The Burning Stone (Crown of Stars 3)

Each day of the king’s progress unfurls, flowers, and fades as in a haze. He waits.

Among the dogs, he has learned to be patient.

“That which binds you,” said the sorcerer, but whether with surprise or recognition she could not tell.

“I made him a promise.” As the vision faded, its passing throbbed in her like a new pain.

o;I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“The burning stone is a gateway between the worlds. All of the stones are gateways, as we learned to our sorrow, but this one was not fashioned by means of mortal magics but rather is part of the fabric of the universe. To use it, one must understand it.”

“I don’t know anything,” she said bitterly. “So much was kept hidden from me.”

“Much is hidden,” he agreed. “Yet nevertheless you have come to me. If you are willing, I sense there is a great deal you can learn.”

“Ai, God. There’s so much I need to know.” Yet she hesitated. “But how long will it take? To learn everything I need to know?”

He chuckled. “That depends on what you think you need to know.” But his expression became serious. “Once you have decided that, then it will take as long as it must.” He glanced toward the procession in the forest, still mostly hidden from them in their small clearing. “But if you mean to ask how long will it take in the world of humankind, that I cannot answer. The measure of days and years moves differently here than there.”

“Ai, Lady!” She glanced at the stone. The fire had begun to flicker down, dying.

“Why do you hesitate?” he pressed her. “Was this not the wish of your heart?”

“The wish of my heart.” Her voice died on the words as she said them. Of course she must study. It was the only way to protect herself. She wanted the knowledge so badly. She might never have this chance again.

And yet—she could not help but look back.

“You are still bound to the other world,” he said, not dismayed, not irritated, not cheerful. Simply stating what was true. “Give me your hand.”

He was not a person one disobeyed. She sheathed her bow and held out a hand, then grunted with surprise and pain as he cut her palm with an obsidian knife. But she held steady as blood welled up, as he cut his hands in a similar fashion and clasped one to hers so their blood flowed together. His free hand he pressed against the stone. Fire flared, so bright she flinched away from it, and her horse whickered nervously and shied. But the old sorcerer’s grip remained firm.

“Come with me,” he said. “What has bound you to the world of human kin?”

The fire opened, and together they saw within.

When he sprawls in the grass under the glorious heat of the sun, he can hear everything and nothing. He shuts his eyes, the better to listen.

A bee drones. A bird’s repetitive whistle sounds from the trees. His horse grazes at the edge of the clearing, well out of reach of his other companions: three Eika dogs in iron collars and iron chains bound to an iron stake he has hammered into the ground. Bones crack under their jaws as they feed. These three are all that remain to him of the beasts who formed his warband in Gent’s cathedral. He hears their chains scraping each on the others as the dogs growl over the tastiest bits of marrow.

A stream gurgles and chuckles beyond them: he has washed there, although he will never truly wash the filth and the shame of Bloodheart’s chains off himself no matter how often he spills water over his skin and cleanses himself with soap or sand or oil. Now he lies half-clothed in the sun to dry in merciful solitude.

Of human activity he hears nothing. He has fled the captivity of the king’s court and found this clearing next to the track that leads northwest—in that direction she rode off on the king’s errand eight days ago. Here, now, he relishes his freedom, bathing in sun and wind and the feel of good mellow earth and grass beneath his back.

A fly lands on his face and he brushes it away without opening his eyes. The heat melts pleasantly into his skin. Where his other hand lies splayed in the grass he has tossed down the square leather pouch, stiffened with metal plates and trimmed with ivory and gems, in which he shelters the book. He feels its weight just beyond his fingertips, although he does not need to touch it to know that it is still there, and what it means to him: a promise. He keeps it always with him or, when he hunts or bathes, ties it to the collar of one of the dogs. The dogs are the only ones among his new retinue he can trust.

Wind rustles in leaves, indifferent whispers so unlike the ones that follow his every movement among the courtiers—the one they think he can’t hear.

Each day of the king’s progress unfurls, flowers, and fades as in a haze. He waits.

Among the dogs, he has learned to be patient.

“That which binds you,” said the sorcerer, but whether with surprise or recognition she could not tell.

“I made him a promise.” As the vision faded, its passing throbbed in her like a new pain.

She knew better, she knew what she ought to do, what Da would tell her to do. But none of that mattered. For a year she had thought him dead.

“I have to go back.” Then, hearing the words as if someone else had spoken them, she hurried on. “I’ll come back to you. I swear it. I just have to go back—” She trailed off. She knew how foolish she sounded.