Page 70 of Heart of the Shadow King

“Yes. But not the right sort. This isoldmagic.” He says it with scorn as though age were a sin. “Witch magic.”

I look at him, uncomprehending. Written magic is all the same to my eye.

The mage continues, disgust limning each word. “It’s thoseibrildians, you see. They work a bastardized form of spellcraft, somewhere between fae and human, taking bits and pieces from both and corrupting all. The impurity is sickening. But I cannot deny the potency of the spell.”

“This is a spell?” I wave a hand to indicate the shining rune, which appears again with Ilsevel’s exhale only to vanish on her inhale. “What does it mean?”

“Damned if I know,” the mage answers with certain sincerity. It very well might damn him, after all, if he were to know too much about forbidden magic. “All I can tell you is that it’s broken. See here?” He points to the upper edge of the rune as it appears. It’s not brilliant like the rest, but rather dark against her skin as though burned. “It will disintegrate once Mage Yalanue’s stasis spell wears off. Then . . .” He shrugs.

“Then what?”

“She dies. Maybe? As I said, I know nothing of rune magic, only enough to recognize it.”

“Who can help her?”

“A fully trained Miphato might. But . . .”

“What?”

Reluctance is etched deep in the lines of his young face. But he looks at the princess again, so lovely as she lies there wounded, broken. Her complexion is paled to sickly gray, and sweat beads her skin, wet strands of hair sticking to her forehead and neck. I fight the urge to pull the blanket back up over her, shielding her feminine form from a gaze that is not quite disinterested. Instead, I fold my arms and grunt, drawing the young mage’s eyes sharply up to mine.

“Oh, well, you’ll need a witch,” he says, stumbling a little to answer my question. “This is witch magic and will require witchery if anything’s to be done.”

“And where might I find a witch?”

“Not here.” The man snorts. “No witches have ever been welcomed within these walls. Save for a burning or two.”

“Where?” I repeat, my voice dropping to a dangerous rumble.

The mage pales and backs up a step. “Witches were outlawed in Gavaria a hundred years ago, but . . . but they say there’s one. At Beldroth. Sheltered by the king.” He puts up both hands as though in defense. “I’m not saying I know anything for sure! It’s just a rumor I’ve heard. Nothing more.”

I turn my attention from the sputtering man back to her. Back to the princess, whose life I once intended to join with mine in holy bonds. Whose life fate has now placed in my hands. Is this the provision from the gods for which I have so earnestly prayed? Is this the leverage I have needed all along to save my people? Ilsevel Cyhorn might yet prove my ally . . . albeit in a manner I never expected.

“Can you make her ready for travel?”

The mage blinks up at me. “She has a gut wound and a curse, either of which will kill her if the stasis spell is compromised.”

“And?”

“And . . . we might be able to bolster the spell. If there is magic to spare.” He twists the collar of his robe uncomfortably. “Where are you taking her?”

“To Beldroth. We leave at once.”

Then we shall see what price Larongar is willing to pay for the life of his favorite daughter.

29

FARAINE

I do not wish to come out ofjor.

To come out would mean to face what I have done. To feel all those lives fighting against the pulse of power I sent into them, resisting the stone I gave. Poisoned though they were, they lived. They lived and, like all living things, struggled to go on living. Every man, woman and . . . yes, every child. None enteredva-jorwillingly.

But I sent them to the stone. More easily than should have been possible. One might argue I was born to it. Born to channel the raw energies of this world, to mold reality into a shape of my own choosing.

I do not want to remember. I do not want to feel what it is like to be such a person, a being of such unnatural scope. I cannot bear to contemplate this new understanding of my own existence. Thus, I remain injor.Deeply wrapped in layer upon layer of safe, enveloping crystal. I do not know if I will ever come out again.

Voices come and go. I hear them. Sometimes, I recognize them. Sometimes, I don’t. They speak mostly in troldish, and I cannot be bothered to discern what few words I might understand. None of it has anything to do with me. Every so often, I open my eyes, peer up through crystal to those faces bowed over me. Hael is almost always there. There’s a spark in her eye which hasn’t been present for some time, an intensity of purpose thrumming in her soul. It vibrates against the surface of myjorbut cannot touch me inside. Nothing can.

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