The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (25 page)

Then Draken of Langor spoke. “I have listened to your words, brother, as was our agreement. Now, it is my turn,” he said, and the King launched into a speech that attempted to justify his recent murders.

Still, there was only Malaq, standing alone with gray eyes fixed on the surface of the stream. His rapt attention of the water didn’t waver. He kept staring at it as Draken kept talking, and I understood what was going on. Draken’s voice had no physical source. Not here anyway. It was coming from, or more accurately, traveling through, a communication pond. Made to react to a specific person, the spelled font carried voice and image over large distances where it could be shown and heard through a chosen body of water.

I’d seen one once, in Kael, in Sarin’s room. He swore it belonged to his father. That he never used it. The life energy needed to operate the device wasn’t something Sarin couldn’t abide. Draken, however, always true to form, didn’t give a damn about the cost. But his use of the font meant he was nowhere near the stream. It meant I couldn’t touch him. I couldn’t kill him. And the way he was dismissing Sarin’s death as the mercy killing of a useless, old man—relegating the slaughter in Kabri to that of a tedious burden; killing Draken of Langor was suddenly all I could think of.

Staggeringly fast, the notion had taken me over. It was pervasive. I tried to let it go, but it was unshakable.

I started breathing harder. My muscles twitched. I felt sweat beading on my skin despite the cool night air. Draken’s cruel, careless words had ignited a fast burning, dangerous rage inside me, and the impulse to come out of hiding, to storm down to the stream and ram a sword straight through his smug, intangible face, was so great I could barely keep it together.

The only reason I stayed prone in the mud at all was because my abrupt, violent urge for retribution didn’t feel right.
I
didn’t feel right. Almost overnight, my desire for justice and revenge against Draken had magnified. My itch to hurt him, to make him suffer, had soared to the height of full-blown compulsion. I was actually shaking with the need to see him dead. And the fury that was driving me had absolutely nothing to do with our past, or the
current situation in Rella. It came from the smell of the grass and the sight of the rippling water. It was born of Draken’s voice coming out of the dark and the mud on my skin.

The entire scene was my nightmare come to life. All that was missing was the Arullan girl and the knife.

Breathless, my heart pounding like a thousand hooves against the ground, I tried to stop listening for Langorian soldiers skulking in the grass. I tried to stop staring at the stream in hope that she was there, waiting for me.

But the wind in the trees was her distant scream. The fine mist as it started falling was the splatter of blood. The grass tangled around my boots: chain.

Draken started yelling and the fantasy disappeared, abruptly, like it never was.

“Can you not see that Troy seeks to destroy me?” he cried out, so fierce that creatures went scampering through the weeds.

“You threaten what he is bound to protect,” Malaq said briskly. “He has no alternative but to interfere.”

“You take his side?” Draken raged. “Against your own kind? Against me?”

“Your men attacked us,” Malaq countered.

“You travel with my enemy!”

“I suppose,” Malaq said, backing down some, “that I have come to consider your enemy, my friend. I realize that discomfits you, but…you and I are blood, Draken. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“Then prove it. Prove your allegiance and kill the witch while he sleeps.”

I rested a hand on my sword. Malaq seemed to take forever to answer.

“No,” he said ardently. “No murder, Draken, not for you, not for anyone.”

“Oh, my dear, brother,” Draken chuckled. “Are those your mother’s delicate Rellan values you inherited? Or perhaps your stepfather’s Kaelish foolishness you borrowed?”

“I am made of many things,
brother
,” Malaq responded.

“We shall see exactly what you are made of soon enough. In the meantime, I suggest you lose your fanciful notions on the journey, or you will find Langor a difficult place indeed.” The water churned and gurgled. When it stilled, and the spell came to an end, Malaq’s shoulders sagged like the strength had gone out of him. He dropped his head in his hands.

I pushed up from the muddy ground. No longer caring for stealth, I trampled through the stalks of tall grass toward the water’s edge, prompting a startled Malaq to pull his blade.

Seeing me, he lowered it. “Ian,” he breathed.

“That was quite an interesting meeting,” I said.

His posture stiffened considerably. “What did you hear?”

I stopped beside him. “Enough.”

“I didn’t call to him. Draken instructed me to come here. His voice came through the damn water in my flask.” He shook his head. “It was unnerving as hell.”

“He’s pushing you, Malaq. Killing me is a test.”

“I know.”

“He’ll ask again.”

“Then I’ll tell him no, again. No matter how things go I won’t come against you.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Damn you, Ian.” Malaq slammed his sword away. “Have I done anything that would make you question my word?”

“I’ve seen the level of manipulation that Draken’s magic user is capable of. He can make you do things you never intended.”

“Then protect me from it. Or can’t you defend as well as destroy?”

I struggled to cage my temper. “I won’t be there to protect you, Malaq. You’re walking right into Draken’s hands and the odds of you surviving are incredibly slim.”

“Then even them.”

“How about I just kill Draken instead?”

“That won’t solve anything.”

“It’ll solve one thing.”

“Yes, he’ll be dead. But you’ll only be temporarily ending the conflict. Whereas, I can stop this war and prevent any more from coming after. I can save Langor. Save Rella from a future riddled with the constant threat of attack.”

“That’s optimistic. And arrogant.”

“Is it?” Malaq stepped closer. “A true and lasting peace between all the realms…can you imagine it? I know you want to. I know, that despite the
Arcana’s claim on you, and your tough talk about how much you hate it…you hate the thought of war even more. But you, and Jarryd, you’re right about one thing. Going to Langor is dangerous. So I need something from you, Ian. I need a way to protect myself.”

“There’s nothing I can do, Malaq.”

“Right,” he nodded. “I guess this is the part where you tell me I’m already as good as dead. Or, that my faith in you is sorely misplaced?”

My jaw clenched. But he was right on both counts. “If I help you, and you die there…”

“It won’t be your fault.” Earnest persuasion shone in his eyes. “I know what I’m getting into. All I’m asking for is a bit of an edge.”

“What you’ll need is eyes in the back of your head.”

“Can you do that?” A spirited grin broke through his grim stare. “Seriously, that would really help. It would look a bit odd though.”

“Gods,” I grumbled. “Why the hell does Jarryd bother arguing with you?”

Malaq’s grin became a full-blown smile. “Then you’ll do it?”

I ran a hand over my face, thinking. “I can write a shield spell. Wrap it around something you own, something you carry with you. Except, if you’re in the keep, surrounded by hornblende…” I trailed off, going over outcomes and options. “I can’t plan for every contingency, Malaq. No matter what, you’ll still be in danger.”

“Just do your best.”

“My best won’t be good enough. It won’t be even close.” I started for the trail, needing to leave before temper pushed me to say more.

“Only one man will die at Darkhorne, Ian,” Malaq said, “and it won’t be me.”

I stopped and turned around. “So you’re an assassin now are you?”

“I’m whatever I need to be to get the job done.”

“Well, if you do—get the job done. If you kill Draken, you damn well better have a plan to get out because his men will track you down. And when they’re done cutting you into tiny pieces, they’ll go to Rella and to Kael and exact revenge for your actions.” I gave him a hard look. “Did you learn nothing from what your mother did to Taiven?’

Dropping his gaze, Malaq ran both hands back over his hair. It wasn’t his usual careful checking to be sure nothing was out of place. It was an anxious, helpless gesture that I was surprised to see him admit to. “Before I kill my brother, I’m going to convince him to name me his heir.”

I was back standing in front of him in two strides. “Heir to the throne of Langor? Gods, Malaq, do you even want that?”

“I’m a prince, Ian. Of course I want to be King.”

I didn’t believe him. “And what happens when you give up your life to sit on that throne and Langor doesn’t change?”

“It will change. The mishandling of the realm goes back long before Draken and his father. When Jillyan became Queen all she could do was hold the pieces together. But I’m not like them. I can make a difference.”

“You don’t belong there.”

“Then where do I belong? Not in Rella. Certainly, not in Kael.” His gray eyes tightened. “Maybe Langor is where I should have been all along.”

“Don’t do this, Malaq. You aren’t one of them.”

He looked at me a moment then pushed past me for the trail. “I am now.”

TWENTY ONE

S
he stood in the open doorway, staring out at the rain.
“
Walk with me?”

“Maybe later.” Pulling her back against me, I slid my hands down over her hips and kissed the side of her neck. “I have a better idea.”

“Maybe later,” she giggled. Wriggling out of my grip, she ran down the porch and out onto the wet grass. Spinning in circles in the rain, damp spots spread across the front of her dress and turned the pale green dark. “What’s the matter, love?” she laughed. “Doesn’t the big hero like to get wet?”

I grinned, but the expression wavered. I had an odd, nagging feeling that I’d forgotten something important, that something was out of place.

I couldn’t imagine what; I had everything. Snow covered mountains rose high in the distance. A forest of tall, thick pines ringed the valley. Our house was secluded. It was small but sturdy. Smoke rose from the chimney and I could smell dinner on the fire.

It was perfect. The girl was perfect, like a dream.

She walked farther away. The rain fell harder. Mud flew off her bare feet. The hem of her dress was soaked and dirty.

Slipping on my boots, I grabbed a cloak off the wall. By the time it took me to duck into the house and come back out, my beautiful Arullan girl was no longer alone.

Whimpering softly, blood oozing from a cut lip, she stood, encircled by two dozen, heavily armed Langorian soldiers.

Dropping the cloak, I ran down off the porch and into the yard. I went for a weapon that wasn’t there. I glanced at my empty wrist, thinking something should be strapped to it that would help me defeat them.

“Feeling puzzled, Shinree?” Draken said. “Helpless, perhaps?”

I wiped the rain from my eyes and looked at him. “Where did you come from?”

“Gods, but you’ve grown weak.” He threw a gloved hand across my face. “Soft and pitiful too,” he said, watching me stumble in the thickening mud.

Finding purchase, I came up swinging. My fist connected hard with Draken’s jaw, but when I drew back to do it again, his soldiers were on me. Knocking me to the ground, six of them aimed their swords at my throat.

“Ian,” she said softly.

I shook the curtain of wet hair from my eyes. The Arullan girl was kneeling beside me. There was so much blood I couldn’t find her face. Then rain rinsed the blood away and I stopped breathing.

From forehead to chin, her face was in ribbons.

Draken grabbed a fistful of her long, dark hair. Dragging her toward the house, he shouted at his guards. “Bring him!” Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he flashed me an ominous smile. “It isn’t time to wake up yet.”

TWENTY TWO

C
upping my hands under the surface of the water, I drew them up and splashed my face. Icy cold, the shock was bracing, but I wanted the tiny brook to be wider. I wanted it deeper. I wanted to sink down and let the water close over my head for a few, still moments of calm. I longed to feel nothing for a while, to be clean. It seemed like it had been so long since I had that; longer still since I’d slept without dreaming.

The scary thing was I was getting used to it. I was starting to accept that every time I closed my eyes, Draken and his men would be there. They would torture me. I would watch the Arullan girl suffer and die. I would wake sweat-covered, dry-mouthed, and shaking, as I had for almost a week.

That was my life now.

I was stricken with a dream-weave, a type of healing spell typically used to repair a person’s mind after trauma. It wasn’t meant to be violent. It wasn’t normally sophisticated or involved. The dreams didn’t usually occur in rapid, unrelenting succession. One or two were all that were required to fix a patient’s mind. My mind, however, was being steadily destroyed.

It was twisted, but clever. My Shinree enemy knew I didn’t have the kind of magic to counteract such a spell. He also knew I had no access to anyone that could.

I had to endure it, which was getting harder to do with every passing moment.

Day or night now, as soon as I drifted off, the dream kicked in. Every sound, every touch, I experienced in that world (both pleasure and pain) was exaggerated and acute. Many of them lingered, like phantom sensations. So that, even hours after waking, I could still feel the heat of her body pressed up against mine.

Flinging the water off my hands, I stood up. The sun was high. We should have been off hours ago. But riding hard and wet for days, pushing the horses on washed out trails, cramming ourselves into what leaky cover we could find when it got too dark to see, we were all sorely in need of a little sunshine and solid ground.