Uncrowned (Cradle, #7)

by Will Wight

“He made it to Copper?” she asked quietly. That would help explain how he had survived. Orthos reached out and uprooted a small, dry bush with his mouth. He began to chew, speaking around a mouthful of splinters. “He was Iron when I met him.” “Iron?” That was difficult to believe. “How did he make it so high?” The turtle stopped chewing and gave her a strange look. “Outside of this…death-trap…Iron is nothing. If he had stopped at Iron, I would not be here.” She wanted to hear the full story, but this was such an absurd claim that she had to hear the end of it. “You’re saying he’s Jade?” “Jade…If Lindon returned today and saw what I’ve seen, he would leave every Jade in the Heaven’s Glory School as a pile of ashes.” Kelsa’s hopes receded. She had somewhat believed him at first, but this was too ridiculous. To begin with, his claim contradicted itself. “You said that entering the Valley made your spirit weaker. If that’s true, he couldn’t be any stronger than a Jade.” Red-and-black eyes met hers. “I said what I said.”

Ziomachus,

“Now we come to the mental tests,” the Archlord continued. “Reaction speed, memory, force of will, and resistance to incursion. These tests have disqualified many would-be geniuses, so I hope you are prepared.” Within Lindon's mind and spirit, a voice spoke up. [Oh, those sound like games!] Dross said. [I love games!]

“I'd contend you should take this seriously.” Silver sword-aura crackled around Yerin’s limbs. “Because I will.” She calmed her heart, focusing on Eithan. Something deep in her spirit still told her this was a hopeless fight...but that was all the more reason to take it.

“Serious, Eithan! Be serious!” She shook him as her Blood Shadow re-formed behind her. The spirit's anger boiled against hers, feeding her fury. “I don't have a Dross! I don't have a Sage left to light my way! All I’ve got left to help me is you, so I need you to stop holding back!” Eithan's smile was calm. “As you wish.”

“Granted!” Fury shouted happily. “The winner fights Lindon!” “Apologies, but I had something else in mind.” For the first time, he turned to look at his peers around him. Charity detected disdain in him, along with more confidence than she had ever seen in him before. Suddenly, even she was intrigued. “I challenge every Underlord here.”

“Forgiveness, honored Herald,” Lindon said, “but I had a different plan in mind.” He looked to the remaining Underlords, more than half of whom looked angry enough to storm the stage at any second. The Path of Black Flame continued burning through his spirit. “I challenged all the Underlords here,” Lindon said.

[It’s interesting how humans decide whether or not to panic by watching others,] Dross noted. [What if all of you are wrong together?]

Xorrus,”

"If you knew..." The Sage’s voice shook. "If I traveled there to avenge him, I would be as vulnerable as he was. Vengeance is a poor reason to allow myself to be killed by ignorant barbarians. And what good would it do? Would slaughtering Jades and Irons bring him back?"

Eithan tapped the edge of the table with the scroll. “You look bored.” “I have to look after you,” the construct-man answered, rolling his eyes. “Ah, but that is your good fortune! For I am the most delightful conversationalist the world has ever seen.” “...I'm not going to tell you how to open the box.” Eithan folded his hands into his elaborately ornamented sleeves and leaned forward, smiling eagerly. “I'm sure, I'm sure, but I need to wait a good minute or two before I leave. So tell me, as we pass the time, what's it like being you? Are you being controlled by an outside force, are you a copy of the one who created you, or do you only have your own rudimentary awareness?”

Yerin brushed hair away from her face. “I've got some things I want to try. I know my Path is worth more than this; my master placed fifth in the first round.” She didn't sound too bothered, but Lindon could feel her disappointment. She'd let herself down in her own eyes. His brush stopped, and he looked up at her. “If it was about where you started, I would never have caught up to you. The only thing that matters is where you end up.” He returned to the scroll. “And our paths don't end with this tournament.”

“Do you ever intend to tell us where you came from?” Lindon asked, a little irritation leaking into his voice. Eithan's eyebrows rose. “Did you want to know? You've never asked me.” Lindon stopped. Surely that couldn't be true. “I have certainly withheld other information from you, but you've never once asked me where I came from.”

He was greatly relieved when he saw that Eithan and Yerin had both passed, though neither Pride nor Naru Saeya had managed to secure a crown before time ran out. He had mixed feelings. True, the fighters most likely to win had passed, but Pride and Saeya had given up their personal chances for the team. That only increased the weight on him.

“More Monarchs have died trying to kill the Dreadgods than any other way, but Reigan has the others convinced that he’s found a way.” “How?” Lindon asked. The question came out of him so quickly that he forgot to be polite. Fury pointed to him from the couch. “The cat has a key to crack open the western labyrinth. He claims he’ll use it as bait, drag the Dreadgods in, and the security measures on the maze will weaken them enough for us to kill them and craft their corpses into the most powerful Divine Treasures the world has ever seen. The cults, of course, think he’s just waking them up.” The Herald sat straight up. The wind stirred, gathering him until he sat on air and drifted to face Lindon and Mercy. “Problem is, the first thing the Dreadgods will do is run straight through Akura territory to get what they're after. We take on all the risk.” The western labyrinth. Lindon's throat tightened. He knew where that was. His right hand curled into a fist. It wasn't the Akura clan who would be taking on the risk, but the people in their territory. The people of Sacred Valley.

“What?” Mercy hurried around so she could look into his face. “Did the dragons say something?” The air flickered, and a massive bulk of a man stepped out, ragged hair falling behind him. His unshaven face showed a hint of anger. “They always do,” Northstrider said. He had appeared in the center of the waiting room as easily as walking out of a door. The two Underlords both bowed, though Lindon had to force his body to move like a puppet. “Dragons are beings of destruction,” the Monarch went on. “They would rather see a field reduced to ash than see someone else have a bite to eat.” “I’ll take care of her,” Lindon said. He didn't have a way yet, but he and Dross would figure it out. Blackflame burned through his spirit, and he took deep breaths, cycling the fury throughout his body. Northstrider's golden eyes flicked between them before settling on Lindon. “Your opponent asked for his last words to be delivered to you.” Lindon felt a pang in his heart. Last words. So Naian had expected what happened to him. “He said, ‘The dragon advances.’”

The King hated the Abidan. He would do anything he could to tear them down. With a Scythe in his hands… Makiel realized his lens hadn’t closed. He looked back up into the purple-tinged screen. He met eyes like two red suns. The Mad King looked up at him as though he could see across time and space. This was nothing but a memory, a recording, an imprint left on the Way. There was no way to detect such contact before it occurred. Even so, the Vroshir locked eyes with the Abidan. Then he slowly reached out and gripped the Scythe.

“Thank you, Mercy.” Lindon drew just enough Blackflame to set a torch of anger to his spirit. “I’ll see you in the next round.” The door began to slide up, showing the dark floor and letting in a flood of screams and cries. He cycled his madra as memories spun in his mind. Suriel showing him the death of Sacred Valley. The Bleeding Phoenix covering the sky from horizon to horizon. Ekeri’s gold-scaled chest burned through by dragon’s breath. The gold dragon Herald, clutching a piece of the Temple of Rising Earth in its talons. Sophara tearing off Lindon’s head with one swipe of her claws. Naian Blackflame in chains, then collapsing bleeding to the floor. On the other side of the door, she was waiting for him. No…she was standing in his way.

She wants you to listen to her, Dross says. His mental voice is quiet. Lindon has no response. She wants you to see her full power, and she wants you to trust her to handle yours. She wants to see the real Lindon, not…is it too much to call you a cringing wreck? That sounds like too much.

Yerin dashed forward, her Shadow following her a second later. Both of them dragged their devastating techniques with them. As Lindon ran in to meet her, a serpentine stream of dark fire flowing behind him, he realized he was smiling too. Two Final Swords struck his technique: The Dragon Descends. Lindon's full power met Yerin's, and the stage ripped apart.

He was far more intrigued by Lindon. This was the Truegold who had gone to Ghostwater and made it out with a mental construct. Northstrider had taken note of him already and found nothing extraordinary. He was beginning to reevaluate that. Lindon had grown too quickly. Each round he fought, he moved like a different person. Every time Northstrider thought the boy’s mind-construct would reach the end of its capabilities, he was proven wrong. In this battle alone, Lindon had managed to compete with the Sword Sage’s disciple by showing reaction and processing speeds that should have been impossible for an Underlord. Yerin had called out the word ‘Dross’ just before Lindon’s performance spiked. He had thought it was an insult… …but what if it was a name?

Eithan scratched at his chin. “Hm. As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been willing to do whatever it takes if it accomplished your goal. That’s one of the things I admire about you. But I’ve always wondered one thing: what will he do when he pours his heart and soul into something and still fails?”

He concentrated special attention on Sector Eleven. Not only did they protect Asylum, which would surely be a top-priority target for the King, they defended Cradle. And Cradle would be among the most delicate of worlds to recruit. Of all the Monarchs in Cradle, every one had already refused recruitment by the Abidan. They would no doubt encourage others to do so as well. The Abidan would have to descend personally, representing the heavens, and appeal to the Monarchs’ successors. The next generation. They would have to offer a prize of great value, and the result might be only one or two new Abidan. But it would be worth it. Now, more than ever before, the Court needed soldiers.

Kiuran