The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (11 page)

His features were out of the ordinary as well. Though possessing the deep-set eyes, sharp nose, and large build common for his kind, he wore them better than any man of Langor I had ever seen.
Because he isn’t one,
I thought,
at least not entirely.

He was a half-breed, but the man was no mutt. He was a distinct blend of superior blood, with notable, diverse influences. Instead of the classic Langorian girth, he was tall and unmistakably muscular beneath fine Kaelish garb. His dark gray breeches and carefully matched tunic were cut from such expensive cloth the fabric didn’t billow or crinkle in the least as he walked. It fit over his form like a second skin, which was a noticeably lighter shade than the usual dusky brown. His eyes, as he trained them on me, were a conspicuous granite color. His hair was dark, but it lacked the extra intensity I despised. Even more remarkable, he wore it cut high in a straight, distinguished style that most Langorians would never care to maintain.

Abruptly, the man paused in his approach. Reaching inside his leather cloak, he pulled out a small cloth and started wiping down his knife. He didn’t miss a spot. Not seeming to notice, or care, that the entire tavern was watching, he went on, meticulously tending his weapon, and I didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. Such blatant, self-absorption was a clear act of cold, arrogant pretense. Yet, somehow, he came across as regal and intelligent as he cleaned Danyon’s insides off his blade.

Finally returning the knife to an embroidered sheath fastened to the outside of his leg, the man flashed me a roguishly charming smile. “Sorry I’m late,” he said in a fine, Kaelish lilt—the absolute last thing I expected to hear. “I see you started without me.” He tossed the bloody rag at Danyon’s back. “I’m Malaq.” He was poised to say more, but I interrupted.

“Call off your friends.”

Malaq raised a single, tidy, dark eyebrow. “Friends?” As if mulling over the meaning of the word, he began scanning the room. Taking in the details of the ambush as methodically as he cleaned his knife, Malaq looked at each of Danyon’s men in turn, then made note of the patrons and tavern workers. It was apparent that he was in no hurry. And while I was itching to interrupt his painstaking inspection, I kept my mouth shut. Because whatever Malaq was doing, measuring the odds, sizing up weapons, ogling the barmaids, it was working. As wherever his gaze fell in the Wounded Owl, movement stopped.

At last he looked back at me. A slow grin emerged from beneath his barely-there mustache. “I usually drink with a man before I call him friend. And I don’t recall drinking with any of these…gentlemen,” he said kindly. “I could be wrong, of course. But that doesn’t happen often.” His gray eyes slid to the side. “Behind you,” he said, so careless that I didn’t even catch his meaning until the blade was against my back.

“Langorian,” Lareth hissed, way too close; the spit flying off his lips hit the back of my neck as he spoke. “Identify yourself.”

“My apologies,” Malaq responded, voice and eyes equally impassive. “I did attempt introductions, but the Shinree wasn’t interested. Not that I’m surprised.” Malaq waved a dismissive hand in my direction. Nonchalantly brushing his cloak back, he rested a hand on the hilt of the sword belted on his left hip. “I believe we came here for the same reason, Arullan. Shall we get on with it?”

Lareth hesitated. “You’re here for the witch as well?”

Malaq pulled his sword. The scabbard was elaborately etched. The blade was incredibly shiny and elegant, but it was far from flimsy. I could see exactly how strong the steel was as he pointed it at my face. “I certainly didn’t come for the food.”

“Fine,” Lareth grumbled. I will allow you the kill. But the body is mine.”

Malaq’s Kaelish lilt turned serious. “My kill, my body.”

“All but the head,” Lareth countered. “I came a long way for it.”

“I don’t know,” Malaq grimaced. “Why not take the heart instead? That’s always a bold statement.”

Stuck between them and their swords, as they continued to argue over who got which pieces of me, my muscles were twitching. I couldn’t see Lareth, but Malaq’s sword arm wasn’t wavering in the least. There was zero
tension in him. His face betrayed nothing of what he intended. He had yet to give me any clear signal to indicate if we were on the same side, or that he cared in the least whether I lived or died.

Still, I wasn’t worried. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but Malaq had an undefined way about him that wanted me at ease. Maybe it was the lack of malice or threat coming off him. More likely, it was how dangerously close I was standing to the end of his sword. It gave me a vantage point Lareth didn’t have. One that I hoped explained exactly what Malaq was up to.

“Nice weapon,” I said, disrupting their exchange. “Very fancy.”

Malaq’s sharp eyes snapped to mine. “Yes, it is.”

“Custom made?”

“My own design.”

“It’s very,” I gave him a deliberate look, “subtle.”

Malaq didn’t reply. His expression, which was a complete lack of expression, stayed the same. Nevertheless, I sensed he understood my meaning and knew that I’d noticed the secret his sword held; a well-concealed second blade that rode discreetly along the underside of the first. Made to rest perfectly in the furrow of the main blade, the slender, miniature sword was practically invisible at anything but a fatally close range. It appeared to be activated by a trigger woven into the folds of an elaborate basket hilt, so detailed and intricate, it provided the perfect camouflage.

“Bet it cost you,” I said. “Mind if I get a closer look?” Malaq extended the weapon. As the tip nearly touched my left eye, I fought against moving. “Do you know how to use it?”

He chuckled as he lowered the blade to my neck. “I am an expert swordsman.”

“Just because you carry a sword, Langorian, doesn’t make you an expert.”

“Then I suppose I should give you a demonstration.”

“Anytime,” I told him.

With that, Malaq pulled the trigger. He activated the hidden blade and it popped out so fast, by the time I dropped to the floor and looked up, steel was already penetrating the dark flesh of Lareth’s throat. Just as quick, Malaq retracted the weapon. Grasping the hilt in both hands, with a furious swing, he slashed the main blade across Lareth’s stomach, splitting the Arullan near in half and sending out a sweeping burst of blood to shower the air. Bits fell
like hail. The corpse hit the dirt floor beside me and a warm, wet cloud rose up, covering me in enough dust and gore to change my skin tone.

“What the hell?” I coughed out. I gave Malaq a hostile glare. “How about a little warning the next time you’re about to drop a body on top of me?”

“You’re welcome.” Already cleaning off his blade, he gave me a distracted, cursory glance. “I suppose you are a little gruesome. But it’s nothing a bath won’t cure.”

Using a sleeve to wipe my face, I got to my feet. “All right. Let’s do it.”

“Do what?” His tone said I confused him. The matching expression wasn’t on his face though (nothing was), so I couldn’t tell if it was real or not.

“You really didn’t come here to fight me?”

“Why would I do that? I just went to a lot of trouble to save your life.”

I grunted. “I don’t have time to pull the truth out of you, Langorian, so do us both a favor and go. Take the stairs. Last room on your right has an exit to the roof. There’s a hay cart that comes through most nights about this time. It’ll cushion your jump.”

Still tending his blade, Malaq’s eyebrow lifted again. “While I’d love to hear the no doubt, nefarious, story as to how you know all that,” he glanced up and smiled thinly at me, “the front door is really more my style.”

“Go right ahead.” I motioned to the exit. Danyon’s mob looked considerably less organized, but they were still blocking it. “Maybe they’ll step aside if you ask nicely.” When Malaq didn’t reply, or make like he was leaving. I got blunt. “Having a Langorian at my back in a fight doesn’t sit well,” I told him.

“I see.” He gave no outward indication of disapproval, but I could feel it. “Well, if you’re planning on using that,” his eyes wandered to the obsidian, “you might want to reconsider. Things could get out of control fast.”

Suspicion sent my hand to the shard. “You know what this is? Where it comes from?” I didn’t wait for his answer. “Who the hell are you?”

“Kael’s new Peace Envoy.” Malaq slid his sword away. He discarded another bloody rag on another body. “Newly appointed by King Sarin not a week past.”

“An ambassador,” I said, not overly surprised. “So that’s what you were doing when you killed Danyon? Promoting peace?”

“I was trying to keep you in one piece. Not that you seem to appreciate it.” Almost imperceptibly, Malaq’s eyes tightened. He turned toward the
closest window and peered out at the night. He seemed distracted. “You hear that?”

I listened a moment. The wind was picking up. “It’s just a storm.” But in the time it took for me to say that, the breeze outside had evolved into persistent, long, violent gusts. Increasingly intense, they roared over the building. Shutters started clattering. They banged open and clouds of debris smacked against the closed windows. Cracks formed in the panes, crawling like web across the glass.

The entire building rumbled and shook. The wood bowed. The door quivered on its hinges and flung open just as every window in the place exploded inward. Glass flew, and the raging gale rushed unfettered into the Wounded Owl. It swept the tavern with such force that anything lacking weight immediately went airborne. Shelves were cleaned of their contents and ripped off the walls. Chairs and tables were whisked across the floor. Dust swirled up from the ground and everyone that wasn’t already hiding took cover.

I fought to stand against the onslaught, to keep track of where my enemies were scurrying off to, but one by one, the candles were going out. Then the fire in the hearth went cold and the room sunk into blackness.

The door slammed shut and I jumped. All at once the wind disappeared, the walls stopped quaking, and the wood stopped groaning. Everything that was being tossed fell with a crash and the only sound remaining was the whispered murmurings of fear.

“Troy…” Malaq said cautiously. I turned toward his voice, squinting into the gloom, and a glow flared up between us. It took form and became a small sphere of yellow light.

Suspended in mid-air, about the size of a wagon wheel, the sphere was hot and hard to look at, but it wasn’t anything close to fire. It wasn’t solid either. The edges were running, dripping light like a candle drips wax.

Malaq came around the object to stand next to me. “Tell me this is you.”

“Wish I could.” I stepped toward the glowing ball. “This is something elemental. Something I’ve never seen before. Something I definitely can’t do.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Elemental magic usually is. But influencing nature like this can have massive consequences. It’s not even supposed to be done without a King’s permission.”

“I’m betting Sarin didn’t order a small sun to be delivered to the Wounded Owl.”

I grunted at his jest and we watched the undulating rays in silence as they swelled and brightened, expanded and intensified. Fiery waves rippled out from the core.

They rushed over us and Malaq gasped in surprise. “There’s no heat.”

The blinding surge left no one untouched. Once every shadow was chased from every corner of the room, the billowing light passed through the walls and vanished, leaving an abrupt lack of brightness that played with my eyes.

Rubbing them, I heard the fire in the hearth crackle back to life, then movement and voices. By the time I stopped seeing spots, the noise had devolved into shouts of alarm. Then thumping sounds that I knew all too well were people falling to the floor. One of them was Malaq. He was wheezing and grabbing his throat. So were a lot of other people.

It wasn’t affecting me as severely, but I could feel it. The air in the tavern was thinning. It was getting hot—real hot, real fast.

“Hang on,” I told him, “I’ll get us out of here.” But I wasn’t sure how. The broken windows were too small to fit through and the door had been magically fastened shut so tight it was glowing. So were the walls and the empty space in front of the stairwell. We were trapped.

I was locked in a room full of so much power I was choking on it. We all were. And we were dying.

TEN

D
own on one knee, ripping at the neckline of my linen shirt, I scanned the room. My thought was that after such a glitzy performance, the caster would be vain enough to stick around and admire his work. But my reasoning was flawed, or just plain wrong, because no one was left standing.

Then a voice penetrated the haze in my head.
“You will not find me with your eyes
.” It was unfamiliar, soft and overtly feminine, and I was shocked. After what happened with Taren Roe, I expected my Shinree enemy to be a man.
“We are not enemies,”
she assured me.
“This spell was not meant for you.
”

Her words were gentle, her voice soothing and breathy. I would have enjoyed the sound if I weren’t suffocating. “Air,” I gasped.

“You are angry.”

“Air…?”

“Of course.”

A second later my lungs filled, so harsh and abrupt it knocked me to the floor. “
Better?”
she asked.

“No,” I croaked out.

Through the spell I felt her bristle.
“You’re injured. Let me heal you.”
She didn’t wait for my consent. Before I could get a word out, a soft blanket of healing magic rippled across my skin, heavy and warm like wool. It was calming. I could feel it lulling me to sleep. I could hear her voice willing me to close my eyes, telling me that the pain would be gone when I woke.

But when I woke, Malaq and everyone else would be dead.

“Stop,” I said, fighting the grogginess. “Him first.” I tossed my aching head toward Malaq.

“He’s Langorian.”

“I know what he is. And I want him alive. I want them all alive.”

“You would save those that try to kill you?”