The responding cheer was far more than an underlying ripple. It was deafening.
Malaq raised hands for silence. Receiving it instantly, he lifted his voice high. “Many months ago I was brought before you. My brother questioned my loyalty. He condemned my ability to lead and denounced my right to this throne. He was wrong!”
A mix of applause and shouted objections filled the brief silence as Malaq took a breath. It was clear to all here. He was walking a razor-thin line between inspiring his new subjects and offending them.
“Langorians are not gods,” Malaq continued. “We are not above mistakes. Kings are not above mistakes. We are merely men, after all. I have lived my life as all of you, in the shadows of our forefathers; in the darkness of our ancestors’ oppression; under the weight of centuries of pride, bigotry, and fear. But I will do so no more. WE WILL DO SO NO MORE!” Pausing, his tone softened. “You may question my plan for victory. That is understandable. But if we throw aside suspicion and prejudice, with the alliances I have made and the weapons I will provide, we can prevail. So I ask you one more time, good and loyal people of Langor…trust me. With your lives, your land, your children’s lives. For—unlike my brother—I will protect them as I would my very own.”
THIRTY FIVE
Having played their part, Janus’ guards escorted me inside the main doors and let me go. I made my way alone back through the darkened halls and up the black serpent-railed stairs. I didn’t run, though I wanted to. Of the few Langorians I passed, no one stopped me. Not one met my eyes. They didn’t even glance as they bowed and muttered a quick, reverent, “My King.” Aside from their fear of the face I was wearing, my urgency, as I hurried through the corridors, was obvious.
Sweating, my pulse racing at what felt like a heavy layer of sludge overtop my skin, it seemed forever until I reached his chamber. I ducked inside and shut the door. Draken was awake. He looked pitiful watching himself walk across his room. But it wasn’t pity that kept me from rubbing it in. I was just done hearing his voice come out of my mouth.
Blatantly ignoring Draken’s burrowing eyes as I headed for the dressing area, I gave a glance to the gap in the open balcony doors. Their frames seemed to jump on the hinges from the sheer strength of the noise outside. It was an unending maelstrom of voices and applause. I wasn’t surprised. Even if some didn’t like Malaq’s message, they had just witnessed a moment that would be talked about for generations to come.
Descending the small set of stairs, I stood amid the wardrobes and couches, and released my hold on the spell. I shuddered as his form sloughed away. It stripped off me like a latent shadow, peeling away and leaving me standing in Draken’s too-big clothes with my head pounding and a violent sickness lurching up from my stomach.
Bending over as the nausea reached my throat, I fell to my knees. I spent more than a few minutes heaving nothing as my body played with expelling its contents. When the impulse passed, I pushed myself up. Sweat drenched my chilled skin. My limbs were trembling like mad as I kicked off his boots. I rid myself of his clothes like they were on fire.
Calling out from his bed, Draken’s voice was full of alarm. “What have you done?”
“Saved your realm. I hope,” I muttered, shoving an arm into the sleeve of my shirt. Shoving my other arm in, I yanked up my breeches and tied the lacings shut. “It’s up to Malaq, now.”
“You gave it to him. You gave him my throne.”
“I gave your people a chance. It’s more than you ever did.”
I was pulling on my boots when Jarryd opened the door. Sorely in need of normalcy and balance, I tore down the wall as fast as possible. Our renewed connection blew in like a warm breeze, wrapping around my agitated nerves. The sensation did far more for me than it did him. No memories were exchanged. The block hadn’t been in place long enough. But as Jarryd lurched to a stop, it was clear my emotions were significantly dominant at the moment. His didn’t even register with me as I flooded him with all the unpleasantness that came with wearing Draken’s form.
Able to breathe easier, I dropped to sit on the arm of the couch behind me. My skin had warmed. My hands were my own as I ran them back through my hair. But a shadow hung over my thoughts. A darkness lingered in the background that said: you went too far.
I hadn’t simply touched Draken’s madness, his violence. I’d embraced it, carried it. Used it. I knew where it came from. I understood what warped his motivation and twisted his hopes and dreams. My father claimed Draken wasn’t born into the role he played so well. He was shaped, molded. Even without the madness I gave him, the little boy he was, the big brother Jillyan had looked up to, never had a chance. Fate sunk his hooks in Draken the day he was born.
My thoughts broke apart as Jarryd jogged down the steps to join me. Having coped with what I’d given him, he’d apparently dealt with his earlier rage as well, and was ready for battle. Sporting an Arullan mail shirt over a leather tunic, his brown boots and leather braces were of Rellan design. Slid through his belt, alongside one of his Kaelish knives, was a sturdy Langorian hand axe. An Arullan dagger, with their typical molded grip, was strapped to his thigh, and a belt of small Kaelish throwing knives slung over his shoulder sat diagonal across his chest.
Though I approved of Jarryd’s added protection, I couldn’t help noticing how nothing matched. Nothing tied him to any one realm. It wasn’t a sign of solidarity as some might think. It was a direct reflection of his internal discord. It was also in complete contrast to the last time Jarryd prepared for war when he’d stood beside me on Rella’s shore, resplendent in his new Kabrinian archer’s uniform. Then, the jade ring sitting on my finger had sat upon his. His long hair had been braided in a soldier’s knot. Now, it barely reached the top of his ears.
He’d been nervous that day, anxious for what lie ahead. I remembered his youthful eagerness overlaid with a trace of unease—normal sentiments for a young man facing the unknown. I recalled the dread in the pit of his stomach at his first real battle. How he tried to dismiss its weight. Today, none of those things were on him.
I’d been too wrapped up in my own problems to see it, but Jarryd hadn’t accepted the risks of combat. Nor had he gotten used to the idea of dying. He was simply no longer afraid of it. Jarryd’s fear had been crushed along with his bones, right here beneath the keep. He couldn’t fathom how Death could do any worse.
“It was damn strange seeing you out there like that,” he said. “Though, as far as mad tyrant speeches go,” casually, Jarryd leaned against the front of a wardrobe, “it was damn rousing.”
“It seemed to do the trick.” I nodded at his abundance of weapons. “Not ready for the bow?”
“I took a few shots with Ordree this morning.”
“How did it go?”
His disappointment sailed through the link. “I’m not there yet.”
“Ask Malaq to put you on the wall. You’ll have so many targets. Accuracy won’t be a problem.”
“I know you’d prefer me off the line. But I’m good with the knives.”
Strapping on my belt, I looked up. “You are. But it can’t hurt to try.”
“The bow is elegance and grace and composure, Ian. It requires a harmony of mind and body. And I can’t give what I don’t have.” Sadness stirred in him. He lost it fast. “Besides, when an enemy goes down with a bow, it’s distant, impersonal. With these,” Jarryd rested his hands on the hilts of his long-knives. “When I sink a blade in, I know I’ve made a difference. I feel it. I like it.” At my lack of a response, he squinted; reading me. “You think that’s wrong.”
“Not wrong, no. But it’s not how you used to be.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s how I am now.”
I stared a moment, fighting back a frown and trying to convince myself his recently gained edge was for the best. Destroying the crown would leave Jarryd alone to face the same madness our separation brought on
in prison. Being stronger this time around might help him survive it better.
Except this time will be worse.
Maybe he can take another, I thought, remembering Jem’s claim that he could lessen the effects of his separation from Draken. If Jarryd found another Shinree to make him nef’taali, he might be okay. He has to be, I thought, the ever-present flicker of guilt flaring higher; reminding me how livid Jarryd would be to learn I was even considering sacrificing my life.
He’d try like hell to talk me out of it.
Maybe I should let him.
I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave him.
A deep sense of sorrow settled into my chest.
I don’t want to leave any of them.
But what alternative was there? To sit back and watch my people suffer from an addiction I alone could cure? Jillyan was right. I couldn’t live like that.
Sensing the conflict in me, Jarryd took a step. The question was plain in his eyes: what’s wrong? I was still deciding how to answer when Malaq walked in. Pushing the door open wide, Malaq’s stride as he traversed the room was brimming with swagger and confidence. The air of happiness about him was something I hadn’t seen in a long time.
One scathing look from Jarryd wiped it away.
His pace slowing, a twitch of confusion crossed Malaq’s brow. He gave me a faint, uncertain shrug, as if wanting to know what he’d done to earn such sudden animosity.
I broke his gaze. Malaq had no idea Draken had divulged the details of his marriage arrangement, and I felt bad he was in the dark. But the topic of Elayna’s child was not one I wanted to get in the middle of—especially with the level of tension coming off Jarryd.
As Malaq drew near, I held my breath, thinking an explosion was imminent.
But Jarryd remained silent. Crossing his arms, he went back to leaning against the wardrobe. His rage disappeared from the link. My amazement quickly replaced it.
Jarryd’s decision not to argue with Malaq over something so personal was stunning and incredibly telling. It made me regret even more the lack of time I’d spent with him of late. If I’d been less buried in journals and scrolls, I would have noticed how hard he was getting. Maybe joining with another will help. Someone with a better life, not a soldier. Someone not like me.
But can it truly help when half his soul is gone?
Malaq threw off his cloak. He tossed it over the back of the nearest couch and sat. Briefly, he squinted at Jarryd. Then with a dismissive head shake, he turned to me. “That went better than expected. You, Ian, were perfect. There were times I even forgot it was you.”
I managed a thin smile. “Me, too.”
“There were some grumbles. Allying with the Rellans and freeing the Shinree are controversial moves to say the least. And I’ve penned a decree placing you under my protection. Though with the label of Langor’s greatest enemy, I doubt my signature will be enough in the heat of the moment. So watch yourself.”
“I always do.”
“Sienn’s doors are open. My forces are already coming through.”
“And?” I prodded.
“Tensions are a little high. No one’s dead yet, though, and it’s up to us to keep it that way. Draken and I need to walk among them together.”
“Draken just tried to kill you. No one is going to believe a change of heart.”
“Not a change of heart, no. But a forced march where I demonstrate my might, an earnest attempt to make my stubborn brother understand my views. If we sell this correctly, it will work.” He gestured at Draken’s discarded clothes on the floor. “You might want to get changed.”
“Uh unh. I’m done. You pretended to suck up to your brother, Malaq. I was him.” My voice wavered. The feel of Draken’s essence overtaking mine was eerily fresh. “I don’t think I can do it again.”
Malaq stood. “Transferring power to me is only the first step. My army must be a unified force. The troops need to see us together, Ian. We need to make this work.”
“No. You need to make it work. I did all I can.”
“Not all. Not yet. I seized Draken’s rule on shaky ground. I can’t risk some foolhardy general getting his back up and pushing it with the council. I have to gather support as fast as I can.”
Jarryd spoke up. “He said no.”
Catching the stony tone in Jarryd’s voice, Malaq’s jaw set hard. “I know what he said. I also know what has to be done.”
“At what expense?” Jarryd pushed off the wardrobe. “You can’t feel what this did to him. If you could, you wouldn’t be pushing him to repeat it. You’d be walking over there and slitting your brother’s throat.” Jarryd’s sober gaze darted to me. “I’m sorry, Nef’taali. I should never have suggested it.”
“I understand it’s an uncomfortable situation,” Malaq said.
“Uncomfortable?” Jarryd laughed, as if the word didn’t come close. It didn’t.
“This wasn’t merely a disguise, Malaq,” I said. “This was deeper. This was living through the eyes of someone you despise, knowing him on an intimate level, experiencing the pleasure he felt at hurting you, and understanding why he did it. The thought of having to go through that again, of wearing him again…” The wardrobe door open in front of me, I kicked it shut. “It makes my skin crawl.”
“Then it’s going to have to crawl,” Malaq replied, in a voice that made plain he wasn’t asking as a friend. He was ordering me as the new High King of Mirra’kelan. And he was giving me a hard, uncompromising stare to go along with it. I gave it right back.
Yet, my glare was pointless. I’d already caved. I just hadn’t admitted it.
Jarryd knew, though, and he didn’t approve. He walked past us and up the stairs. As he disappeared behind the ferns, heading to peruse the bookshelves lining the chamber wall, I heard him muttering, “This is ridiculous.”
“My men,” Malaq said when he’d gone, “Elek’s Warriors, and Draken’s troops, need to accept each other. If we’re fighting amongst ourselves, we’ll be doing your father’s job for him. But if we can show even a semblance of Draken understanding that, no matter how small and begrudging….” Sensing my impending surrender, Malaq placed a hand on my shoulder. Sincerity dripped off his words. “I’m sorry. I know that speech was hard on you.”
“It wasn’t the speech. When you challenged me out there, when I drew on you, it was real, Malaq. I couldn’t remember our friendship. I couldn’t see you past Draken’s resentment.”
That gave him pause. “And now?”
“Now, I know exactly how much of an ass you are.”
He grinned. “That’s what I thought. And that’s why your job isn’t finished.”
I ran both hands over my face. “Yeah,” I breathed. “I know.”
“This is all so fragile. We can’t let it fall apart.”
“We won’t. I’ll do the glamour spell one more time. One last time. Understand?”
Malaq nodded. He spoke his thanks, but an odd sound had stolen my attention; the hiss of softly drawn metal, the wet stifle of a stunned breath; glaring inconsistencies made dim by a sudden harsh jolt of pure resolve exploding across the link.
The force of it had me stumbling. I grabbed onto the couch.
A scream tore through the chamber.
I shoved Malaq out of the way and ran up the steps. Coming to an abrupt lurching halt, breath caught in my throat at the knife in Jarryd’s hand. It fled my body in a wasted gasp of warning as Jarryd brought his blade down fast and hard, and ripped it across Draken’s throat.
THIRTY SIX
It was an impossible sight. The gaping wounds, the flying blood as Jarryd continued to stab and hack; oblivious to his audience, or the lifeless state of the body he was mutilating. My mind couldn’t comprehend it. My body had gone numb. I barely felt the knock from Malaq as he rushed past. The sound that came out of him as
he stopped at the edge of the bed, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Jarryd covered in gore and the remains of his brother, was somewhere between horror and rage.
Malaq put a hand to his head and looked away, as if he could somehow un-see what was in front of him. Turning back to Jarryd, his voice was a scathing tremble. “You son of a bitch.”
Blood pooled thick on the floor as Jarryd lowered his knife. With bits of Draken’s skin in his hair and his blue eyes as calm as the ocean, he looked at me and said, “It had to be done.”
I shook my head. There was no remorse in the link. Jarryd’s pulse was steady. “No, Nef’taali…not like this. Not by you.”
“Then by who?” he countered. “You two were never going to do it. You’d always have some argument, some excuse for keeping the bastard alive. And the longer he lived, the more pain he brought to us all. It had to be done.”
“Goddamn it,” Malaq muttered. Then, louder, “You had no right.”
“And Draken had no right to kill my king!” Jarryd blasted back. “This was justice.”
“This was butchery!” Malaq cried.
Jarryd tossed the knife on the bed. He held his bloodied hands out in surrender. “I’m not running from this. I did what I had to. What needed to be done. I killed Draken of Langor.”
“That confession seals your fate, Rellan,” the aged voice of Counselor Janus bellowed from the doorway. “You may have been lucky enough to escape Darkhorne once, but I promise. You will never leave this place again.”
Malaq hid the horror in his voice with an air of authority. “Counselor…” he started.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 31