“Rules are made by the bold and followed by the weak.” He frowned at me. “We both know which one you are. Still, I’m not interested in changing the past, only to learn from it. Tam’s formulas, his mixing of herbs and auras, are downright remarkable. His work with hornblende is particularly brilliant. Did you know, when ground into a powder it disintegrates and is completely tasteless? Even by the discerning palate of a Queen.”
I gaped at him. “You fed hornblende to Neela?”
“Not me. The spell on your friends was my safeguard should you ever escape. The hornblende was Draken’s. Poisoning is a perverse way for a husband to make his wife less appealing to another man, but we are talking about Draken.”
“Poisoning? She didn’t act sick.”
“The side effects come and go. But one thing remains constant. The bulk of the spells cast on, or around, Neela Arcana will run afoul. They will be twisted and weakened.” He leaned down close. “I do hope you haven’t cast anything important with the little bitch standing beside you. It might unravel when you least expect it.”
I struggled to keep the panic off Varos’ face as I thought of the vital spells Neela might be interfering with at camp; the healings, the elemental workings, Sienn’s efforts to keep the place hidden. It made my need to leave that much greater.
“I’m glad you came to visit, L’tarian,” he said, “I really am. How else would I have known the crown was working again?” He flashed a grateful smile. “But while there is still much to learn here in the past, it’s time I go back and address the future.”
“Draken will fight you for the realms.”
“He will fight and lose.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re in any shape to guarantee a win.”
“I may not currently have the magic to bring a swift end to Draken’s reign, but I have men. And Langorian brutality can only stand up to compulsion for so long. You cut the legs off a spelled man and he will crawl into battle on his bloody stumps. My army will outlast his. My empire will be born. Possibly, a child will be as well. With her lineage, Sienn will make the perfect Empress….even if she does turn out to be barren.”
“I’ve seen your body; the hide, the claws. You can’t risk passing that on to a child.”
“When the crown has restored me, I will be more than I was before. Why would I not share that? Why would I not want a nice, dutiful boy…to replace the ill-mannered one who died so tragically?”
My pulse jumped. “So that’s it? You’re just going to kill me?”
“I’ve tried not to.” I laughed and he pointed angrily at me. “You know how hard I tried. I kept Draken off you as long as I could. I offered you a place by my side. I gave you every chance. But you have no vision. You deny what could be.” Tam’s hand rested gently on my shoulder. “I am sorry, L’tarian,” Jem said, with such feeling I might have believed him. But he was adjusting his grip on the knife. “This isn’t how I wanted it to be.” He lowered the blade.
“No… Jem—don’t!” Thrashing, I fought against the restraints. “At least let us go back. Settle this in our own bodies.”
“We tried that once. The blade was in your hand then and you didn’t hesitate. Besides, you are my only real opposition and you are lying here helpless before me. I would be a fool not to be rid of you.”
“You’re right. But you can’t kill Varos. He hasn’t done anything.”
“Even now, in the face of death you beg for the life of another?” Jem sunk Tam’s face into a deep frown. “Will you ever learn? Shinree aren’t meant to be valiant or selfless. We Reth weren’t made to be champions. We’re conquerors. Warriors. We are Emperors. To settle for less only brings frustration. And death.”
“Wait…”
“There’s nothing else to say, L’tarian. A son is meant to stand beside his father. Not against him.” I started to speak and he cried out, “Enough!” and slashed the knife across Varos’ stomach. My scream seemed to startle him. Blood ran from the open seam, and Jem dropped his weapon and staggered back.
As he stared down at what he’d done, for a brief instant, pain and conflict twisted Tam’s face into a deep grimace. I wondered who the expression belonged to and who it was for; Varos, or me. Whichever, it had no impact. Our fathers fled the room and left us both to die.
FORTY NINE
The skin I was in was cold, the body shivering. Each breath I drew for it became harder than the last. The pain had long since gone distant. The area around the wound had gone numb. Everything had. I couldn’t feel the hard slab beneath me. The relentless stream of dripping blood had lessened. The eyes I saw through had closed.
I’d accepted quickly that the room was solid and my screams wouldn’t carry through it. I knew the straps wouldn’t break. Struggling against them would only sap Varos’ fading strength even faster. And I hadn’t wanted that. I’d thought if I kept him alive a little longer his magic might come back. I could save Varos and myself.
But we were both out of time. His heart was slowing. His entire body was failing. All that was keeping it alive now was my will for him to live.
It wasn’t enough.
There were no walls to the abyss. No beginning or end. It was only the dark, swallowing me as I fell; cradling me with a touch that was neither warm, nor cold; without texture or shadow. It was an all-encompassing inky blackness that went on forever.
I waited too long.
The drug had eased. The oracle spell had renewed its grip. But I hadn’t been able to cast another. Not through Varos. Blood loss had left his body too weak even to help itself. I couldn’t heal him. So I held on. I stayed with him to the end. The boy’s death was on me, after all. I stayed until the moment Varos died. Then I lost my connection, rapidly. There had been no time to focus after that, no chance to latch on, which left me as I was now; falling and floating.
If I was dead then it was damn boring. Death hadn’t come to scoop me up. He wasn’t showering me with rewards. He wasn’t issuing everlasting punishment—something I fully suspected I was due. I’d simply tumbled.
I’m not dead, I thought. I’m lost. And I had to find my way back. There was so much left to be done, so many things to put right. I’d seen now what a free Shinree state looked like. I knew what we could accomplish if given the chance, what we could become. My father was wrong. As a race, we could strive for more. I could strive for more. Someone has to.
The dark shifted. A sudden softness developed beneath me.
I clenched my hands and they were mine. I felt: sand. Thank the gods.
Flexing my senses, I felt the auras of the stones set into the braces on my arms. I felt the comfortable weight of a sword belt at my waist and the vibration of obsidian inside me. It was at my throat, permeating warmth despite the cool cavern air on my skin.
My father’s fires weren’t burning anymore. Neither were the ones the Langorian soldiers set before I left. A touch of sun shone in from the room with the hole, where I’d climbed up to view my father’s burgeoning city. It came nowhere near reaching me, but as my eyes began to adjust to the dim light it provided, it was clear that none of the shadows were people. There was no silhouette of my father’s body lying beside me. My breathing, blaring against the dark, was the only sound.
Grunting through a pervasive stiffness in my body, I ran my hands over my face, and was glad it felt familiar. I ruffled my hair, trying to shake off the grogginess. I detected a far-away impression of Jarryd. Our link was finally working again—but just barely. The connection was incredibly faint. I wasn’t even getting an exchange of memories. Sensing him was like trying to see through a fog bank. If he was here, I would have to find him the hard way. For that, I needed light.
That’s not all I need, I thought, my hands shaking as I slipped on my weapons. My nerves were crying out for magic, skipping and buzzing like a nest of bees.
The cravings twisting my stomach, I summoned the agate on my left brace. I shivered as the heat of its aura rolled through me; stilling the tr
emors. With a few, whispered words, I raised a fire on the ground beside me. Its glow stretched, illuminating the ruins. I called up a few more and, gradually, magic chased away the darkness. The area flooded with light and my suspicions were confirmed: I was alone.
It was hard not to jump to conclusions. To not fret over what kind of lead my father had and what he’d done with the time—what he might have done here. There were a couple of discarded packs; tattered and half-buried in the dirt. The skins beside them were empty. The blankets and scattered remains of our camp were covered in dust. There was a conspicuous absence of blood. But there were bones; twenty piles to be exact; legs, ribs, fingers, skulls, all charred and brittle, with a Langorian short sword beside each one. It was all that remained of Malaq’s soldiers.
I spun in a circle. There were no more piles. What tracks I found were indistinct.
There was still that vague impression of Jarryd.
Cupping my hands, I shouted. “Jarryd! Lirih!” My throat dry, their names came out no more than a whisper. I pulled a sword and started searching.
Pushing my weary body harder than it was ready for, I checked the entire chamber. I retraced the steps I took when I was here as my father. This time, I went inside the ruins. I stepped gently, careful not to disturb the fragile arrangement of fallen stones. I touched nothing I didn’t have to. Nevertheless, my presence left a mark, as my boots sunk into sand that hadn’t been disturbed for centuries.
Exploring structures, moving aside bushes, examining crevices; I conducted an extensive search and still found no trace of them.
Ending my hunt at the room with the rope, I slid down beside the nearest waterfall and sunk my head in. My stomach rumbled. Too spent to pick through the vegetation for anything edible, I drank until I couldn’t anymore and used magic to mask my hunger. I sat for a while then, trying to think, as I listened to my father’s spelled admirers building his city. Their sounds were a muted roar, filtering down through the hole like the swell of a distant shore. That has to be where he took them. Unless…
A measure of hope hit me. If Lirih crafted a door while Jem was busy with Malaq’s soldiers…they could have gotten out.
Yet it was hard to imagine a scenario where Jarryd would leave me by choice. And if he did, why hadn’t he come back for me?
He’s hurt. That has to be it. That’s why our connection is so faint.
“Damn it.” My next move was obvious. I had to make a door. Rushing blindly into Jem’s domain, though, wasn’t smart. The logical step was to check the camp first. If Jarryd and Lirih weren’t there, I could recruit Krillos to help me go after them.
Whether I could pull off the door was another matter. The hornblende in Neela’s blood may have been responsible for botching up my last two attempts, but the first one that ended me up in a barn, was all mine. I couldn’t afford my unfamiliarity with the spell to result in another slipup.
I only knew of one way to make up for my inexperience with magic: more magic.
I stood up and rang the water from my hair. Blowing out a steadying breath, I beckoned the obsidian—in me and in the shard. I let it run through my veins. Then I let go. I relaxed and tore down my internal defenses. I didn’t try to wake the crown like before. I didn’t beg for it. I laid down arms and surrendered to it.
It responded in less than a minute.
Wandering out, tentatively at first, like a curious child tiptoeing into the unknown, the glut of magic rose up from its hiding place. I didn’t push it back down. I didn’t fight. I let the multitude of auras creep out at their leisure.
Getting comfortable, they stretched, rolling through me, laying claim, until I was suddenly pulsing; glowing like sunrays were trapped beneath my skin. The vibrations were so strong. I wondered if this time I would finally burst apart, and what it would it feel like if I did. To be consumed by all that magic. For those last brief seconds, it would be bliss. I was sure of it.
Reveling in the concentration of energy speeding through me, I realized I’d lost touch with the exhaustion and the hunger. I was teeming with vitality; fed by the assurance that I was unrivaled. It was a state I would have liked to enjoy for a while. Only it wasn’t merely one bond tugging at my conscious, telling me to snap out of it. I had two now, one of soul and one of blood. There were others, too. Other lives at stake, other people I couldn’t shun for the sake of my own pleasure.
My father did that. And I was better than him.
Narrowing my focus, I threw myself into the sights and the sounds of the camp. I thought of the smell of the cooking fires, the laughter of the children, the ever-attentive eyes of the perimeter guards. The diligent hands of the Rellan seamstress who, I swore, sat outside her tent mending every second of every day. I thought of the gray skies, the bleating goats that woke me each morning. The echoes of clashing metal as the Arullans and Langorians sparred for hours on end. I pictured Kya eyeing me with disapproval. I saw Krillos and Kit, Bartlett and his never ending vats of ale; Jillyan and Sienn. I saw Lirih—and fear welled in me. I’m not cut out to be a father. I didn’t know what the girl liked, what she needed. I was fairly certain the way she acted, that she didn’t need me.
The idea that she might, panicked me to the core.
My mind full of clutter, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d found and what I didn’t want to lose. I couldn’t calm my thoughts. So I stopped trying. I did exactly what I was told never to do. I let my emotions run through me as rampantly as the magic. I let them guide me. And I opened the door.
FIFTY
Wooden beams wet with mud-rot littered the ground. Thick black moss choked the thoroughfares. Charred tent frames, snapped and splintered, protruded aimlessly; draped in moldy scraps like old bones in some long forgotten graveyard. Creeping vines decorated the livestock pens; fallen, broken posts that corralled nothing but patches of bog, weeds, and thorns.
I’d gotten it right for once. I’d made it back to camp. But the bustling settlement I knew was gone. The pleasant hum of village life had been replaced by the heavy drone of insects and the trilling of frogs.
Sienn’s spell had failed. For over two years she’d held the swamp back. Now, nature had taken its revenge for her meddling, reclaiming the land in an all-out, rapid assault. In one fell swoop; it was like we were never here.
But nature alone wasn’t responsible. Decay couldn’t be blamed for all the blackened wood. The pieces of life scattered among the weeds—bits of leather and cloth, rusty blades, cooking implements, a child’s soggy, moss-covered doll—had not been discarded by choice. The refugees had fled the camp with great haste and duress.
The terrain had changed so much. It took me a while to get my bearings. It took even longer to find my own tent. A portion of ceiling and two scorched, ripped filthy walls were all that remained. The splintered, moldy boards in the corner had once been a chest. My meager possessions that I’d naively left inside were all gone, including the Crown of Stones.
It was the same all over. The swamp had rushed in and eroded everything. Fragments of debris were strewn about, embedded in the sprawling vegetation. Some of the cloth pieces were darkened with what could have been old blood, but I didn’t find a single body.
There should be something, I thought. If they were attacked (as I firmly believed), the odds of everyone escaping were nonexistent. More likely, those that weren’t taken prisoner had fled into the swamp. Or they were fed to it.
I stared out across the bog. I didn’t feel any magic or see any movement. I couldn’t hear any boots on the ground. That didn’t mean enemy patrols weren’t still in the area or that refugees weren’t out there somewhere, hiding.
Widening my search, I continued in silence. Staying sharp, treading warily over the unstable ground, I combed the thick weeds. I stirred up the cloudy streams and the pools of stagnant muck, looking for sunken bodies. Shy snakes and curious rodents darted about, but there were no people. There were also no foot or hoof prints. Whoever carried out the raid, their
soldiers must have arrived by magical means.
I’d roamed far past the perimeter and found no one. Exhausted, my legs ached from trudging through the weighty mud. My hair that had been soaked from the waterfall had long since dried and turned wet again; dripping with sweat from the ripe, sultry air. I was on the verge of turning back when something to the southwest caught my eye. Numerous, dark shapes were poking up through the wall of vegetation; fifty, a hundred of them, maybe more. Standing in rows, they were too short, thin, and rigid to be people. Distance made it impossible to tell, but they were more like fence posts.
I might have been content with that conclusion—if I was closer to the camp boundary. It didn’t make sense for the refugees to build this far out.
Keeping the strange shapes in sight, I moved closer. Murky streams striped the ground. The undergrowth pricked at my breeches. Bog sucked at my boots, slowing me down. It made my steps loud. But I no longer cared about the noise. Clearly, I’d been floating between Varos and my own body for longer than I thought. Even going with the theory that nature repossessed the area without mercy, whatever happened here, happened weeks ago. Everyone was long gone.
Almost on top of the formation, I stopped and parted the weeds. I came face to face with the shapes. And their form and purpose became suddenly so obvious, I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t grasped it before.
They weren’t fence posts. They were grave markings.
Dampness had sunk in past my breeches. The shadows had grown long. I’d been sitting, staring at the mossy, weed-covered mounds for hours, trying to make sense of it. But all I kept coming back to was how much I hated the swamp. How it had no kindness. How its foul touch had no decency, no confines. It tainted everything; defiling even the sacred ground of the dead; burying the only real peace Mirra’kelan had seen in hundreds of years, like it never existed. It was childish, but I kept thinking: it just isn’t fair.
I got up. I went to the beginning of the first row. There weren’t enough markers to account for everyone. Some of the refugees had survived. The gods knew I didn’t want to read the names of the ones who didn’t. My anxiety welled with each step. Dread made my heart beat like an angry fist. Sorrow weighed me down with every name I recognized.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars Page 42