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“And that thing is still fighting Larylis,” Mareleau said, tone frantic. “We have to help him.”
Cora whirled to the side, though she kept a hand on his cheek. Teryn frowned as something caught his attention. Hovering in the air above Cora’s head, nearly invisible amongst the chaos and commotion, was a tapestry of blood. Two interlocking threads wove tighter and tighter, moving of their own accord.
His pulse quickened. Morkai’s blood weaving…was finishing itself, even with the sorcerer no longer in control of Teryn’s body. He glanced at the gash in his arm, the hand that had held the vial of blood Morkai had used for the tapestry. Crimson had ceased streaming from his cut, and the glass bottle lay on the ground, its contents seeping into the earth. Yet that didn’t stop the tapestry from weaving higher and higher.
He lifted a hand and attempted to swipe his fingers through the pattern. An invisible force blocked him. Cora turned her attention back to him, then at the pattern suspended over her head. She gasped and shrank away from it. He tried again to swipe at it, from a different angle this time, but his fingers stopped an inch away.
The Roizan. It had to be the key, the reason Morkai’s magic endured despite the strange collar Cora had put around Teryn’s neck. And if the tapestry reached completion before Teryn could break the crystal…
Panic seared his heart, but alongside it was a cold and heavy sense of resolution. “I have to end this now.”
* * *
Cora’s browfurrowed as Teryn shrugged off his jacket and his waistcoat, then undid the buttons of his shirt. “What are you doing, Teryn?”
“I need a reed,” he said, voice weak but surprisingly calm.
“A reed?”
“To write with.” He reached the middle button of his shirt, revealing something underneath, strung by a leather strap. The nearby flames glinted off the facets of a crystal—
He paused and covered it with his hand. “Don’t look at the light.”
She averted her gaze, but memories surged through her. The unbreakable stone. The night Teryn had fought through Morkai’s possession and told her the truth. The many enchantments that had forced her to forget about the object. She kept her eyes on his as he finished unbuttoning his shirt.
He spread the article on the grass before him and extracted a fresh vial from within his discarded waistcoat. “A reed,” he repeated. “Please, Cora.”
She jumped into action, plucking a tall slender stalk of grass that hadn’t been trampled by the Roizan. “What are you doing?” she repeated, handing it to him.
“Reversing the spell on the crystal so it’s no longer unbreakable. Once I finish drawing the pattern, you’ll need to take the crystal from around my neck, ensuring it’s no longer touching my body—at least sixteen inches away from my chest—and shatter it.” He unstoppered the vial and dipped the reed inside. Its tip dripped crimson as he brought it to the bottom hem of the back of the shirt. There he paused, eyes unfocused. Then he lifted his gaze to Cora’s, his free hand brushing his collarbone. “You said this device blocks magic?”
She nodded.
He cursed. “This won’t work unless we remove it. What I’m about to do is considered blood magic. I may not need to be a witch to draw the pattern, but…we can’t risk it not working. This could be our only chance.”
Anxiety raced through her. “The collar might be the only thing keeping Morkai at bay. You said he’s still fighting you. What if he regains control without it?”
“I’ll fight back,” he said, but as the words left his lips, a trail of blood began to trickle from his nose.
She crouched beside him again, tone frenzied. “He’s already hurting you. Teryn, you’re bleeding!”
His face fell, but there was no surprise in his eyes. “I’ll do whatever it takes. If he regains control, touch me again and call my name.”
Tremors seized her. His battle with Morkai was killing him, that much was clear. The more he fought, the more his body suffered. But what other choice did they have?
“Remove the collar, Cora,” he said, tone soft. Mournful. Resolute. “We don’t have much time.”
She tried not to read too far into his words. Tried not to think what he meant bywe don’t have much time. Tried not to hear the resignation in his tone that told her he was ready to die.
With trembling hands, she reached behind his neck, separated the two sides of the collar, and pulled it away.
He offered her a sad smile.
And began to paint with blood.
59
Larylis wasn’t a warrior. He was hardly a king. He’d been trained in the art of the sword alongside his brother, but his strength had always resided in books. Knowledge. He’d read about warriors, survivors, wars, and battles. He understood combat both physically and intellectually, but he didn’t consider himself a fighter. There were times when he marveled that he’d survived the battle at Centerpointe Rock at all.
