I stared at him. “It would kill him. I know that much.”
Truthfully, I’d assumed the damn thing wouldn’t work on a dragon. That he would be immune to whatever magic this rock possessed. I stared down at the stone. I thought I might scream if it turned out I’d had the power to leave the island this whole time, but there was only one way to find out. Ask.
“What does it do?”
“If I killed you right now while you wore that chunk of rock, your body would still die, but the Stone of Shackles would switch our souls. My soul, and not yours, would be the one to go stand before Thaena, while you would find yourself enjoying a new body. Specifically, you’d find yourself enjoying my body. Not necessarily a situation to your liking unless you’re impatient to become middle-aged and soft around the center.” He chuckled, seeming to find that idea more amusing than I did.
I felt like the stone floor had just shifted. A hundred little pieces fell into place. Why Talon had refused to kill me. Why Miya had given Lyrilyn the Stone of Shackles. Why it had seemed like that same stone had failed to protect Lyrilyn from being murdered.
That wasn’t how the Stone of Shackles worked. Lyrilyn died, but Lyrilyn’s soul lived on—in the body of the mimic who had slain her.
A few other things fell into place too.
I raised my hand, wrapped my fingers around the edge of his sword, and slowly pushed the blade away. I pulled a chair away from the table and sat down.
Not much time had passed while I was unconscious, though it seemed like lifetimes for me. The lamps were still lit, although the oil level had gone down. The tea was cold, but the bread was not yet stale. An hour at most.
“In the vision,” I said, “I was wearing the Stone of Shackles. I was Terindel—I was King Terindel. I was wearing the Stone of Shackles when I was killed by a Manol vané who just happens to resemble Teraeth more than a little…”
Doc raised an eyebrow and motioned for me to continue.
“You”—I pointed at him—“said Teraeth’s father was a fool and an idiot.”
“Doc” Terindel chuckled and drank the cup of wine. “Yes, well. I would know, would I? I’ve had almost five hundred years to contemplate how my hubris lost me the Kirpis crown. I was a fool and an idiot, and it cost me everything.” He flicked thumb and forefinger against Chainbreaker; a bell tone rang. “I’ve gotten so good at using this hunk of gem I forget I’m wearing an illusion sometimes.”
And the illusion fell.
He looked exactly the same as the Manol vané man I’d seen in the vision, the one who’d struck that final blow for his queen. The clothes were different, but that was all. He certainly didn’t look like Terindel the Kirpis vané, the man who’d led his forces against the Manol vané.
But I knew it was him.
Terindel had been killed by a black-skinned Manol vané, and since he’d been wearing the Stone of Shackles at the time, he’d survived—in the body of the man who’d slain him.
“When that trinket around your neck was first given to me,” Terindel explained, “I never wanted to use it. It would save my life but at the cost of my throne. That’s the problem with ‘royalty,’ you know. It rests on the laughable idea that your body, your bloodline, is worthier of virtue than your skills, your intellect, your soul. And the Stone of Shackles doesn’t care about bloodlines. I became, literally, the thing I hated: one of those impure Manol vané.”
“Wow. Uh, so … do you still think … uh, I mean…” I cleared my throat.
“Am I still screamingly racist? No, I like to think I’ve gained a bit of perspective.” He set down the cup, sheathed his sword. “You are never more vulnerable than in the moments after your soul switches with your killer’s. The stone doesn’t come with you, and many of the skills that we rely on for survival, from swordplay to spellcasting, are tied to the training and talent of our bodies. As soon as I realized what had happened, I ran. I didn’t have time to pick up the Stone of Shackles, but my new body was already wearing Chainbreaker. Important lesson there: you’re not immune to the effects of a Cornerstone just because you’re wearing one of the others.”
I nodded. That too made sense. Lyrilyn hadn’t taken the time to pick up the Stone of Shackles either. Or if she had, she’d only had time to tuck it into my swaddling clothes. “What about Valathea?”
He glanced over at the borrowed harp. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your queen. Your wife. She was supposed to be taken to safety.”
Terindel’s jaw tightened. “She was betrayed. They sentenced her to the Traitor’s Walk.” He paused. “I think we’re done here. You should rest.”
“I think I’m going to go have another chat with the Old Man.”
Doc stared at me. “That’s not wise.”
I stood up from my chair, intent on running back to the beach.
“You can’t leave,” he told me.
“Watch me,” I snapped. Then my body betrayed me. The whole universe tilted on its axis, flipped, and spilled me down against that smooth rock floor.
50: THE LORD HEIR’S WIFE
(Talon’s story)
Kihrin arrived back in his rooms in a rage. All the simmering frustrations and anger that had boiled inside of him for months overflowed in a torrent. How could any man be so unfeeling? Therin didn’t care. Therin was an emotionless monster with no regard for his so-called family. Therin had told him the D’Mons weren’t a real family, but until that moment Kihrin had thought it was just hyperbole for the new kid. Now he believed. As long as Therin had Darzin around to tyrannize the lives around them, the old man never needed to dirty his own hands.
Kihrin felt a homicidal urge to destroy, but his rooms had been secured against petty vandalism. There were few chairs, and the cloth draperies made unsatisfying victims. The supply of pottery broke nicely, but was soon exhausted.
Then Kihrin saw the harp.
It sat just where Therin’s servants had left it, right where he’d ignored it ever since its arrival. It squatted like a malignant vulture, overseeing death and pain and hate. The High General had said its name meant sorrow. Well named, since it was the cause of the greatest sorrows of his life. He advanced on the harp, picked the thing up in his hands, raised his arms high—
“If you destroy that, darling, whatever will you play for the High General?” Alshena D’Mon’s voice called from the doorway. She walked inside, fanning her face. She was always fanning her face to keep her plaster-thick makeup from running. “Not that I particularly care, ducky, but I do think you’ll regret this in the morning.”
Kihrin caught his breath and lowered the harp. Her sharp voice cut right through his soaring anger. He felt weak. “I didn’t hear you knock, Lady.” He looked away. Kihrin was in no mood to deal with his father’s tipsy wife and her barbed jokes.