by Megan Derr
"I'm going to hazard that the royal family is never burned?"
"They're too special," Kalan said. "It's expensive to put them here, though I will admit most of the money goes toward the fuss of storing them."
Sol shook his head, lips twitching. "You're not the minister quite yet."
"Yet," Kalan said, and winked. "Everyone knows I'm angling and that the prince favors me. It's only a matter of time."
"I thought a good leader didn't play favorites," Sol said, but his tone was teasing.
Kalan let out a snort strong enough to stir up the dust on the column he stood beside. "In politics you have only enemies or favorites."
"Yes," Sol said. "I know all about politics and playing sides. I've been involved in Salharan and Krian politics, one way or the other, for years. Where have you looked?"
Kalan grinned. "You should consider a position. Matti doesn't have all the new ministers figured out. He'd love to have someone else on board who would set everyone else on edge. Keeps them on their toes. You name it, I've looked in, under, above, through or all around it. If that damnable stone is in here, I wasn't clever enough to find it. Which will annoy me because those breeches really were my favorite pair."
"We all must make sacrifices," Sol said and abruptly knelt on the ground. "So no one else accompanies him here?"
"Matti does occasionally, but not every time, no. Only the king has time to come down here every single day for half an hour or more. So you'll have to ask Matti what he does, if that's what you're hoping to hear. And what he does with Matti—"
"Is, of course, not likely to be what he does when he's alone. His entire family is buried here?"
"Yes," Kalan said, pointing to each one and ticking off the kings, queens and various other royals sealed within the walls. Over each section was an ornate gold nameplate, the royal seal, a brief dedication and a relief of the deceased's face. "Even Benji already has a place. Most everyone believes he died of illness. That was not a happy time, let me tell you. It was after he 'died' that we all became a bit too serious. It's only in recent years that we've begun to lighten up again. I think mostly because it was just getting too cumbersome."
Sol nodded. "No one can be miserable forever. No one is meant to be."
"Indeed. All of the family is buried here—at least those that are dead—but he only really comes to see his wife. They were close. I think it was Matti's mother who first put the idea of marrying Esta into his head. Matti protested quite loudly until the day he and Esta got into a huge fight—this at the age of sixteen—and she pushed him into the pond. In winter. After he was saved from freezing to death and Esta was done feeling guilty, he proposed. She kicked him and stormed off." Kalan grinned. "As you can see, they're still working it out."
"I see," Sol said with a smile of his own. He examined the place where the late queen was buried. "I don't think the stone is going to be in here anywhere. Too obvious and too hard to hide something like that."
Kalan rolled his eyes. "Of that I wouldn't be too sure—when you really start looking there are far too many nooks and crannies."
"All the same," Sol stood up, brow furrowed in thought. "I do not know the king, or how he thinks, but if I were a king eager to hide something which could cripple my kingdom…" He turned and headed out of the mausoleum, walking briskly from the graveyard along the stone path that wended its way back to the palace proper. Kalan bolted after him, falling into step and keeping pace until he almost continued on when Sol abruptly stopped. In front of the well he'd glanced at before.
"There is a phrase of which the Seven Star is particularly fond, mostly because we completely disregard it." Sol glanced at Kalan. "The best way to keep a secret is to kill everyone who knows it."
"Morbid, but true. Rather than those of us who knew, you think he killed the stone by throwing it in the well? How did you ever come to that conclusion?"
"A hunch," Sol said. "There's no guarantee I'm right, but if he goes to see his wife that often, I have no doubt he does as much for guidance as anything else. He must miss having her to talk to, and the well would be an easy way to dispose of the problem. Not destroying it, which would be going too far, but close enough. If it really is there, no one can get it out."
Kalan grinned. "Don't be too sure of that," he said. "Matti and I could do it. He knows what the stone looks like, and I can help him since calling it up from the well won't be easy within the confines of the palace—especially without knowing how deep this well is." He clapped Sol on the shoulder. "Well, done! No wonder you were so highly recommended."
"By who?" Sol asked.
"Dieter—and I can see why he calls you a cat. You're as sly as one, and you move the same way." Kalan shook his head. "And that voice—it's a wonder you don't purr, my friend. You should become a minister. I bet you could convince the lot of them to jump off a cliff if you wanted."
Sol rolled his eyes. "Absurd. I am a spy—hopefully a retired one. I want no part of ministry work."
"I'll tell Matti to start convincing you," Kalan said with a wink. "Now let's go see if Esta managed to kill Iah with the stairs yet."
Chapter Twenty One
"So this is it?" Beraht said, looking at the orb Matthias had dropped into his hand before collapsing tiredly into a nearby chair. It was late—or early, perhaps. No one was about, though throughout the night nearly everyone had been giving Beraht strange looks.
He had never wanted a dose of arcen so badly in his life. Anything to go back to being looked at normally—like a mere foreigner, instead of like one who might be dangerous. It was bad enough he almost wished for the days when no one looked at him at all. He barely suppressed a shudder.
Maybe not.
"It certainly doesn't look like much," Beraht said, and it didn't. He remembered the one Benji held—a clear orb of crystal, like glass, but thicker, denser. The one in his hands was a smoky black. As if someone had mixed ink into the crystal. It was also heavy. Beraht hefted it thoughtfully; he bet with a good throw he could dent even von Adolwulf's head. He glanced up.
"Don't even think about," von Adolwulf said.
Beraht lifted a brow. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He glanced at Matthias before he gave himself away. "So… what now?"
Matthias, Esta and Kalan exchanged a nervous glance. Matthias shrugged his shoulder, looking sheepish. "I… don't really know. In theory you just go down there and Break the Crystal Chamber. All my research and no one bothered to say exactly how it was done. Perhaps because they never thought it would actually happen?"
"You're joking, right?" Beraht reconsidered whose head he should be throwing things at. "You want me to improvise?" He glared. "I'd wondered why I hadn't been getting any lessons or explanations."
"I'm glad you decided not to ask," Kalan said shamelessly. "Because now it's too late."
Beraht shifted his glare. "I will throw this at your head."
"You'd probably hit it too, but Esta will be the first to tell you my head is harder than rock."
Esta's glare froze the entire room. "I do not think now is the time to be making jokes, especially bad ones. Your head isn't as hard as rock, it's simply as dense! Now be quiet until you can say something useful."
"Yes, my Queen." Kalan backed away when she glared at him again. "I mean Duchess."
"This is no time for joking," she repeated icily.
Kalan shrugged. "There's always time for a joke."
"Enough," Matthias said wearily.
Beraht dropped the stone from hand to hand, back and forth. Ice cold and damp from the well it had been dropped in, it began to warm in his hands until it was almost hot. He frowned at it, feeling something cold crawling up his spine. Abruptly he stood up, nearly knocking his chair back. "Let's get this over with." Without another word he stormed from the room, clutching the stone close to his chest.
At least it was quiet enough even the majority of the servants had gone to bed. The few still awake would be gossiping in the kitchen
s, waiting until some lord or lady rang for a midnight snack. Beraht strode through the halls and out into the garden.
It was freezing. Stars curse everyone and everything. At the first opportunity he was going to find somewhere to live that was never cold. Nothing was worth spending what felt like half the year freezing to death. Shivering, he all but ran through the garden, fingers shaking too hard to unlock the door. He dropped the key, the ringing clang of metal on stone jarringly loud in the dead garden.
Beraht felt movement and heat at his back before he was shoved aside as von Adolwulf opened the door and hauled him through it. He saw the others behind him and fought the urge to snatch von Adolwulf's cape away. He hadn't seen the damn thing since their arrival, and it looked far cleaner than it had in what was probably a very long time.
Angry with himself, Beraht yanked free of von Adolwulf's hold and nearly fell down the stairs, but a grab at the rough wall helped him keep his balance. "Having trouble, Beraht?"
"Shut up," Beraht snapped. He didn't bother to light a torch at the bottom, merely held the stone tightly and kept walking forward. That chill in his spine felt like cold fingers; he half expected to feel cold lips and colder breath at the back of his neck. Just behind him he could feel von Adolwulf; Beraht really wished he had not come. Whatever was about to happen, he had no doubt it would only provide the bastard with fodder.
At least Beraht wouldn't have to sleep with him any longer.
The trip through the tunnel that normally felt like forever seemed to take only seconds, and the door to the Crystal Chamber loomed before him, just barely visible in the light of the torch beside it. Beraht continued on through the door and slammed it shut behind him. He couldn't lock it, so hopefully they all got the message.
How had he gotten into this mess? Oh, yeah. He'd set out to kill the Scarlet. Every star-cursed problem since that damnable day could be laid at von Adolwulf's feet.
Beraht forced the thoughts from his mind. He'd get von Adolwulf if it was the last thing he did, but at that moment he had something else to do.
It made him feel strange, the way Esta smiled at him and Kalan and Matthias laughed and talked with him. A duchess, a duke, and a prince. All people he thought he could almost get away with calling friends. So too Iah and Sol, for all that he and Sol would never have spoken outside the Brotherhood.
He refused to think about von Adolwulf again. Bastard.
Here he was, in a room made of crystal with only a near-corpse for company. Somehow, he was supposed to save people, like he was some sort of hero. Better, he supposed, than someone who killed men in their sleep.
Except… everyone was asleep. It was almost funny. Kalan would be amused if he thought of it. It was strange that after only a few weeks, he already knew exactly how Kalan and the others would react.
He'd started out just saving himself. Now he supposed he was saving them. It was a strange feeling.
The tingling in his spine felt like claws, digging deep and raking up through his neck to his head. Beraht cursed and clutched at his forehead, holding the counter stone tight in his other hand. He barely noticed when he hit his knees, not really hearing his own cry of pain.
This was a deeper, harder cold than what had annoyed him outside. It was as if it were spreading from the inside out. Beraht realized he was shaking and pressed the stone against his chest to avoid dropping it. Sensing, somehow, that dropping it would be a bad thing to do.
The cold spread, and he began to shake harder. He was no longer able to stay on his knees, and he collapsed to sit fully on the floor. His hand hit the crystal, and he grew so cold it almost felt hot. Beraht choked on a cry of pain, and it came out like a thin hiss.
Don't.
Please.
Don't do it.
Please do it.
"Shut up," Beraht snapped. "If you give me a headache, I'll kill you twice. Or whatever." He bit down hard on his lip, the copper-tang of blood in his mouth and the feel of it dribbling down his chin helping to restore some order to his mind.
The voices kept whispering, as thick and bittersweet as arcen sliding down his throat. So easy, he thought as his eyes slid shut, to just join them. To sink into the voices, into the calm of the crystal, to be the arcen that gave the country magic…
He bit down hard on his lip again, and he would have cursed except that it was hard to do when around a mouthful of blood. The pain brought back clarity that he desperately needed.
Perhaps he should have asked how to work the star-cursed counter stone. But he had asked, and no one knew. That the stones were opposite was all he had to go on. Breaker… so maybe he should just think of breaking?
Help me…
"Shut up," Beraht said again. "I'm not listening." He pressed the hand already on the floor flat, wincing at the cold that lanced up his arm. No, it wasn't cold. It was something worse. He just didn't know what to call it. Ignoring it as best he could, Beraht tried to think of what to do next. No ideas were coming.
In his other hand, the black counter stone felt hot. Too hot next to the cold that was everywhere else. Hesitating, he gave a weak shrug and then lowered his other hand to the floor, touching the counter stone to the crystal. He screamed in agony.
He pulled it away again, curling up and hugging himself, cradling his burning hand close to his body. Stars take them all! Every last one of them was going to get the same measure of pain at breakfast. Wasn't there some other way?
Beraht admitted with an inward wince that there was not. It had hurt worse than even Tawn's torment from the day before, but it had been at least close to the right thing to do. He glanced at Benji, as still as ever. Not so much as a finger had moved, but he could hear two voices in his head. Two versions of the same voice: one begging Beraht to join him, the other begging him to stop it. The former must be what had caused him to sleep walk. And the other… the real Benji?
He didn't know. It was obviously weaker than the voice trying to coax Beraht into power. How there were two, he did not know and did not care. He just wanted them both to shut up. Taking a deep breath, bracing himself, Beraht closed his eyes tight and sought for something—anything—that would help him endure the pain.
Curses flooded the room when his mind immediately dredged up thoughts of von Adolwulf. The smug, smirking, arrogant, violent—
Beraht slammed his hands down, barely noticed the jarring pain in his left hand as the counter stone slammed into crystal. Nor did he notice when he started screaming, just that suddenly he was. He bit hard on his lip again, focusing on the pain and how everything was the fault of that damned bastard, and he'd curse his name under every star in the sky if that's what it took to break his damned—
Voices filled his head. Angry. Sad. Coaxing. Pleading. Screaming. Sobbing. Hundreds of thousands of voices until his head ached to the point he wished it would just hurry up and burst already. His left hand burned with pain, his right had gone numb from the searing cold.
Don't.
Please.
Join.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop…
Beneath his frozen right hand, Beraht felt something shift and crack. He saw blood leaking from under his palm. His left hand and now his arm felt as if they were on fire; he wondered if they were bleeding too, but couldn't take his eyes off the blood on the floor. More dripped from his ruined bottom lip. He'd have to start mangling his top lip next if this continued.
Something inside him seemed to snap, like a strong spell searing the arcen right out of his body. He felt empty.
Then nothing.
*~*~*
He felt hot. Way too hot. Beraht struggled to figure out the source of the overwhelming heat and could only determine that he was moving. "Bastard," he guessed, and fell back into the black, not hearing the laughter as he was carried out of the tunnel.
*~*~*
Beraht groaned and opened his eyes. Then closed them again and scrambled to pull the blankets back up. "Stars, how much did
I drink last night?" He struggled to remember and recall who had let him drink that much so that he knew who to kill.
Then the night started coming back, in bits and pieces and then all at once, and Beraht wished he'd simply had too much to drink. He deliberated between staying in bed and getting up. Staying in bed sounded wonderfully appealing, but he resisted and threw back the blankets and made himself sit up.
He was in his room, not dead, and the bastard was asleep in a chair by the window. Something in there didn't fit. Beraht closed his eyes, then opened them again and half-stumbled out of bed. His head felt like the worst possible mix between arcen withdrawal and no fewer than six jugs of wine. He'd only been that stupid once—his first time back in the city after surviving a season of war.
Never again, he'd vowed.
It was a damn shame that he was feeling the pain and hadn't had any fun first. Someone would pay dearly.
He sat down hard at the table by the fireplace, fumbling with the glass of water sitting there. Von Adolwulf's no doubt. Beraht gulped the water down then managed to spill only a bit when he poured more. He sipped the second glass, knowing from experience that he'd only heave it up if he drank too much too fast.
His head hit the table with a thump, and he immediately regretted letting it drop. Someone was going to die. Hopefully him. Anything to make the pain stop. Holding his head in his left hand, he reached out with his right to grab the water glass—and let it go with a curse.
Stars, his hand hurt. Beraht stared at it, frowning. A long, deep gash ran the width of it. It started to bleed again as he watched, and he muttered a few more choice curses.
"Tits of the Winter Princess," von Adolwulf said, "why couldn't you sleep a little while longer?" He loomed over the table and Beraht. Where the blazes had he come from? Beraht glanced toward the chair where von Adolwulf had been, half expecting to see him still there. No such luck. Which meant he'd actually have to deal with the man… who was currently bandaging his hand.