The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (21 page)

The moment when I was being cast on through the eldring, ate at me as well. It was a gap that no matter how I tried, I couldn’t fill. Pain had made the whole thing a blur, and it was maddening. I couldn’t recall the words of the spell. I had no idea if I killed the eldring before it was completed, or if my
enemy finished his conjuring. If he did, something was coming. And when it hit, I was going to get blindsided hard.

It was also weighing on me how swiftly my appetite for magic was increasing. When we first left the city I could tolerate the symptoms for a while. Now, going long stretches without casting shredded my nerves down to nothing. The harsh fact that replenishing them put my companions in jeopardy wasn’t helping either.

I did try to be cautious. When I had to cast, I used Imma’s gift so I didn’t wake the crown. I channeled only what was necessary to refocus me, and only when I couldn’t stand the feel of myself—which was pretty much all the time.

They aren’t safe with me,
I thought.
I should leave. Veer off the trail and go.

I don’t need them. They’re a distraction, a hindrance. It’s better if I sever our connection now, before they become too reliant on me.

Before I have to watch them die.

Malaq slowed his pace. Atop his mount, he halted and waited for me. When I caught up, he started moving again and I walked Kya beside him on the trail.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Something’s been bothering me,” he said, glancing down. “I can’t figure why a Shinree would support Draken at all, let alone help make him High King.”

“Yeah, I’ve been going over that one myself.”

“Langorians care nothing for the slave laws. They raise your people like cattle. Work them to death in the mines. Atrocities rarely breed allies, Ian, and even if they did, with a magic user this powerful, what could Draken, or any Langorian, offer the man that he couldn’t just take for himself?”

“What about protection?” Jarryd called back. He turned in his saddle. Seeing our blank-faced reactions, he brought his horse around and came back up the hill. “The day Kael was attacked, Ian—” he gestured at me, “said something about the ancient Shinree, about how they bound themselves together. Maybe that’s what our magic user did. He agreed to help Draken in exchange for protection. He could do a lot worse than having a Langorian as a permanent guard.”

“None of my kind would ever bind with a Langorian like that,” I said, shooting him down quickly. “The process is too complex, too sacred.”

“It could explain the man’s relationship with Langor,” Jarryd offered.

“No, you don’t understand,” I told him. “You aren’t talking about a partnership or a treaty. Or even the blood oath you took to serve your King.”

“Then what am I talking about, Ian?” Jarryd’s blue eyes were crisp and challenging. “You said it yourself. Channeling the crown makes him vulnerable. So vulnerable, that Malaq had a good chance of finding the man in Kael. But he didn’t. Maybe, that’s because someone had a deeply personal interest in getting Draken’s magic user to safety. A selfish interest. Like being magically bound together.” Jarryd shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know about you, but selfish sounds like a Langorian to me.”

“It does. But this kind of magic, taking on another self…it’s no light matter. Memories, abilities, feelings; a part of each person goes into the other. And it’s for life. Once the link is established it’s permanent. The two parties can communicate sensations. Feel each other’s emotions and pain.”

Jarryd frowned at my explanation. “Why would anyone want that?”

“Look past the obvious,” I said, and he frowned harder. “You take away the need for words between two men in battle, give them access to each other’s skills and experiences, and they move as one. Eventually, over time, everything—every move, every sword strike, every need—becomes something far beyond instinct.”

“And the Shinree had an entire army like that?” Malaq whistled, imagining the possibilities. “What of you, Troy? You carry a soldier’s blood. Did you ever have a…what did you call it?”

“
Nef’taali
,” I said. “It means my other, or other half, other soul. There is no direct translation. And no, I told you, it isn’t done anymore.” I gave Kya’s reins a tug and started down the hill. “There’s a stream not far ahead. We can stop and refill.”

I had no doubt Malaq took offense to my gruff tone, but after a moment I heard him prod his mount forward. “Anyone up for fish?” he asked, coming up behind me. “You did mention a stream.”

Taking up the rear, Jarryd grunted. “Prince Malaq Roarke is going to catch fish from a stream? This I have to see.”

“I’ll have you know, Kane, that I am an excellent fisherman,” Malaq replied. “One of the advantages to being banished to a tiny village on Kael’s southern shore is that there’s little to do but fish. And there are no finer waters.”

“If you believe that,” Jarryd countered, “then you’ve never been to Kabri.”

“My naïve, young messenger,” Malaq laughed. “The bay in Raymorre is a blue you could never imagine. The sand is silk. The fish practically jump onto the shore to be eaten. In no way could Kabri’s drab, rocky slopes compare.”

I kept walking. I listened now and then, to ensure their debate didn’t come to blows. Malaq enjoyed riling Jarryd simply because it was an easy thing to do and I suspected, eventually, it would earn him a punch in the nose. Today though, their conversation remained lighthearted. Jarryd relented to a chuckle. Malaq threw his head back in genuine laughter. It was a well-needed relief of tension. I might have even joined them in it. But as I glanced back, the late afternoon sun glinted off the edges of the serpent clasp at Malaq’s throat, and I started thinking about what Draken would do when he saw it.

When Langor’s egocentric King realized Malaq had something that belonged to him, death was a good possibility. Slow torture was more likely. If, by some miracle, Malaq actually managed to talk his way into Draken’s good graces, I couldn’t imagine he would last long masquerading as a son of Langor. Pretending to be one of them, living inside the walls that echoed his mother’s screams. It would break him, perhaps even before Draken did.

Stopping once more, I looked up at Malaq. “Draken’s keep. Do you know why it bears the name Darkhorne?” I could see by his face that he didn’t. “The castle was constructed over seven hundred years ago on a summit halfway up one of the tallest mountains on the western shore. It was commissioned by one of the members of the Ruling House of the Shinree Empire. It was to be a palace. But no Shinree ever lived there.”

“They didn’t build it either,” Malaq said as he and Jarryd came to a standstill. “Darkhorne was constructed entirely by Langorian slaves, and Shinree whips.”

I nodded. “What else do you know?”

“It’s difficult to get in uninvited.”

“The whole area is difficult,” I corrected him. ‘The ground is unstable. The mountains are stripped bare and full of abandoned mines. There are no trees, no cover. It’s desolate and dreary no matter the season. The keep itself is well fortified. It’s built on great deposits of hornblende. One of the dark stones.”

“So that’s where the name came from,” Jarryd cut in. “What does it do?”

“On its own? Nothing. But when a Shinree channels with hornblende nearby, it takes over. It sickens good intentions. Twists even the most carefully crafted spells. Hornblende was a favorite tool for assassins and traitors during the last years of the Empire, when the ruling houses were fighting amongst themselves like spoiled children. It was easy work, tricking a man to kill someone he thought to heal. All they had to do was plant a sliver of it near their mark and the deed was done. But before then, before it was known what it would do, countless died from spells gone wrong. Langorians and Shinree. They died in the mines, in the slave camps—on the steps of the very keep they sought to build. Ultimately, Darkhorne was abandoned. It stayed that way a long time, until your forebears, Malaq, broke free and founded their own realm. When the first King of Langor was crowned, he claimed the keep as his own. He had it completed and ordered the mine underneath be worked by the condemned, turning it into the most feared prison in all of Langor.”

“I’m not Shinree,” Malaq said. “The hornblende won’t affect me.”

“It’s a dark place, Malaq.”

“It is a place made of rock, like any other.”

“Goddamn it.” I shook my head wearily. “Why does every conversation we have end with me wanting to wrap my hands around your throat?” In no mood to hear his response, I turned around and resumed my trek down the steep, stony path. I pulled Kya as quickly as the terrain would allow, and gradually, the ground flattened. The trail widened. Rock gave way to patches of dirt and grass. Trees replaced the barren cliffs we’d been following all day. Saplings at first, and then then thicker, more established groves, popped up to line both sides of the path.

Not far up ahead they would close in tighter. The trail would narrow again. It would dip down and curve into the deep woods, where it would stay for some time. When it came out again, the dirt would start changing over to
sand. The vegetation would thin and Rella would be visible on the horizon. Not long after, Kabri.

Even with the spell pulling me back, I didn’t want to go.

Pushing his mount past Malaq, Jarryd came to ride beside me. He leaned down, grinning. “Care to wager on how long it’ll take our Prince to catch something?”

“The wager won’t work if we’re both betting against him.”

Jarryd’s grin widened. “I think I have a biscuit left he can use for bait.” Standing in the saddle, he twisted to rummage through his packs. “There it is. One left.”

“You sure you want to waste it?”

“Oh, it’s not a waste.” Closing the flap of the bag behind him, Jarryd chuckled, “Especially if he falls in.” As he turned back around, I caught the brief flash of something in the air.

Arrow
, I thought, but I had no time to say it out loud. Steel ripped through the side of Jarryd’s face and kept going.

EIGHTEEN

T
he next arrow stuck in his saddle. The third mine. Scores more riddled the ground as I yelled for Malaq to take cover and hauled Jarryd down off his horse.

We headed into the trees, but it was no better there. Langorians soldiers filled the forest. More rode in to block both directions of the trail. Weapons were drawn, orders were shouted, and we were surrounded. The soldiers held position, but they were doing so reluctantly. Every Langorian in sight was salivating with the urge to attack, except one.

Malaq Roarke was the only man among us not on edge. Having chosen not to heed my warning, he still sat in the saddle, his rowdy mount stomping the ground, while he assessed the situation with a calm, curious eye. In flawless Langorian he demanded to speak to the officer in charge, and I left him to it; turning my attention instead to the blood emptying out of Jarryd’s head.

“On the ground.” I pushed him down. Jarryd leaned back against a tree and I squatted beside him to examine the horizontal slice dividing one side of his face. Carving a path just shy of his mouth, all the way across his left cheek, the arrow had cut fairly deep, but clean. Where it exited, through his ear, was another matter. A good measure of flesh had been ripped away and what was left behind was badly torn and mangled.

I needed water and bandages.

I looked at Kya. She was just out of reach. I knew any move I made for her would be seen as a threat, but asking permission wasn’t going to work
either. It was a waste of time appealing to the Langorians sense of decency. They didn’t have any.

Removing the dagger from my boot, I improvised. “Thought I was going to have to part with some hefty coin to replace that nice, white tunic you gave up for me in Kael. But I’d say this makes us even.” Stretching out the bottom of my shirt, I put the blade through the hem and cut it off. Dividing the cloth further, I bunched up one of the pieces and pressed it against his head.

“I can do it myself.” Jarryd yanked the cloth out of my hand.

I resisted the urge to yank it back. Drawing a sword, I laid it across his lap and said emphatically, “Last resort only. Got it?”

“This feels pretty last resort already. There’s at least—”

“Stop counting. It won’t change their numbers.” Naturally, I’d already tallied them, and the result wasn’t good. With more than a dozen mounted troops scattered across the hill and at least twice that many in the woods and on the trail, there was no way I could have missed a force so large. Magic had definitely masked their approach.

One of the mounted soldiers broke off from the rest. He moved into the canopy of trees. As he headed straight for us, Jarryd’s hand tightened on the grip of my sword. He started breathing faster. “Come on…” he muttered, and I almost took my sword back.

“Stay put,” I told him. I put a hand on his shoulder as I got up. “And keep your mouth shut.”

“To hell with that.” Jarryd started to stand and I shoved him back down.

Clipped and harsh, I said, “Don’t. Do. Anything.”

“I’m just supposed to take this?” he said, gesturing at his face.

“For now.” He started to object and I cut him off. “Don’t start fights you can’t win,
nef’salle
.” I thought the Shinree expression of friendship might soften my words, and his reaction. I was wrong. His eyes were charged with so much rage, I could almost see the memories of Kabri’s fall shooting through his mind.

“I can’t just sit here,” he said tightly. “I won’t.”

“You will. Or I’ll knock you out myself.”

Upon us now, the Langorian brought his warhorse to a causal stop. I gave Jarryd one last, stern look and then raised my eyes. My intention was to take measure of what I was in for, but my goal fell apart as I got lost in
the multitude of scars crisscrossing the Langorian man’s body. In addition to the recent, circular symbol of rank branded into his cheek, on his face, neck, arms, and hands were ruts and furrows, raised, jagged lines, pockmarks, and uneven blotches of burned skin. Nearly every bit of him that I could see was disfigured, damaged, or marred in some fashion. Even his nose had the look of being broken at least twice. I didn’t even want to imagine what the rest of him looked like.