“You said I could choose. I choose Elayna Arcana.”
“To marry?” Draken let out a snort. “You want to marry a prisoner?”
“She has royal blood. Her father was a Rellan King. Her mother, Aylagar, was an Arullan princess—royalty in her own right before marriage made her Rella’s Queen.”
“Thank you,” Draken replied. “I am well aware of the lineage.”
“Think of it,” Malaq said persuasively. “What better way to pacify the Rellans than to release Elayna and put her in a position of prominence. It could also go a long way towards winning the Arullans over to your side.”
“I have the Arullans on my side.”
“Not all of them. Many are still loyal to Aylagar’s memory, and therefore to Rella. But a compassionate act such as this could sway their opinion.” Malaq let Neela go and approached Draken. “I see few downsides to this match, Your Grace.”
“Other than the fact that she’s penniless?”
Malaq squared his jaw. “I’m not.”
“Marriage will take care of that.” Draken considered Malaq’s proposal a moment more. “You may marry Elayna. But I’ll need something in return.”
“I’ll get you your ships.”
“You will get me my ships or I will have your stepfather’s head. What I want,” Draken said decisively, “is your son.”
“My what?” Malaq blinked.
“Since my wife has failed to provide me with my own, her sister’s get will do. Elayna’s first born will be fostered here, by me. The boy will learn how to be a proper Langorian. Something you should have been taught a long time ago, Brother.”
Pale, Malaq bowed low. “Yes, My King.”
“Keep in mind, the Duchess might be yours as well if her dowry is as fat as she claims. Then you can pay for rebuilding Rella. That is if your half Rellan loins are enough to satisfy two wives.” Draken flung his cup in the hearth and walked out.
Malaq turned to Neela. “It was all I could think of.”
“Thank you,” she breathed. “But I fear he won’t keep his word.”
“I’ll convince him to let us marry now. The Rellans don’t need a lavish affair. They need to know their Princess is alive and see her home.”
Nodding, Neela swallowed, composing herself. “I’m sorry about Ian.”
“Don’t be.” Malaq stepped back. Finishing his wine, he sat the cup down on Draken’s desk. “That man murdered countless of my people. Not to mention, he tried to kill my brother on more than one occasion.”
His callous tone startled her. “I thought he was your friend.”
“Don’t mistake an alliance of convenience for friendship, Neela.” Malaq held his arm out for her. “Ian Troy was an enemy of the realm, nothing more. I can only hope, wherever he is now, he’s getting exactly as he deserves.”
ONE
The darkness moved. Or I was moving. I couldn’t tell.
I wasn’t alone. Shapes existed in the dark with me. Their indistinct forms hovered in and out. Their voices, hollow and tinny, male and female, came and went.
The man said, “How long?”
“There’s no way to tell,” the woman replied. Her voice was soft and breathy. “He’s been tortured, drugged. His body is a mess. His mind is worse. It could be weeks before he’s lucid.”
“That won’t do,” the man fretted. “I need him casting as soon as possible. On his feet sooner. Is there a way to speed this up? A spell or something?”
I’m here, I thought, trying to speak, to move, to do anything to draw their attention—anything to chase away the dark.
“Unfortunately, no” she said. “The Kayn’l drug in his blood is designed to negate magic. My spells can’t purge it. Ian must do that on his own, in his own time.”
“He always was a stubborn bastard.”
“He will be as he is now for many days; in and out of consciousness, sick and delirious. When he wakes, he will be disoriented, confused. Paranoid. Hostile.”
“So…really no different than before?”
The woman didn’t seem to appreciate his humor. “You may be aware of how this works, but have you ever been this close to it before? This involved?”
“I can handle it.”
“Ian won’t know you when he comes to. He won’t trust you.”
“Ian never trusted me.”
“He will need to be tied. He could be violent in the beginning. Make sure he is well secured.”
“I assure you, woman. I can tie a knot. Is there anything else we can do for him?”
Light. Please… I can’t see.
“Food and water,” she suggested, “if he’ll take it. Treatment of his injuries will have to be done by non-magical means. There are elixirs that will temporarily suspend the effects of Kayn’l, but I advise against clouding his body with anything for now.”
“Understood. I’m grateful for whatever you can do.”
“Me?” Desperation thinned her voice. “No, I did my part. I’m done. I can’t be here anymore.” Fear gripped her now, like she was trapped—like the walls were closing in. “Besides, you have another who can heal.”
“Kit is competent, yes. But she’s young. And she isn’t you.”
“And he isn’t the first of my kind to endure this. Kayn’l has been used to subdue Shinree for hundreds of years. He’ll make it through. We all do.”
“But this is Ian we’re talking about. You know how important he is.”
“Important to you?” she said in challenge. “Or to your plans?”
The man fell quiet a moment. “I need you here.”
“I’m sorry,” was all she said.
“Damn it, Sienn, I rescued you, so you could help me rescue him.”
“Which I have done. But as the drug fades from his body and Ian’s memories begin to return, certain things—sounds, smells, people—may act as triggers. His recollections will be random and intense. The experience will be difficult enough without my face being the first he sees.”
“Sienn,” he said gently, and the darkness suddenly broke. A haze around everything, I saw him; tall, with cropped, black hair and a small beard. There was clear nobility in his face. There was pain in his voice. “The things that happened to the two of you in prison…”
Turning away from his sympathy, the woman looked down at me. Solemn and spent, with colorless hair and matching eyes, she didn’t react at all to the fact that I was looking back at her. “I thought there was no injury I couldn’t heal,” she said sadly, “no wound that couldn’t be mended.”
“You need time.”
“As will he. Which is why I can’t be here.”
“Then go.” Bending to avoid the low ceiling, the wood floor creaked as the man moved closer. “Just understand one thing. Our resistance may be growing, but Draken’s army grows faster. We need the Crown of Stones. And for that, we need Ian Troy. So, I’m not asking you to forget, or to forgive. I know what happened, Sienn. I saw. I get that it changed you. None of us are the same as we were before. The gods know, Ian warned me of that happening often enough.” The man looked at me, a prolonged, troubled glance. “All I’m asking is that you’re able to work with him. That you keep it together long enough to help us throw my fucking brother off his throne.”
She nodded. “And Ian’s father?”
“Even if I could find Jem Reth, I can’t touch him. That’s for Ian to deal with. Or you, assuming your previous sentiments of keeping the bastard alive are gone?”
“They are. But I have duties at the camp.” The woman stood from her chair. She tilted. We both did. I could feel myself moving.
Not me, I thought, the room.
My stomach heaved. The darkness rushed back and forth. It swayed, cradling me.
“You understand,” she said, her words growing quiet as she moved away. “Your men are constantly bringing in more refugees. Hiding us all takes a great deal of magic. Besides, I’m not a soldier. I think it’s best to leave the combat to one who is.”
>
I heard a door close. The bed sagged as the man sat down beside me. His breathing became fast and full of tension as he picked up a section of rope fastened to the bed. “She’s lying,” he said, winding the heavy twine around my wrist. “I was on the receiving end of Sienn’s spells once, my friend. And, soldier-trained or not, I know the kind of pain that woman is capable of inflicting.”
His voice hollowed out. I tried to grasp it.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” He looped the binding around again. “She’s capable, but not willing. Not anymore. Not since Jem Reth. After what that bastard did to her she has no spirit left. No fight.” He pulled the knot tight. I felt his gaze, burning through the black as it closed in. “There damn well better be some left in you.”
TWO
Snow fell on the prow of the ship. It settled on the dark surface of the water, melted and disappeared. It dotted my clothes and boots white. Coating my hair, the flakes lent a moist, silvery sheen to the long, unkempt strands—though the change in color went unnoticed there. With the exception of a few curious streaks of black, my hair was already, inexplicably, white as snow.
There were other, unsettling oddities about me as well. Like strange, colored markings on my back, my left shoulder and arm, and intricate scars on the palm of my hand. The scars meant something. They were too carefully done not to. But as I pushed up the torn sleeve of my shirt to stare at them, I didn’t have the slightest idea what.
I stared a while longer, working to come up with an answer, as the boat shifted in the turbulent grip of storm-tossed waves. I watched the flakes gather in my hand. I watched them pile on top of each other, filling up the grooves. When the scars were buried, I shook my hand and dislodged the snow. The skin underneath was red. Common sense told me it was wet and cold, but I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel the wind, though I heard it. I saw it tossing the lanterns on deck, pulling at the sails; making them flap like a thousand birds overhead. It whipped my hair mercilessly. And if I turned my head just right, the force took my breath away.
All evidence indicated I was standing in the middle of a roaring blizzard. But for me there was no snow, no cold. No gusty air. No spray of water dampened my skin and clothes, no flutter jumped in my stomach as the ship heaved and rolled. I couldn’t feel any of it.
What I did feel was full of holes.
The deepest was a sinking sense of uneasiness lodged smack in the middle of my stomach like an open pit. It was born of the fact that I had no recollection of how I came to be on a tall ship in the middle of a vast body of water. I couldn’t recall where or who I was. Not even my own name. I had nothing but the same handful of chaotic thoughts, notions, and images that had bombarded me since I woke up a short time ago, alone in the hold of a strange ship. I’d tried to scrounge up more, to arrange the impressions into some order that made sense. Yet, for all I knew, the events took place yesterday, back to back, or maybe, even years apart.
I remembered being in prison. In the cold rocky terrain of a realm called Langor. What I did to land myself there, as well as the details of my confinement, were a mystery. Considering the number of nasty-looking cuts and abrasions on me, I was thinking that was for the best.
There were faces in my mind. Some invoked intense, fleeting emotions. Some brought nothing at all. There were things I knew. With startling clarity, I recalled the beauty of the sunset from Kabri’s western shore. I knew how to tell if a blade was well made by the feel of it in my hand. Without doubt, I’d loved a woman once. I could see her dark hair and skin all over me. The particulars of our relationship were a frustrating blur, but I was thinking that was probably for the best, too. The way her screams echoed in my head, there was a good chance she was dead.
Never, until now, had I traveled the open sea. Of that much I was sure. Though I had no grasp of why I was here, or where I was going. I’d tried to force the answers. In those first few terrifying moments of consciousness I’d struggled for something familiar in myself and my surroundings. For some semblance of what I was doing here. But my mind had been too muddy to think and my body too weak to move. Just dragging my ass out of bed had been a chore. Limbs uncooperative, hair greasy and tangled, clothes sweatstained and tattered; it hadn’t taken long to figure out I’d been ill. With such severe disorientation, I’d thought infection from one of my many wounds seemed likely. Evidently, though, I was getting better. Otherwise, the restraining ropes I’d found tied to the bed would have been tied around me.
I did explore the hold before I left, but my search failed to turn up much of interest. Someone had left a candle on the table beside the bed, as well as a bowl of water, a damp rag, and an empty, metal cup. A blanket had been thrown over the back of the chair next to the table. An old leather-bound book was left on the seat. From the looks of things, its reader was either my caretaker or my guard.
Once my legs worked, I’d spent some time rummaging through the crates stacked against one wall. I’d managed to find boots and a change of clothes. The gray trousers were ill-fitting and something had nibbled holes in the red tunic, weakening the material so it ripped further when I put it on. Still, my borrowed garments were cleaner than the rags I’d been wearing.
After changing, I’d poured the entire bowl of water over my head in an attempt to shock my mind into working. But when the water touched me it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t anything. That’s when I knew: I wasn’t coming down off a fever. My physical senses weren’t functioning any better than my mental ones.
I’d panicked over that for about two seconds. Then the first wave of memories hit.
In the blink of an eye they’d welled up and pulled me down. Sleeping senses and nerves awoke with a roar, and it was like I was there; inside the memories, living the moments again. Everything was vibrant and exaggerated. The shouts and cries of a thousand men rang in my ears. My arms ached as I clashed swords with an enemy twice my size. A breath later, I huddled in the dark, cold and alone. The weight of chains bore into my wrists. A phantom taste of something foul touched my tongue. I smelled the blood and filth, and knew it was my own.
Then I was riding on a horse. A younger man rode next to me with a bow slung over his shoulder. He faded, and a tall woman with hair whiter than mine was kissing me. Her body was wet and naked in one glimpse. Dirty and riddled with bruises the next. She looked at me with equal parts anger, fear, and pity. And I didn’t care.
As abruptly as it all came, it cut out again; the memories, and my senses. But the experience had been a spark, allowing me to comprehend things I hadn’t before. Foremost: my sickness wasn’t accidental. I’d been drugged. In prison they’d given me an elixir that dulled my senses and emotions, introducing a state of muddled compliance. In sustained, large doses, it was used to wipe out memory and free will. It made prisoners submissive and agreeable. It was the perfect slave-maker.
I was off the drug now. Why, or for how long, I was unsure. But I was becoming aware of the world (and of myself) again and digesting the jumbled, sped-up chunks of my past wasn’t pleasant. The random sentiments that popped up and disappeared as they pleased were disorienting. But at least they were fleeting. The pronounced, restless anxiety growing in me was constant. It lurked deep, like an unreachable itch. It was an unrelenting gut feeling that said there was somewhere I had to be. Something I had to do. An important thing was missing, and it was my fault. It was my responsibility.
I had to get it back.
That vague, overwhelming urge was what finally forced me out of the hold and into the bowels of the ship, in search of a way off. Now that I’d reached the deck unscathed, it wasn’t the solution I’d expected. It wasn’t any solution at all. The view, or lack of it, was a sobering sight that showed me just how fucked I really was.
Nevertheless, it was beautiful. The swells of vibrant, blue-black water, slapping against the hull went on forever. The shimmery veil of night and snow fell like a curtain around the ship. There was no indication of land. Hurrying clouds had bared the moon
once or twice, but only to show more water in all directions before the dark billows rushed back to reclaim the light.
All around me was open. Like an animal set loose from captivity, I wanted nothing more than to run. But my situation wouldn’t allow it. Getting a skiff lowered down over the side, without being noticed by even what I’d come to realize was a small crew, wouldn’t be easy. Striking out over open sea with no food or water, no concept of position or direction, no concept of anything, was outright suicide.
Whoever I was, I couldn’t be that stupid.
To have even a hope of surviving, I needed provisions, a map, and a way to track my course. Even then, I wouldn’t lay any odds. Not when my current knowledge of sailing vessels could fit on the tip of my finger.
I had some hope though, as I peered through the snow at the square-shaped structure in the middle of the ship. If it was the captain’s quarters, as I suspected, inside would be maps and a compass, maybe a coat. A weapon if I was lucky.
I eyed the door. Instinct told me to hold off. I tried to listen. I crouched among a group of snow covered barrels and waited to see if a sentry was on watch.
It took less than a minute to know waiting wasn’t on my list of favorite things. I was pretty confident I didn’t like eerie silences either, as the longer the quiet stretched, the more it unnerved me. Swiftly, uneasiness became panic, then dread.
With each scrape of the swinging lantern and flap of the sail, the calm ate at me.
It ate until I was hollow. Until that same nagging notion (the one I had just started to ignore) crept back. It was a noiseless, internal clamor. An urge that gouged into what was left of me, chiseling pieces off, scooping them out even as it reminded me that I’d lost the very thing that once filled the hole.
Something was missing. It’s more than that, I realized.
It’s someone.
He was out there, past the night and the snow. He was in trouble. He was suffering and it was my fault. Or was it? I had no memories to match my guilt. No face or name to prompt such urgency. All I had was intuition ringing like a claxon in my head telling me to go, to find him.
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars Page 2
