Читать книгу The Curse of the King - Peter Lerangis - Страница 16

I LOOK OVER my shoulder. He is not here yet. But he will be.

WHO?

All I know, all I recognize, is that I am back in Bodrum. The last place in the world I want to be. The place where we failed to find the Loculus. Our last stop before NYC, where all our hope was lost—

The others—Dad, Cass, Aly, Torquin, and Canavar—are nowhere. The hotels and houses are gone, too. I’m wearing sandals and a robe. My mind goes from confusion to panic. Before me is an expanse of blackness, the contours of surrounding hills lit only by moonlight.

Bodrum is Halicarnassus. I am in another time. And my Jack thoughts are being crowded out of my head.

In rushes a flood of other, more distant memories. Of beauty and pain. Of deep-green forests and smooth blue lakes, happy laughing families, scholars teaching children, athletes wrestling deadly piglike vromaskis, sharp-clawed red griffins swooping overhead.

Of smoldering clouds and raging fires, blackened corpses and shrieking beasts.

Over my shoulder is a leather sack. Inside is a sphere. It looks like the Loculus of Healing, but I know it’s not. It is fake. I planned it this way. I am also heading in the wrong direction—away from the distant silhouette of the great half-finished structure in the distance. The Mausoleum.

I planned that part, too.

I hurry onward quickly, keeping the sea to my left.

I know now. I am Massarym. And I have a plan.

Not far ahead, maybe a half mile, is a hill. Trees and thick bushes. A team of mercenaries awaits there. They will take me to safety. After my plan is fulfilled.

I want to be found before I reach them. I must be found. The plan depends on this. My mind conjures up an image: the real Loculus, I see, is safe underground. Or so I hope.

I am scared. But I slow my steps, deepen my breaths.

When the explosion happens, I am barely prepared for the blast of light, the cloud of dirt like a giant fist. I stagger back. I fall to my knees.

Then the cloud begins to lift, and a tall, bearded man emerges. He wears a white, gilt-edged robe. Although his hair is gray, he stands straight, like a warrior, his shoulders thickly muscled. His body radiates power, but his face, which is familiar to me, is etched in sadness.

Part of me wants to run to him, to hug him. But those days are over. The lines have been drawn. He is my enemy now, because he is an enemy of the world.

“I am hoping you have come to your senses,” he says deeply, forcefully.

I am both comforted and repulsed by the sound of my father’s voice.

As the old man comes nearer, his robe snaps in the sea-thick wind. I see the hilt of his sword, his prized possession, jutting from its scabbard. But the scabbard’s leather is frayed and ragged looking. I know Father must not be happy about this indignity. Slowly I sidestep closer to the edge of the cliff. Below us, the waves crash against the shore.

“My senses,” I say in a voice with false confidence, a voice that isn’t my own, “have never been lost, Uhla’ar.”

The old man’s face softens slightly into a rueful smile. He holds out a powerful arm, his palm extended.

I step closer and then turn. With a swift, sure thrust, I toss the Loculus into the sea.

I watch the sphere turning and growing smaller in the dull light of the moon. My father’s eyes bulge. His mouth becomes a black hole.

As he dives into the raging churn below, his scream slices me like a dagger.