The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price

by C. L. Schneider

  A solid hit to the jaw whirled me around. Something heavy hammered the back of my head a few times and I was down. “Chain him,” Draken ordered.

  Shackles locked about my wrists and ankles. A burly Langorian with metal gloves yanked me onto my knees. He grabbed a handful of hair and wrenched my head up higher. “Pay respects to your new King, witch.”

  I pushed out a heartfelt, “Fuck you,” and his fist sunk into my side.

  Draken squatted in front of me. “Comfortable?” he asked.

  Winded, blood spattered off my lips as I breathed. “I’m good.”

  Draken blinked. Rising, he cleaned his face with the back of his gloved hand. “As you are no doubt aware, Troy,” he said, still wiping at his chin, “there are many levels of pain. And you are about to learn them all. Quite intimately, I might add.”

  “Did I say fuck you, yet? My head’s a bit fuzzy.”

  “By the gods, how I would love to kill you,” he confessed with an eager, angry laugh. “But, I suppose we must have compromise in a situation like this.”

  His words were odd. “Whose situation? Mine? Or yours?”

  Draken flicked a speck of mud from the cuff of his sleeve and straightened his tunic. “One neither of us would be in if you had simply killed me with the rest of them. But my death wasn’t satisfying enough for you, was it, Troy? It was far more pleasurable to twist my mind and destroy my soul.” The leather of his gloves creaked as his hands clenched. “You left me aware. Did you know that? I knew what you made me into. What I lost. I couldn’t come back from it, of course. I watched the world go by from inside my little prison,” he said, tapping the side of his head. “And every day the madness grew worse.”

  “You destroyed your own soul, Draken. You made your own prison, with your terrible deeds, your acts of savagery and cruelty. All I did was wish it back on you. I gave you the torment and the agony of your victims…all of them, all at once.”

  “Yes, and it was quite clever. And effective. I would even go so far as to say,” insinuation fell into his voice, “inspiring.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it.” I forced my sore, bloody mouth into a wide grin. “But that was then. Now, I just want your head on a spit.”

  Draken waved a hand and his men pounded me some more. A knee rammed into my chest. Another sunk in between my legs. The beating went on and I lost a moment.

  Screams faded in and out like thunder in the distance.

  Letting go of the pain, I centered on them.

  They became closer. Clearer.

  Familiar.

  I lifted my head. The tall grass parted. Draken’s soldiers stepped out onto the bank dragging my Arullan girl out of the weeds by her hair.

  “No…” I struggled to get up as they tossed her around between them. One drew her body up next to his. He pressed a knife against her throat.

  The tip of the blade pricked her neck.

  “You son of a bitch!” I pulled at the arms that held me. “Let her go!”

  “Don’t!” she shrieked at me. “Ian, please. Please,” she sobbed, “don’t.”

  I swallowed. “Intae’a…?”

  “He said…” her voice quivered. “He said…if you fight…they’ll hurt me.”

  The knifepoint went in a little deeper and she screamed.

  “No—let her go!” Twisting and jerking, struggling to push the soldiers off me, I flung myself onto my back and kicked out with both feet. I hit one man in the groin, another in the stomach. I knocked two more down with a sweep of my legs, evaded the last one, and got up onto my knees.

  As I reached my feet, she cried out, “STOP!”

  Pulse hammering, harsh breath ripping through my lungs, I looked at her. I looked right into her panicked, petrified stare, and did as she asked: nothing. I let my captors take hold of me again. I watched hers slide a rough hand over the front of her dress. Pulling the fabric aside, he groped, digging dirty fingers into her breasts. He laughed as she squirmed, while I just stood there. Not looking away. Not helping her.

  I couldn’t. I was rooted to the ground. I was held in place, but not by the strength of my restraints or the fear of what they might do to her. I was transfixed by her dark eyes, as the terror in them began dissolving into something else.

  Then everything dissolved. There were only her eyes, reflecting back at me memories I didn’t live. I saw nights I never spent in her arms. Days with her that never happened. An avalanche of emotions that weren’t mine poured over me.

  They felt so pure, so real.

  I wanted them to be mine.

  And then they were.

  Our life together was perfect and tranquil. My weaknesses, my failings, meant nothing to her. Without question, she loved me.

  At least she had. Now that I’d failed her, all that was gone.

  “How could you let this happen?” she wept bitterly. “You promised, Ian. You said you’d protect me.” Frostiness tainted her voice. Her tear-stained face turned ugly. “They’re going to kill me and it’s all your fault.”

  She was right. But I couldn’t bear those being her last words to me, so I turned to Draken, and groveled. “Don’t do this. If there is a drop of mercy and goodness anywhere in you, you son of a bitch…please. Draken…I’m begging you. Don’t do this.”

  He smiled. And I knew that I had lost her.

  “NO!” Thrashing again, flailing and fighting, I yanked at the chains. “You want someone to hurt? Go ahead! Hurt me, goddamn you—HURT ME!”

  Draken released a slow, gratified sound of contentment. “Oh, but I will hurt you, Troy. I’ve been waiting so very long to hurt you, as you did me…with madness and despair, grief, and anguish. By the time I’m finished, you won’t remember what it’s like to feel anything else.” He nodded to his men. Grabbing the chains, three on each limb pinned me down. They held my head still, forcing me to look on as Draken tore open the front of her dress. He pulled a knife from his belt. Excitement gleamed in his eyes. “Ten years.” Tenderly, he ran the tip of the etched blade between her breasts. The stones forged into the handle glowed bright against her bare skin. “Tell me, Troy, does this hurt?” Draken jammed the knife into her chest. “What about this?” Swiftly, he yanked it out. Her body convulsed. And like he wanted, I felt it. I felt each and every stab of the knife as it went deeper and deeper inside her.

  Ripping and tearing, oblivious to her strangled cries, Draken gutted my beautiful Arullan girl. He butchered her until blood sprayed like rain on the wind.

  When he was done, he tossed her shredded body to the ground and walked away.

  Lying beside me in the mud, her distant eyes were wide and full of reproach.

  Her dark skin glistened wet in the moonlight.

  TWENTY

  I sat up, sucking in air and crying out, “Gods—” and stopped. My sudden mobility was startling, my surroundings confusing. It was still dark, but there was a warm fire, no pond, and thank the gods no girl, and no Draken.

  No knife. No blood.

  I collapsed back on the grass with a shuddering moan. Soaked in a cold sweat, panting through the burning ache in my chest, I tried to calm down. I stared up at the gathering clouds and struggled to think of nothing. But the shifting, bloating shapes above were abnormally dark and ominous. They converged on the full moon, growing and flowing. Eating up the light like puddles of blood spilling over the ground.

  “Not real,” I muttered. “Not real. Not real.”

  Not real.

  I tightened my fists to stop the trembling running through my arms. They were weak, like the rest of me. My whole body felt used up and sore, as if my encounter with Draken and his troops had actually happened.

  Dismissing the ridiculous thought, I ran my hands over my face, gathered my strength and sat up. I blew out a few deep breaths, trying to relax, but I couldn’t stop shaking. Foreboding hung over me. I couldn’t lose the feeling that enemies were everywhere. Lurking. Watching.

  I was afraid, and it wasn’t a feeling I was used
to.

  Nightmares, I was well acquainted with. It had been a while, but I’d suffered through my share, usually fashioned from a mix of bad wine and bad memories. Many had featured Draken and Aylagar over the years. But this one was particularly disturbing. And it wasn’t Aylagar. I dreamt of someone else, someone I had never seen before that didn’t even exist. Someone beautiful, I thought, unable to resist summoning her face in my mind. I could picture her perfectly; naked beneath me on the wet grass, her round eyes full of desire. She was smiling. Her mouth opened in laughter.

  Blood dripped off her lips.

  Alarmed, I squeezed my eyes shut and pushed the image out. Needing to fix my thoughts more firmly in reality, I looked over at Jarryd. Deep under, from the coura and herbs, he was fast asleep near the fire. Hours ago I’d closed his wounds and a hefty amount of bandages covered one side of his head. His skin was pale still, but he was breathing normally. If I could keep the infection out, he would be all right. The scarring would be bad though. I owned no magic to prevent it, or to replace the missing flesh of his ear. Both would require a skilled healer, which was going to be hard to come by in the middle of the mountains.

  Likely, it would be in Rella too. The realm was occupied territory now and standard Langorian tactics were to seize all Shinree healers for their own use. If we couldn’t find one, Jarryd was going to have to live with what was done to him for a while, and that was worrisome. He didn’t need more fuel for his vengeance against the enemy, or another excuse to risk his neck. The young fool was already locked on that course as it was, and it annoyed the hell out of me; because he had choices. Choices I didn’t.

  I’d pretended I did, for a while. After the crippling blow I dealt to Langor, I’d convinced myself they were no longer the threat they once were, and that Rella would have no need to call me back. That I wouldn’t have to ever again use magic in her name.

  The more time passed, the more I believed it were true. Ten years, I thought.

  Yet, seeing Draken in the dream made it feel like yesterday.

  I could still hear him. Does this hurt?

  An abrupt snort came from one of the horses and my heart lurched.

  It was probably nothing. No other sounds followed. But our mounts were tied at the edge of the glen, just beyond the reach of the fire. I couldn’t see them well from where I was, and the dream had left me jittery and exceptionally paranoid. Too paranoid to sit on my backside and wait for another ambush.

  I got up. It was a slower process than usual. I had to stretch out the creaks before I could stand straight. Moving wasn’t that great either. I felt stiff and bruised all over as I rounded the fire. Having dwindled substantially, the flames provided little light, and in the gloom, I stumbled over a blanket on the ground. It was Malaq’s, and it was empty.

  His things were still under the tree where he unpacked. His mount was with the others. But he wasn’t in sight. “Malaq?”

  Jarryd stirred. The horses swished their tails and eyed me suspiciously.

  “Malaq,” I said again, louder.

  I called for him a few more times as I walked the perimeter. I searched for broken leaves, bent limbs, or tracks that didn’t belong. I scanned the treetops for uninvited visitors and checked the dirt for signs of a struggle. There was no indication of any of that, just a few imprints of Malaq’s long, casual strides leading out of the camp.

  Running through the short list of places he could have gone took about two seconds. If he ventured into the trees to relieve himself, he’d be back soon. Then I could let into him for abandoning his post after badgering me about keeping watch. Though, with the woods so quiet, he should have been able to hear me when I called.

  I glanced in the direction of the stream. He’d made the trek several times for me since we made camp, certainly enough to know his way there and back.

  But he wasn’t back.

  Goddamn it, Malaq.

  I looked at Jarryd. The last thing I wanted to do was leave him asleep and defenseless. Yet, if Malaq had gone to the stream in the middle of the night there was no clear reason for it. And from what I knew of Malaq Roarke, the man didn’t do much of anything without a reason.

  Going back to my own blanket, I picked it up and summoned the hematite at my wrist. I drew its energy into me, felt it sink hard and thick in my veins. I summoned the spell in my mind, and as I whispered the words, I let the magic flow out of me and into the fabric in my hands.

  It merged with the woven strands. They shimmered. The color dulled.

  A little woozy, I walked over to Jarryd and laid the blanket across him. As I stepped away, the covering blended with the shadowy ground and took Jarryd with it.

  The concealment wouldn’t last long, and it didn’t work at all up close. The spell was a cheat, one I would use when Aylagar sent me on long scouting missions. It was the only way I would even consider closing my eyes in Langorian territory.

  But it was better than nothing.

  Jarryd couldn’t hear me, but I said it anyway. “I’ll be back soon.” Then I grabbed a sword and headed into the woods.

  The path was narrow. Between the clouds and the overgrowth, little light filtered down and I kept losing my way. Branches and thorns grabbed at my clothes, limbs smacked my face. In no time, I was wearing half the forest, even though it wasn’t a far walk, or a hard one. I simply couldn’t get my head straight. Still unnerved by the dream, I was flinching at every sound. The shifting silhouette of the trees in the wind resembled hunched figures lying in wait. My legs were unusually weary, my pulse was racing.

  When I found Malaq, I was going to wring his royal neck.

  At last nearing the stream, I picked up on a faint, muffled, masculine voice. As I drew nearer and it became more distinct, I recognized it as belonging to Malaq, but I didn’t call out right away. Putting my hard earned camouflage to work, I lowered myself down to the forest floor and crept forward. Moving all the way up to the thick layer of tall grass that bordered the water, I stopped just inside the cover of the weeds. I parted them for a peek and there was Malaq, pacing back and forth around the bank.

  He didn’t appear in any danger, but he was uncharacteristically accepting of the mud kicking up on his trousers and his dialog was unusual. Spewing out harsh, straightforward quips about Langor’s unprovoked attack on Kael, he was using the same tone and style of words he used on Krillos; abnormally cold and to the point.

  Crawling on my belly, I got closer and scanned the area. I was looking for movement that wasn’t Malaq. A spot of color or shadow to indicate he had company. But there was no visible evidence that anyone else was nearby.

  Then Draken of Langor spoke. “I have listened to your words, brother, as was our agreement. Now, it is my turn,” he said, and the King launched into a speech that attempted to justify his recent murders.

  Still, there was only Malaq, standing alone with gray eyes fixed on the surface of the stream. His rapt attention of the water didn’t waver. He kept staring at it as Draken kept talking, and I understood what was going on. Draken’s voice had no physical source. Not here anyway. It was coming from, or more accurately, traveling through, a communication pond. Made to react to a specific person, the spelled font carried voice and image over large distances where it could be shown and heard through a chosen body of water.

  I’d seen one once, in Kael, in Sarin’s room. He swore it belonged to his father. That he never used it. The life energy needed to operate the device wasn’t something Sarin couldn’t abide. Draken, however, always true to form, didn’t give a damn about the cost. But his use of the font meant he was nowhere near the stream. It meant I couldn’t touch him. I couldn’t kill him. And the way he was dismissing Sarin’s death as the mercy killing of a useless, old man—relegating the slaughter in Kabri to that of a tedious burden; killing Draken of Langor was suddenly all I could think of.

  Staggeringly fast, the notion had taken me over. It was pervasive. I tried to let it go, but it was unshakable.

&n
bsp; I started breathing harder. My muscles twitched. I felt sweat beading on my skin despite the cool night air. Draken’s cruel, careless words had ignited a fast burning, dangerous rage inside me, and the impulse to come out of hiding, to storm down to the stream and ram a sword straight through his smug, intangible face, was so great I could barely keep it together.

  The only reason I stayed prone in the mud at all was because my abrupt, violent urge for retribution didn’t feel right. I didn’t feel right. Almost overnight, my desire for justice and revenge against Draken had magnified. My itch to hurt him, to make him suffer, had soared to the height of full-blown compulsion. I was actually shaking with the need to see him dead. And the fury that was driving me had absolutely nothing to do with our past, or the current situation in Rella. It came from the smell of the grass and the sight of the rippling water. It was born of Draken’s voice coming out of the dark and the mud on my skin.

  The entire scene was my nightmare come to life. All that was missing was the Arullan girl and the knife.

  Breathless, my heart pounding like a thousand hooves against the ground, I tried to stop listening for Langorian soldiers skulking in the grass. I tried to stop staring at the stream in hope that she was there, waiting for me.

  But the wind in the trees was her distant scream. The fine mist as it started falling was the splatter of blood. The grass tangled around my boots: chain.

  Draken started yelling and the fantasy disappeared, abruptly, like it never was.

  “Can you not see that Troy seeks to destroy me?” he cried out, so fierce that creatures went scampering through the weeds.

  “You threaten what he is bound to protect,” Malaq said briskly. “He has no alternative but to interfere.”

  “You take his side?” Draken raged. “Against your own kind? Against me?”

  “Your men attacked us,” Malaq countered.

  “You travel with my enemy!”

  “I suppose,” Malaq said, backing down some, “that I have come to consider your enemy, my friend. I realize that discomfits you, but…you and I are blood, Draken. I haven’t forgotten that.”