The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3)

The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars #3) Page 49

She heaved herself up and knelt on the bed, offering him her hands. “I knew Frater Agius could not be wrong, to speak so well of you.”

He dared not clasp her hands in his. It would only waken the feelings he struggled to control. “Agius spoke well of me?” That Agius had thought of him at all astonished him.

“He praised you. So I always held his praise for you in my heart, he whom God allowed a martyr’s death. Here.” She patted the bed beside her. “Though I am the vessel through which God has sent a holy vision, do not be afraid to lie next to me. I know your heart is pure.”

She arranged herself so modestly on her side of the bed that he knew what she meant him to endure, although perhaps it did not seem like endurance to her. But he must do what would please her if he meant to teach her to trust him—and to love him. Wincing, he lay down stiffly on his back and closed his eyes.

Her breathing slowed, gentled, and she slept. He ached too much to sleep, yet he dared not toss and turn. He dared not rise from the bed to pace, for fear of waking her. If he woke her, so close beside him, and she opened her eyes to see him there, limbs brushing, fingers caught in unwitting embrace, lips touching—

Madness lay that way, thinking on in this fashion. He did not know what to do, could not do anything but breathe, in and out, in and out. A plank creaked in the next chamber. Mice skittered in the walls, and he could almost taste the patience of a spider which, having spun out its final filament in one upper corner of the chamber, settled down to wait for its first victim. He had forgotten about the bread. Now, cooling, its mellow scent permeated the room and tickled his nose. Tallia shifted on the bed, murmuring in her sleep. Her fingers brushed his.

He could not bear it.

He slid off the bed and lay down on the floor. The hard wood gave him more welcome than the luxurious softness of the feather bed, and here, with his head pillowed on his arms, he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

He arrived back at Rikin fjord first of all the sons of Bloodheart—those who survived Gent—and Rikin’s OldMother welcomed him without surprise.

“Fifth Son of the Fifth Litter.” An OldMother never forgets the smell of each individual blind, seeking pupa that bursts from her nests. But she will stand aside once the battle is joined, as all OldMothers do. She does not care which of her sons leads Rikin’s warband now that Bloodheart is dead, only that the strongest among them succeeds. Yet the WiseMothers know that the greatest strength lies in wisdom.

Now he waits in the shield of the Lightfell Waterfall whose ice-cold water pours down the jagged cliff face into the deep blue waters of the fjord, where stillness triumphs over movement. He waits, watching six ships round the far point and close in on the beach. Beyond them in the deepest central waters a tail flips, slaps, vanishes. The merfolk are out; they have the magic to smell blood not yet spilled, and now they gather, waiting to feed. Eighteen ships have so far returned from Gent and the southlands. Tonight when the midnight sun sinks to her low ebb, OldMother will begin the dance.

Has he built enough traps? Are his preparations adequate?

That is the weakness of his brothers: They think strength and ferocity are everything. He knows better.

He tucks the little wooden chest that he dug out from the base of the fall tight under his elbow and slips out from the ledge. Water sprays him and slides off his skin to fall onto moss and moist rock as he picks his way up the ladder rocks to the top of the cliff. There the priest waits, anxious. He wails out loud when he sees the box.

“I would have found it eventually,” Fifth Son says, but not because he wishes to gloat. He merely states the truth. Gloating is a waste of time. He does not open the little casket. He doesn’t need to. They both know what lies inside, nestled in spells and downy feathers. “You have grown lazy, old one. Your magic cannot triumph over cunning.”

“What do you want?” wails the priest. “Do you want the power of illusion, that Bloodheart stole from me? Your heart hidden in the fjall to protect you from death in battle?”

“My heart will stay where it is. Nor do I want your illusions. I want immunity.”

“From death?” squeaks the priest.

“From your magic. And from the magic of the Soft Ones. For myself and the army I mean to build. Once I have that, I can do the rest.”

“Impossible!” says the priest emphatically.

“For you working alone, perhaps.” The priests keep their arcane studies a mystery even from the OldMothers, such as they can. “But there are others like you. In concert, you can surely work a magic that has a practical use. And once I triumph, you can share in the booty.”