“It’s very rare,” I said in defense. “A Shinree that can open doors hasn’t been born in hundreds of years. But, that’s what I thought about the erudite.”
Pointedly, Malaq asked me, “So is he an erudite then, or a door-maker?”
“Erudite are door-makers. And elementals, and soldiers, and oracles…you know the list. If he’s an erudite, then he’s all Shinree rolled into one.” Groaning, I crawled up the wall and stood. “And with the Crown of Stones, his only real limit is what he can handle before he passes out. Once he does…” I swayed. Shadows grew where they didn’t belong.
“Whoa,” Jarryd said, steadying me.
“I’m okay.” I forced Malaq’s face into focus. “Certain spells suck more energy from us than others. No matter who this man is, he can only last so long.”
“That goes for you too,” Malaq said. His gray eyes tightened slightly. “We need to get you a real healer, Troy. A Shinree.”
“Later.”
Malaq crossed his arms. “Later you could be dead.”
“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”
“Have you looked at yourself? I would say you’re pale as death, but you have,” Malaq squinted, “I don’t even know what that is all over you. It certainly isn’t human. But it is colorful.”
“I know,” I said. “But first, you need to listen. Draken’s magic user is exposed. He has no nef’taali,” I said, reverting to Shinree. “After opening the door, resurrecting the eldring, controlling them, casting through one, and burning these people—some of these wounds are definitely made by magic. He’ll be empty. If we can find him—”
“Gods, man, slow down,” Malaq said forcefully. “You’re not making sense.”
I started over. “In the early days of the Shinree Empire there were entire armies of magic users like me. But casting battle spells, casting anything that relies on negative energy and emotion like what I do—like was done here—takes a higher toll than other types of magic. You cast too many times in a row and you’re unconscious. The bigger the spells, the faster you go out. To keep the soldiers safe while they were down, each one was bound to another for protection. They were called nef’taali.”
“Bound how?” Malaq asked.
“Not like you think. Not physically. The soldiers were linked together by magic. It made them closer than brothers, more loyal than liegemen. One would cast and the other would protect him while he was weak. The Shinree who is responsible for this has no one to protect him. He’s vulnerable. Now.”
Malaq’s eyes lit up as he caught on. “You think he’s still here.”
“I think it’s possible. Did you see him leave?”
“No. I came to get you. When I got back, Draken’s forces were gone. I checked the roads going in and out of the city, but there was no sign of them.”
“If he was smart, he reserved enough strength to make a door out. But if he wore himself down too much, there’s a chance he could be close by.”
“I’ll take it,” Malaq said. “How do I find him?”
“I don’t have it in me right now to cast anything that would help. You’ll have to do it the hard way. Look for Shinree that won’t wake up. Look for Langorians trying to blend in. Draken might have left some behind to look after his pet.”
“It’s a big city, Ian. And with Sarin dead I’ll have to go to Guidon. He won’t give me men for this.”
“Then don’t ask. Trust me, Nef’areen, they’ll follow you. And if you find the man, kill him while he sleeps and bring me the crown.”
Malaq gave me a nod. Before he left, he pulled Jarryd aside. While they spoke in muted tones about the best way to prevent my, apparent, imminent demise, I walked away. I heard Jarryd holler after me in protest, but I kept going, heading into the back half of the cavernous room where rows of massive, obsidian pillars outlined a path all the way to the dais at the end.
It was a long, arduous walk. The warm stuffy air and the scent of carnage was not a good combination. It wasn’t long before I had to stop and catch my breath.
Propping myself up against one of the tall, round spires, the stone felt good against my skin. It was smooth and cold, polished as perfectly as Malaq’s boots. But it didn’t help the buzzing in my ears.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it.
The low whirring continued, building to a steady, deep, thrumming.
It grew louder. The voices in the room faded into vague murmurs.
Leaning against the column, floating in the droning pulse, it occurred to me that I felt better. I also realized that the vibrating hum wasn’t coming from my aching head. It was stemming from the stone that was supporting me. Every part of my body that was touching it was pulsing.
Alarmed, I pushed off the black stone. I turned around, faced it, and there was so much magical energy wafting off the column—off all the columns—that the air shimmered visibly like heat on a hot summer day.
That’s different. Never before had I seen a stone’s aura when I wasn’t touching it. Delirium? I wondered hopefully. A trick of the light?
I would have accepted either as an explanation, if the pillars were made of any other substance. But obsidian and I had a history.
It was a principal stone for any magic user. But being known for its dark, violent nature, the soldiers of the old empire relied heavily on obsidian for casting. It was also an integral part of the Crown of Stones. The day I ended the war with Langor, I drew in and utilized so much of the black energy that it bled down from where the artifact rested on my head. Its aura leached into my scalp and hair, and it marked me.
I’d always dismissed the obsidian stains as waste, a leftover of power that had nowhere else to go. Even recently, becoming aware of the shard’s connection to the crown, I still didn’t understand it. Now, experiencing such an intense, intimate exchange with the same type of stone, I could feel the truth.
The Crown’s power sunk into me that day and it never left.
The black strands aren’t scars…they’re open wounds.
And they were bleeding magic.
I looked around at the pillars. It wasn’t their energy reaching out to me. It was mine, reaching out to them.
The obsidian’s aura is still in me. It’s been in me all this time.
It was a disturbingly seductive notion, that such a tempest could accumulate and exist inside me, and I wouldn’t even know. It made me wonder. If I were to touch the dark streaks in my hair, would I feel magic there? Would it be icy-hot and staggering, like touching a vein of raw obsidian? And why would a stone here in Kael, a thing that I had passed by countless times before, suddenly awaken it?
Boldly, I reached out. I put my hand on the glossy surface of the pillar and right away, magic jumped against my skin. I welcomed it this time. I let it in, and as I did, another source emerged. It welled up from a place I couldn’t name, somewhere deeper—and suddenly so much obsidian was flowing through me that I could scarcely see.
It was incredible; the strength, the vigor. I felt exuberant, vital and alive. A shell of quivering, black energy overlaid my skin and I was too intoxicated to care that it might be visible to anyone in the room. I wanted to drain the column dry and move on to the next, drinking in their magic one by one, until the blood turned black in my veins.
I could lay waste to Langor without a single stone, I thought excitedly.
I could take out the entire realm and obliterate all traces of their civilization.
If Rella were finally made safe, then maybe I’d be free.
“Ian,” Jarryd said then. “Come on.”
“Leave me be,” I told him.
“Are you all right?”
My tone darkened. “I said, leave me be.”
“They’re going to move Sarin’s body. I thought you might want to see him.”
With effort, I pried my hands away from the column. I stepped back, and immediately felt like shit. My wounds throbbed faster and harder than my speeding pulse. If possible, my limbs were weaker than
before. And I was angry. I was so angry; at Jarryd for interrupting; at myself for being careless. I wanted to dive into that rich, untapped well and let it take the pain away. Let it take everything away.
What did I care for the Kaelish and their decadent ways, for Jarryd and his ridiculous, immature notions that I could save everyone?
I wasn’t Rella’s champion. I was her destroyer.
I could be Kael’s too. So easily.
Too easily.
“You need to be in bed,” Jarryd said to me. “You’re not well.”
I know. Trying like hell to redirect my rage, I closed my hands into fists and a twinge of pain shot through my injured arm. But it wasn’t enough.
I squeezed tighter. The pain intensified.
Tighter, and my knees buckled. I certainly wasn’t thinking about magic anymore.
Jarryd caught me just before I hit the floor. He tried to rest me against one of the columns and I tore out of his grip. “No!” I yelled, stumbling away.
Glancing around, he rubbed an impatient hand over his face. “I have to get you out of here.” Jarryd reached for me again. I dodged his hand and he started cursing. He cursed louder as I walked away.
I went over to the dais. Between the legs of the King’s remaining council members, I got a quick glimpse of Sarin. Face distorted in pain and terror, his once strong, solid form was slumped over; eviscerated, bloodless, and limp. Then the crowd shifted and my view was gone.
“Well,” a man drawled, coming up beside me. “It’s about time you showed up.”
Knowing the voice, I thought, damn it. There was no way to avoid acknowledging him, so I looked at Sarin’s son, Guidon, and immediately swallowed the first words that came to mind—thinking they might get me hung. I swallowed the second ones too. Accusing the Prince of hiding under a bed during the attack likely wouldn’t go over well. Yet, from his appearance, that was exactly where he was. Lacking so much as a smudge on his soft, rectangular face, a wrinkle on his silk clothes, a blonde curl out of position, or a drop of blood on the long knife hanging from the sash at his waist; he certainly hadn’t been in the hall defending his father.
I offered him a polite, but icy, “Prince.”
Guidon didn’t give me that much. “How is it that Draken has come into my home, slaughtered my people, my King, and all you’ve done is bleed on my floor? Champion of Rella, my ass,” he muttered. “If you can’t put your magic to good use, then perhaps, Troy, you should be put on a shorter leash. In fact,” a slow, sly smile strolled across his lips, “I have one bolted to my chamber wall that’s about your size.”
“I bet you do. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to pay my respects.”
Guidon put himself in front of me. “You haven’t earned the right to see my father. You weren’t even here when he was dying.”
I raked my eyes up and down the front of him. “Neither were you.”
“Filthy, witch,” he hissed. “It’s appalling how much faith my father put in your hands.”
“He might have put some in yours once in a while…if they were more capable.”
His nostrils flared. “You go no farther.”
“You think you can stop me with words?”
Guidon’s hand caressed the hilt of his knife. “The point of my blade was what I really had in mind. But from the looks of you, a nice, easy shove might do it.” He put out a hand and I stepped into it. The pressure on my ribs hurt like hell. But the strongest muscle in Guidon’s body was his tongue, and even injured, I had no trouble pushing him back a step.
“You might want to try the knife,” I suggested.
“Be gone from my hall, Shinree,” he fumed. “You are not among friends here.”
“I never am.”
With a rough jerk, Jarryd pulled me aside. “He’s baiting you. Just let it go.”
“That fool has no idea what I could do to him,” I said in a cruel, breathless whisper. “Before he could even open his mouth to scream I could suck out his worthless soul and send it into oblivion.”
“I’m sure you could,” Jarryd said uneasily. “But maybe that’s not a good idea?”
“Damn it, Jarryd, he should be the one lying dead on the floor. Not Sarin.”
“And you’ll be lying on the rack if you don’t stop. Guidon is about to be King.”
As if on cue, the Prince called out with a flourish, “My loyal subjects!” Backing into the center of the room, he hopped up onto one of the only tables still standing. “In the morning,” he said, loud and thoughtlessly cheerful, “General Aldous will lead a force of men into Rella. He will join the newly crowned, Queen Neela Arcana, in her fight against the foul Langorian invasion, dispatching the enemy quickly and mercilessly. He will offer Kael’s assistance to rebuild all that was lost, and ensure that such a heinous tragedy never again happens on Rellan, or Kaelish, soil!”
When the cheers died down, I spoke up. “General Aldous is an instructor. He has no battle experience.”
“That is true.” Guidon’s mouth stretched in a taught smile. “But the General will have a contingent of trained soldiers and capable advisors at his side. He will make do.”
“My Lord Prince,” Jarryd said, stepping forward. “With all due respect, King Sarin pledged three contingents to Kabri, not one.”
“Did he?” Guidon quipped. “What a shame that he isn’t alive to confirm that.”
Jarryd tried to keep an even tone. “Your father granted us aid, not scraps. We need men, weapons. Supplies. We have a treaty.”
“Now that you mention it—Messenger,” Guidon said sharply. “It isn’t my name on the treaty with Rella. And I am, basically, King now.”
Jarryd’s jaw set hard. “Is this an official withdrawal of support? Or do the Kaelish honor all their agreements with duplicity and double-talk?”
“Don’t get testy,” Guidon said, jumping down from his perch. “Aldous will fight for Kabri, as promised.”
“With one contingent? That won’t be enough.”
“Fine,” Guidon sighed. “You can have two. But maybe your little Princess might not be in this muddle if she had spent more time in council, and less time in your bed.”
“You son of a bitch.” Jarryd’s voice trembled. “Kael will rot under your rule.”
Guidon’s hand shot out and wrapped around Jarryd’s arm. “Your devotion to Neela, while pitiful, is absolute. So, as badly as I want to skin you where you stand, Kane, I believe a much more satisfying torment is awaiting you in Kabri.” He lowered his voice and said with mock distress. “I fear you may never recover from the loss.”
Jarryd jerked out of his hold. “What are you talking about? What loss?”
“You don’t know?” Guidon searched through the rage and the passion in Jarryd’s eyes, looking for something. When he didn’t find it, he let out a muted, guileful laugh. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you. Draken has extended an offer of marriage.”
“Marriage?” Bewilderment dimmed Jarryd’s rage. “To Neela?”
“Of course to Neela, you fucking simpleton. Unless your, washed-up, half-dead Shinree over there can pull off a miracle, Draken will unite the Restless Lands under one rule as High King, and Neela will be his wife. She will be his lover and the mother of his children, while you, Kane, will be just another filthy peasant conscripted into his army.” Guidon leaned in. “Did you know a Langorian soldier’s rank is branded into the side of his face?” Wincing, he forced a quiet shudder. “Gruesome, isn’t it?”
I moved up next to Jarryd. “Don’t let him bait you. Remember?”
He didn’t even look at me. “No,” Jarryd said dully. “I don’t believe you.”
“Don’t then,” Guidon shrugged. “But think on this, errand-boy. If Neela let a scrawny, castle servant like you have a taste, imagine what wonders the little bitch would do for a King?”
“Okay,” I said, nudging Jarryd back. “That’s enough.”
“Let me go!” Resisting, Jarryd made my attempt to prod him to
the exit, hard and painful. “I’m not through here,” he growled at me.
“Maybe you’re not,” I winced, slumping against the wall. Fresh circles of red were dripping out of the bandages on my arm. “But I am.”
“Better listen to the witch,” Guidon clucked at Jarryd. He waved a bored hand then in my direction. “I will endure your continued, brief, presence in my home Shinree, in honor of my father’s good memory. But once you quit my realm, if you return under my reign, you will be arrested and chained to my wall for the rest of your life.” He was still going as we left the hall. “And what did I just say,” Guidon roared, “about bleeding on my floor? Disgusting witch-blood,” he muttered. “Who knows what it’s infected with? Someone,” he shouted, “get over there and clean that up before it stains!”
SIXTEEN
“You did what?”
Wincing at my tone, Malaq strolled farther into the room. Crisp and polished in steel gray and black, his long, casual strides brought him quickly to the foot of my bed. He gestured at the mass of bandages on my upper body. “You’re still breathing, aren’t you?”
I struggled to sit up. “I told you how I feel about King’s Healers.”
“You did. But I decided you might feel more strongly about staying alive.”
That I couldn’t argue. “Where did you get him? Sarin didn’t keep Shinree healers in the castle.”
“Jillyan brought one with her from Langor. And no one was harmed,” Malaq said, addressing my concerned expression. “Unfortunately, the man’s title does seem to be a bit of a stretch. Draken bestowed him on Jillyan as a parting gift and, if his skill at healing is a direct reflection of brotherly love, Draken clearly doesn’t think much of his sister. Anyway, the major damage was repaired before the man passed out. But as you can no doubt feel, the rest was up to that pleasant, old Kaelish fellow I saw running out of your room a while ago. So don’t expect the stitching to be pretty.”
“I don’t remember any of that,” I said, trying. “It’s all fuzzy after that drink Liel gave me.” I looked at Jarryd, still in the doorway. “When was that?”
“Four days ago,” he replied, moving in.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price Page 14