The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (34 page)

“What is it?” Ellyn stood next to him, glancing at him and then at the poles. “What’s going on?”

“What did you see? When did you get here?” he asked.

She made a growling sound of frustration. “We were just southwest of here when we saw the crimson mist. We nearly killed the horses and ourselves getting here. We left them in the valley below and climbed up, just in time to see you cut through the spell and battle the Jutras priest.”

He turned to her. “What do you see when you look at me? My lights. What do they look like?”

She narrowed her concentration and scrutinized him. She jerked back. “What’s that?”

“What?”

“There’s something . . .
burning
. . . inside of you. And a kind of a net of gold majick woven through your lights. It’s anchored to that
thing
.” She blinked, her jaw setting as she looked at him. “Are you sick?’

How to explain it? He wasn’t sick. He was changed again—a new kind of majicar spawn that was a melding of Jutras blood majick and
sylveth
majick. He wasn’t the only one. He looked at her, sorting through the shift of green, scarlet, and white. He felt it more than he could see it—the slow pulse of blood majick. It was lodged deep inside her like a seed waiting for germination.

He didn’t understand. How had this happened? He needed to think. He spun around and strode away. She called his name, but didn’t follow.

For the first time in sennights, the sun shone with a radiant glow. The mountains glistened green and the waters of the sea sparkled. Keros hardly noticed. His thoughts were turned inward as he wrestled with what had happened—what was still happening.

The Jutras had found a way to infect majicars with Jutras majick. He’d thought the backlash from the fall of the Kalpestrine had caused the growing majicar insanity. But what if it hadn’t? What if it was the blood majick? The two kinds of majick were incompatible—even hostile to each other. Trying to hold them inside at the same time could easily explain the why the majicars were going mad.

He sat on an outcropping and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember when he’d slid over the edge himself. He’d cast the spell for the last brothel. Using his majick had only made the presence in his mind stronger. That presence—was it blood majick?

A chill slid down his spine and he thrust himself violently to his feet. He wanted to run. But there was nowhere to go. No escape. Not if it was true. Not if the Jutras gods had touched him . . . blessed him.

Cursed him.

His mouth twisted. He felt hollow and sick, just as he had that day he’d become a majicar.

Somehow the Jutras gods had planted seeds of themselves in the majicars of Crosspointe and it was driving them mad trying to fight it. Their only way out was through—they had to surrender and become . . . whatever it was he had become.

He thought of the two poles. Even if he could, did he destroy them? The star he’d captured had fertilized the seed of blood majick inside him and allowed it to flower. Without that catalyst, would it have remained dormant? Should it have?

His head throbbed and exhaustion weighed on him like an anchor. But one thought remained clear: if
sylveth
majick was fading and majicars were killing each other, then how could Crosspointe hope to fend off the Jutras? Was blood majick the answer?

He sat there, the sun warm on his shoulders and back, unable to come to any answers. At last he heard a step and turned his head. Ellyn stood watching him.

“There is food, if you’re hungry,” she said. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He stood slowly. “As soon as Margaret is awake. She and Weverton need to hear this too.”

Her lips pinched together. “We need to uproot the hoskarna as soon as possible,” she said after a moment.

“Hoskarna?”

She waved in the general direction of the poles. “Don’t you know what they are?”

He shook his head.

She blew out a harsh breath. “When the Jutras conquer a country, the gods must establish a connection to the land. The
kiryat
—priest caste—plant pairs of them. Usually they are white and red, one representing the god of peace, the other of war. The Jutras gods switch roles frequently, though now the hoskarna are all red. Both Uniat and Cresset have gone to war. The gods use the hoskarna as a conduit to penetrate the land and make it theirs. Already the Jutras gods are digging into Crosspointe. The longer the hoskarna stand, the stronger the foothold they gain here. We must take them down. On the mountain, it will be easy enough. We simply start a landslide and it will take them with it. We must do it right away before they take root.”

Her fervor was edged with desperation. Her hatred of the Jutras was as deep as his. How would she react to find that she carried inside her the seed of their enemy’s blood majick?

The knowledge might drive her insane. But no. She was strong. She faced adversity head on and did not run away. She would not crumple before this news. But he’d tell her later. Just as he’d tell her that the hoskarna might have to stay if the majicars were to fend off the Jutras. Because he was sure they were coming and soon.

Quietly he followed her back to where she and Weverton had built their small camp. It was in the lee of a pile of boulders. Margaret was wrapped in blankets with Weverton’s coat on top of her, her head pillowed on a saddle. She slept fitfully, twitching and kicking and making choking noises in her throat.

There was a fire and Nicholas was heating water for tea. He sat beside Margaret, watching her with brooding eyes. If ever a man was ready to commit murder, he was one.

He looked up as Keros and Ellyn approached, his bloodshot gaze fastening on Keros. “What happened here?”

Keros sprawled on the ground. He shook his head. “I’d rather tell it just once when she wakes. Until then, I need rest.”

With that he dropped to his back and rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on his arm. He was asleep within grains.

Nicholas could not tear himself from Margaret’s side. The vision of her hanging naked and brutalized was branded in his imagination and he could not make it disappear. He couldn’t recall ever feeling such rage as he felt now—not even when he’d learned of Carston’s kidnapping. Perhaps it was because he’d been reasonably certain that Geoffrey would not harm the boy. Carston was more useful alive as leverage against Nicholas.

But Margaret . . . she could have died. And given her employment, she still could. She risked herself regularly and, to his mind, recklessly—and he was beginning to find the notion intolerable.

He didn’t understand his feelings for her—how could he feel so much? He hardly knew her. He’d spent less than a sennight in her rather prickly company. Her tongue was sharp enough to cut stone, so why should he feel like his guts had been torn out? Why should he feel like he wanted to kill anyone who came close to her—Ellyn and Keros included. Why should he feel like he failed her utterly?

He gulped some tea and burned his tongue. He set the cup aside and stared again at Margaret. He’d washed the blood from her face, but her hair was matted with it and the rest of her—

He scraped his fingers through his hair and glanced at the sleeping Keros. He wanted to shake the other man awake and demand answers. But what would he do with them? His gaze slid inexorably back to Margaret. Answers would not change what had happened to her.

It was nearly night when she woke. All day she’d slept restlessly, at one time getting swept up in a nightmare. She screamed and fought invisible attackers until Nicholas shook her awake. She’d looked at him with glassy eyes, then collapsed back into unconsciousness. He’d held her head on his lap, stroking her shoulders. Wakened by the commotion, Keros had gone prowling. His face was haggard and he looked gaunt. His clothing hung loosely, as though he’d lost a lot of weight, and his eyes were sunken deep and swallowed by dark circles. Ellyn followed him.

He became aware that Margaret was no longer asleep when her breathing changed and her body went stiff and still.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re safe. The Jutras are dead. Ellyn healed you.” The words tumbled out.

She opened her eyes. They were full of horror and fear. She struggled to sit up. He helped her. She clutched the blankets around herself and scanned the small nook in the rocks, then looked beyond. The tops of the hoskarna gleamed in the setting sun. She recoiled from them and Nicholas put his arm around her, pulling her against his chest. She pushed away, but he didn’t let her go.

“You’re safe,” he said again. “I promise.”

She went still and then began to sob. They were deep, tearing cries. Her body convulsed and she pulled her knees up into a ball, clinging to Nicholas with all her strength. He held her tightly, rubbing her back and whispering soothing nonsense against her ear. The sun had gone down by the time she quieted. Keros and Ellyn had not yet returned, no doubt giving Margaret privacy to recover herself.

At last she sat up but didn’t pull away. She sniffed and rubbed her face against the blanket. Then her face was swept by a stricken look. She lifted the blanket and looked at herself beneath it. Instantly she started to shudder and shake. Nicholas thrust himself to his feet and grabbed one of the packs and tossed it over his shoulder before picking her up in his arms. She clutched his neck. Her exposed skin was covered in a sheath of dried blood.

He carried her to the nearby spring. Earlier he’d discovered the body of the other Jutras priest there and he and Ellyn had carried it away. He’d been grimly satisfied by Ellyn’s quiet, “Margaret poisoned the knobbing bastard. Good for her.”

Now he stood her on the bank, holding her loosely in his arms as he pulled the blankets away. He picked her up and waded into the spring. It was shallow, coming only to his knees. He bent and set her down in the frigid water, then pulled the pack from his shoulder. He fished out one of his spare tunics and a bar of soap and tossed the pack back onto the bank. He knelt down beside her in the water. She hugged her knees, her teeth chattering as she shivered.

He rubbed soap on the tunic and then began to gently wash her back. She flinched from his initial touch, but then remained still as he worked. He washed her shoulders and legs, then tackled her hair, picking out twigs and leaves and loosening snarls as best he could. She let him push her head back, sitting still while he lathered her scalp and rinsed the soap away.

“Do you want to finish?” he asked, holding out the tunic.

She nodded jerkily and took the cloth. But when he made to leave the pool she grasped his hand. “Please don’t go.”

“I’m not. I won’t,” he said and then turned around to give her privacy. He heard the slosh and drip of water as she straightened her legs and finished washing.

“I’m done,” she said.

He turned back around. Her lips were blue and she was clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering. He stood and slid his arms under her, lifting her up. He carried her to the bank and stood her on her feet. He grabbed one of the blankets and wrapped it around her, then pulled her against him and rubbed her arms and back to help warm her. She pressed her head against his shoulder.

“You came for me,” she said.

“I told you I would. But Keros saved you. I did nothing.” All he had done was watch. The helplessness of that still burned in his gut.

“Your son? Is he all right?”

“He is.”

“Good.” Then, “They didn’t . . . The Jutras didn’t use him at all?” Her voice broke.

Nicholas’s arms clenched around her. “No.”

“Good,” she said again.

After a moment she pushed away. He loosened his arms reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely, the guilt that had been gnawing at him since her capture breaking free of its dam. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t pushed to make Geoffrey regent—He killed your father. I’m certain of it. And then he was working with the Jutras. I didn’t know. I should have. I will never forgive myself.”

The words tumbled out with jagged violence and he let go of her, stepping back. He had no right. It was because of him she’d suffered so horrendously. He should walk away. He couldn’t.

She stared at him. Like Keros, her face was gaunt. Her skin hugged the contours of her skull, her bones thrusting in sharp relief. Her eyes were sunken and haunted. His hands clenched at his sides.

“I think . . .” She began, then trailed away. She licked her lips. “I think we need to be friends now. Crosspointe needs us and”—a faint flush rose on her cheeks—“I would rather not be enemies.”

His heart jerked in his chest. “You can forgive what I’ve done?”

Her mouth tightened. Not quite a smile. “What have I to forgive? Why didn’t we know what the regent was doing? Why didn’t we know he was working with the Jutras? We had spies on him constantly and still we didn’t figure it out.” She shrugged. “There is plenty of room for blame. But now we have to go forward. We have to save Crosspointe.”

He nodded. Of course. Crosspointe. That was her primary concern—she was a Rampling after all. “Let me fetch your clothing so you can dress.”

He returned to the campfire. Keros and Ellyn were waiting there. Ellyn was holding two rabbits. Keros wore an expression of uneasy pain.

“How is she?” he asked.

“Sane,” Nicholas said, reaching for the pack containing Margaret’s things. “She’ll be all right, I think.” He looked at the rabbits. “Better skin those out of sight.” Margaret didn’t need a reminder of blood and cutting.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He returned to Margaret and handed her the pack before starting to retreat.

“Please stay.” She didn’t look at him. Her jaw quivered.

“Of course,” he said, not wanting to leave anymore than she wanted him to. He turned around. He heard her unlatch the buckles of the pack and dig out her clothing. “We found your boots,” he said. “You won’t have to go barefoot.”