyes huge pools in the tear-streaked pallor of her face. “How can you give me to them? Why not to your brother, for ransom?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “No, you must listen to me—”

  “Why should I?” Shadrael broke in angrily. “I’ve heard everything you have to say.”

  “Can’t I appeal to any mercy in your heart? And don’t say you haven’t any because I know better. You aren’t wicked, not truly. You couldn’t really—”

  Fomo started snickering, slapping his leg in mirth. Lea sent him an uncertain look before turning back to Shadrael.

  “Please,” she continued. “You don’t have to—”

  “Stop begging,” Shadrael broke in. “Show some courage, at least.”

  “Why? Will it alleviate your conscience if I do not cry or plead? If I show you a brave face and meekly accept this fate you’ve dealt me, will you then pretend I am not terrified, or that no harm will come to me?”

  Her words were like needles. He forced himself not to listen. She was his death, his misery. If he listened to her now, he would go mad for certain.

  “Shadrael—”

  “No!” he snarled. “Cry if you must, but shut up. Shut up!”

  “Why should I be silent to please you? Don’t you realize what the Vindicants will do to me?”

  He tightened his mouth and didn’t speak.

  “They’re lying to you,” Lea said, her pretty voice spinning its poisoned web of doubt and fears in his head. “No matter what they claim, they cannot give you a—”

  “Be silent!” he said.

  “I would rather you killed me than submit me to their cruel torture,” she replied. “Fomo has said they’ll pay you even if I’m dead.”

  Shadrael glared at his centruin. “Fomo lied.”

  “Slaughter me, if you care so little!” she cried. “Let my end come at your hands, and not theirs.”

  “They will not kill you,” he muttered.

  She sighed. “You’ve lied to yourself, and now you lie to me. Is this a praetinor’s honor?”

  Never before had she spoken to him with contempt. It hurt. Shadrael felt some thin vestige of pride stir in defense. Angry resentment started to smolder in his heart. It was donare anger, dangerous and cruel, while temptation dug in its thorns.

  Kill her, whispered the harsh voice of madness. Kill her and drink her sweet blood. Crush her dainty skull against these stones and offer her to Mael. You want to. Consider what she’s done to you. You want to. Grimly he compressed his mouth, refusing to be manipulated.

  “I can understand your brother’s motives,” she said. “But what good can come of selling me to such evil?”

  “I do not serve good.”

  “You aren’t evil, Shadrael. You aren’t! You have only to accept the light, to believe in yourself again.”

  He turned on her, gripping her by the throat and drawing his dagger. But Lea’s blue eyes met his, and he could not strike.

  Frustration and donare rage flailed inside him. He needed to kill, had to kill, and yet he did not want to harm her. Desperately he tried to sever the madness, but failed. The agony exploding in his chest made him certain his heart had burst. Dropping his dagger, he released Lea and staggered away, sweating and wracked in torment.

  All his world was crashing down; his honor, his prowess—the last few desperately cherished pieces of his life—were gone. He choked on his agony and shame, and faced a terrible truth: He was donare no longer, a warrior no longer. His magic was gone, expired. He had squandered it all for this blue-eyed wench, and now . . . and now . . .

  He wanted to weep, to scream. Instead, he found himself laughing, the sound hollow and wrecked.

  “Shadrael,” Lea whispered gently.

  Fomo stepped between them. “M’lord,” he said, his voice cold but careful. “They’re coming. Pull yourself together.”

  From a distance came soft chanting. Shadrael recognized that prayer, knew what it was for. A small shiver ran up the back of his neck. Fomo was right, he thought dully. He could not face Urmaeor unmanned like this. Bowing his head, he unclenched his hands and slowly straightened. The pain in his chest was easing slightly.

  His dagger lay shining on the ground where he’d dropped it, moonlight gleaming on its blade. He felt too unwell to pick it up, and pointed for Fomo to fetch it for him. The centruin watched him in silence, making no move to obey.

  Regret and wariness mingled inside Shadrael. For years Fomo had served him ably, but only because he was strong. Now he knew from the centruin’s stance that there was trouble to come. “Fomo . . .”

  His voice came out as a thready croak. He cut off the rest of what he was about to say. Legion commanders did not plead, did not ask for help. Not even destroyed ones.

  The chanting abruptly stopped, leaving silence except for the sighing wind. Listening, Shadrael turned his head. He caught not even the whisper of a footstep, yet the Vindicants were coming.

  Lea, he saw, had retreated up the trail as though she meant to run. There was, of course, nowhere for her to go, unless she threw herself off the precipice.

  “Here, m’lord.” Fomo picked up his dagger and came close, holding it out.

  Thinking he meant to stab it deep, Shadrael stiffened, but the centruin merely caught him close and slid the dagger into its sheath on his belt. When he stepped back, Fomo held the emerald necklace in his hand. A triumphant little smirk twisted his mouth, and he tucked the jewels swiftly from sight.

  Furious, Shadrael grabbed for them, but Fomo gave him a rough shove. “Got to look out for myself, don’t I?” Fomo asked. “You ain’t going to now.”

  Before Shadrael could answer, Fomo gave his commander a mocking salute and vanished into the darkness, climbing the hillside swiftly and angling away from the trail.

  Chapter 6

  A light pelting of sleet began to fall on the mountain, just as the moon vanished behind a cloud. Frightened, Lea backed against a boulder and sought some last means of escape. But the commander blocked the trail in one direction, and the Vindicants in the other. And somewhere on the dark hillside lurked Fomo. There was nowhere for her to go.

  Garbed in long, flowing robes, the Vindicants blended with the shadows so well she could not count how many had gathered. Silent, seemingly unaffected by the sting of wind-driven sleet making her shiver, they stared at Lea with palpable intensity.

  One of the Vindicants approached her. He was almost as tall as her brother and gaunt beneath his robes. Although he wore no cowl or hood, she could not clearly see his face. She did not think she wanted to. His quai was all spikes and barbs, poisoned and black with rot. He stank of blood and ashes. Although she could not see his eyes, she could feel them boring through her.

  She stared back as a mouse might at a cobra. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. Her heart raced beneath her breast.

  “Light Bringer’s sister,” he said, speaking Lingua with a patrici accent. His voice was a deep, oily baritone.

  The smug satisfaction in it, the ringing note of triumph, made Lea swallow hard and glance involuntarily in the commander’s direction. She believed that he could still save her if he wished. These ex-priests and their charlatan tricks were no match for a donare. He could sever their threads of life, yes, even the knotty cords of such evil men as these. Although he was ill, he had but to sweep out his hand and do it, and she would be free.

  I will plead with Caelan on his behalf, she thought to herself. I will gain a pardon for him, and we . . .

  The sleet stopped falling with a faint rattle of ice upon the rocks. Overhead, the clouds parted, and moonlight shone down again just as the pale raven flew to sit on the commander’s shoulder. It pecked the spikes of his armor and flicked its tail u
p and down as its talons scrabbled for purchase on the metal.

  With a blink, Lea realized what she was thinking, what she was wishing for. Appalled by the violence of her desires, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears of shame.

  I have not changed him, she thought bitterly. He is changing me.

  “Lady Lea,” the ex-priest said, “come to me.”

  Panic swelled her throat. Fighting it, Lea choked back her sobs. There were pearls in her palm, gleaming white and soft in the moonlight, pearls formed by her tears. Curling her cold fingers around them, she lowered her hands to her sides and did not obey the order she’d been given.

  “Commander,” the Vindicant said, “bring her to me.”

  When the commander did not immediately respond, hope sprang to life inside Lea. She found herself certain that this time Shadrael would save her . . . and himself.

  But after a pause, he hitched himself forward, moving slowly and awkwardly without his usual grace. When he drew near enough, she saw how deeply his eyes had sunk into his skull; saw, too, the grim slash of his mouth and the furrow of his dark brows.

  Their eyes met in the darkness, hers yearning and afraid, his holding tiny flickers of red flame that came and went, like a sputtering fire. After a moment, she dropped her gaze. There was something very wrong with him, something damaged and strange. He’d tried to kill her, and now he was looking at her as though he’d never seen her before.

  “Commander,” the Vindicant said impatiently. “I have waited long enough.”

  The commander gripped Lea’s sore wrist, the one Fomo had twisted earlier. She flinched, drawing a sharp breath. The commander shifted his grip to her elbow, but when he tugged at her, she held back.

  “Please, no,” she whispered. “For your sake, for mine, stop this now.”

  Although he said nothing, he stopped pulling her. His face was a mask of light and shadow, without expression.

  “I believe in you,” she whispered urgently, desperate to reach him. “They never will. Shadrael, please listen to me. I love—”

  The Vindicant’s voice uttered a word of potent magic. A small blazing ball of fire formed in the air, striking the commander so hard he staggered and dropped his hold on Lea. She was close enough to feel the backlash of the blow he’d taken. Hot prickles of shadow swept across her. Shocked, she flung her pearls at the Vindicant before she had time to think.

  Several of them hit his robes and burst into flames, driving him back a step. Yet before she could feel even fleeting satisfaction, the flames died, leaving the air stinking of sulfur and ash.

  The ex-priest straightened, dusting off his robes. “Your pathetic element magic has no real power,” he said contemptuously. “You will not play such tricks again.”

  As he spoke, he raised his hand. A glowing nimbus of green and yellow magic swirled around it, then shot toward Lea.

  Too late for her to form an inner triangle of resistance, too late to even dodge. His magic struck her hard, as hard as his previous blow to the commander. Like ice, it stabbed through her vitals, robbing her of breath and nearly her reason. Cold tendrils of it knotted around her heart and lungs, squeezing . . . squeezing . . .

  Unable to speak, much less fight it, she feared he would kill her, but she could not draw enough breath to scream surrender.

  “Urmaeor, enough,” the commander said.

  But the Vindicant only squeezed harder, making the moonlight spin around her while shadows danced across her eyes. She felt her quai crumbling. Her hands clawed the air as she struggled to breathe, yet somehow she retained enough sense to resist using the tiny gli-emerald in defense. Not yet, she thought, praying that Urmaeor would not kill her on the spot. This is only the beginning. It will get much worse.

  A ghostly echo of laughter entered her mind as though he’d read her thoughts, and then the Vindicant lowered his hand.

  Released, Lea collapsed in a heap, struggling to breathe. She felt chilled to the marrow, defiled, and sickened. Her quai lay in pieces, its harmony broken. Even so, she summoned enough defiance to raise her head and glare at him.

  He was smiling smugly. “Is your first lesson to be one of many, or do you learn fast, Lady Lea?”

  Drawing a sharp breath, Lea swiftly emptied her mind of all thought of gli-emeralds.

  The Vindicant tilted his head a moment, pursing his lips, before shifting his gaze to the commander. “Jewels?” he asked. “Emeralds?”

  “Given to my men,” the commander replied.

  “I wonder.”

  The commander said nothing. He stood motionless, his dark armor as one with the mountain shadows.

  Urmaeor approached Lea, who remained kneeling on the ground. She hardly dared breathe, in an effort to keep her mind a blank. When he bent to caress her hair, she flinched. He chuckled, the oily sound of his amusement making her gentle mouth tighten.

  Touching the cold ground, she called inwardly for an earth spirit.

  The Vindicant stamped on her hand. Pain throbbed through it, making her cry out. For an anguished moment she thought he’d broken it.

  He yanked the back of her hair hard enough to raise tears in her eyes. And all the while her hand was throbbing and swelling as she cradled it.

  “A slow learner,” Urmaeor crooned to her. “There are many lessons for you to learn, and the first is obedience.”

  “I follow the teachings of harmony,” Lea replied, her voice shaking. “I shall not obey you.”

  “Really? In that case, we have much to do. It will be a pleasure to corrupt you, Lady Lea.”

  She opened her mouth, but he was too fast for her. His spell hit her hard, harsher and crueler than any of the commander’s, and she never felt herself fall.

  When Lea slumped to the ground, Shadrael took an unsteady step forward, but Urmaeor was quicker, moving between him and the unconscious girl.

  “No, Commander,” the priest said softly. “Do not interfere.”

  “I did not bring her here to be tormented.”

  “You brought her to me because I hired you,” Urmaeor said coldly. The power crackling through his voice drove Shadrael back. “Your involvement with her is finished. Leave her to us.”

  “It’s her brother you want to harm. She’s no—”

  “Must I waste breath debating stupidity?” Urmaeor turned away from Shadrael and gestured at his minions.

  Several of the Vindicants surrounded Lea. One of them picked her up, and Shadrael saw how small and delicate she looked in the man’s arms. Suppressed as she was within Urmaeor’s spell, the pale radiance of her hair and skin had faded. Not even the cold touch of moonlight rekindled it.

  An anxious pang pierced Shadrael. “Take care!” he said sharply. “She’s more fragile than she appears.”

  “Why, Commander,” Urmaeor said in a silky voice, “do you dare instruct us?”

  The warning was all too clear. Fighting back his tangle of feelings, Shadrael swallowed. “If she dies before you maneuver the usurper into your trap, our effort is for nothing.”

  Urmaeor stared at him coldly, but instead of answering directly he produced a small knife and cut off a strand of her pale hair. He held it aloft so that its silky length fluttered in the cold wind.

  “Here!” he cried. “A fresh prize for your victory banner.”

  The insulting mockery cut deep. Shadrael fought to hold his temper.

  “Take it,” Urmaeor insisted. “You have earned the right.”

  “Am I some barbarian, some Madrun piece of filth hanging scalps from my tent pole?” Shadrael asked. “Enjoy the prize I’ve brought you, but do not mock me again.”

  “Don’t be a fool! Take the girl’s hair to the usurper. Tell him our terms.”

  “I’m not your lackey,” Shadrael replied harshly. “I’ve done my part. Pay me, and let’s be done.”

  “What? Coin for your jackals? But no, you’ve paid off your men, or so you said.”

  Resentment washed through Shadrael in a tide of hea
t. He could feel the forces of shadow around him, the very darkness that should have strengthened him. Now, thanks to Lea, its comfort was denied him. No magic, no future, he thought bleakly.

  “I want the soul you promised me,” he said.

  “Of course.” Once again the Vindicant held out Lea’s hair. “Here is a piece of her beauty to keep close by. Call it a trophy, and let it sustain your memories on the cold winter days of regret.”

  Shadrael reached for his sword, although he lacked the strength to draw it. Urmaeor’s laughter rang out, echoing off the rocks before he abruptly cut it off.

  “Whatever spell she’s cast on you, shake it off. There is work to be done, and more service for you.”

  “I’m done, and I want payment.”

  “Lord Barthel intends you to do more.”

  “No.”

  Urmaeor drew his pale robes more closely about his tall person. “I told you before we have need of the strongest donares, need of able-bodied commanders. This is but the first phase of our . . .”

  Shadrael’s concentration wavered. Drawing a ragged breath, he felt the knot of pain in his chest throbbing so insistently now he wanted to groan. Thinking he might swoon, he gritted his teeth in an effort to hang on.

  “Commander, are you listening to me? I said—”

  “I want the soul promised to me,” Shadrael whispered, pressing one fist to his breastplate. “I must have it. Now, priest. Now!”

  Without warning, fire shot from Urmaeor’s hand and knocked Shadrael off his feet. He went tumbling, crashing hard to the ground, and lay, winded and helpless, the priest’s magic burning along his limbs like sweet fire. His craving for shadow consumed him, and for a moment he sank deep into the chattering, screaming voices that were babbling madly inside his head.

  “Make no demands of me!” the priest shouted.

  Shadrael shuddered, fighting his way back from the precipice one more time. Even so, he did not think he could hold on much longer. Certainly not if Urmaeor continued to play his stupid games.

  “On your feet,” Urmaeor said. “Face me and receive your orders.”