The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (19 page)

“I don’t like it,” I said. “Why would Jillyan of Langor do anything for me?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Malaq suggested.

I opened my eyes and aimed them straight at him. “I don’t want to ask her, Malaq. The way I see it, your sister—”

“Half-sister,” he interrupted.

“Fine. Your
half-sister
,” I said, letting him have the distinction, “is as much a conqueror as Draken. She’s just going about taking Kael a different way.”

“I disagree, Ian. Jillyan is smart. Even-tempered. Tough. Most importantly, she doesn’t approve of Draken’s tactics.”

“She told you they aren’t aligned?”

“Not exactly. Her conversations tend to be a little enigmatic.”

“Must run in the blood,” Jarryd murmured.

It was my turn to laugh, but the pain in my ribs cut it short.

Holding my aching chest, I went for the large, blue bottle on the table beside the bed. Inside was relief, according to the Kaelish physician. If it worked even half as well as the brew he gave me in the hall downstairs, I might have to change my opinion of the man.

Leaning sideways, grinding my teeth and trying to pretend my ribs didn’t feel like they were snapping out of my chest, I closed my fingers around the neck and tugged the bottle closer. Popping it open, I tipped it, and poured a steady stream into my mouth.

“Foul is it?” Malaq’s asked. His aristocratic nose crinkled as he watched me. “Most anything a Kaelish healer prescribes isn’t fit for my prize winning sow.”

Swallowing, I smiled to myself, knowing there was no way Malaq Roarke kept pigs. “It’s
coura
,” I said, wiping a shaky hand across my mouth. “Although I’m sure a few herbs are mixed in somewhere.”

“
Coura
?” Surprise softened Malaq’s jaw. “I would have thought Ian Troy would grind the herbs in his teeth before taking in a drop of Langorian liquor.”

“I would,” Jarryd said. “
Coura
tastes like horse dung.”

I grinned. “You get used to it.”

“So.” Malaq shifted the discussion. “When do we leave for Rella?”

“We?” Settling back on the bed, I looked at him. “This isn’t exactly a jaunt in the country, Malaq.”

“I’ve ridden on a road a time or two before, my friend,” he assured me.

“We aren’t taking the road. Going through the mountains is more direct.”

“More dangerous as well. Those trails wash out at a moments’ notice.”

“But if the weather holds, they’ll shorten our trip by a week or more.”

Malaq shrugged. “The trails it is then.”

“I’m not stopping every ten minutes for you to clean off your boots,” I warned.

“I’m a Prince, Troy,” Malaq said crisply. “Not an old woman.”

“Glad to hear it. Now, do you mind telling me why you’re going? Royal blood or not, if the Arcana’s wanted you, they would have sent for you a long time ago.”

“Nicely put. But this has nothing to do with my mother’s family. Once we cross into Rella, I’ll be leaving you and heading northwest, to Langor.”

In mid-swallow, I almost choked. “I thought that Peace Envoy crap was a joke.”

“Not at all. Sarin knew my parentage and upbringing would gain me an audience with the right people. And from there…let’s just say it won’t take
much to stir up a little trouble.” Malaq leaned in. “Not everyone was happy when Draken confiscated Jillyan’s throne. From what I’m told, Langor is ripe for a little insurrection.”

“Hold on.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You’re going to Langor to incite civil war? In hopes of what…stretching Langor’s resources, provoking a rebellion? Why? So some other, power-hungry tyrant can take the throne?” My pulse pounded at his arrogance. “Draken will kill you on sight.”

“Draken will find a use for me. I’ll make sure of it. And it’s high time I clean up my family’s mess.”

“You seriously you can’t think you’re responsible for any of this.”

“You do. You said as much that night at the Dirty Owl…or whatever it’s called.”

“Wounded Owl. And that’s not what I said at all.”

Emotion leaked into Malaq’s voice. “I need to do this, Troy. I need to see my past, make peace with it if I can. Destroy it if I have to. I thought of anyone, you might understand that.”

I sighed and rubbed the weariness from my face. “Who knows of this?”

“Now that Sarin is gone? You.” He glanced at Jarryd. “Him.”

“No,” I shook my head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I don’t believe that’s your call.”

Silent throughout our exchange, Jarryd piped up. “I already told you, Malaq, trying to convince those butchers to lay down arms is a waste of breath.”

“Perhaps.” Malaq stretched out lazily on the sill and crossed his booted feet. “But it is my breath to waste.”

“And your life,” Jarryd responded boldly. “Walking into a nest of vipers armed only with your tongue. Fool,” he spat.

“Actually, Messenger,” Malaq smirked, “I’m quite skilled with my tongue. Just ask the maid.”

“Gods!” Jarryd threw his hands up. “Do you take nothing serious?”

Malaq’s grin widened. “Are you always so quick to quarrel?”

Loud enough to shut them both up, I said, “Jarryd.” I raised the only arm that would move and pointed to the hearth.

He followed my terse direction with an aggravated scowl, but it vanished at the sight of his father’s sunstone clasp sitting on the mantle. “Damn,”
Jarryd said in shocked relief. He picked it up. “I didn’t think I’d ever see this again.”

“I wasn’t going to let that happen.” Wincing, I scooted down into the pillows. “I could see how important it was to you.”

“So much was lost in the looting. This is all I have left of him.” Holding it almost reverently in his hands, Jarryd looked up from the stone. “Thank you.”

I nodded. “Now get of here—both of you. And close the damn door.” I pulled the covers up and shut my eyes. When I opened them again, Jarryd and Malaq were gone. But the door was still open.

Cursing them profoundly, I rolled off the bed. As a result of the
coura
mixture, moving hurt less, so I stopped at the window first. I didn’t mean to linger. I planned to close the drapes, then the door, and go back to bed. But there were tinges of red on the horizon. Dawn was reaching up toward the sky, dotting light and shadow across the green of the Kaelish mountain range, and the longer I stared, the more the view became similar to the rocky peaks that skirted the disputed land dividing Langor and Rella—the same unsteady ground where Draken and Aylagar warred, and where my people’s empire once stood. And I began to see different mountains on a different morning.

The shadows became Draken’s prowling army. A gleam of light in the valley became the glint off a sea of colliding blades. I gripped the sill and the soft, supple strands of ivy clinging to the stones outside felt like skin before my magic touched it. The wind- tossed, fall-colored leaves were grains of the red sand desert; swirling across the wasteland that I created with the Crown of Stones.

It was nothing more than exhaustion coupled with imagination. I knew that. But I was suddenly there, on the battlefield, carrying the suffocating weight of desperation on my chest, enduring the familiar hunger that came with feeding on little more than blind rage and hatred for days on end. I could feel fatigue pulling at my arms and legs, wrath and resentment spurring me on. The guilt burning in my eyes was self-inflicted; inspired by the shame of casting strength on men that had long since lost the will to fight.

But I kept them going. I had to, to save Rella. I had to wait for the fleeting moments when I could sneak away and cast in secret. It was the only way
to stay free, to stay by her side. Aylagar made it clear from the beginning that if I didn’t abide by her orders, I would end up with
Kayn’l
in my food and a chain around my neck.

Yet, while my heart beat for the woman, my blood raged for every man that died when my spells could have made a difference. It was that constant, internal struggle that caused me to loathe what I’d become. What we’d all become.
Even her.

All I wanted was for it to be over.

Gods,
I thought in panic.
Is that what happened? Did I want it to end that badly?

Was I really filled with that much hate?

Taren was right. No wonder I killed them all.

I dug my fingers into the stone sill and tried to silence my mind. I didn’t want to think. Not about the war. Not about Aylagar. It was strange though, how eager I was to push the memories away, when just a short time ago I would have embraced them. For years, I’d clung to every guilt-born, wine-induced recollection like a lifeline. Using them to curb my appetite for magic, letting them trample me into submission.

Not anymore. I was too much of a fraud. A hypocrite. I swore on Aylagar’s dead body that I was through, that I wouldn’t let magic own me again. Now tremors were racing up my arms and down my legs, and my hand was wrapped around the obsidian shard, ready to relieve them.
One spell,
I thought.

I just need to clear my head. One spell and I can think straight.

Accessing the obsidian the crown left inside me, I instinctively thought, c
alm
, and a breath later, my anxieties receded. My mind felt lighter. The tension in me dissolved like cobwebs in a pounding rain and my muscles began to loosen.
Just a little more…

I barely heard the sound behind me.

I didn’t feel the hand on my shoulder until Malaq spun me around. I opened my mouth then, to curse at him—I was a hairsbreadth away from a moment of much-needed relief. But shock stayed my words.

Malaq, the man who let nothing show unless he wanted to, was looking at me with outright bewilderment, disappointment, and concern.

It was a rare, open, honest display of emotion he was granting me. And I’d done absolutely nothing to earn it.

“This isn’t fair.” I said, my voice shaking. “You don’t know me.”

He dropped his hand from my arm. “I know you’re better than this.”

“I’m not.”

“Jarryd thinks you are. He’s counting on you to save his home. A lot of people are counting on you. People that are going to die if you get caught casting in here. Because, mark my words, Guidon will take great pleasure in punishing you.”

“I know that.”

“But you don’t care.” Upset with me, Malaq shook his head. “Is the pull really that great? Is it so compelling that you would risk everything?”

I swallowed. “It never stops.”

“But you stopped. For ten years you shut it out.”

“
I’m trying
, Malaq. But I can’t. Not anymore. It’s different now.”

“Different how?”

“I…”
It’s in me
, I thought, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“You might believe that magic means more to you than anything or anyone. That you have no any reason to fight but that Rella commands it. But I know better. I know what you could have done the day you channeled the crown. How much farther you could have gone. You could have ruled the world, Ian. Obliterated it. Instead, you removed yourself from it. You walked away. For us—for all of us. Call it guilt if you want. Call it penance. But shutting down a part of who you are for the safety of others…that sounds pretty damn courageous and self-sacrificing to me.” He started to leave and then stopped again. “I forgot to tell you before. Guidon agreed to send an extra contingent to Rella. It’s a small victory, but I thought you’d want to know.”

“It isn’t a victory. If more men go to fight, more men will die.”

“That’s really how you see it?”

“As long as Draken’s magic user has the crown, yes. If I don’t get it back, Neela Arcana could have ten contingents and still lose her throne.”

He stared at me a moment. “What do you know about her?”

“Neela? Not much. We met once,” I said, recalling the rainy afternoon of Aylagar’s funeral. Shy, and still very much a child, Neela had been devastated by her mother’s death. Yet, she’d held it in better than me. “She was young. Eleven. Twelve, maybe. Why?”

“I wouldn’t count her out just yet.” Malaq backed away. “When do we leave?”

“Dawn,” I said.

As I closed the drapes, I heard Malaq’s footsteps retreating. When they faded completely, I crossed the room to close the half-open door the rest of the way. I pushed it, and met resistance on the other side.

“For the god’s sake, Malaq,” I groaned, “go away.” I yanked the door open to Guidon Roarke and a dozen Kaelish soldiers standing in the corridor. I groaned louder.

“Troy,” the Prince said stiffly. “I’m glad to see you on your feet.”

“Are you?”

“Of course. If you had expired here, the entire room would have stunk of dead Shinree for months.”

I grinned a little. “Now it just smells like your wife.”

Guidon’s face drew tight enough to shatter. “If you were mine, Troy, I would bleed you every day. However…” he paused, straightening his golden, brocade coat. “There are those that see value in letting you live, so I will stay my urges. For now.”

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account, Prince.”

“King, actually. I was crowned yesterday.”

“My condolences to your people.” I put a hand on the doorknob. “I appreciate you coming to visit, but if there’s nothing else…?”

“Actually, there is.” Guidon stepped back. “I believe I have something of yours. Or at least, so the little trollop claims.” Reaching into the huddle of soldiers, Guidon pulled a woman out of their midst. He shoved her in my direction. As I caught her, I looked in disbelief at Imma, the winegirl from the Wounded Owl.

Then I turned on Guidon. “If you’ve harmed her, these men won’t be enough to protect you.”

“Settle down, Troy. The girls from her part of the city are a bit too sassy for my taste.” Laughing at his own jest, Guidon strolled away. His guards followed, and I gave my attention to the woman in my arms. I tried to look at her face. I remembered it being beautiful. But I couldn’t get beyond the fact that her dress was two sizes too small for her curves. Or that the tan fabric fell perfectly over her hips and hugged her upper body, so tightly, it forced a
good measure of plump, pale breasts to erupt up over the top of her tightly cinched bodice. It was a nice look. I just wasn’t sure how she could breathe.