Lodestone

by Katherine Forrister

  Black tendrils wrapped around Melaine’s arms as the smoke thickened into ropes. She cried out and dropped the root. It fell to the ground with a rattle, but the smoke vines continued to creep from its ends and swirl around Melaine’s arms and hands. They yanked her toward the root. A loud chanting rushed at her in indiscernible words, but she somehow understood.

  She gasped as the black tendrils ripped her magic to the surface of her skin. Her palms flooded with heat, and she focused on the words in her ears and the magic in her hands and pushed.

  Thick, dry vines shot out of her fingertips. They were real and solid, taking the place of the smoky residue. The vines erupted with sharp thorns that twisted along their gnarled lengths. They climbed with violent speed up the tower walls, piercing leather spines of books and shattering glass casings while they splintered the wooden shelves.

  The botanical explosion flew straight toward the startled crow, who had never left its post on the open balcony. Its caw reverberated against the tower rafters. It flapped its black wings, but the vines had reached the high window and they encircled the balcony in a thorny cage. The crow beat its wings so fast it lost feathers, lurching toward the thorns but veering away before it impaled itself.

  Each vine thickened and crisscrossed with countless others. They smothered the sunlight, narrowing the broad shafts to mere slivers. The bird’s wings cast wild shadows in the retreating light. Melaine watched the whole scene like she was apart from it all. Was she the one willing the largest thorn to sharpen and aim right at the pesky crow, ready to strike like a viper? Or had she awoken some other evil?

  Firm hands snaked around Melaine’s arms and gripped her, hard. She gasped as the dry vines snapped off of her fingers and crumbled to the floor. The thick vines on the balcony stopped twisting, and the spike that was aimed at the desperate crow whipped back and smacked into the thorny cage. The entire binding of vines shattered into countless pieces, littering the balcony with dried twigs and fractured thorns.

  The crow darted through the opening and beat its frantic wings out of sight into the autumn air.

  “What are you doing?” the Overlord said, his hoarse voice rough and fierce. He spun her around, his grip returning just as hard as he held her in place.

  Melaine looked up into his piercing blue eyes. “I-I don’t know. I just touched that root, and—”

  “You touched it?” the Overlord scoffed. He let go of her arms. Her skin felt hot from his touch and a little bruised.

  He stooped and picked up the root.

  “You said you know little more than household spells,” he said, clearly irritable. But his anger was more like she’d awoken him too early from sleep rather than committed some mysterious magical misdemeanor that had scared her.

  “I don’t,” she insisted. “It was the Insight.”

  “This Insight is empty,” the Overlord said. “It has been for fifteen years.”

  His scathing tone made Melaine’s face grow hot with anger.

  “It’s not! I found its magic. It…worked.”

  Melaine fought a shudder as she eyed the root. Had it worked? She’d never experienced an Insight with such an explosion of potency before. Was it supposed to do what it had done?

  The Overlord frowned and looked at the Insight, dormant in his hand.

  Melaine lifted her fingers, inspecting them. All evidence of vines from beneath her fingernails was gone. She drew her eyebrows together and cupped her palm. She felt a gentle nudge of magic in her mind, and she imagined a blossoming flower. Golden petals flowed from the beds of her fingernails. She looked at them in awe, appearing, for a moment, like a rich lady with painted nails. Then, the petals dropped free. They swirled and coalesced over her open hand until a bright yellow rose blossom rested in her palm.

  She raised her wide eyes and looked at the Overlord. He was watching the rose with a look of intense intrigue, dissecting each petal with a flicker of analytical thought in his eyes.

  “May I?” he said after a moment. He held out his hand.

  Melaine frowned but nodded. The Overlord gently scooped the rose from her hand. Feathery energy hovered over her palm in its wake, carrying the scent of forest loam and grass clippings.

  “Repurposed magic,” he muttered. He ran lithe fingertips along each petal’s edge with the air of a connoisseur identifying a fine wine. He nodded to himself.

  “You took the latent magic within the Insight, left there from the sorcerer who crafted it, and repurposed the scraps to infuse you with the knowledge this root contained.”

  “What?” Melaine asked. “I didn’t do that.”

  “Whether wittingly or not, you did,” the Overlord said. “It is extremely rare for anyone to be able to use residual magic. Especially unintentionally.” His keen eyes inspected her with great interest.

  “Residual magic?” Melaine repeated with a crinkled nose and a desire to wipe her palms on her dress. “But that’s—”

  “As useful as any other kind,” said the Overlord. “For those of us who know how to be resourceful.”

  Melaine raised her eyebrows.

  “You are desperate to learn magic, Melaine,” he said. She shivered under his penetrating gaze as he drew closer. He held the rose between them, its petals trembling near her beating heart. “You are too anxious to wait for me to teach you, and you couldn’t stand the thought of all these Insights here, taunting you because they contain knowledge your limitations of status have always prevented you from gleaning. Yes?”

  Melaine didn’t deny his statement, marveling at how easily he seemed to understand her thoughts.

  “So, you took it,” he said, his voice lower, almost intimate. His blue eyes deepened. “You did what you had to in order to get ahead. Just like you do with your lodestones. That scrappy resourcefulness is more powerful than you know, Melaine. That is something that cannot be taught.” He searched her eyes, drinking in her confused expression. “I’ve never met anyone who possesses it as strongly as I.”

  “What cause do you have to be resourceful?” she asked to distract herself from her instinct to back away. “You have everything you could want in excess.”

  The Overlord smiled. “I didn’t always.”

  Melaine silenced. The way he looked at her dove deeper than the day before, as if he was trying to lay steady foundations for a bridge between them, one that scared her. He spoke as if he understood what it was like to be her. He understood who she was. She dropped her gaze.

  The Overlord drew away. He walked across the room to an armchair and sat down. His exertion from stopping her drastic display of magic seemed to have drained him of energy. Only when he was gone did she notice the absence of his smooth scent of old parchment, warm candle wax, and sandalwood, all cooled by the sensation of his magic that tasted and smelled of freshly fallen snow.

  “I admire what you just did,” he said, setting the delicate rose blossom on his lap. “But, as you experienced, learning from an Insight is no simple thing.”

  Melaine opened her mouth.

  “With trifling spells, perhaps,” he interrupted with a raised finger to stop her protest. “But you are not standing amongst trifling spells, are you Melaine?” His eyes traveled about the room, making his point clear as he addressed the staggering amount of Insights within his collection.

  Melaine’s heart beat with excitement and a little trepidation. “No,” she agreed.

  “You will not touch any Insights in this room without my permission.” He eyed her hard. “Especially those from this cabinet.” He indicated the curio cabinet from which the root had fallen, which contained three stacked shelves cluttered with objects. “Just because you can scrape their dregs doesn’t mean they are spells you need to know. Had I known you could…”

  He paused, reining in his words.

  “Put it back,” he said, holding out the root. She hesitated but came forward and took the root from his hand. She focused on its surface, but no taint of residual magic remained, and the cl
eaner magic beneath was utterly gone.

  “Did I use the last of it?” she asked with a wince, worried she might get in trouble.

  The Overlord sighed. “Put it back,” he said again, nodding to the shelf. “And close the door.”

  His words had a finality to them. She had used up the root’s last dregs, and he wanted to make sure she didn’t use up the others, too. Perhaps he kept empty Insights because he thought he was the only person who might still get some use out of them. Could he “repurpose” residual magic too? Was she…like him, in that way?

  She turned her back and approached the cabinet filled with forbidden objects. She felt special because she could do something the Overlord had never expected, something that he thought perhaps only he could do, but anger flared in her heart from his command to stay away from the knowledge he prized.

  “Don’t worry, Melaine,” he said. “There is much I can teach you. Much that this library can teach you.”

  Melaine placed the root in its spot and closed the glass doors. She turned around.

  “I can learn from others?” she asked, flashing her eyes about the tower.

  The Overlord nodded. “Under my tutelage.”

  “My lord, why do I need your tutelage when I can learn from the Insights?”

  “Insights are powerful,” he said. “But without a greater context, without the support of a strong foundation built upon the principles behind them, they can be next to useless. Or overwhelming.” He eyed the balcony, still scattered with snapped twigs and loose thorns.

  “And I am not the only one with limited energy this morning,” he said with a small grimace as if he’d swallowed bitter tea. “You won’t be able to rush about the tower, learning from Insight after Insight endlessly. Temper your impatience, and let me guide you, Melaine. You did come to me, after all.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Melaine said. He was right. She had come to him. She had an opportunity unlike any other—many people would kill for this chance at power. She had killed for this chance. Why was she belittling his teachings?

  Because he wasn’t what she had expected.

  Yet his physical weakness wasn’t the only thing that differed from her imaginings. The artist who’d created the broadsheet portraits posted around Centara was a failure as far as Melaine was concerned. The Overlord’s eyes weren’t cold and hard as ice. They shifted dynamically, each small flick revealing a different facet of his personality or hinting at secrets close to the surface but withheld.

  Jianthe had once told her about a natural wonder known as glaciers, which the woman had seen when she’d visited the northernmost kingdom, Wrimid, when she’d lived and traded out of Zraihya as a child. Jianthe had said that glaciers were made of ice that moved and flowed. The Overlord’s eyes moved, prodding and consuming Melaine’s perceptions, so that she couldn’t keep an even footing.

  Jianthe had also said that glacier’s hearts held a bright yet deep blue color, just like the Overlord’s eyes.

  “Where should we start, my lord?” Melaine asked, squaring her shoulders and meeting his gaze. She was surprised to see a slight twinkle in his eyes as he looked at her, but it was quickly doused.

  “First,” he said with a tight frown. “I’m going to need my strength.” He held out his hand but avoided Melaine’s gaze.

  Melaine swallowed her shame and resentment and nodded. She tried to focus on all of the brilliant knowledge ahead as she summoned a lodestone from her marrow, through her veins, and into her palm. She forced the prickling pain to fade and brought the stone to the Overlord with care. He took it in light fingertips and brought it to his lips.

  Melaine turned around before she had to watch him inhale her magic. Her heartbeat quickened as she swept her eyes upward to the massive library. As loath as she was to part with her magic, she had to accept that sacrificing one lodestone was, perhaps, nothing compared to the prize she could earn in return.

  No lodestone could ever match the staggering power she could gain from this library of Insights.

  Wriggling, creeping vines sprawled out of Melaine’s wrist as if they were extensions of her veins. They climbed up the lurking guard statue outside her room and encircled its every limb in a binding vice. A thick, thorn-covered vine strangled its neck and wrapped around its horrific face. The statue was blind and immobilized—she hoped.

  She kept her wrist aloft as she trod past the statue with caution. It didn’t move. Her ensnaring spell was working, and the thought gave Melaine the confidence she needed to press forward. When she reached the end of the hallway, she rolled her wrist and flicked the protruding vine away from her skin. It slithered back toward the statue and joined the rest, encircling the dark gray stone.

  Melaine took a breath and nearly smiled as she crossed through the hearth room and entered the sitting room. The furniture loomed amidst golden decor that reflected the light of her candlestick, but the superficial luxuries had no sway over her mission. So far, wandering the castle at night had not been successful, but now Melaine had an itch that could not be scratched alone in her bedroom. She had tasted power in the library. Real power. And despite the Overlord’s opinion that she should wait until he was around to peruse the Insights, so much thrilling magic had built up within her over the past three days, it seemed a waste not to use it. She would avoid the glass cabinet, at least.

  Her mind lit up with anticipation, thinking about what kind of knowledge she might find next. Conjuration spells? Tactical battle-magic? Necromancy?

  Melaine shuddered, but her heart leapt at the amazing, unlimited possibilities before her. The Overlord wouldn’t judge any forms of magic she wished to learn. Even the darkest spells, which cowards liked to call “evil.”

  Melaine continued through her quarter’s string of rooms until she reached the staircase that led to the courtyard where the pond and garden waited in tamed serenity. She walked down the stairs and breathed in the crisp night scent of weeds and water and moonlight.

  Then a low crooning reached her ears, drifting from the small entrance to the dungeons. The prisoner she had met, Serj, was singing his plaintive, deranged song.

  Suddenly, the thought of necromancy somersaulted her insides. The face of Serj’s dead brother, Talem, seeped into her brain. She had only used a propulsion spell to knock him down, but the memory still made her sick. Would any battle-magic spells be as glorious as she’d dreamed? Or would they all give her this twisted feeling inside if she tried them?

  She pushed away the guilt bubbling inside her, but the urge to avoid Serj’s melancholy song was too great to ignore. She turned to her right and hurried across a patch of grass and up another flight of stairs toward a different paved courtyard that served as a crossroads to the maze that was Highstrong Keep.

  She passed through a brief, dark passage and again entered the open air. She could still hear Serj’s song. She looked around at each short, narrow doorway and alcove, trying to judge if there was an alternate path to the library that would keep her as far away as possible from the dungeons.

  Across the courtyard, the door to the great hall lurked. She knew the library tower was on the other side, but she didn’t know if the two sections connected in the interior. One courtyard staircase led to the wall above the great hall’s flat roof, and Melaine decided on that route. The night was cold and damp, with clouds that threatened rain, but better to take a straightforward path than to reenter a maze of dark corridors.

  She kept every sense vigilant as she crept across the cracked granite flags and up the crumbling stone stairs. She reached the roof, where a walking path ran between two rails of wrought-iron posts, a sign that the ancient wall had been modified in more recent years. Perhaps the Overlord had repaired it five years ago when he’d moved back into Highstrong. Maybe it had been a necessary reinforcement when his army had holed up in the keep before the war.

  The light from Melaine’s candle danced on the spearheads of each iron post as she padded on silent feet down the path. A chill perme
ated her dressing gown and chemise, and she paused when she felt a light draft rustle her hair. She smelled rain. A thin mist started to drizzle down.

  She shivered but kept walking. She could see the library’s tower ahead. Its few windows were dark, and the quickening rain glistened on its stone sides and parapets.

  Melaine’s candle went out. She paused as harder raindrops fell on her skin and soaked her thin clothing. The iron rails beside her splayed inward, twisted and frayed, as if a heavy cannonball had blown their other halves away.

  She looked out over the iron posts and into the night. The rain and mist obscured most of the world, but she could see the massive shadow of the menacing outer wall of Highstrong Keep. She eyed the wall, a brooding cliff of sheer stone that stood as a dark shadow against the eerie, moonlit clouds, which poured rain in dismal patches.

  For a moment, she took stock of her brief life within Highstrong’s walls. For once, she was in a place she wanted to be. The wall of Highstrong Keep wasn’t like the wall of Stakeside, which served as a constant reminder that she was excluded from the higher levels of living in Centara. The wall of Highstrong was a symbol that the rest of the world was excluded from the Overlord’s illustrious presence, and only Melaine was good enough for those monstrous walls to let her in.

  She lowered her eyes and let them wander the courtyard, enjoying the moment despite the rain that plastered her chemise to her freezing skin. She leaned over the splayed iron posts and peered down to her right, where she saw the abandoned stable house. She then looked left at the hexagonal library tower, not far away.

  A blurred figure stood on the tower balcony. Melaine straightened and looked harder through the rain. The pale shape of a woman stood watching her, but Melaine blinked, and the woman disappeared. Fog rose like steam from the balcony, swirling in the increasing rain.