The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price (14 page)

My destination was before me, in the sweeping valley below. Flanked by sloping hills on three sides and a dense, dark wall of mountain on the fourth, the basin in the middle (Kael’s legendary arena) was still mostly in shadow.

Sizeable enough to accommodate even the largest of tournaments, between contests the field was used for the practice and training of Kael’s troops. Typically, a contingent of soldiers could be found honing their skills, or at least a few friends locking swords and wagering on each other’s talents. Today, however, the arena was all but empty. There were no soldiers, no cheers, or clash of metal. There was only a single man and his bow. So completely focused and absorbed in his art that he appeared to have no idea I was here.

I watched him a moment and then started Kya down the steep hill.

The grass was lush, slippery, and wet with dew. I kept her at a slow pace and used the time to decide if the man was indeed who Malaq sent me to find.

It was a quick assessment.

Even at a distance, with muted light, I could tell by his brown hair that he wasn’t Shinree. He wasn’t Kaelish either; his weapon was too small. Sarin’s archers trained with longbows taller than they were. Any trace of Langorian decent was unlikely too, since the man was at least half of Malaq’s build and his skin was substantially lighter. Another clue was his close-fitting white tunic and blue breeches. Both sported a black trim, which conspicuously gave him all three of the Arcana family colors.

Then there was his age. Malaq mentioned the messenger from Kabri was young. And though he was noticeably older than the page I met in the forest, as I drew closer, I gauged him at no more than a smidge or two over twenty. Despite that, and his trim, lithe frame, I wasn’t mistaking the young man for weak. He drew the string back like it was made of water and sustained the position effortlessly.

Motionless, he considered his target. Then, swift and deft, he let loose the first arrow and retrieved another from the quiver on his back. More arrows followed in rapid succession. His concentration was solid. His pivots and adjustments as he changed targets were so slight that the braid hanging down his back seemed not to move at all.

The quiver emptied quickly. As he notched the last arrow, he whirled around to face me. It was a single, fluid motion, a flawless rotation that brought the point of his weapon to aim dead center of my chest. He didn’t release the arrow. He just stood there, poised to shoot me. His entire body was completely relaxed and I was betting he could hold position, squinting down the length of his arrow at me, for hours.

Slow and careful, I took my hands off the reins and motioned to the purse at his hip. “I think you’re looking for me.”

There was no reply. Concentration held the messenger’s mouth in a grim, hard line. His high brow was scrunched into a low scowl. I imagined, if he relaxed long enough to smile, the girls at court would consider his boyish features attractive. In my position, I found his current expression fairly menacing.

“Think you can point that somewhere else?” I asked him. “I’m not really up for digging an arrow out of my chest.”

Without moving an inch, he said flatly, “I was going for your head.”

“That does seem to be a popular item lately.”

His gaze tightened further. Spinning on his heels, the messenger turned and released the arrow. It sailed toward the last target at the very end of the field—and kept going; narrowly missing its mark and sinking into the ground at the base of the mountain.

“Huh.” I was surprised he missed.

Without a word, he started after his arrow. I slid down from Kya’s back and, leaving her at the bottom of the slope, set off across the open arena.

The field was vast. I felt small as I walked through it, stepping over painted boundary lines for mock combat, passing groupings of tall, willowy trees meant to give shade to the wooden spectator stands. On the sidelines were colored stalls for merchants to hawk their wares and sturdy fences to keep the audience back. Closer in, laid out in a half circle, were large granite benches where participants could wait their turn or rest between matches. Tossed across one of the benches was a short, light traveling cloak.

At the first effigy, I stopped and pulled the arrow out from the manlike figure’s straw head. The fletching was the expected black and blue, but the distinctive pattern etched into the plane of the arrowhead threw me. “Kabrinian Archers Guild?”

Intrigued, I moved on. When I had all eleven arrows, I headed to the far end of the field where the dark mass of the mountain forest spilled out to meet the edge of the meadow. The messenger was standing there, in front of a wall of bramble thick enough to dam a river.

“You must have influential friends,” I said, approaching him. “Friends that kept you from being forced into soldiery despite your talent.”

“Hmmm?” Fretting over the state of his arrow, he ran a slow finger over the length of it.

“How else does a guild member end up as Royal Messenger? Or for that matter, how does a courier get admitted to the guild?” I glanced down at the arrows in my hand. “Unless, you’re that good. Good enough they allowed you to choose for yourself.”

“My father was with the army,” he said, gently blowing debris from the feather. “He never had a choice. He lived and died with a bow in his hand.”

“And you?”

“I was luckier.” He dropped the quiver and bow off his shoulder. They slid down his arm in a smooth, natural motion and came to rest in his palm.
“I’ve been pulling arrows since I was old enough to know what they were for.”

“Then what happened just now?”

He gave a lazy, one-shouldered shrug and extended his hand. “May I?”

I handed over the arrows I’d collected. He added his and slid all twelve carefully down inside the quiver. The rounded vessel, made of the same soft, black leather as his boots, was flaunting a fine, slightly tattered, red silk ribbon. “Someone is missing you in Kabri,” I said, gesturing at the ribbon.

“Neela gave it to me the night I left.” Realizing how that sounded, he blanched. “We’re friends,” he said, a little self-conscious, “old playmates, really.”

“Playmates with the Princess of Rella? That’s convenient.”

The messenger’s face froze. He looked at me straight on and I got my first real good look at his eyes. They were a deep shade of blue and expressive, betraying his embarrassment, and a clear affection for Rella’s heir. “My mother was a seamstress in the castle,” he explained. “Neela and I are of a similar age. So we used to play together as kids. “He donned a sad smile. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember what she is now.”

I left it alone. Considering my involvement with Neela’s mother, I certainly couldn’t judge. “I’m told you have a message for me?”

“Yes, of course.” He shouldered the bow and quiver again. Digging into the leather purse on his hip, he pulled out the message and handed it to me. After watching me uneasily a moment, he walked away and left me staring at the folded piece of paper in my hand.

I ran my fingers over the imprinted wax a couple of times. It had been many years since I’d seen the Royal Seal of Arcana. But it wasn’t a wistful gesture. Knowing what the contents meant for me, it was more like dread.

Carefully, I cracked the seal and unfolded the page. Words immediately jumped out. My pulse started pounding so I stopped and went back to the beginning. I read the whole thing through, quickly, and then slower the second time, in case I was wrong. The third time, I couldn’t even make it to the end. My eyes were burning and the words had become too blurry to read.

Taking a handful of breaths, I looked up for the messenger. He was sitting on the bench beside his cloak. He met my eyes and knew exactly what I
was thinking: that I needed a lot more than Princess Neela Arcana had given me.

Crumbling the message in my fist, I came up on him fast. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.”

“Kabri?”

He swallowed once. Twice. Then lowered his eyes and shook his head.

“Casualties?”

“Heavy.”

“The Rellan Army?”

“Many are dead. Some were taken prisoner. The rest deserted to search for their families. A number of Shinree got out,” he said; though not happily. “Those damn rebels came in right behind the Langorians and raided the slave camps. They didn’t help put out the fires, or fight with us. They just took their people and left us to die.”

“What about the rest of the realm?”

“I don’t know.”

“The villages? The Southern Cities?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kabri’s harbor?”

Dropping the bow and quiver off his shoulder, he slammed it down on the bench. “What do you want me to say, Troy? The city is a husk, a black shell. Our enemy was very thorough and those that aren’t dead wish they were.”

I closed my eyes, briefly. “I don’t understand. How could this happen?”

“I was hoping you would know. No one thought he would ever recover from what you did. Now, out of nowhere, he has an army? It doesn’t make any sense.”

The first line of Neela’s message echoed in my head:
Draken has risen.

The fourth line told of his men storming the castle and defiling the catacombs.

Though Neela made no mention of it, I knew exactly what they were after. “Draken has the Crown of Stones, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“And a Shinree to use it for him.”

“We assume so. Draken made reference to a magic user but we never saw one. We’re still trying to figure out how he learned the crown’s location in the first place. Even Neela didn’t know it was in the crypt with…” he hesitated. I didn’t think he was going to say it. “Aylagar.”

It was amazing. How after all this time, the sound of her name was still a blow to my chest. It was a penetrating, self-inflicted ache. But it wasn’t as bad as the tension in me. That was down deep, stuck in, and buried like a hook. And the knowledge of the massacre in Kabri, of Rella’s need, was pulling it taught—pulling me back.

I rubbed at the pain. “I heard Raynan Arcana is dead. Is that true?”

Visibly, the messenger shrunk from my question.

“Is King Raynan dead?” I asked again.

His eyes dropped to the ground. Leaning over, elbows on knees, head in his hands, he drew in deep, ragged breaths, as if my question made it hard for him to breathe. “Draken’s men,” he said, starting slow, “they rounded up everyone in the castle. They put us in the hall and then ransacked the place. We could hear them. They destroyed everything. They forced us to watch as they stripped our King naked. They tied him, whipped him. Beat him until I couldn’t recognize his face. Then they dumped him on the floor so he could see his people die. The King’s personal guards were beheaded. Servants were picked at random and butchered. The women were…” pausing, he tried to smooth the pain from in his voice. “They were used badly.”

“The Princess, was she injured?”

“No. Draken held her. He wouldn’t let her look away. Those of us that were left, we fought back. We tried to stop it. I tried to reach her, and the King. But the bastards clubbed any of us that moved, and they were so damn strong. I tried,” he said again, apologetically, as if the entire thing were his fault. “After a while, I just couldn’t get up.”

“It’s best you stayed down. If you’d gotten up they would have killed you too.”

“It wasn’t by choice.” Dropping his hands, the messenger burrowed his fingers into the edge of the stone bench, and glared at me. “I couldn’t get up because they broke my fucking legs. I had to lie there and listen to Neela scream while Draken’s soldiers gutted King Raynan and pissed in his blood. They cut him open. Defiled him. And we didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.
We let him die.” His blue eyes fixed on me; so full of dark emotion they were hard to look at. “
I
let him die.”

The anguish on his face and in his voice made me cringe. It was hard listening to the explicit details of Draken’s attack. But it was much worse bearing witness to such agonizing, personal grief over the death of Rella’s King, and being unable to muster even an ounce of my own.

Despite the fact that Raynan Arcana allowed me to be born, that he afforded me no punishment for the loss of his army or his wife, and that it was by his grace alone that I enjoyed freedom, (conditional as it was), I didn’t see him as the young messenger did—the esteemed, sovereign ruler of Rella. I saw him as I first knew him; as the man that relieved the tensions of his kingship in my mother’s bed. His use of her, right up until the day she died, was blatant. As was his misuse of his own wife, Aylagar. He had no regard for either of them. And that alone left me with far less sympathy for the death of King Raynan, someone I had known all my life, than for the man I’d just met who watched him die.

Pensively, the messenger shook his head. “A few Shinree were left in the city. One of them put my legs back together. I’d never had a spell like that done on me before. It was strange. All that pain. And then I woke up and felt good, almost like it never happened. Except…there were these piles of bodies. And I can’t forget the King’s face.” Fingers tapping fitfully on his knees, the muscles in his jaw started twitching. “I’d never seen him like that before. His eyes were so wide and afraid. He looked at me. He looked right at me. It was like he was trying to tell me something.”

“After what they did to him, I doubt the King was even seeing you at all.”

Quiet a moment, he lifted one shoulder up in a shrug and let out a short, dismissive grunt. “Yeah. You’re probably right.” But saying that brought him no comfort. Not that I could imagine what would for a while. Deep, angry lines had settled in to age the messenger’s young face and his eyes were fierce; hardened by the horror and shame of being unable to save the person he pledged his life to.

It was like looking into a mirror.

“What’s your name, kid?” I said.

“Jarryd.” He cleared his throat and stood up. “Kane,” he added, retrieving his cloak from the bench. As he put it on and fastened it, I noticed the
clasp, made of solid sunstone, bore a carved, miniature version of the Arcana crest on its face. The same design, made of brass, adorned the flap of his purse. Likely, more examples of Jarryd Kane’s loyalty were on his person or his belongings, if I were to look. Clearly, his duty to the realm was a source of pride.