The Complete Twilight Reign Ebook Collection (48 page)

They only began to quieten when the king’s herald rose from his seat. Isak noticed the White Circle looked unmoved by the swell of sentiment. Sitting at their heart, Herolen Jex was eyeing the Parian
hero intently.

‘Your Majesty, my Lords, Ladies, gentlefolk,’ cried the king’s herald,
rising from his seat, but he was cut off by the king, who touched the man on the shoulder. He jerked around in surprise as the king gestured for him to sit.

King Emin moved forward and began, ‘My fellow citizens of Narkang,’ pausing as a fresh cheer came from the public gallery, for the king was well loved by the common folk; for the prosperity he’d brought to the city and the pride he’d given them in it and themselves. Narkang had been little more than a town when Emin Thonal took control - and now the Krann of the Farlan, the Chosen of Nartis, came begging for their friendship. It was easy to cheer the handsome king whose genius had been proven on the battlefield, a
man who never shirked the danger of his own bold schemes.

The king looked around at his subjects, basking in their enthusiasm for a few more seconds before raising a hand to calm them. ‘Since this Parian rogue has badly inconvenienced my purse, I do not find myself much inclined to let him catch his breath. There is an extant matter
of honour between Count Vesna and Herolen Jex - it will be decided here and now by knightly combat.’

All heads turned to the opposite stand, where Herolen Jex was lounging in his seat, sipping from a tall silver goblet. He made no reply, but watched Vesna as he collected his blade from a page and strapped it on. The count remounted and stood ready.

‘I thought the melee was still to come,’ Jex replied at last, pausing
for long enough to make it insulting before adding, ‘your Majesty.’ His
voice was deep; more measured than Isak had expected from a pirate.
A sharp intake of breath ran around the pavilion.

‘It was, Master Jex, but I have changed my mind. I believe I have that right since I am king and this is my kingdom.’ His voice had become significantly sterner.

All about the arena people gripped their seats and looked anxiously at the Kingsguard below, but the soldiers didn’t move. Jex appeared to consider the king’s words, then shrugged and tossed his goblet away.
Standing, he let his cape fall back to a flash of fantastic colours as the
sun hit his armour. The cuirass, shoulder plates and mail had been
etched into a pattern of scales that glittered blue and green in the sun;
it looked like a reptilian second skin, as arresting and ornate in its own
way as the Sunbee’s dazzling gold-plate. The pirate straightened his sword-belt and then raised his helm to place it on his head. ‘In that case, your Majesty, I think I will amend that small detail.’ Jex gave a
dismissive flick of his hand and a woman screamed on his right.

Out of the corner of one eye Isak caught sight of a man levelling a crossbow. As the assassin fired, Mihn dived in front of his lord with
his shield raised, while Coran, moving even faster, brought up a large rectangular shield from behind the throne. His huge arm shuddered as a pair of loud thwacks echoed out.

Isak watched the moment of realisation on Coran’s face as he focused on the steel bolts in front of him; one was only a whisker from
his eye, having almost passed clean through the steel plate. There was
a moment of perfect silence, then chaos erupted everywhere.

Eolis leapt joyfully into the sunlight. As Isak pulled on his helm he felt a growl rumble up from his gut. Now was the time for bloody murder. He cast off his humanity and replaced it with a cold silver face. Magic ripped through the air from all sides as people scattered and ran or drew weapons. Bursts of light flared around the royal box as Emin’s mages defended them, giving them time to retreat - but
already Isak was preparing to attack: his fingertips were prickling with
rushing energies.

Through the thin eyeholes of his helm, Isak could see people moving like leaves in the wind. He sensed where the first attack would
come from, even before the man rose from nowhere to swat aside the
nearest Kingsguard with a mace. The bulky mercenary laughed as the
soldier crashed down and, wiping the blood from his face, he raised
his weapon high to call his men to him. Isak leaped over the rail
separating them and on to the lower platform where the mercenary
stood triumphant. He stabbed Eolis down into the man’s throat, then
kicked the corpse away and waited for the next man to come at him.

‘Isak,’ bellowed Carel from behind him, ‘we’re leaving! Get back
up here!’

The soldier beside Isak started to step up to the royal box, then his downed comrade gave a cry of pain and he stopped to help the man.
Isak reached down and picked up the wounded man, passed out from
the pain of his shattered shoulder, and passed him up to Carel. The
other Kingsguard scrambled up beside him.

Carel breathed a sigh of relief as Isak reached up to return to the
royal box, but as his fingers touched the rail, the white-eye felt a sudden weight hit his shoulders. Carel’s face changed to a picture of alarm
as Isak sagged, then slammed forward into the frame of the stand. He
remained pinned there, with his head and shoulders over the edge at
Carel’s feet, but when Carel reached down to grip Isak by the shoulder, he burned his fingertips as he touched Siulents.

Isak felt small sparks of energy flicker over his body as he tried to
raise his head. A red burst of pain shot down his neck and squeezed
the air from his lungs. The pressure increased, until all he could manage was a low moan. The crushing ache in his bones stifled everything else, while the cloying rush of magic raged uncontrolled over his body.
Isak felt the Land groan and shudder beneath him as he fought to
remain conscious.

Suddenly, without warning the pressure lessened and Isak opened
his mouth to take a deep gasping breath - but he barely had time for one desperate wheeze before he was jerked up in the air like a puppet.

He caught sight of Carel’s frantic expression for the briefest of
moments, then the air whistled past his head as he was pulled away
across the jousting arena. He felt a pavilion loom up behind him, then
a burst of pain as he hit it. Then there was only darkness.

Through the numb folds of an empty place, he felt the gentle caress of a
hand on his cheek. Images appeared in his mind’s eye, people and places
he didn’t recognise, though memories of them rose in his thoughts.
Only the patient brush of delicate fingers kept them back. The comforting touch spread warmth down his cheek, over his neck and chest,
and into his limbs. Slowly the warmth made him aware of the rest of his
body, the crumpled and broken lines of his skin. The scar on his chest
glowed bright white, casting threads of light out into the darkness.

‘Isak, you must wake.’

The voice stirred a memory as deep as instinct, but no more. He
didn’t mind. The soft syllables of her voice drove away the pain and
he wanted no more than that.

‘Isak,
you must fight.’

The name sent a tingle down his spine. He resisted, but something deep inside stirred. The tang of blood danced about his teeth.

‘Isak, wake now. Help is coming.’

Unbidden, his chest rose as he took in a huge gulp of air. The musty warmth faded from his skin as daylight began to sting his eyes. He
recognised his name now, as he did the pain that flooded back in. The
taste of blood grew thick in his mouth.

‘I think the prophets were wrong.’

Isak, hanging limp in someone’s arms, winced at the sudden brightness. As his senses returned, he realised that he couldn’t recognise the
accent of whoever had just spoken: her Farlan sounded almost ugly, as
if she were pronouncing each syllable with contempt.

‘Why do you say that, Mistress?’ came a whining reply.

‘How could it be so easily captured if it is to be the weapon we
believed? Ostia?’

‘I can tell no more than you, Mistress,’ replied a third voice. Isak
forced his eyelids open. Duchess Forell stood to one side, hands clasped
anxiously to her chest. The woman who had just spoken, Ostia, was
beside the duchess, a little oasis of serenity and calm amidst the scattered ruin of the pavilion behind. They were inside the jousting arena,
Isak thought, but all was still, even the few remaining soldiers were
standing motionless as they watched the proceedings.

All three women wore plain white capes of the White Circle over
sumptuous dresses of purples and blues, studded with gems and woven
with silver and gold.

‘It is young, young enough for training.’

Isak focused on the speaker, blinking in surprise as he took in her remarkable size and the colour of her skin. A female white-eye. Her white hood was up, but Isak could see that her face was rust-coloured. It put him in mind a little of Xeliath’s smooth chestnut colouring, but dusted with red.

‘Let it stand by itself,’ the woman commanded. Isak felt the supports disappear from under his arms and he sagged. As his eyes drifted down the length of her body, he stiffened with shock: she was cradling a Crystal Skull, her long fingers clamped protectively about it so that both eye sockets were covered. The Skull itself was small, unassuming, its surface dull, but Isak could still feel the looming weight of the Skull pressing down on his throbbing temples.

So
that
was how he’d been overcome earlier: the Skull was powerful
beyond anything he could ever have imagined - and even now it was holding him captive with terrifying ease.

Isak tried to look around the arena surreptitiously. He could see no sign of his companions, just a scattering of bodies that looked dead. He could hear the distant clash of weapons.

They abandoned you.’ The strange white-eye sneered at Isak. They broke and ran, but they will not get far. Shall we see which ones still
live?’

She looked at the woman Isak thought was Ostia, who nodded. He could sense it as she began to draw magic, looking out towards the
city with an enquiring expression, until a frown crossed her face.

‘What is-?’ Suddenly she yelped and clutched at her head. ‘By the pit of Ghenna, what was that?’ she shouted.

‘Well? What happened?’ the white-eye demanded angrily. Clearly her own skills were limited, however much strength the Crystal Skull could lend her. Isak concentrated on Ostia: to be able to spy on the city gates was an amazing feat; to get close enough to be hurt by the daemon
was astounding. Isak wondered if Bahl would be able to do that.

‘Clever bastard,’ mused Ostia. She ignored the white-eye’s vocal
impatience, but a few moments later, said, ‘I doubt anyone will have managed to close the gate on the king - a daemon has just incarnated in the gatehouse.’

Isak chuckled. ‘Not as clever as you thought? What a pity.’

A quick spasm of pain ran through his body as punishment. The white-eye hissed with anger, ‘You will not think so when you have
been bonded to me. Then you’ll be as eager as a dog to deal with the
problem of the king.’

As she spoke, Isak blanched and his eyes went distant and fearful. He felt as if he were watching an arrow speed towards him. Suddenly he convulsed violently and the two guards gripped his arms again to stop
him falling flat. The strange white-eye looked to Ostia for explanation.

‘I don’t know, but I suggest you stop whatever it is you are doing to him.’

‘I’m doing nothing,’ she said angrily and took a step back as Isak fell
to his knees and began to shake.

Isak.

The world swam beneath his feet. Without warning he retched,
splattering the contents of his stomach all over the churned ground.
The white-eye twitched her dress in distaste as vomit stained the hem, but she didn’t retreat. She stroked the Crystal Skull musingly: this was
no trick, that much she could tell.

Isak, can you feel
it? Oh Gods,
can you feel it?
Xeliath’s voice echoed
loud in Isak’s mind.

‘What is it?’

A storm rushing
over the Land. Nartis himself, coming to lay his blessing
upon you.
Panic rang out in her voice, panic and euphoric delight. Lord
Bahl has gone to the Palace on the White Isle, gone to embrace his doom.

Isak felt the Land tremble through his palms. He felt hot sunlight on his skin, and the chill of stone corridors on his fingertips. As the cold bit into his toes, he recognised the place all too well.

The stone wall was freezing as he put a hand against it to steady himself. He looked out on to the unnaturally empty beach and recognised where he was. A single sun-bleached rock sat on the smooth, flat sand, far from the listless encroachment of the tide. He turned from the window and let the faint breeze in the corridor carry him away like a dandelion seed. His thoughts were on the man he knew was about to die, a man he called friend. The man he had feared to
tell his dreams to.

He was awake this time, and he knew not to fight the tide of where he was going. His bare feet whispered warnings on the smooth floor, but he ignored them and pushed on to an arched doorway ahead. As he entered the domed chamber his strength almost failed as the im
mense weight of age inside encircled him.