The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (24 page)

There was very little time to stop them. The regent had planned well in his conquest of Crosspointe. At this point, Margaret didn’t know if there was anything that Ryland and Vaughn could do to stop him. Except they had to. They had to find a way to cure the majicar insanity and prepare themselves for war.

She sank back down, her throat dry. This changed everything. She glanced at the doors of the cells.
Everything.

The regent and his companions left, returning back the way Margaret had come. She slumped down on the floor. What should she do?

She already knew the answer. She had to get word to Ryland. But what about the Jutras? She couldn’t just let them leave. Which meant either killing them, or following them. They wouldn’t die easily. The
kiryat
were trained as warriors as wells as wizards. If she could get them apart from one another . . .

But it still raised the question—what was their other business in Crosspointe? And did she dare leave before she found out? And what was she going to do about Carston?

She sat a moment before coming to a decision. She crawled out of the forest of statues and other treasures and hurried to the cells. She went to the first and opened the slotted window, standing on tiptoe. She couldn’t quite see through. “Carston?” she whispered. No answer. She went to the next one and the next. At the fifth one he answered.

“Who . . . Who are you?”

“I’m friends with your father.” Her mouth twisted at the irony of it. Right now, she and Nicholas
were
friends, if only because they shared the common enemy of the Jutras. “He’s coming to get you.”

The boy made a whimpering sound and there was a rustling and then scraping sounds inside the door as if he was trying to climb out. He was crying softly and desperately. “Want to go home.” His voice rose.

“Shhh,” Margaret whispered. She unlatched the clip that secured the bar and pushed it up. Wards flared blue and majick bit sharply down on her fingers. She pulled away, shaking them. The pain didn’t leave. She looked down. The tips of her fingers were white as if there was no blood left them. She touched them to her cheeks. They were glacial. She flexed them and shook them out. Prickles ran down into each of the tips. Thank Chayos. She wasn’t going to be able to free him. She needed Keros.

She stood on tiptoe at the window, her fingers working at the leather band on her wrist. She pulled it off and slid it through the slot. “Carston, look at my hand. Do you see it? Do you see the band?”

“Yes.” The word was stuffy with tears and frightened.

“I’m going to drop it. I want you to put it on. It has a spell that will tell your father where you are. He’ll bring a majicar to open the door. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said again, sounding tremulous.

Margaret dropped the bracelet and heard him shuffling around. “Did you put it on?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. I’ve got to go before someone comes. I promise you, we’ll get you out. Don’t tell anyone about your bracelet. They’ll take it away.” She hesitated. “Carston, it will be all right. I promise.” He sniffed and whimpered as if he was trying to hold back his tears. Brave boy. Margaret’s heart ached for him. “Carston, I’m going to give you something else. Stand back.” She heard a shuffle of movement. “Ready?”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

She pulled one of the knives from her hair and slid it through the slot. The blade was small, easy for a small boy to conceal. Plus it would be easier for him to use, and she didn’t doubt that he had some training in that direction. The Weverton family was famous for making sure every member of the family could defend themselves, and they liked to start them early. Carston wouldn’t have a lot of skills, but he’d know what to do with a blade. She dropped the knife and the clatter seemed to echo resoundingly. “Get the knife, Carston. Wait for your father. He’s coming.”

With that she closed the slot and retreated back into the cover of the treasure horde. She waited to see if anyone had heard the telltale noises. When no one appeared to investigate, she began her retreat out of the manor. The only way back was the way she’d come, past the accommodations for the Jutras. She went to the entrance to the hallway and peered down it. The door was shut now and the
sylveth
lights had dimmed. She chewed her lip. They’d brighten when she went through. It was too much to ask that their majick fail conveniently. She quietly blew out a breath. She’d have to run and hope she wasn’t noticed. She didn’t have time to wait until the Jutras left to attend to their so-called business, and even if she did, she’d have to deal with servants and staff in the kitchens.

Keros and Nicholas didn’t expect her until night fell again. Should she wait? But just the fact of the Jutras being in Crosspointe and the regent’s collaboration with them spurred her to get the news to Ryland. That and knowing Truehelm’s plan to give Pilots and compasses to the Jutras. What he didn’t know, what hardly anyone knew, was that Crosspointe had no majicars left capable of making compasses. Once he gave away the Pilots’ Guild compasses, there would be no more until a new compass-majicar was found. It wasn’t a skill that could be learned; the majicar had to be born with it. Fairlie— Shaye Weverton’s lover—had the power, but she despised the Ramplings and Crosspointe. She wouldn’t be making them any time soon. Not just that. She had discovered that
sylveth
was sentient—that it didn’t like to be worked into hard form; it was a kind of torture for it—them. Margaret wasn’t entirely sure. Fairlie would not easily be convinced or coerced. The regent simply had to be stopped from giving compasses away. and every passing minute that she sat doing nothing was time he consolidated his power. No. She had to get out now.

All the same, she waited another glass to be sure that the two Jutras wizards had settled into sleep. She kept running over the conversation she’d overheard, her anger and worry growing. At last she crawled out from her hiding place and returned to the hallway. She tensed, pulling a knife out and holding it ready, then began to skim down the passage as silently as she could manage.

The light flared like the sun around her and Margaret ran faster. She was just a few feet away from the door of the Jutras priests’ suite when she stepped in something sticky. It held her like tar. Her ankle twisted as she wrenched her foot up. Her boot started to slip off and she pitched forward. She reached out to catch herself, trying to rear backward, snatching her hands back as she saw the floor rising to meet her.

All around her a tracery of red majick pulsed. It was a spell and it had activated the moment she’d stepped on it. It clung to her foot and ankles.

She hit the floor with a thud, the breath exploding from her gut. She squirmed and rolled, trying to get up, but found herself trapped in the sticky strands of the spell. In grains she couldn’t move. She was trussed, head to foot.

A moment later the door opened and the two Jutras wizard priests stepped out into the hallway, gazing down at her.

“Do you think the regent knows he has such big rats?” the younger one asked, kneeling down to look more closely at Margaret. Her mouth was smothered by the spell. She struggled to scream, to swear at them, but her lips were literally sealed.

“What should we do with you, rat?” the older one said.

He reached out and stroked a finger over the web spell. Instantly fire flared over it. Margaret bucked and her eyes bugged with the force of the scream she couldn’t release. Tears ran down the sides of her face and she breathed hard through her nose, feeling like she was suffocating. Unable to stop herself, she thrashed again.

“Little rat, you cannot escape.” Again he slid a finger over the spell.

The pain roared again. It sliced through her in rising knife-edged waves. She struggled and her throat swelled with the force of her trapped screams. Her vision went gray. The smothering sensation increased. She rolled from side to side, flopping and banging her heels and head. Then her stomach lurched and bile flooded her mouth. She swallowed and snorted the burning liquid into her nose. Overwhelming primal fear swept over her and she struggled harder. She twisted onto her stomach. Her chest hurt. It felt like someone had his hand around her heart. Again her stomach clenched and she vomited and choked, then tried to cough.

Suddenly it felt like her heart was ripped out of her. Her head spun and her body twitched with uncontrollable spasms. She slumped and everything went black.

Margaret woke slowly, her body throbbing. She ached liked she’d been beaten, and her throat and nose felt raw. She opened her eyes. She was laying on the floor. The spell still held her, though it no longer covered her lips. Her mouth was sticky and tasted like a chamber pot. She glanced about warily and found the younger of the two Jutras priests squatting beside her, watching her. He smiled. It was both gentle and menacing.

“Little rat, you will die for us, but not today, and not that way.”

Margaret didn’t answer. He ran a hard, calloused finger over her lips. She resisted the urge to bite it.

“You are strong. You would make an admirable
picrit arrai
for the empire.”

Knowing that
picrit
were the warrior cast, Margaret guessed that the
arrai
must be the conquered people who served the empire as warriors.

“Crack yourself, you mother-dibbling bastard,” she rasped.

He smiled and his eyes crinkled. He had dimples. Margaret found that extraordinarily disconcerting. The Jutras were a cold, brutal people. Their entire culture revolved around blood sacrifice and death. His grin was almost friendly and it didn’t match anything she knew about his people. “Little rat, the gods will enjoy you.”

He looked past her. She turned her head to follow his gaze. The older Jutras emerged from the bedchamber. He was carrying a pack and dressed in well- worn leather pants topped with a close- fitting canvas shirt and a black vest. His boots came up to his knees and laced down the front. He’d clipped his hair at the nape of his neck. Around his waist was a sword belt. Through it was stuck a short sword. Its blade was red and the end was hooked wickedly.

“Saradapul, we must leave quickly. Before light,” he told the younger Jutras.

Margaret frowned. How did the two manage to travel through Crosspointe without being seen? Illusion, no doubt. Margaret wondered if Jutras majick was working any better than Crosspointe majick; and was it driving the Jutras wizards insane? She didn’t know what to fear more—Jutras majicars who had gone mad or those who had not. Either way did not bode well for her.

Saradapul stood. “I am ready, Atreya.”

Now she realized that Saradapul was dressed like Atreya, with a similar sword in his belt. He looked down at her.

“Little rat, it is time to go.” He tipped his head, considering. “But not like that, I think.” He bent down, splaying his hands over her stomach and chest. His yellow eyes unfocused and he began chanting. The words were first smooth-edged and sweet, then guttural and staccato. Back and forth they went, his voice rising and falling, then he began to drum a pattern with his fingers.

Margaret felt the spell changing. It unraveled and rewove itself. Every movement of every strand sent a pulse of pain through her. She clenched her jaw, holding herself rigid. She wasn’t going to lose control like she had before; she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing her suffer.

At last it was over. She lay panting, her eyes hot and dry. Her body throbbed and her skin felt like it had been flayed. But she no longer was bound tightly. Her hands fell loosely to the floor and her legs were free.

“Good little rat,” Saradapul said, patting her shoulder. “What’s this?” He hooked a finger around her necklace and pulled it up. “Atreya, our little rat is a Rampling.”

The older Jutras came to stand over Margaret. She felt like a freshly roasted side of pig.

“Very good. She will do well.”

“Do we tell the Eved-cala?” He smirked as he said it, confirming Margaret’s suspicions that the Jutras had no intention of giving Truehelm any power once they overran Crosspointe. “He might be interested to know he has Rampling rats in his house.”

“He might wish to take her. We will put her to better use than he will,” was Atreya’s dismissive response. “Let us go.”

Saradapul dropped the necklace and hoisted Margaret to her feet. Every movement felt like hot needles were prodding through her skin. She gasped and he smiled in a kindly way. “Little rat, your pain tastes sweet to the gods. We must milk it from you as we would milk a goat, and when you can give no more, we will offer your blood and your flesh and Uniat and Cresset will feast. Come now.”

Margaret was hardly aware of anything that happened after that. The pain was constant. Nothing didn’t hurt. Inside and out, she was seared and shredded. Her feet felt bloody and raw and every rub of her clothing against her skin was torture. It was everything she could do not to fall down. But the spell encasing her was like a vine trellis—it held her firmly. There was no escaping.

She wasn’t sure how they left Molford Manor. They went on foot through another storm, lightning flashing and the wind driving the rain sideways. Margaret allowed herself to weep, the storm washing away her tears. It would be hours before Keros and Nicholas suspected anything was the matter. She thought of Nicholas’s words to her:
I’ll come for you. I promise you that. Don’t do anything stupid. I
will
come.
It was a nice sentiment, but nobody was going to find her and no one was going to keep the two Jutras men from sacrificing her to their gods. All she had was herself.

Stubborn, fierce determination hardened in her stomach. She was not helpless. They would not kill her easily—and if it took everything she had, she’d see them dead first.

Nicholas paced. It had been nineteen turns of the glass since Margaret had departed and he was chewing nails. He couldn’t understand himself. His worry for her was nothing he’d expected or wanted. But he couldn’t help himself. Tied to it was his concern for Carston. He hardly dared think of his son. Every time he did, his entire body seized and he felt paralyzed. It made him useless. Helpless. He wanted nothing more than to tear Geoffrey Truehelm limb from limb with his bare hands. Once he got Carston back, he would take thorough, bloody revenge. And not just for his son. He’d promised Margaret he would make an end to the slavery and he intended to do that. He’d ignored the regent’s antics for far too long. He’d been lazy and negligent, or perhaps it had simply been arrogance. He’d thought he held Truehelm’s leash and he’d been wrong. Terribly wrong.