Crown of Gold and Ruin, page 60
She plunged her makeshift weapons deep into the creature’s bulk, ripping it down, venom and blood and flesh flying out to spatter her. The hydra heads shrieked in outrage, and the cacophony deafened Diana and searing black blood sprayed into her eyes. Which was why she did not see or hear as a final defiant hydra’s head arched at her in blind revenge from behind her, even as she murdered it. It was the biggest head, and with its final death knell, the serpent’s entire fanged maw snapped around Diana’s torso, and bit down hard. Its venom scorched her insides. Her world went black and then exploded into nothingness.
The last thing she heard before oblivion was Taliesin screaming, “Enough, Tamaranthe! She won. Save her. By the Goddess, enough!”
* * *
Jaden had lost track of how long he had been walking. He had left Megara’s court after she had persuaded him to dine with her, and listen to some of her favorite singers, which had taken at least three hours, the meal being a seven-course luxury with exotically named food and bottles of Falernian wine. Upon leaving, he had been given directions to his bedchamber, but had soon abandoned the effort because he was completely unable to get his bearings in the labyrinthine castle, and there had been not a soul around to ask for help. He had been lost, and ill-tempered for quite a while when he came upon a hallway whose west wall was nonexistent except for a grand stone banister over which one could lean and behold the entirety of the night-swathed castle and town beyond. There he found Princess Bria Nightshade, seated beside the banister, reading a book by candlelight, her nightgown spread around her like a graceful cascade of snow, her hair dark and gleaming.
She glanced up at the sound of his footfall upon the flagstones, a look of surprise flitting across her face.
“Why are you not asleep?”
Jaden shrugged as he leaned upon the parapet. Beyond the sculpted black towers of the fortress lay the firefly glimmers of the town. “I got lost after leaving Megara’s court,” he replied wryly. “I could not find the north-western wing where my assigned bedchamber supposedly is.”
Bria looked up at him incredulously. “You have been lost and wandering for three hours? You must think terribly of Carthage’s hospitality.”
“I have to admit I do, my lady.” He watched her as she rose to her feet, her gown rippling around her like the water of the quiet water cascade which had lain outside the troll cave.
“Was Elenon’s royal palace not as tortuous as the Shadowford?”
“No, but only perhaps it was my home since infancy.” He sighed. “It is a beautiful place, all rushing rivers, white marble, and olive gardens. I wish it were not destroyed.”
Bria did not drearily meander about the true matter that festered in both their thoughts like a cancer; she ignored all other polite conversation to cut straight to the heart. “What think you of my sister’s negotiations? You did not give her an answer, but indirectly implied you would be thinking about it.”
Jaden studied a weather-worn gargoyle leering at them, its perch on the banister. “As I walked, I kept telling myself, it is just another life, and a wretched one at that. Just a little more spilled blood, when my people’s very souls have been ripped from them by demons, their cities broken.” He did not know why he was confiding in this young woman, who would no doubt relate all his utterings to her vain, conniving sister. Perhaps it was simply because she looked like Lyra, or perhaps it was because he knew her from the buried past. He had spoken with her before in the throes of his darkest moments, beneath an overhang of snow-heavy oaks. He could almost smell the winter pines now crushed beneath their boots, the scent of wet leather and horses, the odor of copper from all the blood.
“But you do not think you can, despite all that?” she urged now.
“Every time I have killed, it has been out of necessity, or violence born of burning revenge.” He thought of the assassin that screamed in the fire, and Edrik Thorn’s blood splashed in a crimson smolder. “Never have I committed cold-blooded murder.”
“Are you certain of that?” she asked coolly, elegant brows raised. “What would you call the butchering of my niece, then?”
Jaden’s skull throbbed with shock. “How dare you say that to me?” he spat. “What happened that night was not of my doing. I did not kill Lyra!”
She waved a hand. “The past is a heavy shroud. But perhaps we should not let it smother us right now, for we have more pressing concerns to deal with. You say you are not a cold-blooded killer. I say you very definitely can be. Whatever the case, my sister now asks that of you,” she said gravely, “and you know that a killing slash would be a mercy to Balthazhar at this stage of his life. Like you said, he has been ruined in more than body by the acid.”
“Are you telling me to kill him?”
“You know it would be a mercy to him, and you know Megara’s reasoning is mostly faultless except for its brutality, but will your conscience allow you to commit the deed?” She shook her head. “I think it is a façade you make up to lie to yourself that you are oh so noble.”
“You create assumptions very harshly. But know this. Whatever the circumstances, I will not debase myself to becoming a cowardly assassin in the dark. What will Megara do when I deny her price?” He studied the queen’s sister closely, watching as her eyes darkened.
“She will command you are banished from the Shadowford, while, through the maneuverings of court, in which she is a master player, will have it brought to Balthazhar’s ear not just to exile you from the falcon lands, but to carry out a public execution.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Jaden asked suspiciously. “You are of Carthage’s royal family, yet you betray them to me, a man you think is a murderer and an untrustworthy coward, and whose family has feuded with yours for generations. You are the princess here; I should think you would want me to kill Balthazhar, because even I can see Seth would be a much better king, and Marquan’s power when that happens will—”
“I don’t want to Seth to become king. I don’t think he will be a good one,” she said bluntly. “And you are merely repeating my sister’s words. I did say her reasoning is faultless, but I also said mostly. Marquan is what keeps this citadel upon its feet, dark though that notion may seem. My nephew,” she sighed, “may be a strong, clever prince, but he is not perfect. He is not ready for the throne. Not yet.”
“No one is perfect, Bria.”
“To defeat a creature such as Marquan, one may well have to be.” He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off by reaching up and placing two cool, slender fingers upon his lips. Lyra’s gray gaze had always anchored Jaden, yet this fierce young woman’s gaze made his blood beat faster in his veins, like a storm beckoning him to wildness. “And I am betraying Megara, because I believe there is a less crude way than a king killing a king to get rid of Marquan. Which is where you come in. Just not in the killing part.” She paused. “At least not yet.”
“This was no chance meeting, was it, Princess? You were lying in wait like a desert serpent for its prey,” Jaden realized. “No, this was a calculated move by another puppet master, as skilled in manipulating people as her sister is.”
She pinned him to the banister, the night air freezing and hoary upon the bare skin of his arms. “I am much, much better at it than my sister. And does that disturb you, Lord of Eria? Is it only men and queens who can be puppet masters? Is it only them who can run kingdoms, and decide upon the way their subjects live? I think not. A very ordinary woman can make the ocean itself shudder if she is driven enough.”
Jaden shook his head. “You are far from an ordinary woman, and I think you know that very well.” His hand dove into a hidden pocket in the black folds of her cloak, and drew out an elegant silver dagger, set with a fire-opal.
She looked at it in mock amazement. “I swear I did not know that was there.”
He chuckled. “Now, tell me something, oh great master puppeteer. You say there are better ways of stopping Marquan, and that is why you have confronted me in this manner. What are these other ways?”
“There is one other way, with one of the most powerful artifacts in the lands of the empire, and you hold it zealously right now.” She looked up at him with fervent calm and cold deviousness. She reminded him almost of Flavian. “The Book of Souls.”
Jaden choked, and drew away, but not before she now had reached into his cloak and plucked out the tiny, tattered, black leather tome. He snatched it back.
“How did you—”
“One of my sister’s men, who is secretly loyal to me only, was eavesdropping upon your conversation with your general preceding your audience with Balthazhar.” She continued calmly, ignoring his look of outrage. “That book holds spells powerful enough to stop a potent mage in his destructive quest. And uttering the spell would harm only Marquan, no one else. Balthazhar will gain another, better councilor, and—”
“And what do my I profit from giving you the book to save the Shadowford from its own king?” Jaden asked.
“You will have an alliance,” she answered.
“With you?” He had not meant for it to sound as scornful as it did, but he could not help it. “An alliance alone will not win me back Eria. I need an army, and I do not think you have the resources to give me one.”
“What if I could get the resources? I hate Marquan, and I want to save the Carthaginians from him. It was not Balthazhar’s plight, but he who first estranged all of us.”
“What did he do?”
“He caused Lyra to flee from her home and family,” she said, absorbing every expression upon his face with her clever eyes. “It happened the year that he first came here, as a humble mage and scholar from the east, or so he claimed, and he rose through the ranks like a bird of prey to perch beside Balthazhar’s throne, whispering in his ear. Lyra and I had always been the best of friends, and for a girl of thirteen, she was unnaturally well-versed in the doings of court, and had a keen interest in it, as did I, though I was near eighteen. Lyra told me she did not trust this man, and once, she stood up to him. It was a petty argument, but I think he saw her, young as she was, as a potential future enemy.
“That night, I found Lyra tossing and turning in her bed, shuddering words of nightmare, even screaming. I sat with her as the fever abated, and a little before dawn, I left her. Two hours later, she was gone. Her chamber stood empty as if never had a soul as fierce and bright as she had ever lived there.” Bria finished, and though her face was serene, he saw the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. “She was my only friend. And when I finally tracked her down nearly two and a half years later, she was dead. Broken and bleeding in your arms.”
Jaden’s head was ringing at having finally found out the truth about Lyra. He knew he should have sought the answer sooner, but he had been quietly terrified of it, at the same time as being immersed in it. But he only said politely, “I lament your loss, Princess. For I understand it all too well. I loved her.”
“Do not commiserate with me! And do not lie. If you truly loved her, you would have grown some balls and saved her!” she burst out.
He was silent with guilt, rage, grief, longing, and indignation. They all thrashed about in him like hellhounds. He could not defend himself. He was a coward and a liar, and he had hated himself for so long.
Bria turned back abruptly, having gained control, and was cold and composed again. It was disconcerting. “You have refused my offer, and my sister’s, Jaden Blacknett, and—”
He shook his head, interrupting her as well as brushing off the malevolent cobwebs reaching up from the darkest corners of him. “No. Ever since my general handed me the Book of Souls as a bargaining chip, I have considered the idea of giving it to the keeping of both Balthazhar and Megara, but always rejected the idea as soon as I met them. But I think I can trust you, despite your utter contempt of me. Am I right in believing that, Bria?”
She said firmly, “Of course. I would do anything to stop Marquan. To steer the control of this kingdom to where it rightfully belongs.” She paused, and he could see the brightness of thinking in her eyes. “Tomorrow is the last day of autumn, and in its celebration, we are holding a great contest in the fighting pits, where criminals from the dungeons will compete to the death to gain a laurel wreath, as well as their freedom, in return for fairly vanquishing their opponent.”
“Blood pits.” Jaden used the correct term for the fighting arena, which she spoke of with distaste.
“Hush with your prejudices.” She smiled slightly. “I am assuming you will be invited to this event, after which Balthazhar, under Marquan’s command, will banish you forever from this realm for not having served their different purposes.” Her voice was hard and glittering. “But Marquan will be there also—”
“How do you hope to interpret the book?”
“I have an acquaintance,” she answered confidently. “I have good faith the task of deciphering the runes can be done by the morrow’s evenfall.”
Jaden nodded and looked at the Book of Souls. It was so small in his hand. “Bria, this is something that holds dark power you and I alone cannot hope to contain. Just the one spell to stop Marquan and rob him of his power, and then we relinquish ownership of it. It is destructive.”
She nodded, though she cast a longing glance at the book. “When he is defeated, you will have my alliance, and I promise you I will help you in your quest to redeem Eria to my last breath. And I will strive to give you a legion of our soldiers once we have defeated the sorcerer together.”
Jaden nodded and handed over the Book of Souls. As she seized it, and examined it with avid curiosity, he wondered whether this was an act of folly upon his part. He knew Agrenost would be enraged. After all, Jaden didn’t truly know this conniving, mysterious woman. But it was as if Lyra’s voice whispered in his ear, telling him Bria was honorable. Trustworthy. Though he did feel she had ambitions of her own, and stratums of control and influence rippling underneath the surface of this court.
“So, puppet master,” he smiled at her with a lightness he did not feel, “what is the plan?”
“I shall tell it to you while helping you find your chamber; I must know this castle better than you do. North-western wing, did you say?” Bria smiled and picked up her candle, the red-gold light casting her into a sharp, graceful creature that had emerged from the shadows to strike a blow against cruel power.
At the turn in the corridor, Bria paused, and turned to him. She said steadily, “I do not, as you said, regard you with utter contempt. You were just out of a difficult childhood and had an abusive father, though it is no excuse for your crimes. However, remember this, Jaden Blacknett. You may not have killed her outright, but Lyra’s blood will always be on your hands.”
* * *
She crawled through endless tunnels of pain. Red and purple stars shimmered in her vision like pulsating flowers, throbbing with temptation. They begged Diana to peel their petals and peer at what lay within; she could not resist. Lifetimes flashed before her eyes. Creeping death and iridescent laughter and huge six-headed snakes chased her through an underworld of bones. She saw her brother on the balcony of a gothic castle, talking intently with a young woman whose mind would one day break the frontiers of this continent. Secrets crackled between them. That vision sharded. Another began. She saw her mother, Queen Celine, gliding through a luscious olive garden in high summer, clad in a white togara so thin her breasts showed through. Flavian was behind her, younger, soft of expression, dutifully following along with a basket of grain to feed the birds. Tears pricked Di’s eyes. That vision, too, sharded.
She saw a younger Taliesin, for his exquisite eyes did not yet bear the heaviness and grief of centuries spent as a slave to his father and to Cintran. He walked through a rustling, ethereal forest, magic crackling in the air, dryads languid on branches, stars dancing in the green canopy. A small, dark-skinned Frenalin boy trailed after him, holding his hand as Taliesin showed the boy which ripe berries were poisonous, and which were not. A predator stalked them, intent on the hunt, intent on murdering his brothers. That vision then sharded. And she saw Elenon. Ashes on the wind, crumbled, blackened citadels. A hideous albino Erzul perched on a spire, sharpening a blade that dripped venom. It leered at Diana, gestured at the ruins of the city. “All your fault,” the creature hissed in a voice like spines cracking. “All your fault, Diana.” Then, instead of the Erzul, Tamaranthe perched there, wings flared like a hawk before attack. “All your fault,” she said, smirking. Her claws lashed out like black daggers, and they tore bloody holes in Diana’s face, gouged her eyes out, and all Diana saw was a scorched wasteland. A land of punishment and sin. She crashed to the earth, blinded, sobbing.
“Diana. Human. Sweet human.” Hands, not ungentle, shook her awake. “Wake up. They are fever dreams, that is all. The fading effects of the Malakim you consumed.”
She forced her eyes open. Sweat caked her skin even though she lay partially submerged in a bathtub of bubbling hot water, the water now ugly and brown with washed off mud. They were in a small circular chamber, the walls the customary yellow ivory of bone, and there was a bed draped in black velvet against the far wall. However, because the chamber had no windows and the door was barred and set with iron grilles, it gave the impression of a glorified dungeon cell.
Taliesin hovered above her, worry on his fine-boned face, his long platinum hair gathered behind his head. “You are alright. Just hallucinations,” he said, running a wet cloth over her face.
