child’s wish that ended her days. I’d never truly known though. I just woke up one morning and she didn’t.
My first victim…
Sighing, I rubbed at the incessant throbbing in my head. My palm burned where I held the ring but it felt good compared to the rest of me. It felt real good, and the notion hit me that I should throw it away—now. I knew better than to touch a stone that came from the Shinree mines.
Why then was I recklessly and deliberately resting one against my skin? I was allowing the garnet’s pulsing energy to dance across my nerves and it was just plain stupid.
Worse, I didn’t care. I had no desire to squash the shiver of anticipation growing inside me. There was a particular kind of pleasure that came from letting it build, to teetering so close to satisfaction you could taste it.
What’s one more spell? The damage is already done.
My hands started shaking. My pulse quickened. Knots of anticipation formed in my stomach. They burrowed in, and the urgency grew.
It can’t hurt anything. There’s no one out here.
I stopped before. I can stop again.
I can handle it.
Just one more...
I closed my eyes and let go. Power fell into me. Sweeping hot beneath my skin, it soared through my body and the pain in my head disappeared. The weariness faded. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I wasn’t angry. Even the rancid taste of swamp was gone from my mouth. Magic ran with the blood in my veins and I felt wonderful.
I smiled and breathed deep, savoring the sensations. Then I opened my eyes and lost the smile; shimmering dark and red, the garnet was undulating as if it were fluid.
The stone looked like blood.
Disgusted, I closed my hand over the ring. I squeezed until the metal prongs dug in. I watched the blood drip out from between my fingers and thought,
Aylagar
.
That’s all it took. That’s all it ever took to make her face emerge like a ghost in my mind, dark, beautiful and fierce. Next, was the sting of how she trusted me and I betrayed her. I topped that off with the feel of her dead body in my arms, withered, gray and unbelievably cold. The entire battlefield was dead and cold. The only warmth to be had was emanating from the pulsing stones of the crown.
I hated remembering it. But guilt and pain were the only effective way to suffocate the cravings. And when the guilt became too much, I suffocated that with wine.
At least I used to. I had the sinking feeling that, soon, neither would do the job.
“What’s wrong, witch?” Taren’s question startled me. “Feeling poorly?”
I tossed the ring on the ground. Slogging through the muck, in four strides I was standing over her, bending down, grabbing a handful of her shirt and drawing back my fist. The urge to cast pain on Taren Roe like she’d never felt before—to make her spit out the truth until she begged to die—was overwhelming.
But her eyes were red again. And the man’s voice was in her, saying, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels to kill your Queen…your lover,” with so much persuasion, that I hesitated. My arm dropped. My grip eased on her shirt. Out of nowhere my anger faded. “Tell me,” he said again. And I understood.
“You have another stone.”
Satisfaction slithered across Taren’s muddy face. “There’s no point in resisting. The more I speak the more compelled you are to answer.”
“Where is it?” I started searching her pockets. “Where’s the stone?”
“Inside her,” he whispered. “Would you like to know how much coin it takes for a Kaelish tramp to let you cut into her skin?”
Revolted, I shoved Taren’s body away. “What do you want from me?”
“At the moment? Conversation.”
“Buy me a mug of ale the next time you’re at the Wounded Owl and we’ll talk.”
“Did you really think using the Crown of Stones would bring peace of any kind?”
“Go to hell.”
“How did it feel to be the sole survivor on a field of thousands, surrounded by all those sightless, staring eyes, all
My first victim…
Sighing, I rubbed at the incessant throbbing in my head. My palm burned where I held the ring but it felt good compared to the rest of me. It felt real good, and the notion hit me that I should throw it away—now. I knew better than to touch a stone that came from the Shinree mines.
Why then was I recklessly and deliberately resting one against my skin? I was allowing the garnet’s pulsing energy to dance across my nerves and it was just plain stupid.
Worse, I didn’t care. I had no desire to squash the shiver of anticipation growing inside me. There was a particular kind of pleasure that came from letting it build, to teetering so close to satisfaction you could taste it.
What’s one more spell? The damage is already done.
My hands started shaking. My pulse quickened. Knots of anticipation formed in my stomach. They burrowed in, and the urgency grew.
It can’t hurt anything. There’s no one out here.
I stopped before. I can stop again.
I can handle it.
Just one more...
I closed my eyes and let go. Power fell into me. Sweeping hot beneath my skin, it soared through my body and the pain in my head disappeared. The weariness faded. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I wasn’t angry. Even the rancid taste of swamp was gone from my mouth. Magic ran with the blood in my veins and I felt wonderful.
I smiled and breathed deep, savoring the sensations. Then I opened my eyes and lost the smile; shimmering dark and red, the garnet was undulating as if it were fluid.
The stone looked like blood.
Disgusted, I closed my hand over the ring. I squeezed until the metal prongs dug in. I watched the blood drip out from between my fingers and thought,
Aylagar
.
That’s all it took. That’s all it ever took to make her face emerge like a ghost in my mind, dark, beautiful and fierce. Next, was the sting of how she trusted me and I betrayed her. I topped that off with the feel of her dead body in my arms, withered, gray and unbelievably cold. The entire battlefield was dead and cold. The only warmth to be had was emanating from the pulsing stones of the crown.
I hated remembering it. But guilt and pain were the only effective way to suffocate the cravings. And when the guilt became too much, I suffocated that with wine.
At least I used to. I had the sinking feeling that, soon, neither would do the job.
“What’s wrong, witch?” Taren’s question startled me. “Feeling poorly?”
I tossed the ring on the ground. Slogging through the muck, in four strides I was standing over her, bending down, grabbing a handful of her shirt and drawing back my fist. The urge to cast pain on Taren Roe like she’d never felt before—to make her spit out the truth until she begged to die—was overwhelming.
But her eyes were red again. And the man’s voice was in her, saying, “Tell me. Tell me how it feels to kill your Queen…your lover,” with so much persuasion, that I hesitated. My arm dropped. My grip eased on her shirt. Out of nowhere my anger faded. “Tell me,” he said again. And I understood.
“You have another stone.”
Satisfaction slithered across Taren’s muddy face. “There’s no point in resisting. The more I speak the more compelled you are to answer.”
“Where is it?” I started searching her pockets. “Where’s the stone?”
“Inside her,” he whispered. “Would you like to know how much coin it takes for a Kaelish tramp to let you cut into her skin?”
Revolted, I shoved Taren’s body away. “What do you want from me?”
“At the moment? Conversation.”
“Buy me a mug of ale the next time you’re at the Wounded Owl and we’ll talk.”
“Did you really think using the Crown of Stones would bring peace of any kind?”
“Go to hell.”
“How did it feel to be the sole survivor on a field of thousands, surrounded by all those sightless, staring eyes, all
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