The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price

by C. L. Schneider

  He slid faster, grabbing in vain at the hill.

  Nearer, and I realized he wasn’t even in line with the slab anymore. If I didn’t stop him, the ravine would.

  Jarryd tumbled closer. He sped past me. And I jumped.

  THIRTY FOUR

  Throwing myself across the slab, I landed hard enough to hear it crack and caught the cuff of his sleeve in my right hand. My grip was sure. I had him.

  But the mountain was coming down on top of me, pelting my legs and back. I was sprawled out on the rim of the narrow, jutting rock, and Jarryd’s body was dangling over empty air, dragging me slowly and steadily across the sandy surface. I needed something to offset the draw of his weight. Or we were both going over.

  Eyeing the approaching edge, I extended myself back across the shelf, groping for a niche or a ridge. But I had nothing to grab onto except the other side of the shelf beneath me, and nothing to grab it with but my broken arm.

  I stretched. The splint restricted me.

  Straining harder, clenching my teeth on the pain, I managed to reach my target. I wrapped my fingers around the edge. I gripped as hard as I could, and we stopped—with an abrupt jolt that sent agony reverberating from my fingertips to my collarbone. Waves rolled up and down my injured arm, and into my hand.

  And my grip on the ledge began to slacken.

  “No…damn it. Jarryd!” I cried, trying to make him stir. But he just hung silently in my grasp while the spasms worsened.

  My nerves were jumping and seizing. I couldn’t stop my fingers from opening.

  I let go and we started sliding.

  Grinding my jaw down to nothing, forcing my throbbing hand to bend and grab on, I dug into the rock. Fire consumed my entire arm as I clutched the side of the ledge with everything I had. It still wasn’t enough. My hand was torn. I couldn’t get any more out of my damaged wrist, and I didn’t have it in me to pull Jarryd up one handed.

  I was done.

  “Malaq!” I shouted. There was no response. “Goddamn it!’

  Straining, I pulled at Jarryd again and the heavy cloth of his tunic began to rip. I heaved harder and the rip widened. My grip weakened.

  There was a way. One conscious roll of the dice I didn’t want to make.

  It’ll work. It has to.

  The skin on my palm shredded further. Jarryd’s lifeless body pulled on me.

  I did it before, I thought. And Malaq lived.

  I stared down at Jarryd. “So will you.” Determined, I took in the aura of the citrine and wished for a boost of strength. With the same intensity, I clung to the obsidian inside me and commanded it to protect Jarryd. I ordered the spell to leave him alone, to gather what it needed from the trees, the animals in the brush or the birds in the sky. I prayed for it to feed on anything but his life.

  A burst of pleasure, then a shot of energy, coursed through me. Strength bled down through my wounded arm into my fingers. All at once my grip held and we came to another jerking halt that hurt like hell.

  Bearing down, able to clutch the side of the overhang with purpose now, I started hauling myself back from the edge as I pulled Jarryd up. Stupidly, I hadn’t thought to dull the pain. So by the time I got half of him on the shelf with me, my shoulders and back muscles were raging. My left arm felt like it was being pulled off. My right was completely wrecked. At some point, the splint had snapped and red was spreading out across the bandage.

  Ignoring it, I burrowed my fingers into him. “Jarryd, swing your other arm up.” Getting no reply, I got angry. “Jarryd, you son of a bitch, you’re not dead. You’re not fucking dead, do you hear me?” I yanked harder. “If you don’t wake up, I swear by the gods that I’m going to throw you down in that fucking ravine and tell Neela you ran off with some fat, Kaelish, dung hauler’s one-eyed daughter!”

  After a moment of silence, he moaned. Tilting his head back, Jarryd struggled to open his heavy lids. “Dung hauler?” He mustered a faint, breathless chuckle. “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Fool,” I grunted. “Thinking you can climb the side of a mountain like a goat.”

  Wetting his dusty lips, he threw his other arm up, grabbed on and started crawling over me. He reached the slab and flopped down on his back with a breathless, “Thanks.”

  I peeled my hand off the shelf and rolled over. “Don’t mention it.”

  A pile of rope hit the ledge between us. “Sorry for the delay,” Malaq hollered. “I had to lash all three of ours together for it to reach!”

  “Will it hold?” I shouted back.

  “Of course it’ll hold,” he answered crisply. “I tied them, didn’t I?”

  Jarryd grunted. “Smug bastard.”

  I took hold of the rope and yanked. “It’s good. You first.”

  Moving like a man three times his age, Jarryd got up. He tied the end around his waist, braced his legs against the slope, and letting Malaq’s horse do most of the work, walked his way back up to the top.

  When the rope landed next to me a second time, I stared at it. I couldn’t climb. I was shaking too badly from a debilitating assortment of relief, fatigue, pain, and a deep persistent panic. I was grateful that Jarryd was alive. But the fact that he was, that my spell didn’t drain him, was just another example of how strange and unpredictable my magic had become. I didn’t know what was happening to me.

  Jem said I wouldn’t until it was too late. He said the shard’s aura had merged with me.

  If I took it off, our connection and whatever it was doing to me, might stop.

  Only, taking it off was exactly what Jem wanted me to do.

  Disheartened, I leaned back against the slope. I stared across the expanse at the heavily forested mountains on the other side and tried to quell my uneasy mind. Blazing afternoon sun beat down on the adjacent green summit. The treetops were bathed in a layer of shimmering light.

  I took a slow, deep breath and watched a flock of birds circle the peak, dancing in the wind.

  It was a stunning view. But for the large section of trees that had gone black.

  No clouds were in the sky to make shadows. I couldn’t see any rocky outcroppings or caves. There was simply a wide swath of dark trees directly across from my position. Dark or dead, I wondered.

  I sat up, but I couldn’t see well enough to be sure.

  I wished Jarryd safe from the spell. I wished the trees to die…and they did.

  It sounded ridiculous. Diverting the magic-price to some place miles away, selecting what a spell drains; those things weren’t possible for a Shinree soldier like me. Not without a tremendous amount of training.

  Yet, I’d done it. There was no other explanation.

  I’d done the impossible.

  The proof was on the other side of the ravine, and it scared the hell out of me.

  THIRTY FIVE

  The sixth cup of the night hit my lips and Malaq gave me judgmental, raised brows across the table. “You keep that up,” he said, “and tomorrow I’ll be tying you to the saddle. Again.”

  Swallowing, I gave him a vague grunt. Nevertheless, he was right. I hadn’t eaten and I was already drawing the stares of every pair of eyes in the inn—not that there were many. While the Faernore was the one stopping place on the entire pass that would put a roof over your head, rumors of war had spread quickly, and the place was near deserted.

  “I’m not sure if you’re aware,” Malaq said, trying a more diplomatic voice. “But you’re starting to resemble a man whose been dragged by his horse. You might want to do something about that.”

  “I just had a bath. Though, mine was a bit less crowded than yours.” Recalling the unmistakable sounds of pleasure coming from Malaq’s side of the curtain, I frowned. “And probably less enjoyable.”

  “Most definitely. But that’s your problem, Troy. Always trying to do everything on your own.”

  Next to me, Jarryd laughed as he raised a hand to the barkeep. “Another!”

  “Well, then,” Malaq said dryly, “Guess I�
�ll be lashing you both come morning.”

  “Can’t.” Jarryd stretched in his seat. He let out a lengthy yawn. “You have to untie all that rope first. Shouldn’t take too long though. Not for an expert knot-maker like yourself.”

  Malaq eyed him. “Jealous?”

  “Absolutely,” Jarryd teased. “A man of your talents is wasted as a Peace Envoy. Or even a Prince. With your wide range of expertise you should be King. Kick Draken right off that throne in Darkhorne and take his place. We wouldn’t have to worry about war then. Malaq Roarke could single-handedly turn the whole damn realm of Langor into lady-killers and fisherman. Well-dressed ones at that.”

  “King?” Malaq gave me a level stare and I gave him a slight shake of my head, indicating that I’d said nothing to Jarryd about Malaq’s true intentions in Langor. “And here I thought you weren’t capable of funny, Kane,” Malaq said, attempting to downplay his insightful jest. “But all it took was a little flat, tasteless ale to let it loose. That and a good amount of my coin.” He brushed in disgust at the sleeve of his shirt. “I hope the innkeeper at least puts my money to good use. Like hiring someone to blow the dust off the tables once a year,” he muttered crossly, making Jarryd nearly spit out his drink. “Easy there, kid,” Malaq cautioned. “Perhaps you should call it a night.”

  Laughing, Jarryd wiped a hand across his mouth. “It’s not the drink. It’s being here, under a roof, sitting in actual chairs, at a real a table in a place that serves,” he glanced in his cup, “something close to Rellan ale. I haven’t felt this normal in a while.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” I told him, which got both of Malaq’s brows going up.

  He said nothing though, just leaned back in his seat with contemplative, gray eyes on me, tossing the coin in his hand into the air and catching it.

  He tossed it and caught it again.

  As Malaq repeated the motion a third time, I reached out and grabbed it.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. I’m fine,” I said, handing him the coin.

  He started tossing and catching again. “It’s not your reflexes that concern me.”

  “Then what?” I sneered at him. “You want me to feel normal too?”

  Malaq slammed down his coin. “How about you just go back to being delirious? As that’s certainly preferable to this god awful mood you’ve been in for the last three days.”

  “Three days ago I almost threw Jarryd off a cliff. I think that entitles me to—”

  “Feel sorry for yourself? Get over it, Troy. I’ve wanted to throw Jarryd off a cliff a time or two myself.” Malaq paused to shrug at Jarryd’s questioning glance. “But I didn’t. Any more than you did—at least, not intentionally.” Flinging himself back in his seat, Malaq picked up his coin. He tapped the edge a few times on the tabletop then moved on. “I had a chat with the barkeep. The bridge to Rella is about two days ride. I’m thinking we can make it in one.”

  “One’s good,” Jarryd said.

  “Thought you might say that,” Malaq smiled. “I’ll be leaving you after we cross. If retrieving the crown doesn’t go as planned, once I’m settled in Langor, I’ll get you whatever information I can.”

  “Sounds risky,” Jarryd said. “They’ll be watching you.”

  “I’ll manage,” Malaq replied.

  “Not if you’re dead,” Jarryd snapped back.

  “I have no intention of being dead.”

  “If Draken catches you betraying him, that’s exactly what you’ll be.”

  “He won’t catch me,” Malaq assured him.

  “I’ve heard,” Jarryd said in earnest, “that Langorians take traitors out into the mountains, break their arms and legs, and leave them for the skin bears.” He nudged me with his elbow. “What do you think they’ll do with our Prince here when the bears are done? Ship his bloodless remains back to Kael? Or leave him to rot?”

  “I take it back,” Malaq frowned at Jarryd. “You’re not funny.”

  As usual, Jarryd popped off a comeback, but having learned weeks ago that enduring their banter was an ineffective use of my time, I found a better one; in the form of a shapely woman at the front counter. Dressed in typical barmaid fashion, with plenty of exposed skin and flowing hair, her features were mostly in shadow. I couldn’t tell if she was pretty or plain, and I wasn’t sure it mattered. She wasn’t dark enough to be Arullan. She wasn’t make-believe. Moreover, the idea of a few hours of warm, tangible flesh in my hands was extremely appealing.

  Something real, I thought. Something solid. Just for a little while.

  Taking up a tray from the bar, the girl made her rounds to the other patrons. She came our way and I didn’t even look at her. I waited until she sat the mugs down. Then I grabbed her wrist and pulled her onto my lap.

  I regretted it the instant I saw her face.

  Coiling an arm around my neck, Imma planted a vigorous kiss on my lips. “This is extra, Shinree. And you haven’t even paid for the wine.”

  “You haven’t brought us our food yet either, girl,” Malaq jumped in. He gave up the coin he’d been playing with and put it on the table. Studying Imma appreciatively, but without a lick of recognition, he added four more to the pile. “Off you go,” he waved at her.

  Imma didn’t budge. “This one,” she messed up my hair, “doesn’t want food.”

  “This one can wait,” Malaq retorted, bringing a chuckle out of Jarryd; who also appeared oblivious of having met Imma. Already, Sienn had cast on them both.

  “Perhaps it isn’t food you crave, My Lord,” she teased Malaq,” but a distraction. Our oracle is exceptionally talented.”

  “Does your oracle tell you which of us will more easily part with our coin?”

  “Oh, I’m not that foolish, My Lord,” Imma replied with a languid smile. “The experience of an oracle is for amusement only. The future is far too fluid to live by. The visions you receive too unpredictable. Each breath could bring you closer to what you saw. Or push you farther away.”

  “Nice speech.” Malaq stroked the tuft of hair on his chin. “Tell me, pretty girl. Is there a reduced fee for the two of you…and a hot meal?”

  Jarryd snickered into his cup. “Careful, Malaq, your manners are slipping.”

  “That’s what happens when I go too long without proper nourishment.”

  “There are other ways to feel sated, My Lord.” Inclining her body in Malaq’s direction, Imma leaned across the table. She ran a hand up his arm. “It’s not commonly known, but an oracle can offer more than a forward glimpse. For an additional fee, you can view the past through the body of one that shares your blood. Such as a father, or,” pausing, she said compellingly, “a mother?”

  Morbid curiosity sprang to life in Malaq’s eyes.

  “Don’t,” I said, trying to squash it.

  “Take the journey, My Lord,” Imma prodded.

  “Back off,” I told her. “He’s not interested.”

  “Oh, I think he is.” With one finger, she caressed Malaq’s hand. “I can show you the answers to all your questions. I can give you the raw, bare truth.”

  Indecision settled on Malaq’s face. It wasn’t a look I wasn’t used to.

  And it really pissed me off.

  Grabbing Imma’s hand, I yanked her away from him. “I said. Back. Off.”

  Sienn glared at me in angry silence through Imma’s blue eyes.

  I glared back just as fiercely. “You really don’t want to try me right now.”

  Malaq reached for his drink. As he took an abnormally long draw from his mug, Sienn gave me a grin that made the room grow hot. “And what of you, Shinree? Do you desire entertainment? Would you like to…come with me?” she purred, and a chill ran over my skin; what the sound of her did to me was so unfair. Her touch was more so, because as Imma’s fingers brushed my face, I could feel Sienn beneath. She was warm and full of magic, and as she once more whispered, “Come,” the dank, smoky room around me began to melt rapidly away.

  I was suddenly els
ewhere.

  THIRTY SIX

  The walls were gray stone. Fine wood furnishings and intricate tapestries of Rellan design decorated the shadowy room. The fire in the hearth was out, making the air cold and the light dim. A few candles were lit. Their flames danced wildly, fighting to stay alive against the fierce wind whipping through the broken window on the far side of a large, posted bed.

  The place was familiar. I’d been here, but I couldn’t grasp when, or why. I could feel the answer in my head, but I couldn’t pull it out. I had vague impressions with no details, notions instead of actual recollections. It was frustrating as hell. But it was no dream. I hadn’t gone through one of Jem’s magical doors, either. I was here, in this place, in my own body. Yet even that was off.

  I was anxious and out of breath, like I’d been running. The splint was gone from my wrist. Exhaustion and the various aches I’d felt for weeks were absent as well. I wasn’t feeling the ale or the slightest craving for magic, and my clothes were different, right down to my boots. The shard was missing from my neck (which was disturbing), but I still had the wristlet. However, the leather cord that held the stones together was worn and frayed, as if by age.

  The same culprit had brought unfamiliar lines to the backs of my hands. Some were naturally made. Others were magic-scars; dark, coiling streaks that extended up under the cuffs of my shirt and, presumably, kept going.

  I was in the future. I was in my future.

  Sienn is the oracle.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  I cursed her a few more times as I glanced around. I found a way out, a single door. I hesitated taking it though. Future-me must have run in here for a reason. Yet, leaving might lead to a clue as to where and when I was.

  I stepped in the direction of the door, and a burst of pain shot through my left hand. Wincing, thinking an injury, I turned it over and found more scars. Unlike the others though, these weren’t made by magic or time. The shapes decorating my entire left palm had been deliberately carved with a blade.

  They were some very old and very distinctive, Shinree symbols and runes, but I knew the characters. I’d seen them positioned this way before, arranged to represent a particular kind of spell that had one very specific purpose.