Black Crown FINAL Kobo Page 10

  *

  There is much to do, and little time to do it. After a much needed sleep, and checking that Anta is still recovering well, I take the scrolls to Allerton so we can get to work.

  The bald man leans over the parchment, holding a magnifying glass; his expression sombre.

  “And you know who the Sihran are?” he asks, not moving from his cramped position.

  “I know they are an ancient tribe, and that they disappeared long ago. Beardsley thought they might still be alive, and he thinks they were buried beneath the Anadi Sands after a great storm.”

  “Buried by accident or on purpose?” Allerton asks, finally turning back to me and meeting my gaze. “Quite an important distinction, I might think.”

  “Well, I… I don’t know. Does it say so in the scrolls?”

  Allerton sits up straight, and places the glass back down on the desk. “It’s going to take some time to translate. I will need to consult my books. Unfortunately, we don’t have much time. Our new camp could be discovered at moment. Yes, we are well hidden, as always, but you are the most wanted woman in all of Aegunlund. Not to mention the exiled prince. I received word that the king has announced the queen’s death and blamed the murder on Prince Casimir.” I draw in a disgusted breath, but can’t say that I am shocked at the king’s despicable actions. “We will have to move fast, my dear. We will translate these scrolls, discover the location of the Ember Stone, and make our way to the Anadi Sands as soon as possible.”

  “How will we navigate the desert?” I ask.

  “You leave that to me,” he replies cryptically. “Now, might I suggest that you train on your craft skills? I realise you can control fire and heal now, but there is still much you can learn. Mistakes begin with complacency, dear Mae.”

  I leave Allerton to the scrolls and his magnifying glass. Outside, the camp is busy. I’m surprised to see Ellen sewing with a group of Borgan women. She seems so at ease with them. They tip their heads back and laugh together, which makes a little of the old envy creep into my heart. I’ve always found it difficult to make friends with a group of girls. I’ve never had much in common with the girls at Halts-Walden. I shake the feelings away and move on. In a separate group, Treowe consults with the camp’s blacksmith. The two of them examine a sword, and nod thoughtfully.

  To practise my powers, I decide to find a quiet spot by the camp wall, next to an overgrown patch of ivy. I square my shoulders and plant my feet a little apart, trying to clear my mind of all the recent events: the wedding, Anta’s near death, Cas coming back, the queen murdered… I close my eyes and push it away. The craft requires discipline, something I’ve never had an abundance of.

  What are the limits of my power? That is something I need to learn. What can I achieve? It takes little concentration to create a small tornado, or a ball of fire, or a small fountain of water pulsing up from the soil. It feels as natural as breathing to me. But I wonder if I can make permanent changes to my environment. Back in Halts-Walden, I used to help our plants thrive by enriching the soil with my craft. What if I can exaggerate that power? I draw my attention to the ivy and lift my hands, imagining the tiny specks of dirt, and the way the goodness of the dirt flows into the plants, helping them to grow. The ivy begins to stretch, its vines elongating and leaves unfolding. A wonderful light feeling washes over me as I direct the vines up the wall of the camp, watching the ivy leaves spread.

  The sound of clapping tears me away from my task, and I whip around to see Cas watching open mouthed, his hands pressed together.

  I shrug. “I might not be able to tie my boot laces, but I can do that.”

  Cas’s eyes linger on my stump. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”

  His voice is so kind, so genuine, that I long to put my arms around him again like I did a few days ago. I will never forget that moment; when I woke and saw his silver eyes gazing at me, as though I was the most interesting wonder in the world.

  “I don’t know about that.” My voice is thick. I have to clear my throat. “I still can’t beat you at chess.”

  He lets out a little laugh, and then his expression darkens. I know the reason behind the tightness of his jaw, because I’ve felt it too. I know what it’s like to feel guilty about a moment of happiness after losing someone you love. “So did you hear?”

  I shake my head. “About what?”

  “I am the murderer,” he says, lifting his arms. “I am Aegunlund’s killer. I murdered my mother.”

  “Cas—,” I begin.

  “I knew it was coming, but still…” he trails off, staring at the ground.

  I take a step towards him. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine…”

  “Yes, you can,” he says. “You’re the one person who knows what it’s like to lose someone like this. I…” He balls his hands into fists and composes himself. “There is much to be done. Allerton is assisting me in contacting allies. My Uncle Wybert—the Duke of Benoth—for one. He could be powerful. Then there is General Alden, a bit of a wet fish, but still an important figure. We need to build an opposing army.”

  “Are you leaving?” I ask, suddenly cold all over, despite the warm sunshine above.

  His eyes shine. “I’m not sure yet. All I’m doing is reaching out to my allies. What comes next, I don’t know.”

  I nod, holding back the burn of tears. I need him. I need him with me. He needs me, too. I can’t bear to think of him facing his revenge alone and hateful. “Before you go, will you help me? I need to build up the strength in my left hand. Will you help me learn some sword skills?”

  Cas’s face brightens for a moment. His expression loses its dark edge. “Of course.”

  *

  Allerton’s sources reveal that the people in Cyne are suspicious of the king. There is unrest amongst the common folk. The people’s beloved queen is dead, and the king is not a comforting figurehead without his son by his side. The days move on as Allerton works on translating the Sihran scrolls. I pass on the king’s journal to Cas. Anything relevant to possible war tactics, he sends as coded messages to his Uncle. I spend my days helping the Borgans collect resources, and learning to control my powers. As the sun sets, I often watch Cas disappear into Allerton’s tent to discuss politics with his spies. After, Cas comes to me, and tells me of the court members who are breaking away from loyalty with the king. Cas has an opportunity to take the throne, and worse, an opportunity to kill his father, which leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

  “This is my opportunity,” he says to me one night, as he paces around my tent like a caged lion. “I do not care a fig for the throne, or the power, but I long for the opportunity to take them both down. After what they did to my mother, they deserve it.” His eyes flash with anger, and I long to talk to him, to tell him that he’s poisoning himself with his quest for vengeance, but I know that it is not the right time. I must choose carefully, otherwise I could lose him forever.

  As promised, Cas teaches me close combat with my left hand. We haven’t talked about the moment we shared when he first found me in the Borgan camp. Every time our eyes meet, I wonder what we have now. Is it friendship? Is it more? It’s clear that he has nothing to do with Ellen anymore. Ellen told him her preference for girls, and Cas—I think—is relieved. I can see that his silly notions of love have gone, just as many of his childish traits have faded. Too much, too soon, in some ways. I worry for him. But I know. I know he will come back. I know that expression, that faraway stare. I know what lies behind his curt words and impatience. It is pain.

  My mornings are given to Allerton and Sasha. We examine Beardsley’s plans, and plot potential routes through the Anadi Sands. Allerton is organising a guide to meet us at Jakani, to take us where the ancient temple might be.

  “The possible location for the hidden Sihran temple is vague. It appears to be far west, deep in the Anadi Sands. But without the knowledge of someone who knows the desert, it is almost impossible to pinpoint a lo
cation,” Allerton warns us daily. “These scrolls tell of a prophesy. But they refer to the Ember Stone as the Immortal Diamond.”

  “What is the prophesy?” I ask.

  Allerton frowns. “It is difficult to understand, I am afraid. But it has everything to do with the final disposal of the Ember Stone, and the pure sacrifice it will take to achieve it.”

  I shudder at the term sacrifice.

  “The immortals might still be alive,” Allerton continues. “And they will not hand over the Ember Stone without a fight. You will have to take it from them.”

  “I know,” I reply. I will have to fight them, and I am afraid. It may be sooner than I think.

  “The Sihrans were, or are, an ancient tribe. They are Aelfen, and that means they have powers just like yours. While you control all of the elements, the Sihrans powers are different. They battle with force, or energy. If you were to battle against one Sihran, the odds would be stacked in your favour. But to battle against many, would be akin to suicide.”

  Allerton’s teachings make my blood run cold. But I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “Beardsley told me all about them and how they worship Dwol. One of the Aelfens imbued the black diamond with Dwol’s power, creating the Ember Stone.”

  Allerton’s eyes twinkle. “Yes, but that’s not the whole story. The Sihrans were devout, that is true, and they were far more peaceful than many of the other Aelfen tribes. They stayed out of tribal war and politics. But then, a prince from Cyne stole the diamond and gave it to the Queen of the Haedalands as a betrothal gift. The Sihrans were incensed with the prince—and with their God—for losing their most prized possession. They became an aggressive tribe. They fought for their lost diamond. They blazed through Aegunlund, fighting anyone and everything, destroying villages. The queen—Queen of Fire they called her, because of her power—called on the Gods to help destroy them, but the Sihrans disappeared with the Ember Stone before the Gods could do anything.”

  “The Gods can be called upon?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Allerton straightens his robes and stares towards the entrance of the tent, his eyes glassy and unfocussed, as though recalling a memory. “They can fight alongside us if they choose to. However, they have not intervened in human affairs for centuries, and they are unlikely to ever again.”

  “Why?”

  Allerton shrugs. “My father told me it was because humans banished magic, that we rid the world of it.”

  “Not quite,” I point out.

  He smiles at me. “No, not quite. They missed one spot, and that spot has flourished over time, like the root of a weed.”

  “Does that mean that the return of magic could bring the return of the Gods?”

  “Possibly,” he answers. “Although, it’s unlikely. Even with you, Mae, there is very little magic in the world at all. Even with the Ember Stone—and our cheap trick amulets—there is very little. It’s the truth, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you have preferred to live in the land of the Ancients with Aelfen magic?” I ask.

  Allerton’s face darkens. “No, not at all. It was a brutal time. Tribes fought constantly. There were terrible battles. Although, the powers would have been interesting to see. There was more variety then. For instance, there would be Aelfens who could only control short blasts of wind. Others could change the weather. You, on the other hand, can do it all. You have the capacity to do anything. You’re the strongest craft-born for generations.”

  I lean back in my chair, struggling to take it all in: the idea of the Sihrans still alive, the thought of the different tribes and different powers amongst the Aelfens thousands of years ago, the thought of Gods appearing… it is all too much. And then, in the middle of all this is me: the little villager girl who is the strongest craft-born for generations. I have one response.

  “Why?”

  Allerton’s reply is barely audible. “Perhaps because we need you to be.”

  *

  The Borgans are making weapons and collecting horses. Families are preparing to move camps once again. This time half are leaving the Waerg Woods for refuge in the southern villages. Many are afraid that their years of hiding in the forbidden forest are over. That’s my fault, and I am sorry. It tears at my heart to think of all these people in danger because of me. But at least I have brought help. Treowe—the stable boy and apprentice blacksmith—helps them forge weapons, and, to my surprise, Ellen has been working hard. Sometimes she even joins in my defence training with Cas. When she does, a little of the old jealousy ignites within. When they touch, I flare with heat, turning moody and snappy. Cas barks orders at me and I end up throwing my dagger to the ground and storming off, holding my stump in one hand, brutally aware of its uselessness. Treowe watches me with placid eyes.

  In the evenings I use magic. I cut and heal my arms. Little slices here and there. Some leave a scar. Some heal perfectly. I don’t tell anyone about it. It’s my own secret. Worse, is the hidden detail that I enjoy that feeling of pain, and then I am shamed by my feelings. Cas comes to me later and he tells me, in a voice lacking the excitement and joy of the boy I used to know, about his growing allies. And then, for the rest of the night, I have nightmares.

  *

  “I see you feinting,” Cas says. “If you want to deflect an opponent. You have to be far sneakier than that. Again.”

  The forest is damp and dismal today. The rain drips from the leaves, wetting my tunic to my body. I am training with Cas, holding a dagger in my left hand. I keep telling Cas that I can’t do it, but he won’t listen. He pushes, and pushes.

  I am at my breaking point.

  “Again,” he insists.

  I stay silent and still. My body seethes with fury.

  He takes a step towards me, his silver eyes flashing. I’m aware of the camp watching us.

  “Do it again, Mae!” he demands through a tight mouth. His forehead creases with frustration.

  “I won’t.”

  He throws down his sword. “Why are you even doing this? You can kill an opponent with your magic. You don’t need this poxy dagger.” He snatches it from me, clutching the blade. I wince as blood trickles down his palm. “What’s the matter with you? Why are you here? You won’t follow my instruction. You don’t even need it. What are you doing?”

  My left hand forms a fist.

  “Hit me then,” he says. “I know you want to.”

  Instead I knock the dagger from his hand and stride away, heading straight for my tent, ignoring the blank faces watching me. I’m pacing around the tent when Cas comes in.

  “What do you want?” I demand.

  He lifts a finger to point at me and opens his mouth before seemingly giving up and walking back out. Then he returns again, drops the front flap of my tent and comes so close to me that I feel the heat of his anger emanating from him.

  “Do you pity me?” he says. “Is that it? Are you trying to keep me busy? To stop me dwelling over my poor Mummy’s death? Are you patronising me by commanding me to teach you? I am a prince, Mae. I shouldn’t be teaching reluctant peasant girls to fight when they don’t even want to. What is it you want from me? Because I’m sick of it. I’m sick of your bloody attitude. What do you want?”

  “I want to be normal again,” I blurt out. “I want to be able to fight like a normal person, instead of using all this magic inside me. I want to be as strong as Sasha, to not have people stare and pity me when I spill my soup. I want to feel whole again. A whole person, not some cripple with a missing hand. I want you to show me how to be like that because you’re the only person I trust to make me feel that way.”

  The silence is a thick cloak. It’s like breathing in smog. Cas is so still I can’t stop staring at the rise and fall of his chest. He smells like the rain. We both do. We’re rain and forest. We’re made of the same stuff now, altered by what we lack, not what we have. We’re two frayed ropes desperately knotting together for strength.

  Eventually
he whispers. “I can make you feel whole.” And he kisses me.

  Chapter Twelve – The Queen of Hope

  And with that kiss the world changes. The days blur along, as we wait for sundown, and wait for a chance to be together; to hold and kiss each other. During the day, Cas continues to teach me defence with a dagger. The difference is, now we understand each other. Cas knows he needs the distraction from his grief. I know that I need to learn dexterity if I am to feel human again. But what works far better than strengthening my left arm, is the desire Cas holds for me. Desire I never thought would ever be directed at a girl like me.

  At night, we kiss, and talk, and laugh over how stupid we have been to wait this long. One night, we sit together in my tent, and he explains in his own words how his feelings have developed over time. He spills words that make me glow with comfort and pride. His thumb traces a line up and down my forearm, sending shivers through my body.

  “I did not love you right away, Mae Waylander, oh no. But I was curious. ‘Who is this girl and why is she so surly and strange?’ I thought. Those thoughts continued long after your father died, but I was impressed with how you held yourself during that time. You are strong with your vulnerability, able to carry on when others would crumble, yet somehow yielding to your emotions. You cared for me even when lost with the thought of revenge. You are softer than you think you are.

  “And then, to me you were something wild and free, ungoverned, untamed, a creature of the forest. Your affection for Anta remained strong and loyal always, and your tenacious bravery in the face of danger never faltered. Your need to survive was exciting to me. During our time in the forest, you became closer to me than anyone outside my family ever had. We knew each other. Even back at the palace—and yes—even when betrothed to Ellen, I thought of you. I thought of the things we could talk about over chess. I thought of what food I could bring to your chambers. When you were hurt, I was sick. Physically sick. I would not leave you. I could not abide the thought of never speaking to you again.