Draken’s heavy eyes flitted to the coura. “May I?”
He tilted his head back, as if I might actually give him a drink.
I grabbed the bottle and tipped it over his wound. I didn’t waste much. I didn’t have to. A few drops of the liquor dripped onto the raw meat of Draken’s chest and he started convulsing. I put a hand over his mouth to muffle his screams. “Bet that stings, too.”
When his fit passed, I let him go and put the bottle back. Draken was winded, even greener than before. I thought he’d play nice then. Instead, he grinned and took up where he left off. “Not that I’m surprised Elayna chose him. She could never love a shattered runt like you. But Malaq…he’s another story entirely. Powerful. Noble. Strong. Though, when he hands her son over to Langor, she might have a change of heart.”
Jarryd froze. “What did you say?”
The knife still in my grip, I backhanded Draken. The end of the hilt tore into his cheek. I drew back to hit him again.
“Ian, wait!” Jarryd cried. “Let him talk.”
My head snapped around to give him a glare. “Are you kidding me?”
“I want to hear this,” he said.
With a grumble I stepped back and sheathed the knife.
Jarryd moved to the other side of the bed. “What do you know about my son?”
Draken dabbed at his torn face with a shaky hand. “Malaq didn’t tell you?” His feigned innocence was even harder to buy with blood staining his smile. “His marriage to Elayna came with one condition. That her firstborn be given to the throne of Langor, to be fostered by me.”
“Bullshit,” Jarryd spat.
Draken winced through a shrug. “The contract was signed.”
“I don’t give a damn if it was endorsed by the gods,” Jarryd raged. “You will never set eyes on my son.”
“Perhaps not,” Draken yielded. “Still, I wonder, would your dear friend, the honorable King Malaq Roarke, have so willingly offered up the boy if he carried his own blood…and not yours?”
I swallowed the abundance of venom wafting off Jarryd so I could speak. “I’ve seen the boy’s features, Draken. He’s not yours.”
“Oh, I lay no claim,” Draken assured me. “I planned only to groom the child to one day succeed Malaq as Kabri’s King. After all, Langorian ways can be taught. As long as Aylagar’s warrior blood runs strong in the boy’s veins, he’ll do fine. If he takes after you,” Draken’s weak gaze shifted back to Jarryd. “Well…it’s doubtful he’ll survive the training.”
Jarryd lunged. His fist made contact with Draken’s mouth before I even made it around the bed. More punches followed before I got close enough to grab Jarryd’s shoulders.
He pulled loose and snuck in another strike.
I pulled harder.
“Goddamn it, get off me!” Jarryd yanked free. He shoved me off and walked away. When he came back, I put myself in his path. He knew damn well I wasn’t playing around. I would stop him however I had to. That didn’t make his eyes any less fierce as he trained them on Draken. “Very little is keeping my hands from around your throat, Langorian.”
“Those things?” Draken’s amused gaze fell to Jarryd’s hands. He stared in disgust, as if they were still swollen and gnarled. “They couldn’t squeeze juice from an overripe fruit.”
I glared at Draken. I was close to strangling him myself. “One more word and I let him have you.”
“I think not,” he replied with confidence. “You need me for something. Otherwise, I would already be dead.”
I ground my teeth on how right he was. With a couple of firm shoves, I pushed Jarryd toward the door. “We both have cause to make him bleed. But now isn’t the time.”
“I know more than you think, Ian. I have the memories of your mother’s teachings. A glamour spell will still work after the donor’s body dies. You don’t need him alive.”
“You have some of my memories. Not all. If you did, you’d know the spell has two levels. The one you’re talking about is more involved. As long as an energy source keeps the spell going, the borrowed essence can be worn long after the body you took it from is dead. That’s what Sienn did when she made herself into the winegirl, Imma, back in Kael. But it requires more magic. And the more I use, the greater the chance of the crown stirring, and—”
“More scars forming,” he finished. Jarryd’s nod was less than enthusiastic. “I get it.”
“There’s another spell. It’s finite. It uses less magic. There’s less risk. But it’s an open connection. If he dies before I close it, the glamour fades, and it’s me standing in front of thousands of Langorian troops. I don’t think that’ll have the outcome we’re looking for.”
I got another nod; more reluctant than the first.
“This was your idea,” I reminded him.
Jarryd blew out a breath. I felt his ire shrink from a full blown boil to a quiet simmer. He looked past me to Draken; lying quietly now with torment etched deep in his royal features. “Malaq wants him to stand trial for war crimes, Ian. He thinks bringing Draken to justice will heal the divide between our people.” Jarryd’s gaze veered back to me. “Malaq is wrong. Draken shouldn’t be allowed to speak, to defend what he’s done. That man has left victims and ruin across the whole of Mirra’kelan. He doesn’t deserve a trial. He deserves exactly what he gave everyone else: pain and death.”
“I agree. But we’ll talk about it when this over.”
Jarryd wanted to argue, but he let me usher him out the door. The second his boots hit the corridor I shut off our link. His gaze hardened as he waited for an explanation. All I gave him was a shrug. I couldn’t let his abundance of hostility throw off my spell. Neither did I want him privy to what I was about to cast. The brief, intimate moments when Draken’s essence settled over mine—whatever residual effects might travel over the link—would not be good for him. Unfortunately, Jarryd wasn’t of the mind to appreciate that.
With a clipped, “Good luck,” he stalked off down the corridor.
THIRTY THREE
“Up.”
Draken grunted. “You’re kidding.”
“There’s not a single amused thought in my head right now, Draken. So, no, I’m not kidding. Get up.” I took hold of his shoulders and pulled. Blood and pus dripped down his chest, streaking Draken’s gaunt, sunken stomach as I righted him. I thought his scream of agony might bring someone running, so I put a hand over his mouth until he was done. I removed it to a string of foul curses aimed at my eternal damnation. I considered gagging him. But I’d heard it all before.
Bearing his weight, I half carried Draken toward the pool. His legs grew weaker with each step. His head lolled on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” he muttered.
“Making sure there are no mistakes.”
“What…?”
“I’m casting a spell. One I hope will keep your home out of my father’s hands.”
“You’re protecting Darkhorne? I don’t understand.”
“Me neither.”
I nudged some of the potted ferns apart with my boot and lowered Draken to the floor beside the pool. He screamed again at another shift in position. I let it happen this time. It wouldn’t be the last, and I had to trust Malaq and Janus to keep everyone out.
From what I’d observed of my father’s use of hornblende, I didn’t need as much water as I once thought to block the stone’s perversion, but the keep and the mountain beneath were riddled with hornblende. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I sat beside Draken at the edge of the pool. “Where’s your swan?”
He grunted. “The dirty fowl bit me.”
“Did it?” I laughed. “I knew I liked that bird.”
“I cut off its head and threw it off the balcony.” Draken forced a brief, wan smile. Whatever energy he’d gained from taunting Jarryd, was gone. “Why don’t we have a little walk outside?” he
offered. “I can show you where the treacherous thing went over.”
“Nice try.” I took off my weapons and tossed them far out of Draken’s reach. Removing my braces, my shirt and my boots, I left Draken on the floor and slid into the water. It was deeper than I thought, coming almost up to the scars on my shoulder.
Draken was groaning. Sweat lathered his skin. Discharge streaked and colored his chest. “What the hell…” he paused for a gasping breath, “are you doing?”
I positioned an arm under his neck and one under his legs. “Brace yourself. This is going to hurt.” I thought about it and added, “Really fucking hurt.”
His protest was weak and short lived. I pulled Draken into the pool, and as he sunk, water rushed toward his open wound. It breached the edge and lapped over to fill the hole. Thrashing, Draken’s cries of agony ended as his body seized. The water darkened with his blood swirling around us. I struggled to hold onto him, fighting to keep both our heads above water. I would have felt for the man—if he were anyone else. As it was, I breathed a sigh of relief when he passed out.
Able to concentrate now, I thought of how best to proceed. Glamour required the auras of several stones working together. I had multiple options; different auras that would work to lay Draken’s essence over mine. Each combination made the process slightly different.
I glanced at the stones studding my braces and decided on the ones with the most calming vibrations. Their soothing nature would draw the process out, but my own growing unease was enough. I didn’t need another source of agitation.
Draken was quiet and still, floating in my arms. I closed my eyes and channeled.
Amethyst first, I thought, to grasp his essence and attach it to mine. Emerald came next, to unify us on a physical level, then kyanite to form the illusion and diamond to hold it in place. Last was garnet, to persuade inconsistencies from the eyes and minds of others.
The auras swooped in, one after the other, occupying my veins; quickening in concert with my blood. Glamour was an ancient spell created by the weavers, a line of Shinree once responsible for matching a stone’s ability with a caster’s desire. Lore said they ‘spoke’ to the stones and were paid to weave the perfect combination of words to craft a flawless spell. By the time the empire fell, thought-casting had become such common practice the weaver line was nearly obsolete. I wasn’t sure how many were alive today, but their spells had certainly lived on.
Repeating the words in my head, the auras left my body with a warm, pleasant whoosh. I opened my eyes and they were encasing me; swirling together in a playful jumping twist of colors. They swelled to wrap around Draken. He stirred at the sensation. Our eyes met, and I felt a pinch. My skin tingled. His seemed to blur and lift up from his body.
A weight settled over me. It was heavy, suffocating. Cold.
My heart jumped with a sudden hot streak of fear and rage. It hadn’t come from me.
But it was mine now.
Glamour was different than my soul-bond with Jarryd. I didn’t ‘notice’ Draken’s essence. I couldn’t push unwanted sensations and memories aside. The emotions bombarding me weren’t trying to sway my own. In this moment, Draken’s presence was mine. My nerves processed his sensations; a choking flood of endless pain. His memories and emotions were indistinguishable from my own; the bitter, constant longing for more; the unquenchable need to be recognized and worshipped; the painful longing that begged to be sated.
I needed to feel alive, to feel worthy—to be celebrated. The bodies falling at my feet, the power I held over life and death—over the course of history—made my heart pound. Their fearful adoration delighted me. The pain I inflicted made my cock swell with excitement.
But it was never enough.
I needed to own, to crush, and to dominate. That was the only way to appease the restlessness, to sate the urges, to stop the voices telling me always to do better, to be better.
Satisfaction came as their heads rolled at my feet and their legs spread before me. Respect, hatred, terror; it didn’t matter what kept the yoke around their necks. Only that it was my hand on the grip. It was me they bowed to. It was my name spilling from their bloody lips.
Without supremacy and victory there was no acknowledgement, no praise.
Father had shown me that. It was the only lesson Taiven ever taught me.
Recognition came at both ends of a club, he would say while he turned his on me.
Rage and satisfaction burned like bile in my throat as I stared at Taiven’s dead body, riddled with knife wounds. Draken’s voice blended with mine in my head as he vowed: from this day, I will know only one side of the club. It will be my name they speak through the ages, Father, not yours.
Together, we watched Taiven’s wretched life dribble out onto the floor—a King’s life; spilled at the hands of a pregnant Rellan woman, no less.
The Arcana princess turned whore.
She had other names. In the halls they called her Taiven’s Toy. But he called her Dog, I thought, recalling the many times he’d forced me to watch him use her as such. I hated it at first. Her screams, his groan of pleasure. But then I understood. Father wanted me to learn how much punishment a Rellan body could take, and just how little they were worth.
Draken’s smile twisted across my face as I thought of the woman’s fate. How the bitch who had wrongly occupied my father’s thoughts and his bed would die frozen by the winter winds, her bloated belly and the little bastard she carried, food for the wolves.
I smiled harder at the favor she did me by killing him.
And the hell I would rain down on Kabri in her name.
I don’t know when it stopped. Awareness came back with me hanging onto the side of the pool, panting and heaving the contents of my stomach out among the ash and brittle leaves on the floor. Breathless and groggy, it took me a moment to realize it was the remains of the ferns I’d killed to craft the spell.
Shaking and cold, I stared at my hands. What clenched the stone lip of the pool did not belong to me. The knuckles were larger, the fingers longer. The skin was darker, with no runes tying me to Jarryd, and no magic-scars.
Something nudged my leg under water and I jumped.
Draken was on the bottom.
“Shit.” Diving under, I thrust my hands under his arms and dragged him back up. Still weak, I struggled to lift Draken’s heavy limp frame out of the water. Getting his upper body out, I shoved his legs the rest of the way up. Water poured off me as I climbed out beside him. I rolled Draken onto his stomach and slammed a fist into his back until he expelled the abundance of water in his lungs.
When his choking coughs ceased, he opened his eyes. They were even more sunken and ringed than before. His lids were heavy. The expression he trained on me was relatively blank, as if he wasn’t surprised at what I’d done. But the idea of staring at him as he stared at himself gave me an uneasy feeling.
I broke his gaze and got up.
By the time I carried Draken back and deposited him in bed, he was unconscious again. Water from his hair and clothes soaked the sheets. His chest was oozing and blood-covered. I threw a blanket over him to block out the sight.
Trembling, my stomach still sick, I wrapped a shaky hand around the bottle of coura by his bed and helped myself. Watching Draken sleeping fitfully, I drank the whole bottle. I still couldn’t shake what it had felt like to be him.
I detested the man. But I was feeling something resembling pity now, and I hated it. I disliked knowing how he was raised: on cruelty and shame, driven by some desperate, gaping need to win the attention of a man he never had a single hope of pleasing. Draken had become a monster not because of his father, but for him. When Taiven was found dead, Draken had stood over his body for hours. As the morning sun broke, he pulled the knife out and wept as he mutilated Taiven beyond recognition.
The emotional turmoil Draken felt toward the ma
n who gave him life was a little too close to home, and more common ground than I’d ever wanted.
I slammed the empty bottle down on the table. Leaving Draken’s bedside, I moved past the pool and the ferns to the other side of the chamber. A small set of stairs took me down into his sunken dressing area. Padded couches and a ridiculous number of wardrobes filled the space. Mirrors were affixed to the outside of the wardrobe doors. I stared into the glass. What stared back turned my mouth dry.
“Goddamn,” I breathed, gaping at my bare chest splayed open and festering; my noble features covered in body fluids and scruff; my dark eyes dulled by pain. Silken wet pants clung to my long legs. The material was loose fitting, hanging from a form recently thinned by an inability to eat anything of substance.
It was illusion only. My skin wasn’t puffy and discolored. I had no oozing wound in my chest. Beneath the glamour, I was whole. But being magic-fed, the pain felt real enough, gouging raw through my core. I touched the damage, to remind myself it wasn’t real. I moved the hand to my face—to his face. If I concentrated, I could feel the contours of my own beneath. No one else would. They would see, hear, and feel me as Draken. But I couldn’t appear before the Langorian people portraying strength with a painful, gaping, rancid hole in my chest.
With a quick spell, I masked the discomfort and opened the wardrobe. I sifted through Draken’s clothes, not liking any of them. His shoulders and chest were considerably broader than mine. I would feel the discrepancy, but magic would keep anyone else from noticing.
Undressing, I kept the obsidian and the key both around my neck. Neither would be seen beneath my clothes, or the illusion, and I wasn’t about to let them out of my sight. Selecting one of his many pairs of black silk trousers, I chose a snug-fitting crimson tunic with a nest of serpents embroidered on the front in gold thread. I completed the look with a gray, black-fur trimmed cloak boasting the same design. Filling my fingers with serpent rings, I pulled on his low cuffed boots. His skin over mine was sallow and he was badly in need of a shave, but the first couldn’t be helped and I had no time to remedy the latter. I didn’t see it as a problem, though. Draken’s sickly, unkempt appearance would help corroborate his long absence.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 29