Home > Jaded Spring (Shadow Crown, #3)(9)

Jaded Spring (Shadow Crown, #3)(9)
Author: Kristen Martin

 Alone.

 The legs of the chair screech as I push it back from the bolted desk. Across from me, one of my most prized possessions wobbles, nearly falling off the edge, but I grab it just in time. I turn the wooden carving over in my hands, trying to keep my thoughts from wandering to Felix, but it’s no use. They go there anyway.

 Lords do I miss him.

 News travels fast in Aeridon. By now, I’m sure he’s heard about Queen Tymond. About me. About what I’ve done. What he must think of me now. A shiver snakes its way down my spine.

 Before my thoughts can spiral any further, I reach down and open my knapsack, dropping the ship inside. Needing to distract myself, I shut the book in front of me, rise to my feet, then throw it on top of a nearby stack. Piled nearly eight books high, I slide it towards me, then return to the aisle where I’d originally retrieved them.

 It’s not surprising that being here, surrounded by all of my father’s things, makes me feel even more connected to him in ways I can’t really explain. Every time I open a book or study a map or spin one of the globes, I can feel his presence. After so many years of not knowing what had happened to my family, I’d come to believe that they were dead—and yet, my brother is alive.

 I get the sense that my father might be, too.

 The archives I’ve reviewed point to an infinite number of possibilities, but I can’t seem to find a connection—if there even is one—to my father nor our family. I’m so desperate for guidance that I find myself daydreaming about that glowing orb coming to visit me again, as unsettling as it was. Now that I have some reassurance that it is indeed my father, I feel differently about it. Why hasn’t he tried to make contact again?

  I return to the desk with another stack of books and drop them onto the table. I fall into the chair and lean back before closing my eyes. My thoughts are neither here nor there, and it dawns on me that I don’t know how much time has passed since I last left Haskell in Lirath Cave. Time is a foreign concept when you’re surrounded by stone walls with no windows.

 With a sigh, I press my shoulders into the chair and arch my back, digging around in my pockets for my watch. My fingers wrap around the chain as I lift it to eye level. I click it open to find that it’s a few hours past sundown—much later than I’d thought. I’m a little surprised Haskell hasn’t come to check on me, but he’s probably enjoying the non-company, relishing the alone time—just like I am. I flip the watch open and closed a few times, my eyes flitting from the engraved metal to the looming stack of books before me. If I go through them tonight, I’m almost certain I won’t give them the attention they deserve.

 I lift my gaze, my eyes unintentionally landing on the wall with the framed photograph. Although it’s at a distance, I know exactly which person I’ve inadvertently chosen to focus on. I think back to my encounter with my father in the Roviel Woods. His words echo in my mind. It’s good to see that you’re doing well. Casters are some of the most dangerous illusié. You’d do best to remember that. After tossing his pocket watch over, he’d said, Let this token serve as a reminder.

 Casters.

 I look down at the watch, then back up at the photograph. As much as I don’t want to, I force myself to recall Tymond’s words in the Daegrum Chambers. Bile rises in my throat at the memory of shockwaves coursing through my body. The sheer pain and immense fire I’d felt blazing through my veins. The seemingly endless explosion of sparks that had careened across my vision. The inability to form thoughts, words, or feelings. Somehow being both inside and outside of my body and mind simultaneously. My throat burns. What had he called him—that member of his Savant?

 I rack my brain, playing with different words until one feels right. Conjurer. He’d conjured the elements—a bolt of lightning to be exact. In uttering a single word, he’d directed it straight at his target—me—until I’d almost lost consciousness.

 And then there’d been the man in the maroon mask. Somehow, his ability had been worse than the Conjurer’s. My blood goes cold as I envision Elias and his helpless expression—and me, a predator, approaching him with a longsword. Any semblance of my thoughts, my actions, my intentions, had been gone. Those whispers, of someone else pushing at my mind with such intensity . . . forcing them away had been near impossible. I’d been so close to killing Elias, even though I’d already spared his life in the Thering Forest. I’d felt controlled. Cursed, in a way.

 Curser.

 The man in the maroon mask had invaded my mind. He’d taken hold of the very threads that make me who I am, weaving them in such a way to ultimately play out whatever scenario he so desired. And I’d been able to do absolutely nothing about it. To me, that had been worse than the Conjurer. Hell, I’d take being fried to my core any day over losing control of my mind.

 Conjurer. Curser. My father had clearly said to keep an eye out for Casters—but the only other incident that springs to mind is . . .

 I whip my head toward the frame, focusing on another familiar face. I rise from the chair, recalling each unique feature with every step I take. The wiry copper hair. The bright hazel eyes. My breath catches in my throat as I shuffle backward. It’s the same man that had appeared next to my father after the orb had disappeared. And again in the Thering Forest, when Estelle had brought me to the injured fawn.

 The illusion this man had wrapped around me had been horrifying. I’d been in an enclosed space, unable to breathe, suffocating. I’d pounded my fists on the walls, opening my mouth to scream only to find that no sound would come out. There had been no cracks, no fissures—no light or air of any kind could have possibly gotten through.

 And yet, something had found its way inside.

 I’d been enveloped in blackness, not just spatially, but also from within. It’d trickled across every surface, seeped into my every pore, entwined itself with every sensation, every memory, every underlying thought. I’d twisted and jerked from its relentless grasp, trying to salvage anything that was left, but it had prevailed. Forced to merge with this unforgiving entity of darkness, I had become everything and nothing all at once.

 An obscure rebirth into an unparalleled form.

 There’s no doubt in my mind that what I’d experienced that day in the forest had been the deviant work of a Caster.

 I pull myself away from the frame, eyeing a roll of parchment on a nearby surface. I unfurl and flatten it, using some of the heavier books to secure the edges. With a freshly inked quill, I begin to record my findings. Seeing as the recollections are at the forefront of my mind, the words flow from my fingertips with ease. When I’ve finished, I realize it’s not much, but it is, to some degree, inside knowledge into the King’s Savant and their abilities—well, three of their abilities.

 As I reread what I’ve just written, a startling realization dawns on me. If Casters create illusions, then that day in the woods . . . had my father actually been there? Or had it merely been an illusion, a trick of the mind? Even more concerning, how had he known something so personal about me—like who my father is?

 With these questions roiling in my mind, I impatiently wait for the ink to dry before tightly rolling up the parchment. I secure it with twine and stuff it into the waistband of my trousers. With everything in me, I’m hoping that Haskell’s still awake.

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