As I wiped some of it off onto on my breeches, I reconnected with Jarryd. A rapid assortment of things slammed into me from his end of the link and I set it all aside, except for the adrenaline. The amount pumping through him was staggering. It blew threw me like a wind, dispelling the exhaustion long enough that I was able to blast him back with a shot of urgency and satisfaction that he couldn’t mistake. Then I shut him out again and looked down at Reth, slumped on the ground at my feet.
I couldn’t see through his tarnished skin anymore. Without magic, the disjointed blend of colors seemed dull and dreary. His body, no longer swollen with energy, was sagging. Some life was in it yet, but the way blood was draining out of his wound to soak the cave floor, it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Eyes heavy, breath raspy and shallow, he stretched a silent hand out to me.
I backed away from it and staggered over to Neela.
Stretched out on her side, beneath a thick coating of dust and pebbles, she was still and quiet. No breath was coming out of her. I brushed the debris from her face and her skin was cool to the touch. It wasn’t parched and gray as Aylagar’s had been. My spur-of-the-moment shield spell must have offered some protection. But a quiet peacefulness hung over Rella’s Queen that felt unnervingly familiar.
Not this time, I vowed. Not again.
With my link to Sienn, I had access to the temporary binding spell she used on me in Ula. I could give my strength to Neela. I could do what I couldn’t for her mother, and bring her back.
If there was anything left of Neela to bring back, and if I had the strength to give her. Which, I didn’t.
I would have to supplement it with magic. A lot of magic, I thought gravely.
My eyes shifted to the Crown of Stones. On the ground, in the dirt, near the body of the Langorian soldier, it was full of power again. Its colors glowed and pulsed in the murky, dim light like a beacon, calling me.
I went over and picked it up. Gripping the circlet, I invited its magic inside me once more. The invasion was a lot less dramatic than when I stole it from my father’s body. I could feel it trying to infiltrate, to fuse with me like it did him, but it was less tumultuous. More stable. I was still empowered as before, but not suffocated. Complete without being overwhelmed. The combined auras still aroused a provocative sense of superiority and confidence that was hard to ignore, but (as if there was some sort of progression, or balancing out with each use), I had a better handle on the physical effects of the crown’s magic than I did just a few, short minutes ago.
I was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.
Nervous, I glanced over at Reth’s ruined skin. I looked at what the crown had done to him and I told myself this had to be the last time. That it wasn’t too late already.
That one more spell wouldn’t make me like him.
I completed the symbols on our hands in a daze. I cast the spell and threw myself across our newly forged link.
There was little of her to grab onto, but I seized what I could find and held nothing back. I poured my life and my magic into Neela, and prayed that it was enough.
As I collapsed beside her, the crown slid from my grip. Using my last coherent thought, I flung its power out of me and back to whatever hell it came from.
FIFTY THREE
My boots struck the stone floor. Aside from my anxious breathing, it was the only sound. It resonated through the empty corridors of the castle as I walked, searching the upper floors. I opened doors, one by one. The rooms behind them were all empty. The curtains were all drawn. The windows closed. There were no fires in the hearths. No lanterns or candles were lit. The air, trapped, chilly, and tinged with gloom, reeked of death and rot. A combination of burned waste, sour wine, tainted food, overflowing chamber pots, and old blood; the foul odor lingered in the dark. It intensified as I went lower, clinging to me as I passed, making my empty stomach cramp like a cold hand clenching it tight.
The discomfort in my gut worsened with every broken dish, slashed tapestry, splintered door and overturned furnishing—wreckage that was a poignant, graphic reminder of the Langorian occupation, and the recent battle. A battle we must have won, or, after passing out in the cave, I would have woken up chained in a Langorian dungeon instead of in a room on the fifth floor of Neela’s home. Neela’s very deserted home, I thought uneasily. The damage was extensive. She must have ordered an evacuation.
Still, someone brought me here. So where are they?
If Sienn were nearby, I had no idea. Her presence inside me was gone. Our bond had run its course, and I was relieved. While there had been certain, obvious perks, the longer it took Sienn to discover my default the better. Once she learned that I’d borrowed her erudite knowledge to kill Reth, blatantly breaking the vow I made to her back in Kael, she would seek restitution. Whatever flirtatious game we’d been playing at would be over then, one way or another.
Jarryd I couldn’t sense either. Our link was jammed, but not on my end; Sienn taught him well. He must have been with me for a time though, since his cloak had been draped over a chair near the bed I woke up in. His quiver was on the mantle, empty. The bow beside it lay broken in two. A scattering of blood stained the wood and I tried not to let it worry me. If Jarryd had been severely injured in the fight, he would have been lying in his own bed instead of sitting vigil next to mine.
In contrast, my temporary connection to Neela was working a little too well. I hadn’t gained any of her memories, but her emotions were exceptionally strong. Coming on me as I regained consciousness, the flux of past and present sentiments and reactions had been too suffocating to make sense of. Instead, I stockpiled the whole thing and shut her out. Now, after having a few minutes to consider the experience with a more level head, the improbability that she was even alive, that I brought Neela back from the edge of Death’s lands, amazed me. I was a soldier. I broke bodies for a living. I didn’t fix them. But I fixed her. I healed her, gave her life.
Right after I took my father’s.
Squeezing my scored hands into fists, I descended the main staircase faster, all the way to the first floor. I imagined I’d have a better chance of finding someone here. What I found, was outright ruin. And far too much blood.
Streaking and spilling, gathering in dark, dried pools on the floor, it speckled the ceiling. It splashed the walls, spelling out foul words and promises of “Death to All Rellans,” in thick, dripping strokes. Great sprays darkened the fabric of shredded wall-hangings. Doors, torn from their hinges and gouged down the middle, all bore thick, unmistakable splatters.
There were widespread singe marks as well. Ashy remains that I hoped weren’t human kicked up around me as I walked. Chunks of shattered statues and pottery crunched under my step. There wasn’t a piece of furniture left unbroken or a painting that hadn’t been cut. Clothing, baskets, linens, cooking pots, vials, bottles, books, papers, and dozens of other, personal belongings were strewn all about.
The main entrance was just ahead. Normally, it took two men to lift the great slab of wood that barred it shut from the inside. I was willing to give it a try though. Fresh air was on the other side and I needed some badly.
I was in the middle of inspecting the thick, heavy log, looking for a good place to get a solid grip, when I heard something. It was the first hint of sound that wasn’t my own.
Postponing my exit, I followed the intermittent, distant noise down a long, hallway to a set of closed, double doors. Surprisingly intact, of the muffled voices that filtered out from underneath the doors, none belonged to Jarryd. Only one was a woman, and it was definitely Neela. Even with a wall up, I could feel a faint impression of her. I couldn’t make out her words, but her tone was severe and harsh, like she was reprimanding someone.
If I barged in, I had no doubt that ‘someone’ would be me. As badly as I wanted to see her, or anyone, I didn’t feel like arguing. It was safer to let her finish.
While I waited, I thought I’d continue looking for Jarryd so I backt
racked to the main hall. I wandered down another poorly lit passage, with more smashed furniture, more blood, and more defiled pieces of Rellan life. The stale air was worse here, and it was really starting to get to me.
Stepping over scattered shards of a broken mirror, I went to the nearest window. I gripped the heavy drapes in both hands, and pain shot across my left shoulder. “Ow.” Recoiling a bit, I finished tugging the cloth aside. Sunshine and warmth streamed in. The blackened remains of Kabri stretched out for miles in front of me.
I didn’t give it a glance. My eyes were drawn elsewhere.
Dropping my hand, I leaned into the sun and stretched out the neck of my shirt. Bruises, deep and widespread, covered my entire left side. Some of the contusions were the usual greenish purple that comes with real, physical damage. The rest were far from usual.
On my shoulder, in the exact spot where my father shoved the power of the Crown of Stones down inside me, was a large magic scar. Distinctly hand-shaped, the center of the scar was obsidian colored. The ‘fingers’ extended out, streaking off both sides of my shoulder in an ombre pattern. Black, bleeding to red, dipped down to curl in slender bands around my arm. Bending, I picked up one of the larger pieces of mirror and moved my shirt aside. Black to gray stretched down my back.
None of them were the hideous, garbled splotches my father had. The markings the crown had left imprinted on my skin were sharp and well-defined, almost as if they were designed with skill. They reminded me of Arullan skin art, and I thought I could even pass them off as such. For now, I thought. But is this how it starts?
Is this how my father’s scars looked at first, before he channeled too much? Before the crown started changing him?
If he were alive I could have asked him.
“Fuck!” I threw the glass on the floor and yanked the curtain closed. I had yet to hear Neela come out of her meeting, but I was fine with that. My mood had soured too much for company. I wasn’t even up for finding Jarryd anymore. I wanted Kya, a bottle, and a long ride to clear my head. There was just something I had to do first. One place I needed to visit that suddenly seemed long overdue.
The castle hadn’t changed much in ten years. Once I found the kitchen, I easily located the cellar, and to the left of that, the discreet door to the servant’s corridor I was looking for. Inside the passage, it was cold and tight. A few lanterns on the wall were lit and I could see my way fairly well. Navigating through one junction, then another, I came to an old, dilapidated stairwell that headed in one direction: down.
Cramped, dark, and dank, with twists and turns, and no railing, the route wasn’t very inviting. A slippery deposit of grit covered the stone steps, which were narrow and broken in spots. There were torches on the walls, but the only one in use was at the bottom of the staircase. Its glow was weak and far away.
I took my time. Descending at a careful pace, I stuck close to the wall. It didn’t surprise me as pieces crumbled off beneath my fingers. Portions of the castle had been rebuilt and added onto over the years, but the section I was in now was one of the oldest.
As the layer of sand underfoot grew heavier, the light got brighter. I finally caught up to it at a long, wide landing. There were no more stairs, just a dirt wall reinforced by large, wooden planks. On my right was a sizeable tunnel that led out to the beach behind the castle. On the opposite wall was the burning torch I’d been chasing. Beneath it was a shadowy, oblong nook. Tucked inside were the cold, waxy nubs of a dozen candles wasted away to nothing.
They’d been burning the last time I stood here, with King Raynan Arcana. He said the candles were specially crafted by Rellan priests who wove ceremonial prayers into their making. Then he showed me where to push to make the wall move.
Using the shoulder that didn’t hurt, I found the spot, leaned against it, and shoved. As stone scraped stone, a few fragments chipped off to settle on my boots. Dust wafted, coating my hair and making me sneeze. But there was no resistance. The door-shaped slab swung open wide with a puff of musty, salty air and a brief tumble of gravel.
While I waited for the shower to stop, I reached back and stole the torch. Holding it out in front of me, flames burned away the darkness to reveal a small, cave-like chamber. Far below the sea, the walls were round and wet. The rocky floor was pitted. Straight ahead was a massive, wooden door, bolted into the cave wall. On my previous visit, the door had been in one piece. Now, it was in three.
Crossing the damp cavern, I jumped over the splintered planks and into the next chamber. I could only see a fraction of it. Housing the generations that were laid to rest here, the Royal Catacombs were quite large. Even setting fire to a few of the torches bracketed to the wall didn’t help much. They gave just enough light to make the shadowy stone likenesses of the dead dance and sway eerily about on the walls.
I moved farther in. The room was a dark, dusty maze of stone crypts. Brushing at the years of grime in the grooves, I cleaned off a few with faces I didn’t recognize. Then I found one that didn’t have a face at all. Flat and smooth, there was only a name etched into a metal plate at the foot of the lid. There had been no time or resources for more. No chance to pay tribute to the fallen. Not even King Raynan Arcana.
My eyes slid to the neighboring vault. The day I left Kabri, it too had been blank; without monument or rendering. But the carvers had already been hard at work to make it otherwise, and now there was an inscription, and a face.
A face I thought I might never see again anywhere but in my head.
Proceeding to the nearest empty bracket, I rid myself of the torch. Then I went back and walked the length of Aylagar’s crypt. Twice. I traced the outer edge, lingering on the rough spots where crude Langorians tools had chipped away the granite in their hasty search for the Crown of Stones.
I blew the sediment away from the side. Underneath it was a short Rellan poem about duty and sacrifice. On the lid, adorning the long, slab of light gray stone, was the recreation of her body. It was unexpectedly intact. Intact, but wrong, I thought, running my fingers over the plain, pious gown that covered her from neck to ankle. In place of her usual, Arullan battle armor, the gown had been chosen to make Aylagar appear more Rellan. For that same reason, her height had been exaggerated, her muscles down-played, and her frame slimmed. The miles of hair I loved had been shortened as well, shaped in a stern fashion and hidden under a wimple—something Aylagar would have died before ever agreeing to wear.
The injustice didn’t stop there. The fire in her eyes had been made vacant. The depth of emotion on her face tamed. Even Aylagar’s strong, exotic features had been reduced to a stoic expression of unsmiling indifference.
“They didn’t know you.” Bending, I placed a gentle kiss on the cold, hard surface of her cheek. I ran my hand over hers. Fingers lingering, I waited for the tightness in my chest, the ache that accompanied every thought of her. I expected to hear the thunderous slam of the lid falling into place. The sound had echoed inside me for years.
None of those things happened. I wasn’t overcome with grief or remorse, or love. There was no hitch in my throat or sting in my eyes. Standing over Aylagar’s grave was one of the most anticlimactic events of my entire life, and it made no sense. Her memory had driven me to more bottles and ill-tempered moods than I could count.
Killing her had nearly killed me.
Then I understood. Aylagar wasn’t the catalyst for my pain anymore. She was no longer the standard that I held all other women to. Thanks to my father, Neela was. She was the center of my nightmares. She haunted me now, and it didn’t seem fair. Aylagar had to die to earn that right.
Faint footfall alighted in the passageway. As it drew nearer, my perception of Neela multiplied. A moment later, I heard her climbing over the broken door.
Her dress rustled as she moved up behind me.
“That isn’t her,” she said. I didn’t turn around and Neela came closer. “You can’t blame the artist though. My mother was too fierce and beautiful to be captured in sto
ne.”
My pulse racing, I stared down at the vault. “You look like her.”
“Not really.” She sounded a little sad. “I know how you saved me. Thank you.”
“Are you all right?”
“It’s strange having parts of another person in my head.”
“What’s strange is that I’m getting used to it.”
My jest put a smile in her voice. “When I woke, I could feel you so much I could barely breathe. Now, it’s vivid one moment and faint the next. I can’t keep up.”
“I had to block you out. And, our connection is fading.”
“Already?”
I was wary of facing her, but I jumped on the disappointment in her voice. “You sound as if you’ll miss me.”
“Perhaps. You are like a whirlwind.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things,” I chuckled. “But never that.”
“It’s true. You’re inspiring, but difficult. Your…nature,” she said delicately, “influences my words and decisions. It carries my thoughts in directions I would never go. Don’t take this wrong, but I have found few traits in you that are fit for a Queen.”
“Well, you’d make a lousy bounty hunter, so I guess we’re even.”
Neela gave into a brief laugh. She came to stand beside me at her mother’s tomb and I could sense her anguish. The mental wall between us wasn’t working so well.
“You long for her,” I said.
“Yes. Do you?”
“Not anymore.”
“Then, what do you long for?”
“That’s a complicated question.”
“Let me rephrase. Who do you long for?”
It was like reflex. Without thinking, I turned around with her name on the tip of my tongue—and swallowed it. Neela looked too spectacular for words.
Gone was the drab, unflattering dress she wore in Ula, as well as all traces of her ordeal in the cave. Clean and healed, her smooth, dark skin shimmered in the faint light of the torch. Her hair, shiny and debris-free, flowed unbound over the shoulders of an elegant, white, beaded gown. Instead of rope burns, strands of pearls surrounded Neela’s wrists. More adorned the slender, silver band on top of her head, and encircled her throat. One string hung lower, drawing my eyes to the wide, scooped neckline of her cinched bodice, and the enticing hollow it made between her breasts.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price Page 45