The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (28 page)

“Restores it to full power.”

Jarryd looked queasy. “Son of a bitch, Ian. You can’t let that happen. You can’t let Draken make the crown even more powerful. There has to be a way to destroy it, to break the connection, or
something
. Isn’t there a text that can tell you how it works? An old book or a scroll?”

“Not that I’ve seen. I’ve heard songs and stories, but they’re mostly about the crown’s creator, Tam Reth.”

“Reth…wasn’t he the last Shinree emperor?”

“The only one. Before him my ancestors were governed by a Ruling House, a council of nine members. Reth was among them, but he wasn’t like them. He wanted to cross the waters and find new worlds to conquer. The rest of the House disagreed and dismissed him from the council. That’s when he created the Crown of Stones and the formula for
Kayn’l,
wiped out his rivals, and named himself Emperor. He reigned only a year before the quake, but it was a bloody one.”

His face grim, Jarryd got up and went to the fire. Suspended above the flames was a crude spit of damp wood and a small cooking pot. After smelling the contents of the pot, he stirred it a few times and added more twigs to the fire. “None of this would be happening if you’d been there.” He poked at the fire. “The King should have never turned you out.”

“You’re right. He should have hung me.”

Stirring one last time, he put the spoon down and looked at me. “The war was draining everything good out of Rella, Ian. Maybe you didn’t see it.
Most of the soldiers didn’t. They were too focused on the battle in front of them. But I saw it. The other children saw it too, the women left at home…we all knew. It wasn’t just people and crops we were losing. Our very way of life was crumbling and disappearing. There was so little left by the time you found the crown that, no matter how you did it, no matter the consequences…the war had to end.” He stared into the pot. “Rella was bleeding, Ian. You stopped it, and for that, we turned you out. It wasn’t right.”

Jarryd went back to tending his stew. He said nothing else on the matter and I was glad because I had no idea how to respond. The absence of resentment in his expression, the lack of blame he placed on my shoulders; even after all the time we’d spent together I still didn’t understand it. Jarryd hadn’t revealed so much as a hint of deep-seeded loathing or resentment. He hadn’t once admonished me, even in jest. He truly accepted what I’d done to his people.

How?
I thought.
The Rellans lost near an entire generation of men because of me. How does anyone stomach that?

Jarryd’s view had to be unique. Others couldn’t possibly share in his perspective.

But what if they did? What if I wasn’t reviled and feared in Kabri as I always believed?
Is it possible?
I wanted to know, but I was afraid to ask.

Mercifully, the dilemma was taken from me when Malaq began to stir.

With an embellished groan, he stretched like he’d just awoken from a nice, afternoon nap. Bewildered and groggy, eyes half closed, Malaq rose up onto his elbows. He wrinkled up his nose in disgust. “
What
is that smell?”

“Stew,” Jarryd replied. He cocked an eyebrow. “I suppose you can do better?”

Malaq looked weak, almost frail. His skin was ashen. But his mouth worked just fine. “Without question I can do better. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve spent a good deal of time in the kitchens. And my stepfather does employ the best cook in all of Raymorre.”

“Of course he does,” Jarryd frowned. “What’s her name?”

“Narice,” Malaq said fondly, which inspired Jarryd to roll his eyes. “She’s just a petite, little thing, but I’m telling you, Kane, you put some spice in that girl’s hands, the way she rubs it on…” he offered a low, hoarse whistle. “You wouldn’t believe what that girl can do to a slab of meat.”

“So tell me,” Jarryd said, struggling not to laugh. “What does Narice wear when she’s in the kitchen rubbing your meat?”

Malaq grinned. “I’ll give you one guess.”

TWENTY FIVE

I
could still see the hammer smashing into my fingers. I could hear the solid snap of bones breaking. Fragments were ripping up through my skin and I wanted to knead at the pain. I wanted to tug at the chains; they’d been digging into my neck all day.

They weren’t, of course. But my mind said otherwise. My dream world was leaking into my waking one so drastically now, that I could scarcely tell the difference. It was hard to accept that last night, when the Arullan girl was beneath me on the soft grass, she hadn’t been there at all. Not when I could feel her on my skin. Smell her on my clothes. Hear her scream.

The loss of her always felt moments old. It burrowed in, repeatedly, tightening my chest, sinking into my gut, forcing me to constantly remind myself that she wasn’t real.
None of it is. Why can’t I remember that?

My throat constricting with false grief, I was suddenly too wrecked to even hold the reins. I pulled Kya to a fast stop, and nearly fell off the saddle. My struggle to stay on didn’t go unnoticed either. Malaq looked back and neither distance nor the waning afternoon light did anything to soften his frown. It was deep and pondering, yet at the same time emotionless. The expression bore an eerie resemblance to Draken, and I was glad when he turned around and rode on.

He and Jarryd grew smaller. Their details washed out. The two men became dark silhouettes against the forest and the ground between us grayed out.

My eyes grew heavy. The gray turned white.

Cold, I wrapped my arms around myself, but it did no good.

Snow had stolen my warmth. It burned in my open wounds.

I was shivering uncontrollably, though not as hard as my body wanted; the shackles were too restrictive. I could barely lift my head. All I could do was watch.

She cried and Draken beat her until she fell quiet.

Blood spilled from the corner of her slack mouth. It seeped across the ground and the snow turned red.

I shook awake with a start. Gasping and shivering like it was mid-winter, I clung to Kya’s back, wanting to flay Draken alive more than I wanted to breathe. Bloodlust and eagerness constricted my muscles. Black, irrational thoughts took my mind to violent places. A vicious wave of brutality broke over me. Anger turned to rage. Rage became hysteria. What little reason I had left fell to pieces and I suddenly, desperately, needed someone to bleed besides her.
Any Langorian in sight will do,
I thought hungrily, eyeing the one riding ahead of me on the trail.

I shifted a hand to my sword. Sliding the blade silently from its sheath, I eased my horse forward. I kept the weapon low. My throat dried with anticipation. I picked a spot in the middle of the man’s broad back and pictured my steel sinking down inside.

Giving the mare a bit more speed, I persuaded her to the edge of the trail, lining her up until I had the best angle for a quick, clean kill.

I raised my sword to strike. And the Langorian spoke.

“You’re taking me too literal,” he said brusquely. “When I say I hate magic, it doesn’t mean I really hate it. I just hate it being used on me.”

His companion answered, but I was deaf to his reply. I was too taken aback by the anomalies in my target’s accent. The rhythm was too slow, the inflection too smooth.

Slowing my approach, I listened to him again. I studied his frame more carefully and decided it was wrong. The cut and style of his clothes were amiss. His voice, his coloring, even his perfectly groomed hair were all off the mark.

The man wasn’t at all what I needed him to be.

Grinding my teeth on the disappointment, I started weighing the killing of an undeserving stranger against my desire for revenge. Every Langorian
deserved to die for something and if it would bring me a measure of peace, then it was his turn.

Yet, taking his life would change nothing. Killing him wouldn’t save her. It wouldn’t make her go away.
She can’t go away. She exists in me.

With that sobering thought, my blind fury began to dwindle. As it did, wrath and tension dissolved. My impulse for violence shrunk and reality shifted back into focus. I couldn’t remember where I was. Or what I was doing. Kya was beneath me, moving over the wooded trail at a moderate pace. A sword was in my right hand that I had no recollection of drawing. My fingers were wrapped around the hilt. My entire hand was white and throbbing with the strain.

I glanced up. Malaq’s mount was just ahead of mine. Jarryd was out in front. As they chatted, my eyes were drawn to Malaq’s back. I saw my sword going into it.

Uttering a loud, panicked gasp of comprehension, I yanked Kya to a clumsy halt—and Malaq picked that exact moment to look over his shoulder again. His blank gaze moved from the shock on my face, to the weapon in my hand. He watched it shake in my grasp. He stared at the shame in my eyes. But he didn’t ask why it was there. After a brief, tense hesitation, he just turned back around; oblivious to the bile rising in my throat or that I was trembling so badly I had to use two hands to put the sword away.

I felt dirty. Deceitful. Dangerous. I wanted to run.

But what kind of man left his companions in the wild, with Langorians, and eldring, and magic everywhere?
Not a sane one,
I thought.
A rational man would stay and defend them. A decent man would keep his misery hidden and his lunacy under control. He would find a way to protect the people that depended on him.

Distraught, I pushed the hair out of my face and got Kya moving. I caught up just as Malaq was making an offhand comment about the lack of decent inns in the Kaelish backcountry. He paused to glance at me. “You’re strangely quiet today, Troy.”

“You talk enough for both of us,” I replied gruffly.

“So you are mad,” he nodded. “You know, you shouldn’t misjudge my complaints for ungratefulness.”

“And you shouldn’t arrogantly put yourself at the root of all my moods.”

Malaq’s jaw worked a bit. “I appreciate what you did with the shadows. All I’m asking is that the next time you save my life you make it hurt a bit less.”

“How about I conjure you a nice, comfy bed to recuperate in, too? Maybe someone pretty to roll you over once in a while and clean your royal backside?” The venom in my voice had been unmistakable.
Sleep
, I thought, my hands tightening on the reins.
I just need sleep.
“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Don’t be. Just give her yellow hair and we’re even.” Malaq kicked the roan’s sides. “My horse needs a run.”

As Malaq’s mount sprinted up the trail, Jarryd looked over at me. “Something you want to talk about?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said, and I was tempted. The weight of the dream was so heavy on my chest. Perhaps if I told someone, maybe I could breathe again.

“Troy!” Malaq’s voice rang out from up ahead. “You sure there’s a house here?”

“Try slowing down!” I hollered back. “Trail’s on your left! There’s an old oak with a huge knot in the trunk—about the size of your head!”

“Nice,” Jarryd chuckled. “You’ve used this place before?”

“Many times. The place has been abandoned for years. Half the roof leaks. There’s holes in the floor where the forest has grown in. But the structure is mostly sound and the brush is good cover. Decent shelter might also make our Prince happy for a few hours.”

“Throw in some bubbles and a Kaelish girl and you might be right.”

Stopping, I angled Kya to face the barely visible, narrow, grassy lane shooting off from the main trail. An overgrowth of wild flowers and thorn bushes spilled out into the passage. “Looks like he found it,” I said, pointing out the fresh hoof prints and splashes of squashed, pink berries decorating the ground. “The path twists a bit, but the cabin isn’t far. We’ll be there before Malaq has a chance to get his feet up.”

Jarryd gave me a look. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

The clearing was large and circular. In the center, fenced in on three sides, was a good-size, one-story cabin in perfect condition. Stacks of neatly chopped wood butted up against one side of the house. Against the other was a row of trees bearing pale, yellow blossoms. Steam escaped from the open top of a small bathhouse. A sturdy lean-to, overflowing with hay, was occupied by a sleepy, gray gelding and a cat so plump it could barely walk.

“Your abandoned house isn’t so abandoned anymore,” Jarryd said, guiding his mount around a group of flustered chickens. “Someone lives here.”

“No one lives here,” I argued. But that was hard to maintain with plumes of smoke rising from the stone chimney, giving off the scent of fresh baked bread. Rows of carefully tended, tall, sprigs of lavender outlined the front porch, and a cozy, orange glow was bursting out the front window, promising comfort and warmth.

It was relaxing and inviting. Everything a weary traveler could want.

And it immediately put me on edge.

“Ian.” Jarryd tossed his head, directing me to where Malaq’s horse was drifting out from behind the lean-to. Saddle empty, reins dragging, sniffing the ground as he wandered, the beast was abnormally quiet and content.