tether. He could see no solution. If only there was a way for his wisdom to survive his death, some method by which he could continue to advise his son-and to command him, should it come to that
… He thought perhaps I knew a way to help. I considered the problem from all angles, and eventually I found the answer.”
Hazoth grinned. “Juring’s body was fragile, like all human flesh. It would perish and decay. His mind, however, could live on, through cunning applications of magics known only to me. It needed something to hold it, however-his mortal brains would rot away, so his consciousness had to be imbued into a vessel that time could not corrode… something of gold, which unlike other metals does not rust or tarnish or turn to verdigris. Gold has other qualities that make it ideal for such an enchantment as well-but you would not understand if I listed them. The object in question must also be something that his son would not like to part with. The crown was the obvious choice.
“Juring wanted the crown to speak with his voice, even after his death, and I made it so. Every time the son placed the crown on his head, he heard his father’s voice whispering in his ear. He could no longer enjoy his carousing and his ruinous wagers. When he consorted with low company or dealt poorly with his subjects, he was plagued by terrible headaches and by a need to atone. He could only ever be at rest when he was ruling the city with the judicious pragmatism of his father, and so he grew to be a very capable Burgrave. When he grew old, he worried very much what would become of the city under his own son, who was capricious and cruel. But the crown served Juring’s grandson well, and his great-grandson, and so on.”
Hazoth shrugged. “Even I, however, have difficulty understanding how magic changes over time. It is an unpredictable force even in the short term, and I did not know that the enchantment on the crown would only grow stronger with every passing year. The soul in the crown maintained Juring’s brilliance, but its hold on those who wore it made them weaker. The brain is like a muscle of the body. If it does not get proper exercise, it atrophies and eventually dies. Each successive Burgrave was a bigger fool than his father had been. Juring, inside the crown, had to exert more and more control over them, and more and more often had to block out their own misbegotten thoughts and replace them with his own. His character, his intelligence, was imposed on them more frequently, and they suffered for it. Now they can barely speak or count on their fingers without his consultations.” The sneer on the sorcerer’s face showed how little pity he had for the House of Tarness.
“For a very long time there has been only one Burgrave in this city, and that has been Juring Tarness. It is an unnatural situation, and one some people would like to see changed. Juring was my good friend, and I have always been pleased that he, like myself, survived when so many of our contemporaries grew old and died. But now, perhaps, it is time for new blood to rule this place.”
“You betrayed him,” Malden said, forgetting himself.
Hazoth seemed not to notice this rudeness. “You speak of loyalty? The man I knew has been corrupted by eight hundred years of stealing someone else’s body. He was never meant to live that long. No man was meant to live in that fashion. The enchantment I placed on that crown was meant to last for one generation only. Say instead I am fixing a mistake I made when I was young and foolish.”
Malden stared at the sorcerer. He could scarcely credit what he’d heard.
Yet… the crown had spoken to him. And he did not doubt it had used Juring Tarness’s voice when it did so.
It must be as Hazoth had described. And yet, that meant He was not allowed to finish his thought.
“I think the crown will remain here, with me,” Hazoth said. “I considered letting you have it. Letting you take it and go free-just to see what would happen. I have a theory, you see. I have a theory that the blood of the Tarness line doesn’t matter. That Juring could control anyone who wore the crown. And I am certain you lack the power of will necessary to resist its entreaties. It would convince you somehow to place it on your own head eventually. I wondered if Juring could take some mortal clay-even such a pitiful specimen as yourself-and over time mold it into the stuff of a great leader. I do believe he could. In a span of a few years, I think, you might become king of Skrae.”
He looked down on Malden with laughing eyes.
“Imagine that, hmm? A whoreson made into a king. How amusing!”
The sorcerer laughed wildly then, his tongue flapping in his mouth as he gibbered and cackled. It was not a laugh of sanity.
Malden shivered, but not simply because of Hazoth’s lapse of lucidity. He considered what would have become of him if he had put on the crown, as he’d wanted to so badly. He didn’t doubt that Juring would have given him power in return, knowledge and advice and courage. But he would have been enslaved by it. His greatest fear, that he should lose that little shred of freedom he possessed, would have been realized.
His heart thundered in his ears. It had been a close thing. He barely heard Hazoth when the wizard spoke again.
“But when I tell this tale out loud, I am reminded exactly why I chose to be part of this scheme in the first place. I can’t afford to let you become king, you see. Nor can I afford to let the Tarness family-ha ha ha-tell me what to do. I can’t afford to have any rivals. No powers must remain that might conscribe me. Do you understand? I think, in fact, you might. How astonishing! How clever! And so tragic, now. No, I’m sorry, rodent. You can’t have your prize. And you can’t leave my house. Not alive, at any rate.”
Hazoth lifted one hand, the third and fourth fingers tucked into the palm, the others outstretched. He began to lift his arm high over his head.
“Malden!” Cythera shouted. “Cover your eyes!”
Malden did exactly as he was told. He also grabbed the hilt of his bodkin and got ready to draw.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Drops of acid hit Croy’s arm and seared right through his leather jerkin. He shouted as the acid burned through his skin as well. Pain lanced up to his spine, while his lungs heaved against the stink of sulfur in the air. Croy couldn’t help but cough as the fumes seared his throat and eyes.
It was the sign of weakness he had put off as long as he could. He’d finally broken. Bikker took it for exactly what it was-a call to attack, which he executed with a flurry of devastating blows, one after another. Croy managed to parry them, but not without cost. He had to stagger backward, away from the fight, and wince as the pain threatened to overcome him. He forced his eyes to stay open, to keep watching, to keep assessing the situation.
His shield was reduced to a few sticks of sizzling oak held together by a melting boss. Far worse, the shortsword was etched and notched each time it parried Acidtongue’s attacks. Croy could feel his sword growing weaker and less stable with each passing moment.
The weapon was still in better shape than the man, though, and that was the real problem. Already weakened by multiple wounds and loss of blood, Croy’s endurance was reaching its end very quickly. Just lifting his sword arm took a great effort and he was gasping for breath. Sweat rolled down into his eyes and he could taste the salt when it trickled across his lips. Proper swordsmanship was as much about the legs as the arms-he could hear Bikker’s voice in his head from back when the bigger swordsman had taught him how to fight. You need to move when a sword comes at your face, boy, lunge forward with your knee when you riposte, dance if you want to stay alive. His legs felt like they were made of solid wood. He could barely get his feet off the ground without falling over.
A sweeping blow came at his injured side, Acidtongue spitting as it burned through the air. Croy barely brought the shortsword down to counter. Acidtongue flew back to recover from the parry and then whistled over Bikker’s head as he brought his corroded sword up for a high slice. Croy shoved the fuming remnants of his shield up into the blow but lacked the strength to hold it back completely. Using Acidtongue like a club, Bikker knocked the shield into Croy’s teeth. Croy’s entire skull rattled and he felt his brains slosh back and forth.
So tired.
Parry. He tried a riposte but found the shortsword tangled in Acidtongue’s withdrawal.
His body was failing him.
Parry. Step back, away from the lunge, one foot behind the other to make his body a narrower target.
