Chapter 26

I hung there and tried to wrap my head around that one.

“You are confused,” Muralin murmured sympathetically. “It must be too much for you to comprehend. I’ll explain, and I’ll use small words. I died when I fell into that ravine. Or to be more exact, my heart stopped. It was only for a few moments, but it was long enough. In that instant, I ceased to be the Saghred’s bond servant. Your father was a mage, so when he took the Saghred, the mantle of bond servant passed to him. When the Saghred absorbed him, the stone considered him dead and the honor of bond servant remained unclaimed—until you unwittingly stumbled upon it. Then the honor passed to you by blood relation—and by what scant magical ability you possess. Unfortunately, the stone will only accept one bond servant at a time.” He smiled. “I understand you attempted to read my works?”

“Yeah, I read them, cover to cover, and I even did it without moving my lips. You needed a good editor; you couldn’t say anything in less than ten pages. They put me to sleep in the tub, and if it hadn’t been for Sarad Nukpana, I probably would have drowned. By the way, he sends his regards.”

Muralin’s smile vanished. “I’m certain he does—and he can keep sending his regards from precisely where he is. When you sacrificed Nukpana to the Saghred, your methods were not only primitive, but inefficient. There is a more direct and personal way for the bond servant to feed the stone.”

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I couldn’t tell if the twisting in my chest was the manacles’ doing or my own growing panic.

I knew what he meant. I had read it myself.

Rudra Muralin hadn’t always taken the Saghred with him on his king’s destroy-and-enslave excursions. Sometimes the rock had stayed at home—and it had stayed at full power. As bond servant, Muralin would accept “gifts” on behalf of the Saghred.

Those gifts were sacrifices.

Magic user sacrifices. Spellsinger souls. No wonder Rudra Muralin was a raving loony.

My body was meant to contain one soul. Mine.

Rudra Muralin was watching me closely. “Now you understand. Just as the Saghred’s power flows through you, the sacrifices will flow through you to the Saghred. They merely have to be killed so that their blood falls on you. I’ve found that slit throats work best. Once the stone has fed, I will kill you and the honor of bond servant will return to me where it belongs.”

“You still won’t have the Saghred,” I heard myself say. But I’d be dead—and so would Piaras and every spellsinger in that cell.

“I’ve used the Saghred to level cities.” Muralin’s tone was flat. He was finished playing. “I will gladly destroy one citadel. I can feed the Saghred from any distance, and use it the same way.”

The citadel destroyed. Hundreds of Guardians dead in an instant.

Mychael.

Muralin nodded. “Only the Saghred will remain. I’ll have to wait until the crater cools, but then I can reclaim what is mine. This time I’ll be the one giving the orders; no king will command me.” His lips smiled, but his eyes were the flat black of a shark. “I may even offer my unique services on the open market—for the right price, of course.”

“Megalomaniac and entrepreneur,” I managed past the tightness in my throat. Unlimited death and destruction to the highest bidder.

“Merely trying to adapt to modern times.”

“I won’t take sacrifices,” I told him. I tried to sound defiant. I don’t think it worked.

“The Saghred is willing. What you want is irrelevant. Those manacles will keep you from causing me any more trouble, but they won’t keep the Saghred from feeding.” He drew a thin, curved dagger. “You’re the bond servant; so in theory, this should work. But since you’re an elf… Well, I wouldn’t want to waste any of my valuable spellsingers. Tamnais’s half-breed bastard will make a perfect test subject.”

Talon’s aqua eyes widened in disbelief, and he screamed in muffled rage from behind his gag.

“Your father didn’t tell you?” Muralin asked mildly. “Or should I say your father refused to claim you. Hardly surprising. Taking pleasure from elves is permissible; procreating is not. His shame is understandable.”

I should probably have kept my mouth shut, but I didn’t want to.

“My father kept the Saghred away from you for eight— or was it nine? — hundred years. Not too shabby for an elf.” I lowered my voice in commiseration. “Must have embarrassed the hell out of you. Your shame is understandable.”

Rudra Muralin’s hand went white-knuckled around the dagger’s grip. “Since you’re an elf and female, the feeding process will probably shatter your sanity. You should be grateful that I’m merciful and willing to kill you quickly.” His eyes glittered with something nasty. “And if the Saghred rejects Tamnais’s spawn, all I’ve lost is something that should have been drowned at birth.”

I pushed down my rage. “What a sweetheart. If you unhook me, I’ll give you a hug.”

Rudra Muralin turned to Talon’s guards. “Bring him.”

Talon fought like a wildcat despite being tied up, and his guards had to virtually drag him across the floor to me.

“You need do nothing,” Muralin told me. He came closer, circling me to stand just behind my right shoulder. My legs weren’t chained and he wasn’t taking any chances. “If my test is successful, I’ll have the other spellsingers brought in one at a time.” His voice turned soft and coaxing next to my ear. “Just relax, Raine. The Saghred has done this many times. It knows what to do.”

I felt myself begin to respond to his voice, to do what he said. I fought the urge to thrash and struggle. I was still desperately trying to come up with a way to get out of this while trying not to look desperate.

One of the guards grabbed a handful of Talon’s long hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. Rudra Muralin moved into position behind him.

I felt the Saghred. I couldn’t use its power, but it was there, quivering in anticipation, waiting, eager.

But not for Talon’s blood.

It was ignoring Talon completely. Its attention was elsewhere—and so was mine.

Muralin sensed something was wrong.

I met his black eyes. “It’s not Talon’s fault.” I let one corner of my mouth curve into a crooked grin. “It’s yours.”

Rudra Muralin was a thousand years old, but he was still just a boy.

The lower hells must be freezing over. The Saghred and I actually agreed on something.

Why would you want a boy when you could have a man? A voice came from the shadows, low and dark with barely contained rage. Tam’s voice.

“Release my son.”

Heavily armed and black-armored goblins silently emerged from the tunnels and quickly surrounded the Khrynsani. Dark power rolled in waves from each and every one of them. These weren’t nightclub bouncers. Tam had called in high-powered, out-of-town talent.

The Khrynsani weren’t outnumbered, but I do believe they were outgunned. The same thought was crossing their minds. They looked to Rudra Muralin for the command they had to expect but didn’t want to hear. Even death-loving Khrynsani didn’t want to die.

Tam’s dark eyes glittered in the dim light. This wasn’t the Tam I knew. This was Primaru Tamnais Nathrach: dark mage, former chief shaman for the House of Mal’Salin, magical enforcer to the goblin queen—and a really pissed-off father.

Tam was dressed for sending Rudra Muralin to his reserved place in the lower hells. He was in black from head to toe, including boots that came up to midthigh. His armor was leather and matte black steel, he was wearing blades anywhere and everywhere he had the room, and his hair was pulled back in a long, goblin battle braid. When he stepped into the room, his braid didn’t move. Probably another blade.

Rudra Muralin was standing between Tam and his son. When bad people threaten your child, I imagine that could make you a little irrational. Add irrational to rage and black magic and you’ve got a powder keg ready and eager to explode. Most people would run screaming from that kind of blast before it happened.