Keros caught her and she leaned against him for only a moment, then straightened. She wiped the back of her arm over her forehead. “Nicholas is right. We can’t wait. She’s barely hanging on. But it’s going to require blood. And pain. And a lot of both.”
“What?” Nicholas demanded. “What are you babbling on about?”
Keros looked at Nicholas. “It’s Jutras majick. She can heal with it—I’ve experienced it myself. But it feeds on blood and pain.” He turned back to Ellyn. “I’ll give whatever you need to save her.”
“No,” Nicholas said. “Crosspointe needs majicars more than they need me. I’ll do it. Besides, you can heal me later.”
“If you survive,” Ellyn said. “You may not.”
“Then use me. And there are others as well,” said Red from the doorway.
Keros swung around. Red was holding a trencher with a thick slab of bread covered in a bean stew and three tankards of ale in the other. Behind him came another delat with two more trenchers. “You heard what we need and why? That the Jutras have infected us with their majick?” he asked, frowning at the ease of their offer of help.
“And you can save her life with it,” Red said, his gaze unflinching, his expression taut. “So we’ll do what we have to.”
“Chayos might frown on that,” Keros said.
“If she objects, she will strike us down and refuse us a place on her altar. We do not believe she will oppose us.”
“Why? Why is the princess so important to you that you’d participate in a blood majick ritual? Why aren’t you trying to kill us right now, knowing we’ve become blood majicars?”
Red’s mouth tightened into something that might have been a smile. “We believe she will be the next queen of Crosspointe. That would be enough, but we watched her stand between us and slavering, soul-destroying death with nothing but a lance. He did too.” Red pointed at Weverton. “If they’re willing to die for us, we’re willing to bleed for them. And she said we could trust you.”
The last was both a challenge and declaration of loyalty. Prove yourself, he was telling Keros. Heal her and show us that blood majick hasn’t turned you Jutras.
Keros finally understood the guards around the tavern. They believed the future of Crosspointe was in this room and it was worth dying for; it was worth hurting for. He nodded, his mouth setting in a hard line. “Come in. We don’t have much time.”
“We could use the power from the city,” Ellyn murmured to him. “With so much death and destruction, there’s plenty there to be harvested.”
He was shaking his head before she finished. “No. That’s tainted with fear and suffering and betrayal. Margaret deserves better. Besides, if we must make use of Jutras majick, then let’s do it our way whenever we can. This will be clean and unpolluted. There’s also a chance that voluntary sacrifice will make a more powerful majick than forced. It is the better choice and we have willing volunteers. Now,” he said, turning to Red and the delats crowding in behind him, “who wants to be first?”
Chapter 26
Margaret dreams.
A lustrous silver pearl in a bezel of ice-water black.
A winding coil of gold light twisting tighter and tighter.
A dimpled smile and yellow eyes. Saradapul. The name throbs hot with screams. They return. Once, long ago, this land belonged to them, before the dark times, before the birth of the younger gods.
Bobbin-lace weaving of pain and blood.
Bite. Agony like swords driving through flesh.
Gold light prods, digs.
Invasion.
Silver pearl flinches and contracts. Slides deeper down in a ruined mansion of ice-water silence. Waits.
Waits.
Shattered mirror. Shattered glass. Shattered stone. Drifting leaves. Falling snow.
Puzzle
Fragments seethe like moths around a lamp, settling like heaped bones in darkness.
Light.
Mirror. Glass. Stone. Tree. Snow.
Waits.
Blood pools.
Sifting grains in a crystal hour glass and no time left.
No time left.
Margaret dreams.
In silver dark, sunlight blooms and petals fall in a swirl of still wind. A storm.
The storm.
Beneath it boils a sea of gold, silver, green, and black in a glittering cauldron made of white ice. Shapes rise and fall—amorphous, hard-edged, sinuous. Mist and fire, flesh and root, smoke and spirit. Snow.
The cauldron cracks.
Margaret dreams.
Chapter 27
Nicholas watched Keros and Ellyn make their preparations, all the while clinging to Margaret’s hand. Her breathing was slow and uneven. Every time she let out a breath, he tensed and held himself still until she took another, sagging in momentary relief until she let it go again—then he began the terrible wait all over again.
“How long has she been unconscious?”
It took Nicholas several grains to surface from the mire of his fear to realize Keros was speaking to him. He looked up. “What? I don’t know. She woke up for a quarter of a glass after we brought her here, maybe a little longer. We talked. Then she fainted.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know how long it’s been exactly. Maybe three glasses.”
“It was twenty-two,” Red corrected.
Nicholas stared, disbelieving. Twenty-two glasses? How was that possible?
“Why did you bring her here instead of the Maida?” Keros asked Red as he stripped off his cloak. “Where are the Naladei and Kalimei? Surely they could have healed her.” He reached for a tankard of ale and drained it before forking stew and bread into his mouth. He looked gaunt. As much as Margaret was. And his eyes—they were white. He wasn’t disguising them. Neither of the majicars were.
Nicholas squinted at Keros. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a gossamer spiderweb of gold light spreading across the other man’s skin. He blinked and shook his head. He hadn’t slept since—
He didn’t even know how long it had been. His head was muzzy and he could feel Margaret slipping deeper into the shadows of endless night. Not for the first time did he wonder how he could possibly feel so much for her in so short a time. Losing her would be a mortal wound.
“The priestesses of Chayos have sealed the Maida. No one may enter until—”
“Until . . . ?” prompted the lean majicar.
The delat’s lined face was pained. “Until Chayos sees fit to open it up to us again.”
Keros stared.
“What does it matter?” Ellyn said impatiently. She’d drunk most of her ale and had gulped down half the bean stew and bread. “Right now we have Margaret to worry about and we have precious little time.”
She went to stand over the unconscious princess again, studying her.
“What do you want me to do?” Nicholas asked.
“Keep her from dying until I can heal her,” she said shortly. “Exactly what you’ve been doing.”
What he’d been doing? Nothing. Less than nothing. It was her own stubborn strength and determination that had kept her clinging to life. It had nothing to do with him. Still his hand tightened on hers and he went back to listening to her breathe.
Vaguely he heard the shuffle of feet and the rustle of clothing as Keros directed people where he wanted them. The smell of so many unwashed bodies in the small room was smothering. Nicholas felt someone brush up behind him and he looked up.
Ellyn stood across from him with her hands hovering over Margaret. Red had a hand on her shoulder and the delat next to him had a hand on his. And so it went around the room, the last delat gripping Ellyn’s left shoulder. Each of the volunteers had a set, determined expression. The men had removed their shirts and the women had rolled up their sleeves as far as they could; several had unlaced their collars to expose their shoulders and the swell of their breasts.
Keros stood behind Red. He held a dagger in his hand. “Whenever you’re ready,
” he said to Ellyn.
She nodded, drew a deep breath, and let it out. She took another and closed her eyes. Her hands dropped, splaying across Margaret’s forehead and stomach. Nicholas’s fingers tightened and he prayed with all his soul.
“Remember,” Keros murmured to Red, “this is supposed to hurt. And bleed.” And with that, he began to cut.
The delat’s jaw knotted and his lips clamped tight. His fingers curled tight on Ellyn’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice. A gossamer tracery of gold light rose on her skin. Nicholas stared. He had seen it on Keros also. Then he could hardly think of anything because Margaret convulsed, her body jerking and flailing.
“Keep her still,” Ellyn said in a calm, detached voice. “I need her still or I might kill her.”
How? But he didn’t waste time asking. It didn’t matter. She was moving. It was a sign that she would heal and he had to do all he could to help that happen. He leaned in between Ellyn’s hands and lay across Margaret. He held her head between the palms of his hands and whispered in her ear. Words spilled out and he hardly knew what he said. He told her to be still, he told her what they were trying to do, he told her she had to fight. . . . Slowly she settled, but the tension didn’t leave her body.
Ellyn was muttering beneath her breath. He couldn’t hear the words. He vaguely heard Keros repeating that the cuts were supposed to hurt and bleed again and again. Time slowed. The coppery smell of blood mixed with the stench of fear, sweat, and grimy bodies.
Margaret bucked and hard shudders rolled through her body. Nicholas pressed harder against her. From where he lay, he could see Ellyn’s grubby hand, the fingernails torn and broken. Her skin was scratched and scabbed beneath the gold net of majick that slid over her fingers like a glove and rose up to disappear inside her sleeve. It was brighter now and pulsed softly.
Power swelled in the room and pressed heavily against Nicholas. He breathed raggedly and the sound was echoed by the bleeding men and women circling the table.
“More. I need more,” Ellyn said aloud before returning to her muttered chant.
Soon Nicholas began to hear wimpers as Keros resumed cutting. The power in the room grew thick and dense, like it was filling with molasses. He felt Margaret’s chest jerk beneath him as she struggled for air. He tried to lever himself up and off her. He moved barely an inch.
“Fight,” he whispered. “You have to fight. Don’t let the Jutras win. Don’t let the Jutras beat you. You can do this. Fight.”
He lost track of time. He felt something moving inside her, lumping under her skin. Majick. Ellyn had begun to pant and her hand on Margaret’s forehead was shaking. Then suddenly it firmed and the net of light flared brilliantly and Nicholas shut his eyes against it. Blots of yellow floated across the black of his closed eyelids. The majick in the room impossibly seemed to double or triple, and it felt like he was caught inside a crucible of molten lead. Moments later the feeling faded and he felt Ellyn step back.
“I’ve done all that I can,” she said, her voice thready and weak.
For a single grain there was no sound. Then, “Catch her!” followed by a surge of movement. Nicholas pushed himself up, his gaze fixed on Margaret. She might have been carved from marble. Her eyes were wide open and she stared unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
“Margaret?” he said, stroking a hand over her hair. “Can you hear me?”
No response, not even a flicker of an eyelash. “Margaret!” he said louder. “Margaret!” The last was a ringing shout. Recklessly, he yanked her upright. Her head lolled back over his arm and her hands flopped loosely at her sides. He slid his arm around her and held her head up, turning her to face him. “Margaret. Please.”
Still nothing. The silence in the room was broken only by the rustle of clothing. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Then suddenly Margaret went rigid in his arms. Her mouth dropped open and she sucked in a sobbing breath and began to cough. She swung her legs over the table and leaned down over her knees, one hand clutching Nicholas for balance. At last she was able to sit up. She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her glance took in the room.
“What in the black depths happened here?” she asked, her voice cracking like winter-killed leaves as she turned her head to look at the bloody delats.
Each looked like they’d been through a hail of knives. Cuts spangled their arms, shoulders, and chests and blood drenched their skin and clothing. Each wavered on their feet and watched Margaret like she was the answer to a divine question. Keros held Ellyn on the floor. She’d fainted. If he’d looked gaunt before, now he looked emaciated. Ellyn was worse. Her skin was patched with purple and black bruises and the net of light had vanished like it had never been.
“What’s going on?” Margaret demanded, looking commandingly at Nicholas. Her voice was stronger and she had straightened, her hand dropping from his arm.
“Ellyn healed you.”
When he didn’t explain further, she gestured impatiently toward the delats. “And them? What in the black depths happened to them?”
“Keros cut them to give Ellyn the majick she needed to heal you.”
“What?” Margaret drew back, a look of revulsion and horror washing over her face. She slid to her feet. She staggered and when Nicholas went to steady her, she shoved his hand aside with angry violence.
She examined the delats, her attention hooking on Red. She marched stiff- legged around the table to stop in front of him, her chin jutting. She folded her arms tight across her chest and Nicholas was pretty certain it was to stop herself from hitting him. His lips pulled into a tight smile. She was going to live.
“This is . . . you cracking . . . of all the . . .”
Each time she began her diatribe, she broke off, unable to find words for her anger. She swung around, skewering Keros with a look. “How could you let them do this?”
“It was the only way to save you. Weverton wanted to do it, but they wouldn’t let him,” Keros replied, exhaustion making his voice thick and slow.
“But why?” she asked and her bewilderment sparked an irrational anger in Nicholas that she could not see her own value.
“Why? Because, my dear, they are determined that you will be the next queen of Crosspointe and as such, you are far too valuable to lose. You are the hero of the day. For you they were willing to bleed and to hurt.”
His words mocked her modesty and he saw them strike like blows. Her eyes widened and a flash of hurt crossed her expression before she took herself in hand. Her chin rose and she turned away. Nicholas’s hand clenched. Dammit! What in the name of the gods was he saying? Everything inside him was bubbling with elation. She was alive! She was well. He wanted to dance on the rooftops. Why had he said that? Why had he sounded like he didn’t care?
“Is that true?” she asked Red in a hollow whisper.
The delat nodded. “More or less.”
“But that’s ludicrous. Ryland or Vaughn will rule next. They are far more capable than I am.”
“Begging your forgiveness, Princess, but it is not your place to choose,” he said with a slight bow. He winced as he did.
Her lip curled. “I’m not a damned diplomat. I was raised to fight and kill,” she said harshly as she realized her predicament. She could not refuse to be on the ballot. Each and every eligible Rampling had to put their name in the hat. It was their duty.
“It seems your skills have come in handy in recent days,” Nicholas said. “You may be more qualified to rule Crosspointe than you think.”
“No,” she said quietly and started to push her way out of the room. She stopped and looked at Keros and Ellyn. “Are you all right? Is everyone all right?” She glanced at the delats, her gaze skipping past Nicholas as if he wasn’t there.
“Ellyn and I need rest and food,” Keros said. “The delats—”
“We will take care of ourselves. Our wounds appear worse than they are,” Red said, interrupting.
Margaret opened her mouth
as if to say something, then closed it and nodded. Almost before Nicholas realized what she planned to do, she was out the door and halfway across the dining room. He caught her as she stepped out of the inn into the dawn light. For a moment all both of them could do was stop and stare.
The city was broken. There didn’t seem to be a single building within sight that hadn’t suffered terrible damage. Too many were nothing more than heaps of rubble. Dust and smoke hazed the air and Nicholas wondered how far the damage extended. But he remembered the view from the mountains—the harbor had been decimated by the majicars and so had much of the city. The majickal explosion caused by the defeat of Forcan had only added to the destruction.
Margaret made an animal sound and started to step away. Nicholas snatched her arm. “Where are you going?”
She pulled away and kept walking. She wobbled, stumbling over the loose bricks and masonry littering the inn’s courtyard. “To find Ryland.”
He grabbed her again, pulling her around to face him. He held her firmly. “You fought Forcan and nearly died. You can barely walk. You need food and rest as much or more than Keros and Ellyn.”
“There’s no time.” She stared past him, her eyes wide.
He could feel her muscles tensing. He was still holding her because she was letting him. If she chose to, he was fairly certain she could put him on the ground without a lot of effort, even in her current condition.
“You haven’t heard what Keros and Ellyn have to say about the hoskarna or the Jutras majick,” he argued. “Ryland will want to know all that, won’t he? So come back inside and we’ll find your brother as soon as you’ve heard their report.”
For a moment she didn’t answer. “What if he didn’t survive?” she asked flatly, as if she didn’t care. Except that her body was shaking.
“You mourn him and you keep going,” Nicholas said.
Her gaze rose to his eyes from his throat, where she’d been staring. “My father never meant for me to be queen. The crown was for Vaughn or Ryland. I can’t do it.”
The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe Page 34