The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (57 page)

“You tricked me!” he bellowed. “You had no intention of standing by me!”

“Aren’t you proud?” I grinned. “You wanted me like this. Willing to destroy my own flesh and blood, able to do what I must whatever the risk. You wanted me a Reth, cruel and despicable, manipulative, and devious. So here I am, you goddamn, son of a bitch—here I am!” I shouted, shaking him. “Do you like it?”

Shrinking some, he scrambled. “Maybe there’s still time. Maybe Neela’s still alive. If you go to her—”

“Turn my back so you can crawl away? I don’t think so.”

“But she needs you!”

“She’s dead!” I hollered back.

“Shouldn’t you make sure? In the dreams you swore to protect her. Remember?” he pushed me. “Remember how badly you wanted to save her?”

“What
I remember
, is you making me watch her suffer.” I heaved him closer. “But you fucked up, Jem. You took it too far. Somewhere in all the twisted crap you put in my head, avenging her must have become more
important than having her, because right now…all I can think of is tearing you apart.” With a merciless yank, I grabbed hold of the last of the crown’s magic and drained him dry. I took everything. Every residual drop that the crown put inside my father, I took for myself; leaving him shuddering and gasping with his white eyes rolling back in his head.

There was no more magic in him. No more fight. He was sobbing, teetering. He was helpless. But that wasn’t good enough.

“I’ve pictured this moment for weeks,” I said, glancing down at the weapon still in my hand. “I imagined what I’d say. How it would feel.” I looked at Reth. “I thought it would be harder.” Raising my sword, I drove the blade through his chest. The shock in his white eyes said it was the last thing in the world he expected.

It was for me too. I’d laid bare his deepest desire and then crushed it, just like he would have. And I had no remorse, no pain over what I’d done. I had only the sensations pulsing through me, and the knowledge that I was teetering on the edge of being profoundly dangerous.
Of being like him,
I thought.

The notion tempered me instantly.

In one long, agonizing burst, I sent all the magic back to its various sources, all at once. The void it left behind was devastating.

Weak, worn and empty, I threw Reth off me. The sword pulled out of him and I dropped it. The weapon felt too heavy to hold, my grasp of it too slippery; slickened by the amount of his blood on my hands.

As I wiped some of it off onto on my breeches, I reconnected with Jarryd. A rapid assortment of things slammed into me from his end of the link and I set it all aside, except for the adrenaline. The amount pumping through him was staggering. It blew threw me like a wind, dispelling the exhaustion long enough that I was able to blast him back with a shot of urgency and satisfaction that he couldn’t mistake. Then I shut him out again and looked down at Reth, slumped on the ground at my feet.

I couldn’t see through his tarnished skin anymore. Without magic, the disjointed blend of colors seemed dull and dreary. His body, no longer swollen with energy, was sagging. Some life was in it yet, but the way blood was draining out of his wound to soak the cave floor, it wouldn’t be for much longer.

Eyes heavy, breath raspy and shallow, he stretched a silent hand out to me.

I backed away from it and staggered over to Neela.

Stretched out on her side, beneath a thick coating of dust and pebbles, she was still and quiet. No breath was coming out of her. I brushed the debris from her face and her skin was cool to the touch. It wasn’t parched and gray as Aylagar’s had been. My spur-of-the-moment shield spell must have offered some protection. But a quiet peacefulness hung over Rella’s Queen that felt unnervingly familiar.

Not this time,
I vowed.
Not again.

With my link to Sienn, I had access to the temporary binding spell she used on me in Ula. I could give my strength to Neela. I could do what I couldn’t for her mother, and bring her back.

If there was anything left of Neela to bring back, and if I had the strength to give her. Which, I didn’t.

I would have to supplement it with magic.
A lot of magic
, I thought gravely.

My eyes shifted to the Crown of Stones. On the ground, in the dirt, near the body of the Langorian soldier, it was full of power again. Its colors glowed and pulsed in the murky, dim light like a beacon, calling me.

I went over and picked it up. Gripping the circlet, I invited its magic inside me once more. The invasion was a lot less dramatic than when I stole it from my father’s body. I could feel it trying to infiltrate, to fuse with me like it did him, but it was less tumultuous. More stable. I was still empowered as before, but not suffocated. Complete without being overwhelmed. The combined auras still aroused a provocative sense of superiority and confidence that was hard to ignore, but (as if there was some sort of progression, or balancing out with each use), I had a better handle on the physical effects of the crown’s magic than I did just a few, short minutes ago.

I was pretty sure that wasn’t a good thing.

Nervous, I glanced over at Reth’s ruined skin. I looked at what the crown had done to him and I told myself this had to be the last time. That it wasn’t too late already.

That one more spell wouldn’t make me like him.

I completed the symbols on our hands in a daze. I cast the spell and threw myself across our newly forged link.

There was little of her to grab onto, but I seized what I could find and held nothing back. I poured my life and my magic into Neela, and prayed that it was enough.

As I collapsed beside her, the crown slid from my grip. Using my last coherent thought, I flung its power out of me and back to whatever hell it came from.

FIFTY THREE

M
y boots struck the stone floor. Aside from my anxious breathing, it was the only sound. It resonated through the empty corridors of the castle as I walked, searching the upper floors. I opened doors, one by one. The rooms behind them were all empty. The curtains were all drawn. The windows closed. There were no fires in the hearths. No lanterns or candles were lit. The air, trapped, chilly, and tinged with gloom, reeked of death and rot. A combination of burned waste, sour wine, tainted food, overflowing chamber pots, and old blood; the foul odor lingered in the dark. It intensified as I went lower, clinging to me as I passed, making my empty stomach cramp like a cold hand clenching it tight.

The discomfort in my gut worsened with every broken dish, slashed tapestry, splintered door and overturned furnishing—wreckage that was a poignant, graphic reminder of the Langorian occupation, and the recent battle. A battle we must have won, or, after passing out in the cave, I would have woken up chained in a Langorian dungeon instead of in a room on the fifth floor of Neela’s home.
Neela’s very deserted home,
I thought uneasily.
The damage was extensive. She must have ordered an evacuation.

Still, someone brought me here. So where are they?

If Sienn were nearby, I had no idea. Her presence inside me was gone. Our bond had run its course, and I was relieved. While there had been certain, obvious perks, the longer it took Sienn to discover my default the better. Once she learned that I’d borrowed her erudite knowledge to kill Reth,
blatantly breaking the vow I made to her back in Kael, she would seek restitution. Whatever flirtatious game we’d been playing at would be over then, one way or another.

Jarryd I couldn’t sense either. Our link was jammed, but not on my end; Sienn taught him well. He must have been with me for a time though, since his cloak had been draped over a chair near the bed I woke up in. His quiver was on the mantle, empty. The bow beside it lay broken in two. A scattering of blood stained the wood and I tried not to let it worry me. If Jarryd had been severely injured in the fight, he would have been lying in his own bed instead of sitting vigil next to mine.

In contrast, my temporary connection to Neela was working a little too well. I hadn’t gained any of her memories, but her emotions were exceptionally strong. Coming on me as I regained consciousness, the flux of past and present sentiments and reactions had been too suffocating to make sense of. Instead, I stockpiled the whole thing and shut her out. Now, after having a few minutes to consider the experience with a more level head, the improbability that she was even alive, that
I
brought Neela back from the edge of Death’s lands, amazed me. I was a soldier. I broke bodies for a living. I didn’t fix them.
But I fixed her. I healed her, gave her life.

Right after I took my father’s.

Squeezing my scored hands into fists, I descended the main staircase faster, all the way to the first floor. I imagined I’d have a better chance of finding someone here. What I found, was outright ruin. And far too much blood.

Streaking and spilling, gathering in dark, dried pools on the floor, it speckled the ceiling. It splashed the walls, spelling out foul words and promises of “Death to All Rellans,” in thick, dripping strokes. Great sprays darkened the fabric of shredded wall-hangings. Doors, torn from their hinges and gouged down the middle, all bore thick, unmistakable splatters.

There were widespread singe marks as well. Ashy remains that I hoped weren’t human kicked up around me as I walked. Chunks of shattered statues and pottery crunched under my step. There wasn’t a piece of furniture left unbroken or a painting that hadn’t been cut. Clothing, baskets, linens, cooking pots, vials, bottles, books, papers, and dozens of other, personal belongings were strewn all about.

The main entrance was just ahead. Normally, it took two men to lift the great slab of wood that barred it shut from the inside. I was willing to give it a try though. Fresh air was on the other side and I needed some badly.

I was in the middle of inspecting the thick, heavy log, looking for a good place to get a solid grip, when I heard something. It was the first hint of sound that wasn’t my own.

Postponing my exit, I followed the intermittent, distant noise down a long, hallway to a set of closed, double doors. Surprisingly intact, of the muffled voices that filtered out from underneath the doors, none belonged to Jarryd. Only one was a woman, and it was definitely Neela. Even with a wall up, I could feel a faint impression of her. I couldn’t make out her words, but her tone was severe and harsh, like she was reprimanding someone.

If I barged in, I had no doubt that ‘someone’ would be me. As badly as I wanted to see her, or anyone, I didn’t feel like arguing. It was safer to let her finish.

While I waited, I thought I’d continue looking for Jarryd so I backtracked to the main hall. I wandered down another poorly lit passage, with more smashed furniture, more blood, and more defiled pieces of Rellan life. The stale air was worse here, and it was really starting to get to me.

Stepping over scattered shards of a broken mirror, I went to the nearest window. I gripped the heavy drapes in both hands, and pain shot across my left shoulder. “Ow.” Recoiling a bit, I finished tugging the cloth aside. Sunshine and warmth streamed in. The blackened remains of Kabri stretched out for miles in front of me.

I didn’t give it a glance. My eyes were drawn elsewhere.

Dropping my hand, I leaned into the sun and stretched out the neck of my shirt. Bruises, deep and widespread, covered my entire left side. Some of the contusions were the usual greenish purple that comes with real, physical damage. The rest were far from usual.

On my shoulder, in the exact spot where my father shoved the power of the Crown of Stones down inside me, was a large magic scar. Distinctly hand-shaped, the center of the scar was obsidian colored. The ‘fingers’ extended out, streaking off both sides of my shoulder in an ombre pattern. Black, bleeding to red, dipped down to curl in slender bands around my arm. Bending, I picked up one of the larger pieces of mirror and moved my shirt aside. Black to gray stretched down my back.

None of them were the hideous, garbled splotches my father had. The markings the crown had left imprinted on my skin were sharp and well-defined, almost as if they were designed with skill. They reminded me of Arullan skin art, and I thought I could even pass them off as such.
For now,
I thought.
But is this how it starts?

Is this how my father’s scars looked at first, before he channeled too much? Before the crown started changing him?

If he were alive I could have asked him.

“Fuck!” I threw the glass on the floor and yanked the curtain closed. I had yet to hear Neela come out of her meeting, but I was fine with that. My mood had soured too much for company. I wasn’t even up for finding Jarryd anymore. I wanted Kya, a bottle, and a long ride to clear my head. There was just something I had to do first. One place I needed to visit that suddenly seemed long overdue.

The castle hadn’t changed much in ten years. Once I found the kitchen, I easily located the cellar, and to the left of that, the discreet door to the servant’s corridor I was looking for. Inside the passage, it was cold and tight. A few lanterns on the wall were lit and I could see my way fairly well. Navigating through one junction, then another, I came to an old, dilapidated stairwell that headed in one direction: down.

Cramped, dark, and dank, with twists and turns, and no railing, the route wasn’t very inviting. A slippery deposit of grit covered the stone steps, which were narrow and broken in spots. There were torches on the walls, but the only one in use was at the bottom of the staircase. Its glow was weak and far away.

I took my time. Descending at a careful pace, I stuck close to the wall. It didn’t surprise me as pieces crumbled off beneath my fingers. Portions of the castle had been rebuilt and added onto over the years, but the section I was in now was one of the oldest.

As the layer of sand underfoot grew heavier, the light got brighter. I finally caught up to it at a long, wide landing. There were no more stairs, just a dirt wall reinforced by large, wooden planks. On my right was a sizeable tunnel that led out to the beach behind the castle. On the opposite wall was the burning torch I’d been chasing. Beneath it was a shadowy, oblong nook.
Tucked inside were the cold, waxy nubs of a dozen candles wasted away to nothing.