“Ian,” Jarryd pleaded. “Do something!”
I couldn’t. I was done, empty. Neela was dead. So were Kit, Liel, and countless others. Lirih was missing. The camp was gone. It was happening.
The horrible events of my vision were happening now.
“Ian!” Jarryd hollered. “Goddamn it—listen to me!”
Snarling and full of rage, I turned on him. “WHAT?”
Jarryd flinched. He looked wrecked. I didn’t understand the anguish on his face.
Then I remembered what Neela had once meant to him. “Nef’taali…I’m sorry.”
“I know. Take this.” He tore down the wall between us, and a massive, abrupt burst of strength exploded through the link. Like the fierce swell of a stormy sea, heaving waves of vigor emptied out of Jarryd and roared into me; circulating through my limbs, extending rapidly. Creating a massive jolt of adrenaline that blew through my veins and snapped my mind into focus. My muscles, teeming with an overload of energy, were suddenly itching with an intense desire to act.
Jarryd was on his back, barely conscious. He’d given me nearly everything.
I wasn’t about to let it go to waste.
Sliding Neela’s body to the ground, I picked up my sword. Draken was nearly at the threshold of the door. There wasn’t time to reach him. So I ran. Lowering the sword back over my head, I employed Jarryd’s generous gift, and a good measure of my own.
I had one clear goal as I hurled the weapon: make him suffer.
A stream of colored auras flew with the hilt when it left my hand. They rolled down to merge with the steel as the shimmering blade cut through the air.
A breath before it reached him, Draken spun around. He watched my spelled sword drive into his chest with such force it lifted him off the ground. His body soared backwards into the swirling blackness. The black swallowed him. With a great hiss of escaping air the door shrunk in upon itself and closed.
FIFTY SIX
I couldn’t see or hear well, hiding as I was in the back of the catacombs in my hooded cloak. But I was fine with that. After a run of near constant conflict and turmoil, I didn’t mind blending into the background for a while. I certainly didn’t need to see the crypt or hear the droning of the Rellan priest to know Neela Arcana was dead. I should be too, I thought, considering my behavior after Draken disappeared through the door.
To say that Jarryd’s substantial donation of energy had left me hot for a fight was a huge understatement. Drunk with adrenaline, the glut of unused stamina coursing through my veins had left me outright manic. Fearless and full of rage, I’d been blindly intent on going after the crown. I would have done just that (and promptly bled to death), if Krillos hadn’t intervened; vowing that, if I let him tend my wounds, he’d find our horses and go with me to pry the crown from Draken’s dead hands. When that didn’t work, Krillos conked me on the head. I woke with fresh stitches across my back and him pulling a needle through my shoulder; in pain but much calmer and a lot groggier.
The next two days were equally foggy. Only three Shinree healers had survived the attack, including Sienn. A page was sent to find one in the city, but if any were left, they were in hiding. With such limited magical resources, the injured were assessed and treated in order of severity. Since my wounds were closed, I’d been put on the non-threatening list, which left me spending my first day in Kabri abed with Krillos and Jarryd popping in to play nursemaid. Things improved on day two when Jillyan came with a bottle of coura and locked them both out.
This morning, Sienn was sitting beside me when I woke. Thankfully, she’d suffered no head wound in the real attack, as she had in my vision. Still, with her puffy eyes, uncombed hair, and slumped shoulders, I’d nearly sent her away to rest. But I wanted to attend the funeral, and I needed to get rid of the spell on Malaq before he tried to kill me. So we’d settled on a compromise. Sienn agreed to handle Malaq and perform only a partial healing on me. Permanently closing my wounds, and purging the infection that was setting in, got me out of danger and on my feet. Leaving the remainder of the healing up to my own body saved Sienn a bit of strength. But my puckered skin was ugly and tender, making each step a painful reminder of what we’d lost.
As the priest burned his second pot of herbs, singing broke out. It was a soft, somber tune, punctuated by the occasional sob. The song was lengthy. While it continued, the mourners came together and formed a line that wound through the catacombs. In the last three years the people of Kabri had lost their homes and families, their city, a King and a Queen. They’d lost their entire realm. Yet here they were, laying down baskets of food and cloth, pitchers and trinkets; paying tribute to their fallen former ruler with the last of their belongings.
The procession continued. The funeral-goers filed past Neela’s wrapped body, stopping to curtsy and bow to their new sovereign rulers. Some continued to sing as they left, and as the room emptied out, a remnant of voices echoed back through the growing quiet they left behind.
Unsure if the Queen was aware of our presence, Jarryd and I remained in the shadows even after everyone was gone. As the priest departed, Elayna hugged the old man and offered him her thanks for his fine service. While Malaq walked him out, Elayna approached the crypt and knelt down. It was the first time I’d seen her clearly, and I was startled by the lack of family resemblance.
A full head taller than her sister, Elayna’s skin was considerably lighter as well; like the color of a newborn fawn. Her broad-tipped nose and large, deep-set, brown eyes gave her more of a mysterious air than a regal one. It was a notion enhanced by the seemingly permanent, enigmatic curve of her lips and the ash-brown waves of hair that embraced the sides of her face like a veil.
There was barely any of Aylagar’s exotic Arullan blood or Raynan Arcana’s Rellan heritage evident in their eldest daughter’s features. Neither were there any visible ramifications of growing up in prison. From the set of her shoulders to the line of her jaw; the woman exuded character and strength.
Elayna bowed her head a moment. Standing, she stared down at Neela one last time, then gave Malaq a warm hug and exited the catacombs.
As her footsteps faded, Jarryd and I threw back our hoods and joined Malaq. Having said our goodbyes to Neela before the ceremony, the three of us slid the heavy slab across the top of the tomb and sealed her inside. Malaq rested a grateful hand on both our shoulders, and then quietly excused himself.
Jarryd and I lingered. We stared down at the tomb awhile, saying nothing. There was nothing to say. Neela had been his childhood love and my tragic obsession, and now she was dead. The dream memories I’d revived in my fight with Draken had retreated to wherever my mind kept them. Losing Neela had prompted nothing abnormal in me as Jem had once warned. Only the usual remorse one might experience after running an innocent woman through with a sword.
Jarryd looked a little numb. Though, with our link blocked since the camp, I couldn’t be sure. He’d rebuilt the wall between us when Krillos was patching me up; giving me his strength had left Jarryd in no condition to share in the pain. My discomfort had been heavy enough the last few days that I’d told him to leave it in place. Now, watching him, knowing something was weighing on his mind, something he was hesitating giving voice to—but being unable to name it—was frustrating.
Finally, I asked. “What is it?”
“I was just thinking.” Jarryd put a hand on the lid of Neela’s tomb. “In all the years of conflict with Langor, Rella always fought back. We fought to keep our lives, our land and traditions, our spirit. Neela marrying Draken was a flat-out surrender. Her submission told the people it was okay to stop fighting. That it was okay to let go of what generations had spent every ounce of energy clinging to. This…” he tapped on the stone lid. “This made up for it.”
There was no doubt restoring our bond had sped Jarryd’s recovery. It had only been a couple of days. Already his emotional state was evening out. His temperament had drastically improved as well. But his current observation, tho
ugh lucid, irked me. “If Neela was looking to apologize, I think there were other ways.”
“What she did at the camp, the way she died—I hate it as much as you. But it wasn’t an apology. By stepping between the blades of Rella’s Champion and Rella’s greatest enemy, Neela has given her people exactly what they needed. A martyr.”
“This wasn’t strategy, Jarryd. It was suicide.”
“It was sacrifice. It was also the only card she had left. Playing it gave the people back their courage and their hope. It’s good to see it in their eyes again, even if it is in vain.”
“It’s not in vain.”
“Why?” he grunted. “Because Ian Troy says so?”
I frowned at him. “You’ve been spending too much time with Malaq.”
“Actually, Malaq’s been scarce. And with you lazing in bed, I’ve been forced to keep company with Captain Krillos.”
“It’s amazing you’re both still alive.”
“Yes, he’s an annoying bastard. And Langorian,” Jarryd grumbled. “But I can stomach him in small doses. Not that I had a choice, the way Malaq’s had us all sequestered. Plus, I had a lot of catching up to do. And Krillos knows how to talk. And drink. That man really knows how to drink.” I laughed, but Jarryd’s voice took on a somber edge. “He knows about Darkhorne, too. Talking it through with him helped. My head feels clearer than it has in a long time. Just don’t tell him that.”
I smiled to myself. “I’m glad there was someone to help you when I couldn’t.”
“It still creeps in sometimes.” Absently, Jarryd rubbed at his chest. “The dark.”
“I know. But it will be gone for good soon. Then we can work on your hands.”
Jarryd fell quiet as he stared down at his gnarled fingers. His gaze strayed to the jade archers ring on my left hand. “I’m not sure I’ll ever wear that again.”
“Nonsense. Now that the Kayn’l is gone, Sienn can straighten your bones and joints and repair the muscle.”
“She told me. She also said rebuilding my strength and retraining the nerves will be up to me. That it will take time.” He didn’t sound at all thrilled with the prospect.
“I know it will be hard. But I need you beside me, Nef’taali. I can’t do this alone.”
“Do what exactly? Go after your father? Defeat Draken’s army and put Malaq on his throne? We’ve lost the Crown of Stones, Ian. Again. And none of us have the right to ask you to cast now. Even if you haven’t told everyone what the crown is truly doing to you, they can see it isn’t good. You keep casting, they’ll see a lot more.” Tucking an awkward hand into his cloak, Jarryd pulled out a flask and took a quick drink.
“Look, I’m not exactly keen on growing claws, but I can’t sit back and do nothing. Jem has soaked up Draken’s need to dominate. He’s seen the empire in its glory. He knows what we once were. He won’t stop. And he has my daughter.”
“Then you have to get that power out.”
I gave him a ‘no-shit’ glance and he backed off. Holding in a groan, I sat down in front of Neela’s tomb and leaned against it. Resting my head back on the cold stone, I tried to ignore the various aches and pains rippling through me. The magic was harder to ignore. It was always there, like a snake skimming the surface, ready to rise or dive at a moment’s notice.
So much power was at my fingertips now. Yet, with the startling amount of magic-scars riddling my body, I had no choice but to channel sparingly. Currently, the way the marks swirled into each other, they resembled a flamboyant display of Arullan ink. I didn’t like it. But I could live with it. It was the anticipated progression I had trouble with. The not knowing how many more spells it would take before the designs started filling in and my hands started changing shape like my father’s. I wondered, in the future I saw, was he in any way still a man.
Malaq said there were more eldring then and less Shinree. But five years was too short a time for a natural explosion in the creature’s population. Jem learned how to bring the change about. I know he did.
Then maybe he learned how to reverse it, too.
In the years to come, Jem would unlock the mysteries of the Crown of Stones and use them to build his empire. But not yet. There was still time to stop him. There was time to find Tam’s journals and the tablets. Time to stop what was happening to me.
To save them.
If I can learn the crown’s secrets before him, I can end my father’s war for Mirra’kelan before it starts.
I don’t have to be the weapon.
Jarryd slunk down across from me. His back against King Raynan’s tomb, he stretched across the space and shoved his flask in my hand. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Save it, Nef’taali. I’m not wallowing.”
Watching me drink, Jarryd’s gaunt face slid into one of his half grins. “You’re sitting in a tomb, leaning against the grave of a woman you would have died for. If you aren’t wallowing then what the hell are you doing?”
I tossed him the empty flask. “Planning.”
FIFTY SEVEN
Malaq turned the key in the lock and opened the door. He went in first and led us down the hall. The way was narrow. The smooth stone walls were plain and unadorned with only the occasional brass sconce. Some held torches, some didn’t, and the subtle, patchy light added a noticeable gloom to the air. The floors, old wood lain over sand, sloped steadily down, curving and winding until I had no idea where underneath the castle we were anymore. It was a lengthy walk, but not a grueling one.
Still, I was feeling it. “How much further?” I asked.
“A little more.” Malaq glanced back. “You okay?”
“He’s fine,” Jarryd said behind me, lowering the wall and sending over a shot of strength. It was a small dose, only enough to mask the soreness and put some life in my step. It was unexpected though, and I stopped short as Jarryd’s recent memories tumbled in. His uncertainty came next; like he’d made things worse.
He started to shut me out again.
“Don’t.” I put a hand on his arm. “The bond was barely forged before the Kayn’l took it away. I think it’s time we let it work the way it was meant to.”
Jarryd only nodded, but I felt his relief as we resumed our trek. We caught up to Malaq, and I considered asking him where we were going. But he’d already brushed off that question once when he’d returned to the catacombs shortly after he left, claiming he had something important to show us. Since then, he’d guided us silently through the castle, down a myriad of stairs and through deep underground passages I’d never seen before. Now, as we stopped in front of an old metal gate with an equally old door behind it, my interest was piqued.
Malaq unlocked the gate. He lifted the set of cross-planks in front of the door and faced us with a grim expression. “This is it.”
“This is what?” I said. “Where are we?”
“The Rellan Kings before me called it the Menagerie.”
“This is where Lirih is from,” I said.
Ever so slightly Malaq flinched. “She told you? I’m surprised. I didn’t realize you two had spoken that much.”
There was an air of anticipation about Malaq as he waited for my response. I hadn’t told him who Lirih was. I hadn’t told him of my vision, and the horrible things it showed me. There’d been no opportunity. Now, I wasn’t sure how. How did I explain that he had a family I took a way? And, oh, by the way, I killed you.
Getting wind of the tension in me, Jarryd interrupted. “Can we go in?”
“Certainly.” Malaq threw open the doors.
After our bleak trek, it was like stepping into another world. The long hallway was well-lit. Ornate paintings and tapestries decorated the walls. Carved, arched doors sat between the artworks. Some doors were open, revealing small, modest bedchambers.
Continuing on, the hall opened up into an expansive area filled with tables, chairs, workbenches, washing tubs, weaving looms, and other domestic items. In the center was a sitting room. Couches, plain but comfortab
le looking, were arranged in a circle around a gray stone fountain. Above the font, fresh water flowed in from a duct in the wall. More ducts flanked the well. They emptied into long, rectangular bathing pools. Small groups of white-haired people occupied the pools, but they were only a fraction of the Shinree spread throughout the Menagerie.
We walked farther in. Our intrusion earned us a few shy casual glances, but otherwise the inhabitants seemed unconcerned with our presence. They all appeared healthy and active. Yet, something was off. It wasn’t Kayn’l. They were all coherent. Their eyes were sharp. They showed expression when they interacted with each other, but in an abnormally lighthearted and carefree way; almost to the point of innocence.
Visibly intrigued, Jarryd glanced around. “I grew up in this castle. Yet, I never knew this place existed. How long have they been down here?”
“All their lives,” Malaq answered. “They were born here. As were their parents and grandparents, and so on.”
I felt the outrage before it hit Jarryd’s voice. “Are they prisoners?”
“Of course not,” Malaq said.
“But they’ve never left?” Jarryd prodded.
“They have no interest in leaving,” Malaq assured him.
Jarryd’s concern took on a personal tone. “They’ve never walked in the open air? Never seen the sun? Not even once?”
“Shafts are built into the ceilings in several of the rooms. On sunny days servants open the doors to let the light in.”
“You think that’s the same thing?” Jarryd said with force.
“This isn’t a prison,” Malaq insisted. “And I’m not their jailor, Kane. So don’t look at me like I am.”
They glared at each other. It felt like old times.
Stepping away, I walked to the fountain. Cool spray splashed my hand. “Neela said her people kept purebreds. She called it their private stock.” I looked at the faces of the Shinree as they walked by. “But they’re not all pure.”
“Not anymore.” Malaq joined me. “Some time ago the breeding pool became too thin. To broaden it, other Shinree from outside the menagerie were selected. Of course, purity was preferred. Every effort was made to procure the best stock. But many pairings had to be done with mates of mixed decent, reducing the quality of the offspring.”
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars Page 48
