The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe (6 page)

“And whose fault is that? You have need of neither ship nor Pilot to travel across the sea. One would think you’d visit more often.”

Marten grinned, looking almost like his old, pre-spawn self. “Lucy has been very busy on the Root. I could not get her to leave.”

And he would never leave her alone. That went without saying and Keros understood. Marten had betrayed her terribly once, and he now lived his life entirely devoted to her. The Root was a massive complex of mountain ridges twisting into the sea like the roots of an old tree. It was north of Crosspointe and believed to be a haven for spawn. King William had asked Lucy to establish another Pale there so he could build his own fleet of armed ships to battle the Jutras when they invaded. He was also cultivating alliances with the wild spawn who lived there.

“What about the Kalpestrine?” she asked Marten.

He brushed wet hair from his face. “There is
sylveth
there.”

“Still? I thought it would be gone by now,” she said.

Worked
sylveth
was a hardened form of the majickal substance that ran throughout the Inland Sea. It was used to both amplify and anchor spells and only master-level majicars had the power to harden it. Once worked, it was safe for anyone to touch. But when it fell into the sea, it seemed to summon raw
sylveth
to it, and the encounter always returned the worked
sylveth
to its original form. Once that happened, it drifted back out into the sea on the tides. The sea always took back what it gave.

Marten frowned. “There is a
sylveth
ball there. It’s the size of a ship and it simply hangs there, deep down—nearly forty fathoms below the surface of the sea. It is not quite liquid and not quite hardened.”

“But that is impossible,” Lucy said. “
Sylveth
flows—it moves through the water. It doesn’t pool or make a ball.”

“This is.”

She nodded, her face turning harsh. “We need to get to the Bramble. Do you need to rest?”

Keros’s eyes narrowed. Marten never needed to rest, not after swimming in the sea. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Marten said, his chin jutting like an ax blade.

“Crack that. I’m not stupid, whatever you may think.”

Lucy looked down at the ground, saying nothing for so long Keros gave up on an answer. Anger heated his gut and he clenched his hands on his cloak.

“The sea is sick. It’s hurting Marten,” she said softly.

He looked at Marten, scanning him up and down. “You don’t look sick,” he said, but fear prickled across his skin.

“Lucy exaggerates,” Marten said with a dismissive shrug. “I simply get more tired than I used to. But it very well may be my nature now. I have not been spawn long—less than half a season.” An edged smile curved his lips. “Perhaps I am with child.”

Keros stared, uncertain if it was a joke or a real possibility.

“Don’t be an ass,” Lucy said, trying to pull away. Marten only snugged her closer. “It’s more than tired.” She looked at Keros, grooves cutting sharply into the skin around her mouth and nose. “The waves don’t answer to him the way they used to—they are sluggish. And he hasn’t been coming to Crosspointe because the journey is almost more than he can manage. Whatever is wrong with the majick, is also wrong with the sea and with Marten. If we don’t fix it—” She broke off, swallowing hard and clutching Marten’s hand tightly.

“What can I do?” Keros asked, cold wriggling deep inside him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be warm again.

She bit her lips and shivered. “Just—Make sure my family is safe. My mother is in hiding and should be all right, but my brother Jack and my other brothers’ wives—Sissy and Caroline . . . They are all I have left. Don’t let the regent find them. Please.”

“Of course,” he said, tasting ash. When Marten and Lucy had been sent to the Bramble, her father, two older brothers, and a number of her friends and servants had been convicted of treason and sent with her. Only her mother, Jack, Sissy, and Caroline had escaped. But the ship had dropped Marten and Lucy on the Bramble; the others had been taken to Bokal- dur in Jutras territory to be sold. Keros didn’t dare think of what might have become of them. Making matters more painful, King William had forbidden Lucy or Marten to seek them out, saying she was needed in Crosspointe. With her mother pleading for her to obey the king, Lucy had acquiesced. Duty to Crosspointe always came before anything else—a loyalty carved into the soul of every Rampling. She could not refuse it.

“What else?” Keros asked. “How can I help you?”

Lucy shook her head, then gave a little nod. “If you can, feed the Wall tree. It needs blood for strength. The tree anchors the Pale. The stronger it is, the better.” She swallowed hard. “If anything happens to the grove on the Bramble, that one will be the only one left. Don’t let anyone see you. If the regent or the Majicar Guild should find out there’s a blood oak tree right here on Crosspointe, they’d cut it down for sure. It’s worth too much money and its magic is too powerful—but that would snap the Pale. Be very careful,” she urged. “I would do it, but I must get to the Bramble as soon as possible.”

The Wall tree was hidden inside a black granite triangular tower on the castle grounds. The Rampling family tree was inscribed on the outer walls of the tower and included every living legitimate heir. From that diagram, a new king or queen should be chosen to rule. For that alone, Keros was surprised that the regent hadn’t had the tower knocked down. Lucy had discovered the existence of the blood oak hidden within less than a year ago, and only a handful of people knew of its existence. Luckily the regent was not among those privileged few. King William had never trusted Truehelm, and had been maneuvered into making him regent.

How Keros was going to feed the damned thing, he had no idea. First he’d have to get inside the castle walls, and then get to the tree itself. There was no entrance in its protective tower. The only way to feed it was to dig down to a root and pour blood on the wood—it was not called blood oak for its color alone. All that while Crown Shields marched around the battlements.

It was a nearly impossible task. “I’ll do it,” he said.

“Then we must go. I’ll get word to you when I can. But be careful. I am not certain how safe it is to use majick.” She pulled away from Marten and hugged Keros fiercely. “Take care of yourself.”

He hugged her back. “I always do.”

She stepped back and Marten reached out a hand. Keros clasped his forearm hard.

“One other thing,” Lucy said slowly. “If the Pale on the Root fails, they’ll have to come here. Everybody—including our spawn allies. You should warn Ryland and Vaughn. An immigration of spawn could be more damaging than if the Pale snaps.”

Keros repressed a shudder and shook his head. “Any more good news you want to share? Maybe the sky will fall and the sun stop shining?”

Neither of his companions smiled and he felt fear dragging skeletal fingers through his entrails. He was just an unregistered majicar; he wasn’t meant for politics. He looked at Lucy. “Good luck.”

He wanted to hug her again, wanted to pull them both close and not let them go. Instead he stood and watched as they walked to the shore and into the water. A small skiff appeared in the water, conjured by Lucy. It looked faintly wrong somehow, though Keros couldn’t place why. She and Marten clambered inside. After a long moment, a thick wave rose behind and it started to move away, slowly speeding up until Lucy and Marten disappeared around the promontory.

Keros turned to retrace his steps, dread weighting him like an anchor. He stiffened his spine and defiantly thrust out his chest. Lucy would prevail, and he would make sure that when she wanted to come home, Crosspointe would be waiting, safe and sound. But even as he promised himself, he knew it was empty. He was a master majicar, but Lucy was practically a god. If she could not stop whatever was tainting the sea and majick, then no one could.

Bile filled his mouth and he spat. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.

Nicholas Weverton was at his wit’s end. Impotent fury wrapped him in iron bands.

“Damn him and damn me,” he muttered as he paced before the tall windows in his spacious office. His secluded manor house was situated above Sylmont, north of the castle. On a clear day he could see all of Blackwater Bay, and from his south tower, he had an unobstructed view of the castle. He liked to think that it allowed him to simultaneously keep an eye on both his business empire and the idiot Crown—or these days, the regent, formerly lord chancellor, who was proving to be far worse than any Rampling had ever been.

He dragged his fingers through his shaggy brown hair. He’d always been well aware that Geoffrey Truehelm could not be trusted. The bastard was a necessary evil, however. If not for his taking the regency, the election for a new queen or king would have already taken place. The interregnum offered a small window to change Crosspointe’s charter and be rid of the Crown forever.

The trouble was that getting rid of Geoffrey might prove equally difficult. Nicholas had expected him to assassinate the king once the new Edict of Regency had been added to the Charter, and Geoffrey had promptly done so. He had been biding his time for many years, waiting for the opportunity to snatch up real power. This was his opportunity and he wasn’t going let it go without a fight.

Nicholas had underestimated the man’s lust for power and the viciousness he was willing to employ to gain his ends. Within sennights of ordering the king’s assassination, the lord chancellor had firmly ensconced himself in the castle as regent and denounced all Ramplings as traitors and criminals. In another month he’d managed to put hundreds of Ramplings and their most influential supporters into iron collars, seizing everything they owned. Astonishingly, the people of Crosspointe seemed to accept his actions with little protest. Or rather, Geoffrey used the vast wealth he snatched to reward his supporters for their unflinching loyalty. He lavished them with houses, land, jewels, art, ships, and slaves—in return they quashed any objections, hunted down Ramplings, and loudly proclaimed that Regent Geoffrey Truehelm was the only salvation of Crosspointe in this time of terrible crisis.

It was terrifying. Nicholas had to do something about it. But the only legitimate way to get him out was by electing a new king or queen, and Nicholas would not do that. It had taken too long to get to the point of ousting the Crown. But killing Geoffrey was not going to be easy. He’d surrounded himself with an army of Blackwatch guards, he used a poison taster even among friends, and he had walled himself up behind dozens of majickal protections.

In time Nicholas knew he would succeed, but then what? No new lord chancellor had been appointed, so there would be no new regent. If that happened, Prince Ryland and Prince Vaughn would crawl out of the holes in which they’d been hiding and stir up an election. Better to wait until the spine of Rampling power was shattered. What he really needed to do was find Ryland and Vaughn and turn them over to Geoffrey. Then he could have Geoffrey retired.

Nicholas rubbed a hand across his mouth. By doing nothing, he was helping to kill and enslave an entire family. It was repugnant and made his stomach churn. But what else could he do? Rampling rule had brought the nation to its knees. If the Crown had listened to the needs of the people, of the merchants and the guilds, this would not be happening.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” he called as he moved to stand behind his desk.

His butler stepped inside, a tall broad-shouldered man with a lantern jaw and a barrel chest. “Sir, a messenger has arrived. She claims it is urgent.”

“Send her in.”

A few moments later, Grimes escorted the woman in. She had a weathered face and a nose that had been broken once or twice. She was angular and thin and plastered with mud. She carried a messenger pouch over her shoulder and a cutlass on her left hip. Two daggers protruded from her belt. She sidled from side to side, aware that she was dripping on a very expensive rug.

“Sorry t’ bother ye, sir,” she said, bobbing her head. “But he said ‘t was urgent.”

“Who said? What have you brought?”

She dug in her pouch. She didn’t use the majickal lock. He frowned. Bonded messengers always used majickal protections on their messages. It was part of their bonding.

“Where’s the lock?” he asked.

“Don’t work no more,” she said with a grimace. “Paid a majicar t’ fix it, but didn’t work. I come from Oaksmere five days ago,” she said with a quick shift in subject.

“Oaksmere?” Nicholas stiffened, his eyes narrowing. His hand curled tight.

“Aye, sir.” She pulled a parchment rectangle out of her bag. It was heavily creased and there was a wide brown smear on it that looked like dried blood.

Nicholas fairly snatched it. It was sealed with a glob of blue wax. Something had been pressed into it, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He slid the tip of his belt knife under the wax and pried it free. More blood smeared the inside. His entire body clenched as he scanned the hurried writing. It was a scant two lines:

It was unsigned, but Nicholas knew the writing well enough. He drew a sharp breath, hardly aware that he’d forgotten to breathe. “Who gave this to you? Where?”

“Didn’t give his name,” she said, quailing beneath the hot rage in his gaze. “Found me in a tavern in Oaksmere. Was stoppin’ off on my run t’ Wexstead. Paid me five eyes t’ turn around and bring this t’ you. Said you’d pay me th’ same.”

“How was he? Was he alone?”

“Didn’t see nobody w’ him.” She shrugged. “That don’t mean nothin’. He came in lookin’ for me. Said he saw my mule in th’ stable.” She gave him a hesitant look. “Was breathin’ rough—wet-like. When he coughed, there was blood. And he was listing t’ the side, like he was hurtin’ hard. Face was swollen and beat up too.”