The Hollow Crown: A Novel of Crosspointe

by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  That rocked Peers. The other man’s face went blank and then hardened. His meaty hands clenched. “Working with them? What do you mean?”

  “He’s in the Dhucala’s pocket. There’s no doubt. The only question is how far has it gone?” He paused, then said slowly, “There are Jutras here on Crosspointe. That’s where I must go. To hunt them down. I need you to take the news to Ryland and take the regent with you. Ryland will get answers from him. I’m afraid the Jutras have spelled him so that if he’s questioned, he’ll die before we can get the answers we need.” Nicholas itched to demand answers now, but the Jutras wouldn’t have trusted Geoffrey to not get caught. They would have made it impossible for him to spill his secrets if he was questioned. If Ryland still had sane majicars at his disposal, they might be able to dismantle the Jutras spell. Ellyn couldn’t. She wasn’t powerful enough. It had taken all she had just to remove Nicholas’s disguise. Maybe Keros—But that wasn’t an option either.

  Peers thrust abruptly to his feet and strode to the door, yanking it open. He drew several heavy breaths as he stared out into the night. Finally he turned. His expression was bleak. “I’ll take your message. And the goat-cracking regent. I’ll head out at first light.”

  “And Carston?”

  “Aggie won’t let any harm come to him. Leave the girl too. She’ll look after them both until you get back.”

  “Thank you. Do you have parchment and ink? I’ll write a letter to Ryland.”

  It was nearly half a glass later before Nicholas finished. He sealed the missive, enclosing the letter to the regent describing the state of affairs in Sylmont. Not that Prince Ryland wouldn’t already be well aware of what was happening. He stood. “I had better turn in now.” He stretched out a hand. “Thank you.”

  Peers’s hand was hard and calloused. “These Jutras you’re hunting—can you stop them by yourself?”

  “I won’t be alone. We’ll stop them. One way or another.” Nicholas hoped his words weren’t mere bravado.

  Chapter 18

  The pain of the march was unceasing. Margaret had wept so many tears she was dry. The Jutras fed her and she fought to keep the food down, despite her constant nausea. Even when her captors allowed her to rest, there was little relief. Lying still quieted the pain, but did not end it. She burned with fever. Her flesh felt parched and her joints were knots of fire. But despite the agony, her mind remained clear.

  She was propped against the trunk of an aspen tree watching Saradapul and Atreya perform a ritual. It was a kind of dance, done silently. Their movements were at first jerky and crude, then switched to something fluid and smooth. They moved opposite one another in an invisible ring, each mirroring the other. Their bare feet slapped out a careful pattern in the leaf meal and mud. It was limned in a dull red glow. Each step brightened the light and revealed scrolling lines and jagged corners. Their pace sped up, sweat slicking their bare chests, their ribs heaving with the effort of the dance. Long black hair rippled with blue lights and yellow eyes flashed as if lit from within. Their faces were twisted with something like joy or pain—it was impossible to tell.

  Their legs stamped harder and faster and Margaret felt a swelling in the air. It pressed against her, feeling oily and hot. She recoiled, but it surrounded her, filling her nose and mouth, sliding down into her belly. She jerked, pulling her knees up to her chest. Pain streaked along her skin and burrowed into her flesh. Margaret kicked and struggled to get away, but it was relentless. Her pain flared hotter. She whimpered, drool running down her chin, her legs kicking feebly.

  It took all her control to hold herself still. She forced herself to breathe slowly and relax her clenched body. Suddenly she became aware that there was something near. She could hear a rough, heavy breath and the air rippled as if something was passing through it. Her skin prickled and she let go a sharp scream as something grabbed her—a mouth. Teeth gouged into her. Pain spiked but Margaret gritted her teeth against it and forced herself to remain limp. Pain only fed Jutras majick. The more she struggled, the worse it was and the more she helped them. She gasped as she was lifted into the air and the invisible creature shook her from side to side like a dog shakes a rabbit. Margaret whimpered in blinding agony and jerked into a ball. The creature shook her again, harder, and Margaret prayed to Chayos for oblivion. But the goddess did not answer and the Jutras spell refused her that kindness. Sleep she might have—but not unconsciousness.

  She was shaken twice more, then the creature dropped her like a rag doll and its attention wandered away. Margaret stared up at the green leaf canopy above, her chest heaving. Sobs crowded her throat but she didn’t let them go. She couldn’t remember not hurting. She was beginning to feel the edges of herself rubbing away beneath the assault. It was harder and harder to swim above the pain, to remember who she was and what was happening to her.

  She turned her head. The two Jutras wizards were finishing their ritual. Their dance had changed. They moved at one another now, like fighters in an elegant, deadly duel. They whipped around one another, faster and faster, kicking, chopping, flipping, and punching. Blood ran freely from the wounds they inflicted on each other. The spell rose up around them, the red lines of it winding and weaving through the air. Suddenly they stopped, both dropping to their knees and pressing their faces into the ground. The spell continued to twist above them, then slowly settled, sinking into the ground to disappear from sight.

  The two Jutras rose slowly. They touched their palms together and bowed, spreading their arms wide, palms still pressed together. They straightened, and each backed away. Saradapul came to stand beside Margaret. He ignored the blood that ran over his skin, mixing with sweat. His long hair clung to the wounds. He stirred up the fire and put some wood on it.

  “What did you do?” she whispered. Her throat was so tight and dry she could hardly get the words out.

  He looked at her in surprise, then squatted down beside her.

  “Some thing was here. What was it?” she pushed.

  “It was Forcan, the hound of Uniat. He will guide the gods along the path.”

  Margaret didn’t know she could feel more fear. She was wrong. Her stomach curled. “What path?”

  He ran a finger over the bridge of her nose to her lips and chin, then up over her cheek, tracing the bones of her brow. The sharp point of his talonlike nail scraped lightly over her skin. The spell wrapping her turned the delicate touch into pain. “The path to Crosspointe. They come. They return. Once, long ago, this land belonged to them, before the dark times, before the birth of younger gods. Uniat and Cresset were All. They will be again.”

  She blinked. What was he saying? That his gods—that his people—had lived in Crosspointe and the Freelands long ago? It wasn’t possible. She said so.

  He smiled his dimpled smile and once again she was struck by how remarkably handsome and friendly he appeared. Margaret shivered. He was evil. She must not forget that. She turned her rings on her fingers. She hadn’t tried to kill either of them yet. She wanted them both to be within reach so she could do it at once. It was the only way she’d be able to free herself. Atreya rarely came within arm’s reach and he seemed to always be watching her. Tangled as she was in the spell, she had to be sure she could poison him before he could stop her. As quick as he was, she knew she had to do it when his attention was elsewhere.

  Saradapul settled cross-legged beside her on the ground, pulling her upright to sit across from him. He pulled his hair back and tied it with a leather thong. Scars pebbled his chest and arms—each colored with skin inks. The tiny dotted knots formed a complex pattern of swirls and lines. Margaret was sure it meant something but had no idea what.

  “Shall you hear the story?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Many seasons ago, long before the dark time when the sea filled with night and stars, my people roamed these lands.” He gestured in a broad circle as if to indicate all the countries surrounding the Inland Sea. “We were few, then. Uniat and Cres
set held the balance of light and dark, warm and cold, life and death. They walked among us and we were grateful for their love and protection.

  “But then came the others. They rode astride great horned beasts with teeth like knives. They came in hordes and drove us from our lands and across the White Sea into the rising sun. But before they abandoned this place, Uniat and Cresset struck at their gods and cast them down. He of the winds and the storm, they cast into the sea and turned it black. They stole the light from she of the sky and stabbed her through the heart so that her blood fell into the sea. The green one they trapped on this island. This great battle destroyed the flesh of Uniat and Cresset so they could not walk among us anymore. Now we feed them with flesh and blood and pain to make them strong. Now we return to the lands of our ancestors so that we may destroy the usurper gods and Uniat and Cresset may walk among us again. Before we were weak; now we are strong. We will not fail.”

  Margaret could only stare. That Saradapul believed every word was evident. But—kill the gods? It wasn’t possible. A shiver ran down her spine. But what if it was? Did it even matter? The Jutras believed it was possible and they were willing to slaughter everyone in their path to make it happen. They weren’t just greedy, they were on a holy crusade, and that made them even more dangerous, as impossible as it was to imagine.

  “Who is Forcan?”

  He nodded as if appreciating her question. “He is Uniat’s hound. He was once one of the great horned beasts. He was ridden by the king of the death riders. Uniat took him and remade him in blood and pain. Now he leads the gods back to the land of their birthing. Where he comes, Uniat soon follows.” He stood suddenly, glancing at Atreya. The older Jutras was crouched a few feet away, listening.

  They exchanged words in Jutras and then Saradapul lifted Margaret up to her feet. “We must go. It is not far now.”

  What wasn’t far? Sylmont certainly. But they couldn’t be going there—could they? The Jutras offered no clues, silently picking up their packs and marching away with Margaret sandwiched between them. Atreya went ahead, holding a rope that was fastened around her neck. Knots were spaced every few inches around the collar. Her neck was ringed with bruises from his sharp tugs whenever she slowed too much.

  She marched, hardly aware of her surroundings. Surely Chayos and Braken and Meris must resist the attack of the Jutras gods? Surely they would rise up and fight? But their silence so far had been deafening. It was said Chayos was angry with her people—that was why the rains fell so heavily and crops wouldn’t grow. But perhaps it was more than that—had the Jutras gods already found a way to strike at her? And at Meris? Sylveth was her blood and majick wasn’t working properly . . . Margaret went cold as black fear clutched her in a bony grip. Was it already too late for Crosspointe?

  They climbed up and down ridges, splashing through marshy meadows and swift running creeks. Her feet were blistered and raw and her clothes were muddy and torn. Blood ran from scratches and welts on her hands and she’d torn away two fingernails when climbing the steep rocky hillsides.

  She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they’d taken her from Molford. She thought it might be just three days, but she couldn’t be sure. They rarely halted to rest, and only for a glass or two. Oddly enough, the pain began helping her to hold on to herself. It didn’t let her slide into hazy oblivion. Instead her mind slowly sharpened and now she kept her wits about her. They were nearly there, wherever it was they were going. When they got there, she was going to have to kill them.

  She swallowed, her body throbbing with endless pain. If she had the strength.

  It was past nightfall when they stopped again. Saradapul had given her some water and dried meat sometime in the afternoon, but it hardly sustained her. Even chewing and swallowing was excruciating.

  They’d spent what seemed like hours climbing ever upward and now emerged onto a mountain summit. The ground was blessedly flat.

  “Sit,” Saradapul told her.

  She slumped down onto a granite outcropping. She pulled the stillness around her like a balm. Slowly the pain abated to a more tolerable level. When it had, she glanced at her two companions. They stood fifty paces away where the slope fell away. Beyond them in the distance she could see the lights of the Pale. Which meant they weren’t far from Sylmont. She frowned and stood, tottering forward. Abruptly she halted, the bottom falling out of her stomach.

  They stood high in the Cat’s Paw Mountains above the city. It was still another day’s walk away at least. But from here it seemed like she could touch it. Except that swaths of it were eerily dark and the rest was sparsely lit. The harbor was usually swarming with firefly lanterns bobbing on the ships and now the broad expanse of Blackwater Bay was stygian. Acrid smoke drifted in the air above the city.

  “What happened?” Margaret whispered. Everything seemed unnaturally still.

  “The gods favor us,” was Atreya’s response.

  She looked at him. Now was her chance. She flicked her rings open and began to ease toward him. She jumped when Saradapul gripped her upper arm and pushed her back to the rock. She sat down, her body quivering with reawakened pain. She closed her rings, furious at herself. She should have been quicker.

  “Stay here.” He took her neck rope and tied it around a low-growing bush.

  The two Jutras strode away into the darkness. Margaret shivered and went to the bush to untie herself. The pain made her fingers clumsy and the knot was wet and tight. She couldn’t budge it. She kept at it, stopping to rest for a few minutes when her shaking hands refused to hold the rope. Before long traitorous exhaustion caught her in its net and she slid down onto the ground and fell asleep with her head on the rock seat.

  She wasn’t sure how much later she woke. It was not yet dawn. She sat up slowly, wincing as the pain came rushing back. She looked around for the Jutras wizards. They were performing another spell. It was their chant that had woken her. It seemed very similar to the previous one, only this time the spell didn’t rise up out of the ground. Their movements grew faster and more violent and their voices rose into shouts. Both were nearly naked, wearing loincloths and carrying their swords tucked in beaded strings around their waists. Their skins were oiled and their hair hung loose. The earlier wounds had healed, no doubt by majick, and now they inflicted new ones on each other.

  Suddenly they halted, both caught in grotesque poses that looked like they might be about to kill one another, or else make love. Slowly they eased backward and stepped out of the spell pattern. With ritual pacing, each picked up a slender pole about eight feet tall. They were identical, both lacquered red and tapering to a point at each end. They looked to be about six inches in diameter in the middle before they widened out.

  They didn’t seem heavy. Atreya and Saradapul hefted them easily, holding them at a diagonal, and began tracing a complex path back to the center of the spell. They rotated around the outside, then started inside. They began another chant. This one was low and guttural. It scraped at Margaret’s bones and made her shiver. The air filled with a waiting, like a lowering storm. Her heart thundered with primal fear. She should have tried harder to kill them. She shouldn’t have let them do whatever it was they were doing.

  Once again she felt the creature from before—Uniat’s hound, Forcan—as it shimmered into being. Margaret’s stomach clenched. Heat flowed over her like hot breath and something bumped hard against her. She yelped as pain bloomed again. She tried to scramble away, but it followed her. Forcan’s breath swept her again and she cringed against the ground, waiting for it to pick her up and shake her again. The grains dribbled past. Nothing happened. She sat up slowly and was knocked down again by what felt like a massive paw. She sprawled on her back, her head snapping against the rock.

  Her brain spun and her vision whirled. She lay still as Forcan snuffled around her. The hound shoved against her ribs, and then she heard it pad away. She let out a weak sigh, then bit down on her trembling lips. She wouldn’t let them see her
fear. She eased upright again.

  She saw a shimmer of motion at the edge of the spell pattern. Forcan circled—tall as a horse. As the creature paced around the circle, it grew more visible. She swallowed, her mouth dry. It had the loose bearing of a cat with a heavy head and no tail. It was the color of twilight. Its coat was purple, gray, and charcoal with brindles of dull orange, pink, and red. Its tongue was black and its eyes were tarnished gold. It watched as the priests erected the two poles in the center of the spell, leaving a pace between.

  The wizards’ chant swelled loudly and then dropped to a low musical murmur, then rose again, louder. The pattern repeated until they ended in a shouted crescendo that rang through the night air. By now the hound was fully visible. He panted, his black tongue lolling between his long, curved teeth. His gold gaze swept the mountaintop, and then he turned and disappeared. Margaret wasn’t sure if he simply vanished, or if he went down the mountain. Her stomach churned to think of that beast loose and hunting in Crosspointe.

  She didn’t have much time to think about it. A moment later Saradapul approached her. Even as she watched, the wounds of the ritual healed. Sweat beaded on his oiled skin and his eyes glowed with an unnatural light.

  He pulled her to her feet without a word and marched her to a nearby spring. It bubbled up in a shallow pool and ran down the mountain in a narrow rivulet. A copse of trees surrounded it.

  He yanked off her coat and tossed it to the ground, then began on her clothing.

  She shoved his hands away, gasping as claws of pain raked her skin. “What are you doing?”

  “You will stand before the gods pure.” Then he began again. When she fought him, he tied her neck rope to an overhanging limb, pulling it taut. When she could no longer move without strangling herself, he set about undressing her again. He was not gentle, tearing what gave him too much difficulty. Margaret flexed her fingers. He would take her rings and she’d be helpless.