The King of the Crags (33 page)

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Authors: Stephen Deas

Tags: #Memory of Flames

BOOK: The King of the Crags
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Like Ash.
 
‘Yes. Like Ash. Don’t hunt them where they’re strong. Draw the other dragons to you.’
 
Snow thought for a while.
Will there be fighting men in this town?
 
‘It’s a castle, Snow. Castles have soldiers. There’s really not much point if they don’t.’
 
Then they will have weapons for fighting dragons and the people who ride on us.
Kemir could feel her weighing up choices. She turned and headed away from the town.
 
‘What are you doing, dragon? Are you afraid?’
 
No.
She was laughing.
I have no need for you while I do this, but you are still useful and I do not want you to be dead. I will do as you suggest. I will burn this place. You may watch from far away. It will be safer.
 
‘No! No burning! No need to kill anyone, Snow. You understand me? Just scare them and then leave.
Useful
food, remember.’
 
I understand, Kemir, but I will decide for myself which of you are useful.
 
She didn’t say anything more, but landed on a hilltop a good few miles from the town and waited until Kemir unstrapped himself and got down. He could have stayed, he supposed. Could have stayed in the saddle, but what difference would it have made? She could have torn him out with one twist of her tail, or else simply ignored him. So he shuddered as Snow launched herself into the sky again. He was very glad, he decided, that he was where he was. On the ground, far away from where Snow was going.
 
28
 
Poison in the Blood
 
Jehal was dying. He knew he was. The pain was getting worse. He grew slowly weaker until he didn’t know he could possibly
be
any weaker and yet the next time he awoke, he was.
 
The smell was bad too.
 
In some ways he was surprised he was alive at all. He’d lost a dreadful lot of blood. He felt perpetually light-headed, which was probably a mercy. And yet, when he hadn’t died, he’d felt a joyous spark of hope. For few days he’d thought he might even heal. And then came the smell.
 
He’d seen men take a wound in a tournament and die, just like this, surrounded by the stench of their own rotting. The alchemists hadn’t been able to help them and Jehal had little hope they would be able to help him.
 
If they cared.
 
He had a dim memory that Zafir might have come to him the day after Shezira had shot him. She’d held his hand and said some soft words that might have seemed comforting at the time. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she was a dream like all the other dreams. Mostly he dreamed of Lystra and of the son he would never see.
If my bloodline dies, so does yours. Neatly done, Queen Shezira. If it wasn’t me you’d crippled, I would applaud you for such an efficient and ruthless revenge. But you messed up. I’m dying, and now all that’s left is to mock us both for your incompetence. What use am I dead? How do I protect them?
 
He got angry sometimes, which was always a mistake because he didn’t have the energy to be angry. He’d rail and spit at the world and then he’d fade away and wake up hours later to find that even more of his strength had ebbed away. Men and women came and went from his bedside, silent frightened ghosts who looked at him and then looked away. Afraid. As if they were the ones who were slowly dying in the gilded prison that was the Tower of Dusk.
 
Sometimes he thought about his own father, cocooned in his sickbed for nearly a decade.
This must have been what you saw
, he thought.
In the early days. When there was still a part of you alive in there.
Then such a sorrow filled him that he wept.
 
He thought of Meteroa too.
He
would understand. Did Shezira know? Did she know what King Tyan had done to him?
My brother butchered my sisters and my mother. My father . . . I don’t even
know
what my father did to my uncle. What a family we are.
 
I have done such terrible things.
 
Yes, you have
, said another voice. A new voice, but he couldn’t see anyone. Not that that meant anything. He was probably dreaming again. The voice was another fragment of his slowly shattering self, most likely. Come to remind him of all the things he’d done wrong so that he could be properly miserable before he finally got around to dying. Come to remind him of how brother Calzarin came by his murderous madness.
 
Piss off
, he told it, and laughed as best he could. If he couldn’t sneer at anyone else, he could always sneer at himself.
 
I could do that if you like
, said the voice with a sniff of amusement.
Or I could save your life. You choose.
 
Then I’ll have my life saved, please. Although I suppose I should ask what it’s going to cost me.
 
A lot.
 
Doesn’t it always?
He hated feeling so weak. He was weak even in his dreams now.
 
Yes. It usually does,
agreed the voice.
 
So what’s it going to be? Are you some part of me that’s been hiding away all my miraculous powers of healing and recovery, waiting for me to agree to a life dedicated to the betterment of others? Or are you one of the spirits I don’t believe in, come to tell me I can have my life back if I swear to become a good person? Because I’m not sure either is playing to my strengths.
 
No. None of that crap. I want your money.
 
Jehal spluttered.
Now I
know
you’re just another part of me. Although I’m a little disappointed at my apparent lack of imagination. Is that what happens when you die? Do you become dull first? I must confess that I have largely avoided the company of the near-dead, but those I have seen have usually been most tediously dull. Deathly dull, even. Heh.
 
I want something else as well.
 
Do try not to bore me.
 
What I want is not yours to give. One day you’ll try to take it and find that I got there first. Let it go. It’s really not that important to you.
 
Oh, here we go. You know, I’ve heard this story before. What are we talking about? My soul, is it? It’s usually something like that. Whatever it is, being told it’s really not that important to me rather convinces me that it is, in fact,
desperately
important to me.
 
I want the Adamantine Spear.
 
Oh.
For a moment Jehal was nonplussed.
So do I.
 
No, you don’t.
The other voice huffed impatiently.
You want what it means. You want to be speaker. You don’t give a toss about the spear or the ring.
 
You’re much too crotchety to be me. You remind me of my uncle.
 
Try imagining that I’m a wizard. I’m going to take away the poison in your blood.
 
Oh, really?
 
Yes, really. Piss me off when you’re better and I can always put it back again.
 
Jehal tried to laugh.
As deathbed visions go, I like you.
 
We have a agreement?
 
No.
 
Oh. Well, I suppose I’ll leave you to your lingering death then.
 
Jehal chuckled, or would have if he could have managed it.
The Adamantine Spear?
Some old relic that sat around gathering dust, wheeled out by whoever happened to be high priest of the Glass Cathedral every ten years. What did he care about that? They could always make another one. A better one maybe. One that didn’t weigh so much for a start. Or he could simply change his mind. The thought made him want to laugh even more.
I’d better not let myself know what I’m thinking. If I’m going to betray myself later, I’d much rather it came as a surprise . . .
He took a deep breath and lay back. He was probably going to die now, he thought, but at least he’d go out with a smile on his face. Then, as an afterthought, he screwed up his face and asked,
Whoever you are, you don’t happen to count Vale Tassan as a friend, do you?
 
The voice seemed to shrug.
I don’t give a fig for him one way or the other.
 
That’s good. Because if you really aren’t just some ghost and you really are going to make me better, then I think I’m going to have to kill him. In some horribly slow and nasty way.
 
I’m sure that would be very interesting to watch but sadly I suspect I shall miss the occasion. Do we have an agreement?
 
Can you do what you say you can?
 
Yes. Last chance. Do we have an agreement or not?
 
We do.
 
A warmth engulfed Jehal, as though the softest fur blanket in the palace had wrapped itself around him. He closed his eyes and drifted off to somewhere far away. Somewhere past the ends of the worlds and off into the void between them, where everything was black and still, where clocks and hearts beat slower and slower and time didn’t march any more . . .
 
And then he was back.
 
He opened his eyes. The pain was gone. He felt strong again.
 
He tried to sit up and quickly discovered that the pain being gone and feeling strong were rather fleeting and illusory things.
 
Still . . . still, he
did
feel a lot better.
 
He looked to his left and caught a fleeting glimpse of someone in a pale grey shirt dashing out of the door. The ceiling above him was familiar. He was still in the Tower of Dusk but not in the Great Hall, where Shezira had almost killed him. He recognised the room. She’d slept here in the days before the Night of the Knives, when he’d come to see her and played his last card to force her and Hyram apart.
 
You might as well stop thinking about either of them. They’re both dead, for better or for worse. Zafir’s going to get her war and you might as well get used to it.
 
The door flew open with a bang. Jehal had to look twice to recognise the face. Jeiros, the alchemist.
 
‘Prince Jehal! It is truly a miracle!’ The alchemist rushed over. He tore off the blanket and started poking around between Jehal’s legs.
 
‘Excuse me!’ Jehal was naked, he realised. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised about that. He tried to lift his head to see what Jeiros was doing, what damage Shezira had actually done to him, whether any of it was permanent, but the alchemist had piled the blanket up on his chest and he couldn’t see. He was numb from the waist down and could only vaguely feel the alchemist’s prodding. ‘I’d prefer if you
didn’t
do that.’
 
‘The rot has gone. Simply gone! I’ve never seen anything like it!’ Jeiros carefully laid the blanket back where it was supposed to be. ‘No one will believe this. I have to get Vioros!’
 
‘Master Alchemist!’ Jehal’s head was spinning. ‘I am not an exhibition!’ He felt sick. The alchemist’s enthusiasm was overwhelming. ‘And I can’t feel my legs. I trust they are still there.’
 
‘Yes yes yes. The wound is filled with Dreamleaf, that’s all. You’re going to live, Prince Jehal. Do you understand? Every other man I have ever seen who had a wound like this turn bad has died. And you’re going to live. How? How is that possible?’ He came around and leaned over Jehal’s face. His eyes narrowed. ‘Yes indeed.
How
is it possible?’
 
Jehal closed his eyes. ‘I do not know, Master Alchemist. I had a vision. Whether it was real or a dream I couldn’t tell you. Believe me when I say that I’m as surprised as you are to find that I am mysteriously healed. If it was a miracle then I shall thank Aruch for his prayers and then go back to ignoring him. If it wasn’t, well then I’d like to know what happened at least as much as you would. Probably more.’ He took a deep breath. He had a headache now from so much talking. Which was annoying. His mouth, as he’d often observed to his lovers, was one of his best features.
 
Speaking of which . . .

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