Read Online The Usurper's Crown by Sarah Zettel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Zettel
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word, blessed by Vyshko and Vyshemir, this is my wish, and this is my seal upon it. Be done! Be done! Be DONE!” She screamed the last word with all the force her heart held, and with that scream, the heat, the pain and all the summoned magic rushed through her body from her heart to the soles of her feet, and was gone.
Medeoan collapsed onto the ground. She heard Vladka gasp and start forward, then stop. Perhaps Prathad held her back. She was too numb to look up, too numb to do anything except lie on the cold ground and breathe.
Done, done, done , her last word echoed in her mind. I am done, they are done, it is done, all done .
But done, Granddaughter, too late .
Medeoan jerked her head up. There, across the pool stood a figure in black robes, its face indistinct, as if shrouded by shadow. It reached one fine, unmarked hand into the pool, and impossibly drew forth a wave of water.
“No,” gasped Medeoan, pushing herself to her knees. “No, Grandfather, I beg you, it cannot be so.”
Grandfather Death stowed the wave in his deep sleeve and turned away.
“No!” Medeoan lunged after him, breaking her own, useless circle, running into the pool without even noticing.
“Highness!” shrieked Prathad. Hands grabbed her, hauling her backward out of the water.
The knife lay on the ground, and the candle burned beside it. Nothing. All for nothing.
“What is it, Highness? What has happened?”
“Ah!” cried Medeoan. “Ah, they are dying. I failed. I failed and they are dying!” She buried her head in her hands. She felt Prathad hold her close, weeping her own hot tears. Distantly, she heard the murmuring of the guards who surrounded her working. Gone. The emperor, the empress, were dying. The high princess had failed.
“Highness,” said Vladka in a tremulous voice. “Highness, if it is as you say, you must return home, and quickly. You have …”
“I have nothing!” Medeoan snapped. She clenched her fists. “What do I have?”
“A husband who waits to hear from you,” said Prathad. “Let us take you to him.”
Kacha. She knotted her fingers in her hair, as if seeking to pull it out by the roots. How could she have forgotten even for a moment? She ached to feel his arms around her. Too late. Too late. But it could not be too late. Everything had worked, she had felt it. One or the other of them must still live. They were not both gone. She had not completely failed.
“Quickly.” She pulled away from her ladies.
They all but threw on her skirt, her sleeves, her bodice, knotting each lace as swiftly as possible, and tossing over all her outer coat, her veil and coronet. Prathad called out for little, pale Anka the page girl, who ran for the guard to form up the escort. Medeoan did not wait for the canopy to be raised over her. She strode down toward the river’s edge where her barge waited. The guard followed in haste, reforming around her with the girl pages who all seemed as white as their kaftans. Let her ladies follow as they could. The captain would have left men behind to escort them. She had to get back to Vyshtavos. She had to know who lived and who died. She had to find Kacha. She had to know how she had failed.
But Vyshtavos and its parklands lay beyond the city of Makashev, and although the captain sent the small barge ahead with a man to cry that the high princess (just princess still, she had not completely failed) was on her way, it did little good. Barges and coracles and rowing boats made a stew of the watercourse. The drawbridges were clogged with carts, and carriages, and old people on foot, and horses, donkeys, mules, dogs, all in the way, all streaming out of the streets between the wooden buildings with their peaked roofs and gilded spires and fat onion domes so that they could watch her pass. The river’s breeze brought down the smell of the summer city, all mud and garbage, smoke and cooking food, and Medeoan felt that with every passing moment her heart must burst for
Medeoan collapsed onto the ground. She heard Vladka gasp and start forward, then stop. Perhaps Prathad held her back. She was too numb to look up, too numb to do anything except lie on the cold ground and breathe.
Done, done, done , her last word echoed in her mind. I am done, they are done, it is done, all done .
But done, Granddaughter, too late .
Medeoan jerked her head up. There, across the pool stood a figure in black robes, its face indistinct, as if shrouded by shadow. It reached one fine, unmarked hand into the pool, and impossibly drew forth a wave of water.
“No,” gasped Medeoan, pushing herself to her knees. “No, Grandfather, I beg you, it cannot be so.”
Grandfather Death stowed the wave in his deep sleeve and turned away.
“No!” Medeoan lunged after him, breaking her own, useless circle, running into the pool without even noticing.
“Highness!” shrieked Prathad. Hands grabbed her, hauling her backward out of the water.
The knife lay on the ground, and the candle burned beside it. Nothing. All for nothing.
“What is it, Highness? What has happened?”
“Ah!” cried Medeoan. “Ah, they are dying. I failed. I failed and they are dying!” She buried her head in her hands. She felt Prathad hold her close, weeping her own hot tears. Distantly, she heard the murmuring of the guards who surrounded her working. Gone. The emperor, the empress, were dying. The high princess had failed.
“Highness,” said Vladka in a tremulous voice. “Highness, if it is as you say, you must return home, and quickly. You have …”
“I have nothing!” Medeoan snapped. She clenched her fists. “What do I have?”
“A husband who waits to hear from you,” said Prathad. “Let us take you to him.”
Kacha. She knotted her fingers in her hair, as if seeking to pull it out by the roots. How could she have forgotten even for a moment? She ached to feel his arms around her. Too late. Too late. But it could not be too late. Everything had worked, she had felt it. One or the other of them must still live. They were not both gone. She had not completely failed.
“Quickly.” She pulled away from her ladies.
They all but threw on her skirt, her sleeves, her bodice, knotting each lace as swiftly as possible, and tossing over all her outer coat, her veil and coronet. Prathad called out for little, pale Anka the page girl, who ran for the guard to form up the escort. Medeoan did not wait for the canopy to be raised over her. She strode down toward the river’s edge where her barge waited. The guard followed in haste, reforming around her with the girl pages who all seemed as white as their kaftans. Let her ladies follow as they could. The captain would have left men behind to escort them. She had to get back to Vyshtavos. She had to know who lived and who died. She had to find Kacha. She had to know how she had failed.
But Vyshtavos and its parklands lay beyond the city of Makashev, and although the captain sent the small barge ahead with a man to cry that the high princess (just princess still, she had not completely failed) was on her way, it did little good. Barges and coracles and rowing boats made a stew of the watercourse. The drawbridges were clogged with carts, and carriages, and old people on foot, and horses, donkeys, mules, dogs, all in the way, all streaming out of the streets between the wooden buildings with their peaked roofs and gilded spires and fat onion domes so that they could watch her pass. The river’s breeze brought down the smell of the summer city, all mud and garbage, smoke and cooking food, and Medeoan felt that with every passing moment her heart must burst for
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