Thinking of my last moments with Fate, I put myself there, trying to relive the pulsating energy, to hear the voice. Vaguely, I recalled runes pouring from ever-shifting eyes. Skin pressed against mine, as fluid as Fate’s vibrations. We became one and the room disappeared in a suffocating blur of pain and light. Endless heat and magic coiled through my veins. I’d been unable to think past it, to comprehend what came next.
But I can now.
I dragged myself out of the memory. Bent over, breathless and grimacing from a scorching pain throbbing in all the corners of my body, I reminded myself adamantly that the suffering was past. My time in its grasp was over. I could study the moment objectively. Sort it and read it as I would Jarryd’s memories. But not here. I had to keep going.
Pulling the cloak tighter about my face to ward off the desert cold, I picked up the pace. My boots sunk, kicking out sand as I walked. The shifting, unstable ground put me in mind of the swamp. But there were no obstacles, just millions of grains spread out before me, barren enough to let instinct keep me on track while I tried again.
Once more I summoned my last clear image of Fate. This time, I shed the pain that came with it. Before it could engulf me, I separated myself from the agony. It slid off me like melting snow, and I studied what remained. A burning cold that permeated me to the core, a crackling energy that brought my scars to life and burned more onto my skin. I felt runes pressing into me—not simply curves and lines. The individual strokes, the characters, the arches and dips. The runes sung like the plucked string of a harp as my mind hovered over them. And I realized: their meanings were contained within the vibrations. Each pulse revealed a single origin and significance. The trick was not to read them, but to listen. As I did, the nuances became obvious. Their songs rang out inside me, as unique and layered as the runes themselves.
It was beautiful. Yet, each note, as it played, wrenched and tugged at my skin. The harder I pushed to know and understand, the more I strained to hear, the more it felt like flesh being twisted off my bones.
I wasn’t sure how long I’d been decoding Fate’s knowledge before I understood that I wasn’t recalling or even reliving the moment. It was happening now. I’d broken though the barrier my mind had put in place. I remembered. And it hurt like hell.
Biting off a cry, I threw back the edges of my cloak. The scars had indeed transformed. The runes on my arms were ablaze. They glowed through my shirt without even burning the fabric. It was amazing and breathtaking. It was also painful and far too conspicuous.
Focusing on reversing the process, I took my mind backwards through the memory. I watched the runes re-cross and tangle, swoop and blend to create the scars. My translucent skin darkened to opaque. The glow receded from the designs, and the pain went with it. I was trying too hard, I thought. I need to listen, not demand.
I knew what to do now. Next time will be easier.
Retrieving a skin from my pack, I wet my thirst and continued on.
FORTY EIGHT
The wall surrounding Ru Jaar’leth was devoid of guards. I wasn’t a fool. My father had something planned. I only hoped he held off until I swept the city. Once, I promised. No matter how badly I wanted to, I wouldn’t tear the place apart searching for them. Krillos and Jillyan weren’t the only ones whose lives were at stake.
Damn. I sounded way too much like Malaq.
As in my vision, Jem’s chosen style of execution was to hang the condemned from his wall, leaving their bodies to rot in the sun and feed the coyotes. It was a gruesome statement that made my stomach churn. Still, with future-Malaq’s story ringing in my ears, I checked every corpse.
None of the bodies were recent. None were my friends.
I closed my eyes and blew out a shaky breath. As it fled my lungs I grasped how certain I’d been to find them—and how badly I’d needed not to. But my relief was short lived. Not finding them dead here didn’t mean they were alive. Proving this small portion of my vision wrong was a twisted victory at best. Over Fate, I thought dryly.
I wondered if, somehow, the old god was still keeping score.
Sticking to the shadows, I crept to the side of the wall. I settled on a spot where the torch poles were widest apart and the lanterns up top were darkest. Silently dropping my pack, as I reached in for the hook and rope, I felt Jarryd wake. He was hundreds of miles away, but the sensation was sharp. His anger, confusion and sadness, his helplessness, was acute. He was no doubt feeling my regret over how we parted. But I’d tried to make up for it by crafting a door to Langor before I left. It was a one way trip. If Darkhorne fell, I didn’t want Jem’s troops rushing through my door into Kabri. I’d attached enough sheep to the spell to keep it up for one day. Time enough for Jarryd to get back to the fight. He could watch Malaq’s back and be at Ordree’s side. Or he could stay with Elayna. Whatever distraction he needed, wherever Jarryd felt he belonged, the choice was his.
B’tay roo-sta, Nef’taali. Wishing Jarryd peace, I closed our link and threw my hook up the wall.
The metal caught with a loud chink. I cringed, but heard no response. After a hard tug to test my weight, I donned the gloves inside my cloak pocket, hoisted my leather bag, and started climbing. My added strength made it a quick ascent. In moments, I was hauling myself up on top of the wall. The ledge was five paces wide at best.
Lying flat on my belly, the slight flicker of untended lanterns created a wide swath of gloom that covered my movements as I hoisted up the remaining length of rope. Pretending a ‘deadened’ feeling wasn’t pressing against me as I lay atop the hornblende, I gazed out over the desert. My vision spell made the view across the expanse drab and colorless. Yet there was majesty in the clear, star-filled sky and the sea of sand. Scattered groups of stunted trees and desert bushes swayed like waves. Glimpses of hunched backs and slender legs darted by; hungry desert residents scavenging for dinner.
I shifted my gaze. Slipping the spy scope from my pocket, I examined what rested inside the wall, and immediately found the overhead perspective of Ru Jaar’leth useful (and impressive). Roads were laid out with precision. Alleyways cut between every seventh structure, which were all at least two stories high. Buildings were grouped together by size, shape, and possibly purpose, based on the identical signs affixed to their sides. Those without identification I took for dwellings. The majority were dark, with lights shining in very few windows.
Jem’s palace sat at the other end of the city, adjacent to the arena. Massive and shining on the lower levels, the uppers were an odd juxtaposition, constructed of rough gray stone topped with jagged silver spires. Stables were nearby, as well as a blacksmith’s workshop, and several buildings looking to be barracks. The rectangular holes of stairwells broke the road at multiple points. With a large population it was common to build down, to dig tunnels for fresh water aqueducts and canals for sewage. According to Lirih, Jem had found other, creative uses for his underground construction.
I checked the hook again and threw my rope down inside the wall. Descending in silence, I planted my boots on the smooth surface, pushed off to clear the moat, and jumped. My pack and swords jangled as I landed at the moat’s edge. There was no one about, but I held position in the shadow of a dark building; listening and plotting my course. Based on what I’d seen from above, there were no alleys before my destination. Lanterns were a steady thirty feet apart with few dim spots.
Making sure the dark stripes in my hair were tucked inside the hood, and the scars on my face concealed by its edges, I came out into the open. I walked like I belonged. Nonchalantly reading signs, I passed a mix of ancient Shinree and traditional trades: herbalist, cobbler, tailor, weaver, healer, elemental. A quick peek in the windows with my spelled vision showed their wares were neat and organized. The buildings were sturdy with trimmings skillfully detailed. I couldn’t deny the craftsmanship. But neither could I miss the structural oddities; the out of place streak of obsidian or ot
her dark stone, the sudden sharp inharmonious angles—the twist of stone-pressed wire.
Like Draken’s throne, I thought, suddenly grasping the source of the peculiarities. My father’s sense of beauty had been warped by Draken’s madness right along with his soul.
Encountering no one, my infiltration of the city was swift and uneventful. I didn’t trust it at all. My suspicion grew as I reached the stairwell and found it equally deserted.
I eyed the twenty steps warily. This was my second eerie underground descent in nearly as many days. A pale glimmer radiated from somewhere I couldn’t see. Shuffling sounds, dripping water, and other distant noises crawled up the musty shaft. Muddy footprints colored the stairs, but nothing fresh.
I kept my weapon low and inside the folds of my cloak and headed down.
The corridors were straight and long, the air foul. A double row of piping lined the walls. The two foot wide ducts were supported by metal pillars driven into the ground. Seepage dripped from the pipe joints, making the flames of intermittent torch poles hiss in protest.
Approaching the first intersection I was assaulted by the sharp odor of blood and waste. Silence came from both directions, but to the right I caught a hint of eldring smell. Possibly, Lirih was still confined in the cage beside Jem’s throne. Like a trophy on display. Or a worm on a hook, I thought grimly.
Either way, I was already here. If she wasn’t, maybe Krillos and Jillyan were.
I turned right. It wasn’t long before the familiar musky scent of eldring grew heavy. The way bent sharply. It twisted twice more before opening into a large room. Over half was sectioned off by a long row of bars. Behind them were at least four packs of the beasts. The oversized cell was partitioned like living quarters with a series of open rooms. Two were filled with hay, built up in clumps like nests. Another; feeding troughs and several large vats of what I assumed was water. The last was slick with mounds of excrement. This was their den.
I threw back my hood and crept closer. A few heads lifted. Several eyes found me. They breathed out half-hearted growls as they watched my slow intrusion. Their stare was less intimidating with my night vision distorting the color. It’s more than that, I thought. They had an abnormal, disinterested air that didn’t come from magic. Resistant to my father’s spell, he’d employed other methods to master and condition them. Huddled in their nests when they should have been hunting, forcing their nocturnal bodies to endure the sun; he’d corrupted the eldring’s nature in a selfish attempt to increase their usability in combat.
Apparently, it was working. They had a way about them of something damaged.
I walked the slender path running the length of their den. If my daughter was buried under the knot of furry bodies and arched backs, I couldn’t see her. Finding Lirih was going to take more than a visual search.
Taking a chance, I whispered. “Lirih.”
Another eldring stirred. More growls escaped the pile. Two eldring rose and loped over to the bars. Their claws wrapped around the iron. Powerful snouts reached through, sniffing in my direction. But indolence and exhaustion tamed their gaze, and they soon returned to their nests.
A door led into the feed room. Noticing a key hanging from a peg driven into the opposite wall, I knew I didn’t have a choice. I slid a sword away and borrowed the key.
Swift and silent, I skirted around the food troughs. In the next room, the hay piles were in tight clusters, no more than a foot apart. I scooted carefully between them, scanning the mass of eldring for Lirih’s distinctive shape.
A smaller form was curled up in back. As I studied it, trying to find a face, something made contact with my boot. Stopping short, I looked down and eyeballed the arm blocking my path. The immobile eldring it belonged to appeared to be sleeping. I stepped carefully over the jutting limb and went on.
Another arm popped out from the pile—then another, and another, then three more. Pausing, one boot in the air, I hunted for a clear space to plant my feet, but obstacles kept emerging from the piles. Limbs protruded. Claws batted at my ankles. A mass of heavy, waking fur closed in.
I had nowhere to stand, no balance.
I stepped backwards and tripped over the hunched forms behind me. They scattered as I fell flat on my back on the hard floor, sending straw flying and striking the air from my lungs. Dazed, pain rushed across my head. I lifted it, and reality shattered my developing stupor.
I was lying in a bed full of eldring. And they were all over me.
FORTY NINE
Warm ropes of saliva oozed onto my skin. Their breath was a wind of stale gore on my face. I tried to count the snap, snap, snap of jaws as row upon row of jagged fangs struggled to penetrate my shield spell. I fumbled for a weapon, but the eldring’s substantial bodies pressed against my chest. Their repeated blows and swipes kept bumping my hand away from the hilt. I couldn’t get a solid grip.
I screamed. “LIRIH!”
Fabric ripped in the fading echo of her name. Jaws gnashed alarmingly close, like the whisper of a breeze against my skin. The barrier had taken too many hits. It was on the verge of dissolving. Once it did, I was dead.
I’m sorry, I thought. I didn’t want this.
Teeth breached cloth. Claws scraped my chest. I gathered the auras and formed the spell. I was a breath from casting when I heard her.
“Father?” Lirih’s tentative call was followed by a loud, authoritative snarl. The sound was far more beast than I cared to acknowledge, but the eldring backed off. Their compliance to Lirih’s condemnation was tellingly swift. It also saved their lives.
I let the magic recede as the eldring crouched low at Lirih’s feet, like naughty children cowering before an angry mother. She imitated their clicking sounds and the throng parted to let her through. Wearing the same style gray shift as last time, Lirih knelt in the scattered hay. She cocked her head in their way and said—the words tripping slightly over her enlarged teeth, “I took you to have more sense.”
I mustered a shaky grin. “You need to get to know me better.”
Lirih’s laugh, as she helped me sit up, was a throaty stutter. “How can I if you are eaten by my pack?”
“That wasn’t my intention, I assure you.”
“Nor theirs. You were merely being apprehended. Overzealously,” Lirih added, delivering scornful glances all around.
“Apprehended for what, their next meal?”
“Normally, that would be true. But this pack is not spelled to kill blindly as the others. They know you. Your scent is reminiscent of mine. Detaining you was an attempt to please me.” Her white eyes roamed over me. “Your scratches are minor. But they’ve smelled your blood. Regardless of their affection for me, eventually hunger will stir in them.”
“You better heal me then.” Concern twisted her half-eldring features. I wasn’t going to let it set in. “You can do this, Lirih.” I grabbed her arm. It was strong, solid. The fur on her wrist was soft against my skin. “I need your help. Malaq needs your help.”
Her gaze drifted at the mention of his name. “I’ve never broken another’s spell.”
“It can be tricky if you don’t know what’s behind it, especially a compulsion. You need first to identify what drives it, then form a strong, stable connection to the target and remove all traces of that drive from their mind. I can form a connection to the eldring, but I can’t hold it long enough to do the job. You can.” I shrugged out of the satchel on my back and my torn cloak came with it. “I brought you stones. Since you haven’t cast in this form yet, you can test your spells on me with a simple healing.”
“I want to help. What concerns me is the harm I might cause if I fail.”
“You won’t. The eldring’s plight has become yours. You understand it better than anyone.” I moved my hand to her face. The foreign feel of her bones disturbed me, but I didn’t let it show. “Eldring weren’t meant to be tamed.”
“You’re right. Our ancestors brought the eldring to life. Since then, they’ve been abused, hunted, controlled.”
“Risen from the dead?” Lirih grabbed my satchel with a resolved tug. Reaching in for the stones, she glanced at me. “I’ve seen the memories of their resurrection, when my grandfather tore them from the soil. It hurt considerably.”
“We can’t erase the past. We can’t reverse their creation. All we can do is stop what’s happening now.”
Sighing, she nodded. “What powers the spell that grips them?”
“Jem’s hold is woven around their hunger. He’s spelled their minds to believe the emptiness is always on them, even if they feed. Only on his whim is the urge satisfied. Please him, and the pain goes away. Defy him and starve.”
Her bedraggled silvery hair bobbed with a nod. “That would be a most effective tactic in securing their cooperation.”
“You have to break through the hunger and the fear. Make them see the truth. If you rob Jem of his eldring, the odds will tip. Even more if you can get them to fight for Malaq. Aiding our side would go a long way toward softening everyone’s view of the eldring after the war.”
“I understand.” Her gaze wandered off mine. It landed on the intersecting swirls visible through the rips in my shirt. Of course, I thought, watching her scrutinize my scars. She knows.
As part of the hive mind, Lirih was aware of my connection to the young eldring. She knew of his journey from Langor to find me, and what happened when he did. Even if she hadn’t made the distinction before, she knew now: the scars weren’t turning me into an eldring.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 41