The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (17 page)

I glared at him. “I feel like a trussed cow. A half-slaughtered, trussed cow.”

“You kind of look like one.” More serious, he said, “Can you do this?”

I’m going to lose the arm
.

“Ian?” he said. “Can you ride?”

“Just get me to my horse.” Jarryd brought Kya around and helped me to my feet. Sweating and wincing with every move, a bout of dizziness hit me and I fell against her. “Looks like I owe Sarin some grass,” I said, but my attempt at a jest only made Jarryd tense. “What is it?”

“I met Malaq on the road. He was coming to find you.” His eyes darted away, then back to mine. “King Sarin is dead.”

A new ache started in my chest. “Eldring?”

“Langorians.”

“Damn it,” I hissed. “Goddamn it. Goddamn, fucking Langorians!”

“Easy…”

“No—that’s twice now, Jarryd.
Twice
I’ve been pulled away from the real target. First Kabri. And now here.”

Like it was obvious, Jarryd said, “You scare him.”

“Who? Draken’s magic user? The man who just grew eldring out of dirt?” I grunted in angry disagreement. “I’m pretty sure that makes
him
the scary one.”

“He kept you here, Ian. He kept you back from the real fight because he knows you’re the only one capable of stopping him.”

Gripping the saddle with my good arm, I looked at him. “And just how am I supposed to do that?”

Jarryd’s face fell. “I don’t know.”

“Well, neither do I.” Rage sending strength flowing into limbs that a moment before had none, I sunk a boot in the stirrup and hauled myself up onto Kya’s back. “And I’m getting damn tired of that.”

FIFTEEN

I
’m not squeamish or easily shaken, but there were things in my life that I hoped to never see again: the inside of a stinking Langorian prison, trees filled with the swinging bodies of dead children, plains of desiccated bodies, piles of severed heads.

Now, I had something new to add to the list; the desecration of a King’s hall.

The amount of blood smeared on the floor, the walls, and the furnishings, was repulsive. There wasn’t a single body that hadn’t been mutilated in some fashion, most beyond recognition. Burned, dark cloth and flesh curled away from the edges of jagged wounds and lopped-off, scattered parts. Sagging entrails had been seared an ashy black. Splintered leg bones protruded from the ends of charred torsos.

It was common practice for the Langorians; smashing their victim’s legs so they couldn’t get away. Then, the real pain began.

Jarryd, thankfully, had been spared such a brutal end during the attack on Kabri. But here, Draken’s men had shown no clemency and no prejudice. All had been cut down; nobleman, guard, advisor, servant, cook and courtier.
Even a King,
I thought, as my eyes drifted to the back of the room where heavy trails of red made veins across the white marble stairs leading up to the dais. On it, Sarin’s blood-splattered chair sat empty. I couldn’t see his body. A group of mourners were blocking it from view. But imagining how it looked drained my wrath-fueled burst of energy right out of me.

“Over here!” Jarryd called. Pushing through the crowd, he rushed up to me with a weathered, grizzly-haired Kaelishman in tow. Wearing a heavy mustached-scowl, the man, whose brown robe was covered in ugly, dark stains, surveyed me in outright disapproval. He grumbled something that sounded like, “despicable.” Then he took hold of the sling and ripped it off over my head.

“What the hell…?” I staggered against the wall.

“He’s a physician,” Jarryd said, pulling me off it. “And the lord he was treating wasn’t too happy with me. So let the man do his job before someone comes to reclaim him.”

It didn’t seem like I had a choice. Without asking, the Kaelishman started undoing the bandages on my arm with far less care than Jarryd used to put them on.

“Gods, man,” I griped, flinching. “Can you do this later?”

He dropped the bloody cloth on the floor. “Later you’ll be dead.” Reaching behind him, he grabbed the collar of a fluffy-haired boy, and pulled him closer.

“Liel?” I said, recognizing him.

“My Lord,” the page replied shakily. With a leather bag slung over one shoulder, and a pitcher of water in his hand, he gave me a remorseful, uncertain smile.

“Hold him,” the physician said to Jarryd. Then to Liel: “Ready?”

The boy nodded and I understood what they were about to do.

“No.” I shook my head at the old man. “Not now.” I looked at Jarryd. “Not here.” I turned to the boy. “Liel—stop.”

No one listened.

The physician took hold of my injured arm. Jarryd took the other. Liel poured the pitcher of water over my wounds and as the cold stream hit the exposed meat of my arm, I went down.

Choking on the cry in my throat, I tried not to throw up.

Jarryd sat next to me. “I’m sorry, Ian. It couldn’t wait.”

It would have taken strength to answer. Since I had none, I leaned against him and trembled; watching the colors of the room fade in and out.

“Here, My Lord.” Liel pressed a steaming cup in my hand. “This will help.” He leaned down over me and his face disappeared under his hair. “I hear the physician’s brews are quite potent.”

Jarryd steadied my grip and I sipped at the steaming, sour liquid. After a few swallows, everything went numb and tingly.

I glanced up to thank Liel, but he was gone. The crabby physician was gone too, as well as what was left of my tattered shirt and coat. My arm and shoulder were re-bandaged, (more wrappings were about my bare chest) and I was sitting on the floor, slouched against an overturned table. At the door, a row of soldiers were standing guard. Servants with ashen faces were scooping up remains and loading them into wooden carts.

Frowning, I wiped at my blurry eyes. “I was out?”

“For a bit,” Jarryd said, still beside me. “How do you feel?”

“I’m not sure.” The empty cup was on the floor between us. My entire body ached, except my bandaged arm. So little sensation was coming from the limb, I had to look to be sure it was still there. “Did he say anything, the physician?”

“He said to get you to his chamber as soon as you came to. Before you bleed to death, were his actual words,” Jarryd added grimly. “So we should probably go now.”

“Ian!” Dodging the maze of people, Malaq hurried over. In his right hand was Natalia, still wearing the evidence of her recent work. “I saw him,” he said. Raising an arm, Malaq wiped the blood spray off his face. “Draken’s Shinree was here.”

I perked up. “Did you get a look at him?”

Malaq shook his head.

“I don’t get it,” Jarryd admitted. “Sentries are posted along the road. Guards all over the courtyard and the castle. There is no way Draken could have gotten into the city, let alone this room, without someone sounding an alarm.”

“Unless his Shinree is a door-maker,” I said.

“A door-maker?” Jarryd echoed.

“A Shinree that makes doors.” At the annoyed look on his face I went on. “You step through in one place and come out somewhere else.”

“That could explain why there’s no evidence of them breeching the outer wall or infiltrating the castle,” Malaq said. “They were just here.” Putting his sword away, he looked out at the chaos of overturned tables and strewn bodies. Then he looked at me as if I should have seen this coming.

“It’s very rare,” I said in defense. “A Shinree that can open doors hasn’t been born in hundreds of years. But, that’s what I thought about the erudite.”

Pointedly, Malaq asked me, “So is he an erudite then, or a door-maker?”

“Erudite are door-makers. And elementals, and soldiers, and oracles…you know the list. If he’s an erudite, then he’s all Shinree rolled into one.” Groaning, I crawled up the wall and stood. “And with the Crown of Stones, his only real limit is what he can handle before he passes out. Once he does…” I swayed. Shadows grew where they didn’t belong.

“Whoa,” Jarryd said, steadying me.

“I’m okay.” I forced Malaq’s face into focus. “Certain spells suck more energy from us than others. No matter who this man is, he can only last so long.”

“That goes for you too,” Malaq said. His gray eyes tightened slightly. “We need to get you a real healer, Troy. A Shinree.”

“Later.”

Malaq crossed his arms. “Later you could be dead.”

“I wish everyone would stop saying that.”

“Have you looked at yourself? I would say you’re pale as death, but you have,” Malaq squinted, “I don’t even know what that is all over you. It certainly isn’t human. But it is colorful.”

“I know,” I said. “But first, you need to listen. Draken’s magic user is exposed. He has no
nef’taali
,” I said, reverting to Shinree. “After opening the door, resurrecting the eldring, controlling them, casting through one, and burning these people—some of these wounds are definitely made by magic. He’ll be empty. If we can find him—”

“Gods, man, slow down,” Malaq said forcefully. “You’re not making sense.”

I started over. “In the early days of the Shinree Empire there were entire armies of magic users like me. But casting battle spells, casting anything that relies on negative energy and emotion like what I do—like was done here—takes a higher toll than other types of magic. You cast too many times in a row and you’re unconscious. The bigger the spells, the faster you go out. To keep the soldiers safe while they were down, each one was bound to another for protection. They were called
nef’taali
.”

“Bound how?” Malaq asked.

“Not like you think. Not physically. The soldiers were linked together by magic. It made them closer than brothers, more loyal than liegemen. One would cast and the other would protect him while he was weak. The Shinree who is responsible for this has no one to protect him. He’s vulnerable. Now.”

Malaq’s eyes lit up as he caught on. “You think he’s still here.”

“I think it’s
possible
. Did you see him leave?”

“No. I came to get you. When I got back, Draken’s forces were gone. I checked the roads going in and out of the city, but there was no sign of them.”

“If he was smart, he reserved enough strength to make a door out. But if he wore himself down too much, there’s a chance he could be close by.”

“I’ll take it,” Malaq said. “How do I find him?”

“I don’t have it in me right now to cast anything that would help. You’ll have to do it the hard way. Look for Shinree that won’t wake up. Look for Langorians trying to blend in. Draken might have left some behind to look after his pet.”

“It’s a big city, Ian. And with Sarin dead I’ll have to go to Guidon. He won’t give me men for this.”

“Then don’t ask. Trust me,
Nef’areen
, they’ll follow you. And if you find the man, kill him while he sleeps and bring me the crown.”

Malaq gave me a nod. Before he left, he pulled Jarryd aside. While they spoke in muted tones about the best way to prevent my, apparent, imminent demise, I walked away. I heard Jarryd holler after me in protest, but I kept going, heading into the back half of the cavernous room where rows of massive, obsidian pillars outlined a path all the way to the dais at the end.

It was a long, arduous walk. The warm stuffy air and the scent of carnage was not a good combination. It wasn’t long before I had to stop and catch my breath.

Propping myself up against one of the tall, round spires, the stone felt good against my skin. It was smooth and cold, polished as perfectly as Malaq’s boots. But it didn’t help the buzzing in my ears.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it.

The low whirring continued, building to a steady, deep, thrumming.

It grew louder. The voices in the room faded into vague murmurs.

Leaning against the column, floating in the droning pulse, it occurred to me that I felt better. I also realized that the vibrating hum wasn’t coming
from my aching head. It was stemming from the stone that was supporting me. Every part of my body that was touching it was pulsing.

Alarmed, I pushed off the black stone. I turned around, faced it, and there was so much magical energy wafting off the column—off all the columns—that the air shimmered visibly like heat on a hot summer day.

That’s different
. Never before had I seen a stone’s aura when I wasn’t touching it.
Delirium?
I wondered hopefully.
A trick of the light
?

I would have accepted either as an explanation, if the pillars were made of any other substance. But obsidian and I had a history.

It was a principal stone for any magic user. But being known for its dark, violent nature, the soldiers of the old empire relied heavily on obsidian for casting. It was also an integral part of the Crown of Stones. The day I ended the war with Langor, I drew in and utilized so much of the black energy that it bled down from where the artifact rested on my head. Its aura leached into my scalp and hair, and it marked me.

I’d always dismissed the obsidian stains as waste, a leftover of power that had nowhere else to go. Even recently, becoming aware of the shard’s connection to the crown, I still didn’t understand it. Now, experiencing such an intense, intimate exchange with the same type of stone, I could feel the truth.

The Crown’s power sunk into me that day and it never left.

The black strands aren’t scars…they’re open wounds.

And they were bleeding magic.

I looked around at the pillars. It wasn’t their energy reaching out to me. It was mine, reaching out to them.

The obsidian’s aura is still in me. It’s been in me all this time.

It was a disturbingly seductive notion, that such a tempest could accumulate and exist inside me, and I wouldn’t even know. It made me wonder. If I were to touch the dark streaks in my hair, would I feel magic there? Would it be icy-hot and staggering, like touching a vein of raw obsidian? And why would a stone here in Kael, a thing that I had passed by countless times before, suddenly awaken it?

Boldly, I reached out. I put my hand on the glossy surface of the pillar and right away, magic jumped against my skin. I welcomed it this time. I let it in, and as I did, another source emerged. It welled up from a place
I couldn’t name, somewhere deeper—and suddenly so much obsidian was flowing through me that I could scarcely see.