“I think the crown will remain here, with me,” Hazoth said. “I considered letting you have it. Letting you take it and go free—just to see what would happen. I have a theory, you see. I have a theory that the blood of the Tarness line doesn’t matter. That Juring could control anyone who wore the crown. And I am certain you lack the power of will necessary to resist its entreaties. It would convince you somehow to place it on your own head eventually. I wondered if Juring could take some mortal clay—even such a pitiful specimen as yourself—and over time mold it into the stuff of a great leader. I do believe he could. In a span of a few years, I think, you might become king of Skrae.”

He looked down on Malden with laughing eyes.

“Imagine that, hmm? A whoreson made into a king. How amusing!”

The sorcerer laughed wildly then, his tongue flapping in his mouth as he gibbered and cackled. It was not a laugh of sanity.

Malden shivered, but not simply because of Hazoth’s lapse of lucidity. He considered what would have become of him if he had put on the crown, as he’d wanted to so badly. He didn’t doubt that Juring would have given him power in return, knowledge and advice and courage. But he would have been enslaved by it. His greatest fear, that he should lose that little shred of freedom he possessed, would have been realized.

His heart thundered in his ears. It had been a close thing. He barely heard Hazoth when the wizard spoke again.

“But when I tell this tale out loud, I am reminded exactly why I chose to be part of this scheme in the first place. I can’t afford to let you become king, you see. Nor can I afford to let the Tarness family—ha ha ha—tell me what to do. I can’t afford to have any rivals. No powers must remain that might conscribe me. Do you understand? I think, in fact, you might. How astonishing! How clever! And so tragic, now. No, I’m sorry, rodent. You can’t have your prize. And you can’t leave my house. Not alive, at any rate.”

Hazoth lifted one hand, the third and fourth fingers tucked into the palm, the others outstretched. He began to lift his arm high over his head.

“Malden!” Cythera shouted. “Cover your eyes!”

Malden did exactly as he was told. He also grabbed the hilt of his bodkin and got ready to draw.

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Five

Drops of acid hit Croy’s arm and seared right through his leather jerkin. He shouted as the acid burned through his skin as well. Pain lanced up to his spine, while his lungs heaved against the stink of sulfur in the air. Croy couldn’t help but cough as the fumes seared his throat and eyes.