The Stone Eater (The Magic Eaters Trilogy Book 3)

by Carol Beth Anderson

  Nora shook her head. “Science explains the formation of the universe and the evolution of life. I don’t have to tell you that; I’m sure you’ve read as much about it as I have. Probably more.”

  “Yeah. Nature makes me consider God’s existence, but it doesn’t convince me.”

  “What does?”

  His voice lowered. “All the stuff we can’t see. Selflessness. Generosity.” Nora thought she heard him swallow before he continued, even softer than before. “The ability to appreciate beauty. God’s got to be behind that, don’t you think?”

  Warmth rushed through Nora again. I could talk with him like this forever. As soon as the thought ran through her mind, she caught herself. None of that. She dropped her blanket, letting the crisp air run over her shoulders and neck. Gaze now fixed on the darkness beyond them, she said, “All those things you mentioned are great. But they’re no less real than death and injustice. Is God behind all that too?”

  Apparently she’d broken whatever spell had fallen over them, because out of the corner of her eye, she saw Krey turn away from her. “Is that why you don’t believe?” he asked.

  Nora blinked. She hadn’t been ready to talk about her rickety relationship with faith. But he’d opened up to her; she’d force herself to do the same. “My mom was murdered. My dad has become my enemy. Yeah. The ugliness in the world is why I don’t believe.”

  “That’s fair.”

  Relief softened muscles Nora hadn’t realized she’d tightened. She’d expected Krey to go into debate mode. She pulled her blanket around her again. “I think a part of me always knew my dad was a hypocrite,” she said quietly, eyes fixing on the orange remnants of the fire. “I saw him go to the chapel every day, but I almost never heard him pray. He taught me about ruling with fairness and justice, but we know how well he’s been doing with that. Why would I want to share my father’s faith when that’s what it looks like?”

  “That type of faith is worthless.” An odd hardness had come into Krey’s tone.

  Nora turned her head again. The taut lines of Krey’s jaw were visible in the starlight. “Glad we agree on that.”

  He faced her again, gentleness returning to his voice. “It’s not my job to say whether your father truly believes. All I know is, I’m not interested in an elitist faith that’s made for royalty. I hate the palace chapel. I don’t care that the stone is there. I hate that even before there was a dome, the chapel’s Sunday services were closed to anyone who wasn’t ‘blessed’ enough to work for the royal family.”

  His words were strangely refreshing. Nora had always felt that way, though she’d never said it aloud. “If my dad’s brand of faith is the wrong one, what’s the right one?”

  The slight breeze they’d had all night turned into a cold wind. Krey’s shadowy form shivered. “Get over here and share my blanket,” Nora said.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Don’t tell me you still need to be cold to stay awake. You know very well conversing with me is more invigorating than any breeze.” He laughed. As she waited for his response, she found herself breathing shallowly, her body tense with the desire to hear him say—

  “Okay.” Krey scooted closer and took one end of the blanket, pulling it around him. The side of his body pressed against hers—shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee.

  Nora’s first thought was that she wished he’d put that firm arm around her. Her second thought was, You are an idiot, Nora Abrios, and you should’ve let him get his own damn blanket.

  “So,” Krey said, “you asked what I think is the right kind of faith?”

  Oh, thank the sky for Krey’s logical mind. He certainly wasn’t giving a second thought to how his arm felt, pressed against hers, and how easily they could reach over and take each other’s hands, and—“Uh, yeah, that’s what I asked.”

  “Well, I figure if there is a God—and let me make one thing clear, yes, I’m a Rimorian, and I pray, but I’m cynical enough to question my belief in God on a regular basis. Anyway . . .” He drew in a deep breath. “If there is a God, he’s clearly a lot more powerful than I am. And . . . I don’t think he keeps that strength to himself. I’m an addict, Nora. I still crave my fuel every day. I depend on someone stronger than me to help me say no.”

  “Go on,” she said softly.

  He faced the fire again. “If God is powerful but still takes care of people like me, then I figure those who believe in him should use their power to take care of others too. I mean . . . if we want to be like God, we should give what we’ve got to others. That might be money or food; or it might be knowledge or magic. I guess what I’m saying is, if there’s a God, I think he’s generous.”

  Nora completed the thought. “And those who claim to worship him should be too.”

  “Yeah. I can get behind a faith where we take care of the people around us.”

  Nora mulled over his words. She’d grown up with a faith that was centered around dressing up once a week to attend a boring chapel service. She’d never considered that spirituality could be based on generosity. “You know,” she murmured, “I don’t know if I’ll ever believe in an all-powerful being that we can’t see. But if I do, the faith you just described is the only one I’d want to buy into.”

  He didn’t answer, but it was a nice sort of silence. Nora finally broke it. “So, about the stone.” His shoulder shook as he laughed softly. “You thought I’d forgotten that’s what you wanted to talk about, right?” she asked.

  “Never.”

  “Whatever. Anyway . . . I’ll think about what you said. It’s not something I can decide lightly. And if you have any more input, I want to hear it.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  The edge of Krey’s hand lightly brushed against her knee. She moved her own hand just enough to catch his pinky finger with hers. He let out another little chuckle. And he didn’t let go.

  It’s just one finger, Nora thought. Totally appropriate touch for two friends. But she was thankful that the darkness hid her smile.

  The Stone Eater: 7

  The palace grounds felt empty as Ulmin strolled through them, his way lit by occasional lampposts. Plenty of people were in the dome, but most of them were asleep. Ulmin was waking earlier than ever these days, drawn from sleep by hunger—for fuel, not food.

  He slipped a tiny brain, no bigger than the pad of his thumb, from his pocket. Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled and smiled. Inkbird, one of his current favorites. He popped it in his mouth and chewed, his lips curving into a satisfied smile.

  This time of morning, when he could still glimpse stars through the dome’s vents, he could almost imagine the heat away. It should be cool. It was Quari 16th, over two weeks into the autumn season. But the thick, warm air under the dome was wonderful in its own way, reminding Ulmin to appreciate his great creation.

  He hadn’t made the dome alone; he’d shared his enhanced magic with two other stone lysters. When a member of the palace staff had escaped by tunneling under the dome, the two lysters had assisted with extending the stone far beneath the ground. They’d been honored to help their monarch build this wondrous work of art that would last for generations.

  If only the capital’s citizens had such loyalty to their king. To be fair, some did. Ulmin reveled in the letters he received, thanking him for bringing order to their city. Far more people, however, grumbled about the soldiers in the street. Army officers kept bringing Ulmin word of these selfish malcontents. Then there was the young traitor, an ally of Nora’s, who’d pretended to be a pilgrim. Was Nora even now building an army to take down her father?

  Ulmin shuddered. When Faylie had lost control of the lyster militia, he’d vowed to never share his mind magic with another. He’d chosen to limit his mind control to those within his palace grounds, workers he could keep close tabs on.

  His citizens’ current discontentment and outright rebellion had changed his mind. The only way to keep a populace safe, to keep a nation safe, was to control minds. Just
because Faylie had failed didn’t mean other Overseers would. Especially if Ulmin had entire teams of them.

  But not just anyone could be an Overseer. Ulmin could only share his heightened mind magic with fellow brain lysters, and finding such people was terribly difficult. Few lysters were lucky enough to process brain matter as fuel, rather than poison.

  When Ulmin had begun looking for his very first Overseer, he’d procured two lysters, criminals with no known friends or family. They’d both died when he fed them brain matter. Ulmin would’ve kept testing such “safe” subjects, had Nora’s best friend Faylie not seen one of the bodies being carried away. She’d asked questions, too many for her own good.

  Ulmin had panicked. He’d controlled her mind and given her brain matter to eat, planning to tell her mother he’d found her dead. Only she hadn’t died. She’d become a brain lyster, nearly as good at controlling minds as he was.

  It had been a true joy, capturing Faylie’s mind. Teaching her to do the same to others. Sharing his strength with her. Her faculty had expanded to accommodate every new lyster who joined the militia. Ulmin hadn’t even minded paying her mother a truly shocking sum to move out of the country and stay quiet—and, later, paying someone to kill her when she attempted to contact her daughter. Faylie was his prize for all his sacrifices, all the work he’d put into his own magical abilities.

  Everything had worked so well until Nora had turned against her father and her former friend, manipulating the militia so they’d begin serving her. His own daughter had brought months of work and years of planning to a halt in one devastating day.

  “This time,” Ulmin muttered, “it will be different.” Hearing his voice, a caynin loped up and nudged his hand with its flat snout. Ulmin laughed softly, crouching and scratching between the animal’s huge ears. “This time,” he told the beast, “we’ll have many Overseers, all sharing my magic. I’ll send them into Cellerin City. They’ll keep their identities secret, capturing minds through handshakes and such. Word will spread. Citizens will know their minds could be captured by anyone at any time. They’ll see the value in loyalty, and we’ll know peace at a deeper level than ever before. Right, my friend?”

  The caynin’s forked tongue emerged and licked Ulmin’s forearm, beneath his rolled-up sleeve. The king chuckled again and stood. “Go, you slobbery thing. Do your job and keep me safe.” The animal ran off.

  As soon as Ulmin had come up with the plan, he’d known it was solid . . . except for that nasty problem of finding Overseers. How was he to discover who could tolerate brain matter without killing the vast majority of lysters he tested?

  He’d first tried with the two stone lysters who’d helped him build the dome. Both were now buried in the palace garden. Ulmin had moved on, asking his army officers to send him magical soldiers who caused problems . . . those who started fights or expected special treatment as lysters. They’d come to the palace, one after the other, to be tested. Six had died over the course of three weeks.

  Last week, he’d had a breakthrough. He’d given a lyster a miniscule amount of brain matter, a tinier piece than he’d ever used before. The young man got ill for several days, rather than dying. Then he recovered. Ulmin had always been taught there was no safe amount of brain matter to eat. Apparently that was false, like so many other things he’d learned about magic.

  Best of all, Ulmin had tested the same tiny amount of fuel on himself, and he was confident it wouldn’t be enough to allow a brain lyster to control anyone. Hopefully that also meant it wouldn’t establish an addiction. When he discovered brain lysters by using these miniscule doses, he could keep their names in his back pocket, so to speak, until he was ready for them.

  Next week, his people would test lysters in the army. They’d discover which ones could tolerate consumption of brain matter. Ulmin would get a list of those names. His future Overseers.

  “Your Majesty?” a voice called from several feet away. “Are you all right?”

  Ulmin looked up. In his musings, he’d somehow made it all the way to the front gate. Someone was laughing, and he spent several seconds trying to find the source before he realized it was him.

  Odd that he hadn’t heard himself until now. That made him laugh harder. After a time, he turned his smiling face to the young man. “I couldn’t be better. It’s a lovely morning in our stone home, isn’t it?”

  20

  After Ulmin’s speech yesterday, he spent a full hour chatting with people. I’ve also noticed how often he engages his guards in conversation. He knows their names and makes a point to ask about their families. They all stand up straighter when they see him coming, but he jokes around with them, putting them at ease.

  Remember Mom telling us, “Leave the maid alone; she has work to do”? Well, today, I spent a few minutes talking to Uncle Quin’s cook. She has a family and a full life outside her job. I’m embarrassed to admit that surprised me. Now I wonder about our staff back home, the ones who don’t live with our family. What do you think their lives are like when they leave our house each night?

  -Letter from Ambrel Kaulder to Dani Kaulder

  Dated Barna 5, 180 PD

  As soon as he heard the king’s laughter, Ovrun tried to shrink back into the shadows inside the palace gate. Don’t look over here, he begged silently, dropping his head, hoping Ulmin wouldn’t notice him.

  Shiny, black boots approached. “Ovrun!” The king was no longer laughing, but his voice was full of cheer.

  Ovrun let out a silent sigh and held out his hands, keeping his head bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “How are things this morning?”

  Ovrun dropped his arms and looked up. “Uneventful, Your Majesty.”

  “Always a good thing, right?” The king clapped Ovrun on the arm. “Walk with me, son.”

  Ovrun nodded and joined the king. By the sky, he hated these walks. If only he had a weapon, he could attack Ulmin. But he was the only royal guard who didn’t carry a gun, bow, or blade.

  He’d spent a lot of time mulling over where he now stood with the king. The best analogy he could draw was that Ulmin saw him as a loyal pet—like a caynin who’d been abused and was so relieved not to be kicked anymore that now he loved his master more than anything. A pet, of course, didn’t get weapons or important responsibilities. His owner just liked to dress him up in guard clothes and take him on walks.

  Ulmin seemed to truly believe he’d gotten all the information he could from his prisoner. He never tried to control Ovrun anymore, preferring the natural conversation he got from a loyal, untouched mind. Hopefully the king would never seek to seize his mind again. The day Ovrun had put on the performance of his life—pretending the torture had broken him—was the day he’d consumed his last bit of shield fuel. If Ulmin ever tried to control him again, Ovrun would disclose everything he knew about his friends. The possibility made bile rise in his throat.

  “How are things among the guards?” Ulmin asked.

  These days, he didn’t just want the truth from Ovrun. He could get that from anyone. When he talked to his human pet, he wanted real dialogue, sprinkled with just the right amount of gossip and colored with wide-eyed loyalty. The conversations were a new kind of torture for Ovrun.

  “Things are good,” he said. “I’m always amazed . . .” He trailed off, chuckling. “Never mind, it’ll sound silly.”

  A lamppost nearby shed light on the wrinkles Ulmin’s grin brought to his cheeks and eyes. “Go ahead, be silly! Tell me!”

  Another laugh. “I’m always amazed at how different things feel from when I worked here before. It was just a job back then. To be honest, sometimes we guards would have bad days, and we’d complain, just like you do at any job. But now, everyone is positive all the time.” That was true. Nobody dared whisper against the king. Mind-controlled interrogation was a powerful deterrent.

  Ulmin briefly rested his hand on Ovrun’s back. “You don’t know how delighted this makes me. I want that type of contentment, not just a
mong my workers in the palace, but across our whole land.”

  “I’m honored to serve under such a good king.” Ovrun stretched the fingers of his left hand, then squeezed them closed. His new nervous habit. Two of the fingers closed less than halfway; they hadn’t healed properly.

  They walked for a minute or two before the king spoke again. “Ovrun.” His voice had lost its lightness.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “You know I speak with the other guards often. They tell me their true feelings.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said. “As I do.”

  “It’s different with them than it is with you. They’re loyal; I have no doubt of that. Yet most of them follow me because they fear me. They don’t trust me the way you do. How can I encourage them to trust me, Ovrun?”

  “Your Majesty,” he said, “your kindness, it . . . it means the world to me. I used to be afraid of you too—oh, damn it, I shouldn’t say that, I’m—”

  “It’s okay,” Ulmin said gently. “Please be honest.”

  “Okay. I used to be afraid, and I don’t know when it changed. Gradually I started seeing all the good you do. You’ve given us this safe place to live. You gave me my job back. Even these walks . . . I see you as a person now, Your Majesty, not just a king.”

  “You still think it’s kindness that made the difference?”

  They’d had this conversation over and over. Ulmin thought he’d gained Ovrun’s loyalty through torture. He probably hoped his former prisoner would advise him to start breaking all the staff’s fingers. Not gonna happen. “How could anyone not follow you when they’ve seen this side of you?” Ovrun asked.