Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Innes

  Celia winced. She had forgotten about the request that was more of an order. Wendinard stepped into the room, laid the tray on her desk and removed the cover to reveal a small roast chicken, with roasted vegetables and a bowl of warm broth. A slice of thick buttered bread and small glass of water completed the tray.

  “Thank you Wendinard.” Celia said gratefully as the head clerk quietly left her room, closing the door quietly behind him. She dug into the food eagerly, the smell of roast chicken and warm bread overwhelming her senses. She cleaned the plate of all but the bones.

  With warm food in her stomach, and almost six bells of sleep, Celia felt refreshed. She washed her face in the small basin, drying her hands on the small hand towel hanging from the back of her chair. Settling her clean robes properly on her shoulders, and running a brush through her hair, Celia looked at herself in the mirror. She was stalling her meeting. She really did have trouble lying to herself.

  Climbing the stairs to Zazaril’s study, her mind went back to the same trip the morning before where and when all this started for Celia. Was it only the morning before? It seemed like a lifetime. She stopped at the top of the stairs facing the rough oak door, pausing to take a breath. She reached forward to knock, when the door opened inwards and another woman stopped abruptly, coming out of the study.

  She was shorter than Celia, but most women were. She had straight blonde hair that came to her shoulder and tapered at the front. She was wearing a deep purple gown, with a white fur vest over top. Her deep blue eyes glared daggers at Celia. The other woman brushed past Celia and headed down the stairs. She was one of the new sorceresses, but her name escaped Celia.

  She stepped through the door and closed it behind her. Zazaril stood, turned away from the door, looking through the eastern window from her study. The Dar'Shilaar Embassy was located just off the Trade Way, which ran straight through Tala’ahar from west to east. From this height, you could see all the way down the straight road, over the undulating rooftops, all the way to the Eastern Trade Gate. That road led to Goralon two hundred leagues east.

  “Puralina was quite upset, as you can imagine, not having a full magestone to bond with now that her training is done,” Zazaril had still not turned from the window. “The fact that the quafa'shilaar were stolen was a rumor that I had managed to keep contained – until you vanished yesterday and did not return.” Celia’s mentor turned to face her, standing as she did so. She noted that, though Zazaril only came to her shoulder, Celia had stepped back and gripped her magestone in her hand.

  “Now it has spread like wildfire, if you count the eight graduates, six wizards, including yourself, me and the clerks.” She paused. “At least this hasn’t spread past the embassy.” At this, her gaze bored into Celia without relent, expecting answers.

  “No. Not that I know of...” Celia trailed off under that penetrating stare.

  As suddenly as it was there, her glare was gone. “Good. But I suspect that it will get out eventually. So, what did you learn?” Her tone was now frosty, the heat traded for ice.

  “I learned that the quafa'shilaar were stolen by Goralonians who were being sheltered by their Mechants' Guild,” Celia began, wondering to herself why she had left Hoyle out of the beginning of her story. “They were being led by a warlock of some power who has combined ancient Goralonian blood rituals to amplify the power of the magestones.” Zazaril’s one eyebrow rose in question, but she let Celia continue. “The City Guard raided their Tower, but the warlock managed to escape using his magic.” Celia cringed inwardly to herself as to how many holes her story had.

  “So, you managed to track the stones through the use of your tracking spell to the Goralon Merchants’ Guild, get yourself invited inside, met the warlock who arranged the theft of the stones, showed you ancient blood rituals you are somehow familiar with, and were let go by the city guard during or after the raid?” Zazaril asked slightly incredulous, one hand one her hip. “Truly?”

  Celia withered under that stare. “I had the help of some... acquaintances.”

  Zarzaril stared at her for a long few minutes. “Never mind,” Zazaril waved her off with one hand, turning to the south window and leaning against the frame, looking out toward the harbor. Celia could feel the warmth of the afternoon sunshine spilling into the room, lighting up Zazaril’s red gown, trimmed in silver thread, her black hair up in a bun today. It looked to be a good day outside, water dripping past the window from the eaves above indicated warmer weather than the day previous. She could still feel a chill creeping up her spine. Something was off.

  “Everyone needs their secrets Celia, just be careful that they don’t turn on you. Even though I forbade you to go chasing after the stones, you did anyway,” Celia cringed inwardly again, “Even when I indicated that I had taken care of it. That shows a few things, I think.” She paused for a while, Celia not daring to speak.

  “You are on petitioner duty this afternoon, tomorrow and the day after to make up for your absence. Please show yourself out, I need to think on this awhile.” Zazaril did not turn from the window as Celia left the room, knees weak at hearing the disappointment in her mentor’s voice.

  ---o---

  The only thing wrong with petitioner duty, thought Celia, is the feeling of helplessness. Each petitioner had a valid concerns or a heart-wrenching story, but most of the time she was unable to offer help. Those times she was able, most could not afford the price. Of course, most thought magic was free - it was magic after all, but as a Dar'Shilaar she knew there was always a cost, even if sometimes she could not define or explain it. Trying to explain that fact to the common citizens was the heart-wrenching part of the day, forcing her to turn many of the petitioners away to the temples. Most explained to her that they had already been to this temple or that, and been sent here instead. She had no answers.

  Celia tried to forget that she had only been at it for four bells this afternoon and was going to have to sit through two more full days. She made her way back to the dining hall in the annex with the others, delicious aromas lingering in the hallways. The embassy did have good cooks, and those that worked petitioner duty generally got served first at supper.

  She took her seat at one of the round oak tables, joining one of the other sorceresses from petitioner duty. She noticed four of the new graduates enter the dining hall and take a table in the far corner. Puralina was with them, and glared at Celia before pointedly turning her back to her and ignoring her. Celia sighed loudly and turned to her meal that the server placed before her.

  “Don’t mind her,” said her table-mate, a mousy little woman with straggly light brown hair streaked with grey falling past her shoulder, “twasn’t your fault someone broke in and stole them stones.” From her accent, she was from the western edge of the Empire, or possibly further. Celia remembered her name as Mindeela from the introductions on her first night at the embassy. “The fact that they were stolen falls on all of us, and Zazaril most heavily, I think...” she trailed off, tearing her bread roll in half and dipping it into her thick stew.

  “It feels like my fault,” she said quietly to herself. If it wasn’t her fault, why did she feel so guilty?

  Mindeela spoke around a mouthful of food, “It reminds me of a time back in my village, ‘fore I became a Dar'Shilaar of course, when this boy decided that...”

  Celia’s mind wandered, though she managed some polite ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ at the appropriate times in the other woman’s story – she didn’t want to seem rude, after all. She went through the events of the past thirty-six bells in her head, trying to piece together why the Goralonians needed the quafa'shilaar. What could they use them for? Almost anything she answered to herself. She was determined to solve this one riddle, knowing that she would have to leave Salrissa to help Hoyle by herself.

  She finished her dinner without really tasting it, stood up, made her excuses to her table-mate, and headed for the embassy’s small library. She had some research to do.

  C
hapter 9

  Hoyle sat alone in the dark. Okay, maybe not quite alone. He could hear the skittering and squeaking of rats nearby. His thoughts began to drift. How did rats get onto a sky citadel? It was an absurd thought considering the situation he was in. He laughed out loud, the sound echoing in the dark.

  “Did your mind break already thief?” came the deep voice from Brows in the cell across the corridor. Hoyle couldn’t see the brute in the darkness, but he heard his movement as his chains rattled.

  Hoyle did not answer. His muscles were cramped due to the chains linking him to a ring in the floor. He could not stretch out fully, nor stand upright, so his muscles had started to cramp and joints ache. The cell he was in was cold stone, which added to his muscles' misery. It was not large enough in any direction, that should the chains allow him to stretch fully; he would not be able to lie flat or stand without hitting his head anyway. He knew that Brows would be having it worse, being the larger man.

  He did not know how long they had been imprisoned, but he had drifted off at least once. He had been brought a thin, watery stew once a few hours ago, by a thinner than average veklian, so Hoyle guessed it was after breakfast, but not yet twelve bells.

  No outside sounds reached the cells at the center of the stone island that the sky citadel rested on. The only other sounds were from other prisoners down the corridor from them. He could only hear three, and they had been here longer and were much weaker than Hoyle or Brows. The only sounds they made were some moans and the rattle of their chains as they moved.

  The First Chancellor’s predictions were, so far, not true. All hadn’t been revealed in ‘no time’. In fact, since they were locked in the cells, the only person they saw was the veklian who brought them the stew. And the veklian was not generally regarded as a person. Whoever this Robart was that they were threatened with; he had yet to make an appearance.

  “No witty banter thief?” taunted Brows. “Nothing to say? Your women managed to escape, yet you were caught. So much for being the ‘best in Tala’ahar!’” He broke out into deep, booming laughter, which caused one of the other prisoners to begin screaming. “Shut up!” Brows yelled at them, turning the screaming into whimpers.

  Hoyle had thought on the last few minutes in the guild tower. He asked himself more than once since. Why had he sacrificed himself to protect Celia? He had never risked his life for someone he had just met before, so why now? He remembered the look on Salrissa’s face when she saw him. It was a look of frustration and disappointment. She knew that he had lightening quick reflexes, and was rarely caught by surprise. But he focused on her last words to him; “I will come for you.” He trusted her.

  His mind turned to other things, things it had been working on as he had gathered various pieces to the puzzle of the magestones. Why had the Goralon faction needed magestones? What were they going to use them for? Granted, Whisper had hit him with a powerful spell, and he suspected that the magestone mixed with the blood had something to do with it, but he had only seen the one stone. If the First Chancellor had another one, that left seven remaining. For that matter, how did the Chancellor even know that nine had been stolen? Lots of questions, less answers.

  ---o---

  Another indeterminate time later, Hoyle was awoken from a light, uncomfortable sleep by the sounds of banging. He heard the creak of the door at the end of the corridor, muted voices, and footsteps. His eyes stung from the light of the torch they carried. The three men stopped in front of Hoyle’s cell and looked in through the bars. All three were large. Two of the men were palace guards with their blood red cloaks over plate and chain armor. One was carrying the torch, which was casting flickering shadows around his cell. The guard placed it in an iron sconce on the wall just beside his cell door.

  “I want the Goralonian first,” said the third man. He was just as large, as thick as he was wide, with a bald head and a bright orange beard. He wore all black; leather armor, leather leggings, leather gloves, leather boots. All easy to wash blood off of, or so Hoyle understood from Salrissa.

  The guards opened up the cell across from Hoyle, and he could see Brows lunge for the guards as they opened the bars on his cell. He was pulled up short by his chains, and fell back. One of the guards stepped in and slapped him with a mailed fist across the face. Brows reeled, and collapsed on the floor of his cell, sputtering. He looked up at the guard, death showing in his gaze.

  The man in black stepped into Brows’ cell, and pulled a short silver rod from a belt loop and touched it to Brows’ cheek. A flicker, a sizzle, and then a sharp bang knocked Brows to the floor – limp. The smell of cooking meat drifted through the air. “That will be enough out of you - for now,” the man in black noted with a sneer in his voice.

  One of the guards lifted Brows while the second one unlocked the chains from the ring in the floor. Then each one lifted him with their shoulder under an arm, and proceeded to drag more than carry him down the corridor and through the door at the end. Hoyle watched them from his position on the floor of his cell. The man in black remained behind, looking at Hoyle with no emotion in his eyes as he put the silver rod back on his belt.

  “I’ll be back for you when I’m done with this one,” he gestured vaguely down the hall. He grabbed the torch and headed back down the corridor toward the exit. Hoyle shifted so he could watch the lingering light until it was gone.

  He really hoped Salrissa would hurry.

  ---o---

  Hoyle woke again to the sounds of the door at the end of the corridor creaking, hard boots thumping on the stone floor and something heavy being dragged. He hadn't meant to drift off, but with no light, only the inky blackness for company he found it hard to stay awake. Flickering shadows lit his cell as two guards dumped an unconscious Brows back into the cell across from him. They reattached his chain to the ring in the floor and stepped out. They closed his door with a loud clank, and Hoyle could hear whimpering from further down the hall. In the flickering torchlight, he could see fresh blood on Brows face and clothing, but other than being unconscious, he appeared to be fine.

  He watched intently as the guards turned to his cell, and unlocked the door. The man in the black leather, stepping in front of his cell, held the torch in his left hand and the small silver rod in his other. “I know you’re not going to be a problem, are you?” the man asked.

  Hoyle shook his head after finding that his throat was too dry to speak. He waited quietly while the guards unlocked his chains from the floor ring, and managed to stand awkwardly, his muscles stiff and sore. Once in the corridor, he was able to stand fully upright and take the opportunity to stretch his back out.

  The man in black stepped aside to let the guards usher him down the corridor. A few steps from his cell, he heard movement in the adjacent cell, and the deep voice of Brows say quietly to the man in leather, “I will enjoy watching you die.”

  The man in black chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head as he followed Hoyle and the guards from the cell block.

  The guards led Hoyle through the guardroom at the end of the corridor, past the stairs up, through several more doors and along passages, until they came to a large room with no other exits. The guards placed Hoyle in a strange metal chair in the center of the room, and strapped his arms and legs to the chair with thick leather straps. The two guards went to stand on each side of the now closed and locked door.

  He looked around the mostly dark room, lit with only a few candles. There were a couple of dark alcoves that he noticed at first, but those were now behind him based on the way the chair was facing. He faced the door. To one side was a rough wooden table with various sharp implements laid out in a leather case. There was also two pitchers and some goblets, a bowl of fruit, several candles in holders, and a pile of clean rags. On the floor next to the table was a wooden pail containing a bunch of bloodied rags. Next to that was a typical wooden chair. Now that Hoyle concentrated, he could see fresh stains on the stone floor below the chair he was sitting in. />
  The man in black leather walked over to the table at the side of the room and poured something from a metal pitcher into a goblet. Turning, he walked to Hoyle and raised the goblet to his lips, “Drink,” he ordered.

  Hoyle drank warily, but it was fresh water so he consumed the entire goblet. “Thank you,” he said, actually grateful.

  The man placed the goblet back on the table and ran his hands over the leather case almost lovingly. He picked up one of the other chairs and carried it over to the middle of the room. Placing it so the back of the chair was facing Hoyle, the large man straddled the chair facing him, and rested his arms on the back. From a pace away, he could see the man’s dark eyes as they stared at him intently. He raised his left eyebrow inquisitively.

  “You’re Robart, I assume?” guessed Hoyle quietly. He glanced at the guards over Robart’s shoulder. They did not move.

  “Correct, but some call me 'Slowkiller'” he paused, “Guess what I want to know?” His eyebrow was again raised.

  “I would say the current exchange rate between the Goralon Archer and the Imperial Mark, but though I suspect that is going to change in the near future, therefore my information may not be of much value. Am I close?” Hoyle arched his eyebrow to mirror that of his questioner.

  “And see, here I thought you were smarter than the other brute, but it seems you just have a smarter mouth.” He backhanded Hoyle across the face. He tasted blood. He felt his split lip with his tongue.

  “Well, would he even have considered the implications to the exchange rate between the Archer and the Mark?” he ventured. “Or did he even do anything but growl?” Hoyle could tell he hit the mark with that comment.

  “Oh, he did more than growl, I assure you. Now, are you prepared to answer my original question?”

  “I thought I had,” he said with one corner of his mouth turned up.