The lonesome crown, p.78
The Lonesome Crown, page 78
“Father?” Tala whispered. Her legs and whole body were shaking as she leaned into Nail for support. “Is that my father standing with Jovan?” Her hand gripped his tightly.
“I do not know what your father looks like,” Nail said.
But there was a bearded man standing near Tala’s older brother. Even with the gray-shot beard, the man did look like a thinner, older version of Jovan. The older man and Jovan stood near Leif and Glade Chaparral. None of them had noticed the entrance of Seita or anyone else from the Slaver’s Inn, so fixated were they on Val-Draekin and his speech. None of them had noticed but for Glade Chaparral, that is. Glade glared fixedly across the torchlit expanse at Tala.
“I can’t believe my father lives,” Tala whispered, completely unaware of Glade’s intent gaze. Her fingers squeezed Nail’s even tighter now. “ ’Tis either my father or a wraith that I see.”
It wasn’t a wraith, Nail was certain of that. But he wasn’t sure it was Tala’s father, either. Borden Bronachell had died five years ago in Wyn Darrè. But the look in Tala’s eyes! Whoever the bearded man was, it seemed that by simply stepping into the open space under the Atonement Tree, Seita had joined together many long-lost relationships.
But as Cromm had said, this was no time for happy reunions.
Val-Draekin was looking right at Nail. In fact, everyone was.
“And now,” Val-Draekin said, “we come to the long-awaited moment when Laijon returned shall reveal himself to the Five Isles and usher in Fiery Absolution!”
Silence followed.
A silence so thick Nail almost couldn’t see. Everything went blurry. And he suddenly couldn’t breathe, couldn’t squeeze the air past the knot in his throat. The marks on his body burned with pain.
Val-Draekin pointed to the Silver Throne, shouting for all to hear, “Will the real heir of Laijon and Raijael step forward and sit the Silver Throne and claim his place at Fiery Absolution?”
Nail’s gaze traveled across the grove to Ava Shay, sitting on the back of the wagon. It must be sad, always belonging to people, she had once said. But what will she think now? What will Ava Shay think when she sees that I am no slave, that I am the youngest son of Aevrett Raijael, that I am Aeros’ younger brother, that I am the real Angel Prince, that I am Laijon returned? What will she think of me then?
Val-Draekin shouted once again, “Will the real heir of Raijael step forward?”
Cromm Cru’x placed the black angel stone in Nail’s hand. “It is time, marked one.” The oghul seized Nail by the arm and pulled him from Tala’s grasp.
Nail went with him.
“Not you.” Hawkwood grasped Nail by the shoulder and pulled him back. “Not you, Nail. Not you.”
“What?” Nail turned, confused.
Cromm growled, thunder in his throat. His eyes were seething with fury, fists balled. “You dare stop Cromm from escorting the marked one to Fiery Absolution?”
Seita stepped from behind Hawkwood. “You may not like what is happening, Nail, but what happens today is the best for everyone and the future of the Five Isles.”
“But Cromm says I have the marks. Hawkwood told me that I was—”
“I only told you what people would say you were,” Hawkwood cut him off. “Not what you really were.”
“What am I, then?” Nail asked.
“Nothing,” Hawkwood said.
“He is the marked one!” Cromm roared. “And Cromm shall escort him to the Silver Throne!”
“He is right.” Nail’s mind was spinning. “I read Shawcroft’s note. I have the marks. The mark of the cross, The mark of the beast. The mark of the slave.”
“You were never truly a slave,” Hawkwood said.
“But I’ve been branded. I can feel the burn marks as we speak.”
“Will the real heir of Raijael step forward?” Val-Draekin shouted a third time.
Everyone was still looking at Nail. But for some reason, he felt so small under their withering stares. “I’ve been branded,” he said.
“Perhaps so.” Seita moved around Hawkwood and toward Nail. “But there is one here among us who has been a slave.”
Before Nail knew what the Vallè maiden was doing, Seita deftly swept the black angel stone from his grasp and strode across the bloody field.
Her theft of the stone happened so fast it left Nail stunned.
“What is this?” Cromm glared at Hawkwood. “What is this strange Vallè doing with Cromm’s stone?”
Seita marched past Val-Draekin and the Silver Throne and knelt before Stefan Wayland and the small, barefooted oghul clad in dirty rags.
“Seita,” Stefan said.
“Aye, it is me.” The Vallè handed him the black stone. “I have missed you.”
Stefan cupped the stone in his hands, silver eyes curious and gleaming. “Blackest Heart,” he whispered.
“It is.” Seita stood, her delicate hands on both of Stefan’s shoulders. “Since the real heir of Raijael has not stepped forward, it is up to you to show us, Stefan Wayland. For only the pure in heart can show us who is Laijon returned. I have foreseen it. And you shall gift the great One and Only the angel stone in your hand. Then you shall gift Laijon the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels. And then you shall escort our Lord to the Silver Throne. For only the true Laijon returned can usher in Fiery Absolution.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Stefan said.
“We work together,” the mousy oghul next to Stefan said. “Remember Mud promised his mother he would escort the marked one. Now is Mud’s chance.”
“Can I take Mud with me?” Stefan asked.
“We would have it no other way,” Val-Draekin answered. “For Mud Undr’Fut is the fulfillment of Hragna’Ar prophecy.”
“As you search the crowd,” Seita said looking from Stefan to Mud, “remember, Laijon is the least of us.”
The oghul’s eyes immediately began scanning the throng surrounding them.
Cromm was enraged. “Do these mad Vallè give the scrawny oghul the task that was meant for Cromm?” He swept past Nail and stomped toward Stefan, bellowing, “Do the Vallè steal Cromm’s destiny? That is my black rock! You must give it back!”
Val-Draekin clicked his tongue twice. The black saber-toothed lion behind Mud and Stefan stepped forward with a cool saunter of muscle and might, imposing itself between Cromm and the black stone in Stefan’s hand. Cromm slowed, breathing heavily, still moving toward Stefan. Bronwyn had her bow out, arrow aimed at the cat. The lion loosed a deep-throated roar, long silver fangs gleaming in the torchlight, silver eyes planted on Cromm. The oghul stopped his advance. Bronwyn’s arrow remained pointed at the large cat.
“I wouldn’t,” Seita called out to the Wyn Darrè girl. There was a black dagger in the Vallè maiden’s grip, ready to throw. Val-Draekin had two black daggers in hand.
“I can’t move,” Cromm said.
“Me either.” Bronwyn lowered her bow.
Nail suddenly found that his legs were locked in place too. He felt something stirring in the air above, some foul sorcery.
“The way is yours.” Seita turned to Stefan and Mud. “No harm shall come to you now.”
Every eye was on the odd pair. Stefan held the black angel stone out before him, cupped in both hands as he stepped forward and scanned the massive armies, silver eyes passing over Cromm, moving past Tala and Hawkwood, lingering on Nail and Tala for but a moment. Then he walked toward Liz Hen Neville and Dokie Liddle, the small oghul on his heels. He reached Liz Hen, the stone held out before him still.
“I ain’t takin’ it,” Liz Hen said, a look of pure bewilderment on her face. “Besides, my feet won’t move.”
“I was hoping Beer Mug was with you,” Stefan said.
“Are you tellin’ me you can see with them eyes?” Liz Hen asked.
“What do you mean?” There was confusion on Stefan’s face now.
“Beer Mug ain’t here.” Dokie looked sad to see Stefan, not joyful at all.
Nail was overcome with sadness too. He didn’t know if it was really even his friend. There were strange silver streaks running in rivulets under Stefan’s pale skin, and his eyes were like pools of liquid silver. They matched the eyes of the saber-toothed lion in their flat luminosity. And most disturbing of all, they were eyes akin to the skull-faced knights Nail had seen in Wroclaw. The Last Demon Lords, Val-Draekin had called them. And now Val-Draekin was conducting Fiery Absolution. And I am nothing.
Stefan moved away from Liz Hen and Dokie, Mud right behind him. Stefan’s silver eyes lingered but a moment on the hooded form of Lawri Le Graven. He drifted through the crowd glancing at Glade and Leif Chaparral, spending a moment studying the pain-racked faces of Jovan Bronachell and the bearded man Tala had called Father.
Stefan looked toward the armies of Aeros Raijael with some interest now, walking forward, studying Enna Spades, studying Hammerfiss, curious silver orbs scanning the armies behind the two mounted fighters.
Then Stefan and Mud stepped toward the wagon carrying Ava Shay, the oghul’s feet treading lightly and carefully. Stefan’s gaze was on Bronwyn Allen’s brother, Mancellor, now. Then he walked away from the Wyn Darrè man, eyes bouncing between Ironcloud and Jenko Bruk before focusing on Ava Shay.
Then he stopped.
A moment passed, and Nail wondered if his silver-eyed friend wasn’t going to hand the black angel stone to Ava.
Then Stefan turned back to Spades and Hammerfiss. Both he and Mud moved as one, stepping purposefully toward the two Sør Sevier warriors. Stefan kept the black stone cupped in his hand, holding it up now at eye level, as if letting it guide his every move. Fierce-eyed, both Spades and Hammerfiss watched Stefan and the oghul approach.
Then they both moved their mounts aside as Stefan and Mud stepped between them toward a third horse bearing a thin, lithesome blond girl. She wore a stained white shift tied with a blue string and a dirty blue bonnet on her head. The innocent-looking girl sat the saddle before a pale young man in simple leather armor. The boy was also blond and seemed to be about Nail’s own age. He had a familiar look. It was the deformed, dough-faced boy from Savon. Tala’s cousin. Lawri’s brother.
“Lindholf,” Tala muttered as Stefan held the black angel stone up before the malformed boy. It looked like she wanted to run to her cousin, but she couldn’t. Nail still couldn’t move his own legs. He didn’t even know if blood still flowed in his veins, so numb he was. “Lindholf,” Tala muttered again softly.
Lindholf just stared at the offered stone, scared.
The blond girl on the saddle before him lifted her leg and slipped from the horse, landing lightly in the grass. She took the black angel stone from Stefan, holding it up to Lindholf. “I think he means it for you.”
“You should not have touched it, Leisel.” Lindholf dismounted, real fear in his voice as he stared down at the stone in the girl’s hand. “It could still be cursed.”
“Fear not, Lindholf Le Graven!” Val-Draekin called out. “The black stone is no longer cursed, for I witnessed Roguemoore lay flesh to it in the Sky Loch mines!”
Lindholf took the stone from Leisel. “It is the real angel stone,” he said, wonder in his eyes.
Val-Draekin called out again, to Mud this time. “Bring the marked one forth!”
The small oghul stared at Lindholf proudly. “Like Mud’s mother once said, you are the least of us.” Then he latched onto Lindholf’s arm and led him back between Spades’ and Hammerfiss’ horses toward the Silver Throne. Stefan and Leisel followed.
“He has a burned face,” Cromm grumbled, looking back at Nail almost accusingly. Nail recalled the oghul wanting to burn his face to better fulfill the prophecy. Can this boy, Lindholf, really be Laijon returned? If he is Tala’s cousin, then he is not the blood of Aevrett Raijael. It made scant sense to Nail.
I am the blood of Aevrett Raijael! He felt an urge to step forward, to claim his rightful place. But there was some unseen weight pressing down upon him now, some dark entity in the blackness above that held him rooted in place. He could feel it up there, circling. In fact, nobody, not even one knight in the hundreds of thousands gathered around the Hallowed Grove, had so much as moved since Seita had snatched the black stone from his hand.
Now everyone watched as Mud guided Lindholf to the Silver Throne. Mud began picking up all the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels along the way—Blackest Heart, Ethic Shroud, Forgetting Moon, Afflicted Fire, lastly placing Lonesome Crown atop his head. He then beckoned Lindholf to sit the Silver Throne. Lindholf sat. Mud then handed Lindholf all the weapons. They all rested awkwardly on the starlted boy’s lap. Val-Draekin then handed him a leather pouch. Lindholf opened the pouch and out spilled the remaining angel stones onto his lap too: red, green, blue, and white.
“The King of Slaves!” Val-Draekin stepped back and shouted. “Laijon returned!”
His voice carried like the booming of a hammered anvil across the grove, the very words almost shaking the ground. A deep silence fell over everyone, a silence so deep Nail could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his chest, a silence so deep he could hear the whispers of disappointment and betrayal in his own soul. I helped find those weapons! This imposter, Lindholf, did not!
In fact, Lindholf Le Graven looked silly under that horned helm, all the weapons and stones balanced on his lap like so much junk, like so many useless items. The white surfaces of the sword and shield seemed to catch every flicker of torchlight and send it leaping back outward, nearly blinding Nail. Same with the curious curved horns on Lonesome Crown. And the angel stones glowed with a light of their own.
And Nail wanted to touch Forgetting Moon again so desperately it hurt. It should be me on the Silver Throne! I am the Heir of Raijael! Yes, he wanted the battle-ax, but there was something holding him back, holding him from a destiny that had been stolen. This is all so wrong! He could feel it, the wrongness and evil of it all.
“We are not yet done,” Val Draekin announced, looking back toward Nail.
And Nail felt his heart again beat faster, the scars on his body flare with pain.
“Come.” Val-Draekin beckoned.
Nail still could not move. He looked at Tala. She stood stiff and still too, eyes wide in fright. Something was holding them down.
Lawri Le Graven brushed by them then, stepping gently across the grass, face hooded in shadow. She walked straight toward the Silver Throne, the bottom hem of her cloak brushing the grass at her feet.
“Come.” Val-Draekin beckoned her forward. “Come and help your twin brother usher in Absolution, Lawri Le Graven. Fight in the coming battle with thine own hand.”
Once Lawri stood before the Silver Throne, she reached up and shed the hood of her cloak with both hands—one a hand of flesh and blood, the other naught but a silver gauntlet. Her pale face stood out stark and white in the light of the five weapons and angel stones, her eyes a hazy shade of green.
“Dugal.” Val-Draekin beckoned one of the Bloodwood assassins forward.
The dark-eyed Vallè slid from his Bloodeye steed. He took the reins of the white stallion in one hand and walked the tall beast toward Lindholf, a copper flask in his other hand. He handed the flask to Lindholf. “ ’Tis Blood of the Dragon, and it will summon fiery beasts of the underworld at your command. Drink.”
Lindholf stood and took the flask and drank, then handed it back. “You’ve no Shroud of the Vallè?”
Val-Draekin pulled a small pouch from the folds of his leather armor, a pouch Nail recognized. Shroud of the Vallè! Nail had seen Val-Draekin create fire many times with the white powder he carried in that pouch. He opened the pouch and poured some of the white powder into Lindholf’s hand. The boy snorted it up his nose, eyes widening in pleasure.
“The horse is yours too,” the Vallè named Dugal said, handing the reins to Lindholf. “Its name is Spirit.”
Val-Draekin faced Lawri. “Hold out your hand,” he said to the girl. She stretched the silver gauntlet forth. “No,” Val-Draekin said. “Your real hand.”
Lawri did as asked, holding out her good hand.
Val-Draekin poured some of the white powder into the girl’s outstretched hand, then placed the pouch back into the folds of his leather armor.
“Now toss the powder as high into the air as you can,” Val-Draekin said. “And when the white cloud forms above you, with the gauntlet snap your fingers.”
“Snap my fingers?” Lawri questioned.
“You know you can do it,” Val-Draekin said. “Only you can usher in Fiery Absolution this way.”
Lawri Le Graven tossed the handful of Shroud of the Vallè as high into the air as she could. A hazy billow of white erupted above her, floating momentarily, tendrils wandering higher in the breeze.
Then she lifted the gauntlet and snapped her fingers.
Simple as that.
Fire exploded from the tips of Lawri’s silver-scaled fingers, enveloping the drifting Shroud of the Vallè in a flash of orange light and flame. The tree limbs some thirty feet above her instantly ignited, roaring fire racing from branch to branch faster than the eye could see, torrents of fire consuming the fabled leaves of never-fading green. Nail was instantly struck by an astonishing gale of ripping heat that seemed to stretch his skin.
The sudden thunder of rushing and billowing fire and the screams of horror pierced the air. The Hallowed Grove was instantly naught but blinding flame, panic, and chaos, people crouching, hands clenched over their ears.
The spell was broken. Nail grabbed Tala by the hand and ran. Everyone was running. Hundreds of thousands ran in a savage and frenzied retreat from the towering inferno that used to be the Atonement Tree. Hundreds of thousands ran from a five-hundred-foot pillar of fire stretching into the heavens. Flames chased the armies of Jovan Bronachell. Flames chased the armies of Aeros Raijael. And they all fled from it. They fled on foot. They fled on horseback. And they fled in terror.
Val-Draekin’s army of oghuls and Vallè chased them, wicked weapons of both rust and shine flashing in the firelight, striking down any human in their way with a bloody ferocity never before seen in battle.
