The Queen's Quarry

by Frank Morin

  He’d left his custom armor packed, with orders to ship it to Altkalen. He wore solid boots, but unless he slowed, he wouldn’t really need them. The cold wind cut through his insulated Wingrunner baggy pants. He also wore a soft, sheep-leather jacket, lined with fur and padded with wool, a thick, woolen cap, and wool-lined leather gloves.

  He could tap a little marble to keep himself warm like Kilian preferred. Kilian was the master of fire and water, but Connor still hesitated to tap marble too often. Life was crazy enough without embracing the wild, reckless burn of fire all the time.

  As Connor sprinted tirelessly over the snowy landscape toward the lower valleys, he tapped a little limestone. The connection came immediately, and the streaming sunlight became clearer to his limestone vision. He enjoyed the shimmering waves of light cascading across the landscape, although he deflected some of it away from himself to reduce the glare.

  Then he simply ran.

  Basalt speed was freedom unlike anything else in the world. Connor flashed down the mountain, legs blurring, breathing evenly, exulting in unrivaled speed. Running with Donald or even Dietmar was always fun, but he hadn’t gotten much alone time in recent weeks of battles and bloodshed.

  As he ran, he let his thoughts settle to silence that reflected the stillness of the high mountains. The rushing wind alone filled his ears, drowning out the fast patter of his boots skipping across the snow. He was glad he had decided to run north alone. The bright, chill morning seemed to replenish his reserves, and he found himself smiling through chilled lips.

  In minutes he reached the first steep switchback that descended a wide bluff for over a thousand feet. A beautiful, forested valley spread below for three more miles before dropping down to even lower slopes.

  That slope offered way too much fun to ignore. At the first switchback turn, Connor simply leaped off the edge, threw his arms out wide as he soared out over empty space, and embraced quartzite.

  The air felt exhausted. As Connor cast his thoughts out wide, he found only weak currents limping south, dragged after the fast-moving storm. The storm, fueled by the turbulent, unruly elements had spent all that energy and left the land, the snow, and the air temporarily slumbering.

  As Connor flew out over the land, untethered to any element, to any restraint, he enjoyed freedom that not even Verena and Hamish could feel in their marvelous Builder flying machines. For a moment Connor soared, alone and untouchable.

  Flying like that, he could imagine Verena zipping up beside him in her Swift, giving him that special smile she reserved only for him, and pivoting so he could step aboard and fly with her. The image felt so real, he actually looked around for her.

  The empty sky mocked him, reminding him that she might never fly again.

  Connor shouted a wordless cry of defiance, refusing to accept that possibility. Verena would return. She had to. He shouted again, the sound lost in the wide open air, and his fears seemed to mock him. That fear and the anger it triggered stirred the beast in his heart and for a second the yearning for porphyry swept through him, setting his limbs shaking with the memory of the unrivaled might he enjoyed as a rampager.

  “No!” Connor shouted aloud and drove thoughts of porphyry from his mind.

  Instead he focused on his tertiary affinities and touched all four elements. Briefly, and not deep enough to unlock any of their marvelous powers, but just enough to feel them. And in that moment of untethered flight, the elements touched his mind with more clarity than every before.

  Each element was different. Each one walked with different strides, different focus. He’d never noticed those differences so clearly. It felt like floating through the air with four close friends flying beside him. He cherished each friendship, but each affinity was unique.

  Air was wild and flighty, bold but undisciplined. It loved exploring the world and leaping over every mountain without hesitation, without worry about consequences. It refused to be cowed, but would rush in to help if the inclination struck it. For the first time, Connor felt as if air was like a girl, with long, wind-blown tresses, a quick smile and a ready laugh, but with a mischievous gleam in her sky blue eyes.

  Earth flew beside air like a slightly disapproving uncle. Earth was solid, dependable, methodical, and careful. Slow to anger, but unrivaled in fury. Earth was a builder of mountains, a protector of nations. Earth was a giant of a man, and in Connor’s mind he envisioned earth like Evander. For the first time he sensed that earth secretly envied air her freedom and loved her caresses, even though they would eventually wear away the majestic peaks he worked so hard to raise.

  On Connor’s other side flew water and fire, like eager lovers who couldn’t stay apart, but couldn’t quite manage to bear each other’s company. Water was a beautiful, poised woman, mature and strong, dependable and incapable of yielding against direct pressure, but also flexible and nimble, able to flow into any shape she chose. Fire seemed a hot-headed youth who lived every moment with every ounce of life he could summon, but lacked staying power. He destroyed in a heartbeat of blistering heat, but also possessed a tender heart, capable of warm caring when calmed.

  Connor was so amazed by the insights, so intrigued by the new clarity that he felt from the elements that he nearly forgot he wasn’t actually flying. He was falling, with style.

  And in a second, he’d splatter with spectacular effect across the snowy landscape.

  So he extended a hand to soapstone and she responded, as she always did, without hesitation and without placing any conditions on their bond. The entire landscape glowed in Connor’s water senses as he plunged through the gateway and became one with water. He seized the snow piled high in the meadow he was about to crash into and piled it into a fifty-foot pillar of soft powder.

  He plummeted into it, blasting snow in every direction. His speed bled away and he settled to a full stop six inches from the frozen, rocky ground. Lying face first in the snow, he laughed with relief and with the wonder of simply exploring his affinities.

  When he rose to his feet, he brushed the piles of snow away with a flicker of thought. “That’s even more fun than flying.”

  His frozen cheeks ached with the movement, so he sucked on a piece of marble, savoring the spicy explosion of flavor. He kept the tap rate minute, just enough to warm his insides, then again tapped basalt.

  Connor rocketed north, pouring on the speed. He fracked again, then max-tapped, outrunning the fastest arrow.

  In minutes, he descended to the lowlands and neared the long Harz Valley where one of the most brutal battles of the invasion had taken place. Streamers of black smoke rose into the still air. That marked the beginning of the broken lands. As much as he wanted to see the devastation with his own eyes, he didn’t want to deal with any delays.

  So he banked wide to the east around Harz, running up a long saddle between a pair of stubby peaks and soaring off the summit. Several fast miles later he discovered faint distortions in the snow, the first indication that tens of thousands of feet had marched past recently.

  As he continued north, the tracks became clearer. The army was forced to move at the snail’s pace of walking soldiers. He was running at least fifty times that fast, and he caught up with them a couple minutes later.

  They had stopped for the midday meal and their huge numbers filled a small valley to bursting. Connor spotted a pair of hovering windriders watching the back trail and waved, confident the Longseers stationed there would recognize him.

  As he rounded a final bend and closed on the stationary army, a company of Wingrunners leaped out of concealment on both flanks and joined him. Connor slowed to match their top speed and waved to Dietmar, the cocky Wingrunner from Ilse’s company.

  “What’s the good word?” he called.

  Dietmar jabbed a thumb toward the stationary army as they ran past on the left flank. “Not so good, boy. This lot can barely walk five miles a morning. Thanks for stopping by. Gives us a chance to stretch our legs a bit.”

&nbs
p; “I’m surprised you haven’t run ahead to Altkalen to inform them the army’s coming.”

  Dietmar snorted. “Been there four times since we started the march.”

  “How are things there?”

  He knew what Connor was asking. He shook his head sadly. “She hasn’t woken up yet.”

  “Maybe today.”

  Connor suddenly didn’t feel like chatting. He waved good-bye and accelerated again, leaving the astonished Dietmar vainly trying to speed up in his wake.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have revealed his full speed, but he wasn’t worried about those men blabbing. No basalt runner that Connor had ever met would openly admit anyone else was faster.

  When Connor rounded the front of the army, he spotted Ilse, Marshal Gunter, and several of the other senior officers, but did not stop. His good humor had faded under a renewed need to get to Verena as fast as possible.

  He waved again and sped up. The road north was covered in deep snow. No doubt the Water Moccasins would clear the path for the army, but Connor decided that even though he wouldn’t stop, he could still help.

  So he tapped soapstone and formed an invisible plow radiating out at an angle to either side. Snow billowed and rolled aside like a drawn curtain just in time for him to race through.

  Ten minutes later, he shot up the long slope south of Altkalen to the enormous valley that held the sprawling trading metropolis.

  Altkalen.

  8

  Big Surprises in Little Packages

  Every other city Connor had ever seen, lumped together in one place, would probably not fill a tenth of Altkalen. Sure, the Carraig possessed majestic palaces, but the huge Grandurian metropolis was so vast, it filled a sprawling plain for miles in every direction.

  Unfortunately, Verena would be in the citadel, the huge castle that lorded over the richest part of the city where the rulers and nobles lived. That area lay across a wide river, on the northern edge of Altkalen. Connor was approaching from the south, so he’d have to traverse the entire expanse, crowded with over half a million people.

  He slowed as he neared the city and passed through the sprawling cattle pens and tent communities of the herdsmen. The area smelled so much better covered by two feet of snow. Most of the animals huddled together in herds, close to the enclosures where they were fed.

  One of those pastures had been converted into a holding area for the hundreds of Obrioner prisoners captured during the recent battle. The initial, rough earthen walls had been expanded into a fully enclosed earthen compound, with smooth, curving walls merging into a domed roof that rose over forty feet into the air.

  Good thing, or those prisoners would have frozen in that blizzard. He reminded himself to check on Ivor. Officers were housed separately, and Connor needed to speak with his friend. He hoped Ivor was handling his captivity well, and he suspected Ivor could help plan his Guardian revolution.

  That too would have to wait until he checked on Verena.

  It seemed that the entire population of Altkalen had decided to come out into the streets to celebrate the end of the storm. Connor fumed as he slowed to a pitiful jog when he reached the press of the lower town. People seemed eager to block traffic in big, chatty crowds, enjoying the clear calm after the long storm.

  There in the poorer, southern sections of the city, the buildings lacked the self-importance to rise more than three stories over the narrow streets that they huddled close beside. Most were sheathed in simple, unpainted wood or volcanic rock. The people dressed in sturdy workers’ clothing, simple in design, and usually somber in color.

  The streets smelled clean, a rare treat that many people commented on. Connor tried to conceal his impatience as he wove through the press. It took nearly an hour to just reach the wider avenues and the enormous trading houses of the merchant district. The thick throngs of people there had to compete with entire caravans of wagons, mules, and camels.

  The clear, cool air carried thousands of smells. The scent of cook fires hung close over the city, the bluish smoke reluctant to rise into the strangely still sky. Perfumes, roasting meat, spices, and the odor of many people pressed close together clashed in sometimes jarring ways. Mingled with it all was the fouler scents of animal droppings, the fish market that Connor accidentally walked too close to, and one open sewer pit that maintenance workers were trying to unplug. Connor felt grateful that he had not been tapping quartzite to his nose.

  If anything, the crowds grew thicker the farther north he moved into the city. Servants in sensible shoes hurried about their errands while well-dressed merchants and their wives haggled in loud, good-natured voices while they blocked the lanes. No one seemed to be in a hurry except for Connor.

  He tried shifting closer to the buildings, hoping to skirt the crowds, but street vendors were already claiming most of that area. They all seemed to think the best way to help him enjoy the day was to try to delay him with their best deals.

  Finally, exasperated, Connor climbed a ladder rising up the wall of a tall basket weaver’s guild. When he reached the roof and looked out, the sea of people seemed never-ending. Usually he liked being around people, and he had never understood people who feared crowds. In that moment he did. He was tempted to embrace soapstone to flood the streets, or summon some fiery legs to walk above the crowd.

  He was no longer south of Altkalen, so Kilian’s warnings to avoid tertiary-affinity stones no longer applied so much. With a feeling of immense relief, Connor wedged a tiny piece of marble under his tongue and a little piece of quartzite into his cheek.

  The air hung limp and tired over the city, worse than it had felt in the wilds to the south. He wondered if all those people breathing tired it out more. Luckily, Connor was not too far from the gorge that held the river, with its beautifully colored banks and shoals. He found a rare, enthusiastic gust of wind rushing down that gorge, as if enjoying the fact that it could race there without anyone noticing. He gave it a tug, and was thrilled when it responded to his call, whipped around him, and lifted him high into the air.

  The rush of wind rattled the rooftops and drew many gazes. He heard many startled exclamations as he rose on the current. Connor waved, happy to leave them all behind.

  Unfortunately ever-fickle air quickly grew bored serving him. In his mind, Connor sensed her toss her wild hair and wink before she abandoned him and fled.

  She’d accomplished what she needed to, though. Connor switched to marble and formed a wide set of fiery wings, eliciting a wave of applause from the spectators below. Connor waved again, then banked north. Fancy palaces, manor houses, and the huge expanse of the central citadel seemed to beckon him on from across the river.

  The still air did little to help his flight, but neither did it impede it. Connor angled slightly downward to pick up speed as he flew over the river gorge. He wasn’t using all that much marble. Again it generated the image of an impetuous youth, urging him to draw deeper, to unleash him across the city.

  “Maybe next time,” Connor said with a grin. Talking to the elements like people might be a sign that his mind was cracking, but he couldn’t feel anxious about that possibility while riding with fire across the clear sky.

  As he flew, he realized the city was clear of snow. It hadn’t clogged the streets, nor did it cling to the rooftops. The pastures farther south had some, but the snowline ended abruptly at the city limits. He wondered if the hundreds of hot springs bubbling under the plain heated it enough to melt everything.

  Lots of people thronged the richer northern sections of town, but the crowds seemed far less dense than on the southern bank. Connor glided most of the way to the outer citadel wall before touching down.

  The guards recognized him and gave him no trouble. So he rushed inside, planning to race through the confusing maze of corridors and hallways that he remembered from his last visit. The halls were busy, filled with servants, soldiers in the blue and gray of the city watch, officials carrying scrolls and parchments, and finely-dressed lor
ds and ladies. Thankfully no one seemed interested in speaking with him. Everyone moved about with purpose, as if eager to catch up on all the work that hadn’t been done during the blizzard.

  Eventually Connor reached Saskia’s personal tower and jogged up the flight of stairs to the lowest level. Saskia was Mattias’s sister, and the Lady Marshall of the city. At the entrance to the tower, Connor reached a simple, stone-walled anteroom. Four guards with Saskia’s golden lion epaulettes on the shoulders of their uniforms blocked the way.

  Their leader, a solid-looking sergeant who looked annoyed by the duty, grew suspicious when he realized Connor was Obrioner. Connor wasn’t feeling very patient, so he wrapped the man in streamers of fire, water, and earth.

  They quickly summoned him a guide. They probably also sent for reinforcements, but luckily the eager young servant girl who arrived, dressed in Saskia’s colors of teal and white, recognized him. She said something in quick Grandurian that reassured the soldiers, then she curtsied to Connor.

  She looked barely twelve years old. Her light brown hair, which reminded him of Verena’s, was tied back in a ponytail. Her high-pitched voice fit her perfectly. “Lord Connor, I’ve been sent to fetch you.”

  Connor chuckled. “I’m not a lord. Just call me Connor.”

  The suggestion seemed to shock her, but she recovered quickly and beckoned him after her. “If you’ll follow me, please.”

  She led him deeper into the citadel and up at least seven flights of steps. They reached an area he recognized as Saskia’s personal quarters.

  The last time he’d visited Altkalen, he’d spent time in her study and her library. The memory of the morning before the battle of Altkalen came to mind, when he found Verena and Saskia in her private study before dawn. That was the morning Verena had gifted to him his marvelous new suit of armor.

  The girl brought Connor to a slightly less ornate hallway that he did not remember. She stopped at an impressive wooden door, carved with bright red roses and some other gilded flower he didn’t recognize.