The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars
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THE CROWN OF STONES
Magic-Scars
C. L. SCHNEIDER
Copyright © 2014 C. L. Schneider
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1503004015
ISBN 13: 9781503004016
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014919237
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
To Bryan—the hero of MY story
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank my beta readers for their honest opinions and their unwavering encouragement. Special recognition goes to Sara. I asked you to wear so many hats this year, yet you still take my calls. Thank you.
Immeasurable gratitude goes to my insightful editor, Marco Palmieri at Otherworld Editorial, and to the brilliant Alan Dingman: friend and cover artist extraordinaire.
As always, I am grateful to my family (near and far) and to my friends (old, new, and cyber) for their unwavering support, inspiration, and comic relief. Some days, your texts, posts, emails, tweets, and messages are all that keeps the roots from growing and my fingers from fusing to the keys.
Much love to my sons, Quinn and Jack, and to my husband, Bryan. Thank you for allowing me to drag you along on this crazy ride.
THE CROWN OF STONES
Magic-Scars
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
CHAPTER FORTY FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY SIX
CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
The swirling, rectangular band of colored lights grew smaller. Collapsing in upon themselves, they disappeared into blackness with a pop. Then the blackness disappeared, the magical doorway closed, and Prince Malaq Roarke was left staring out across a bleak, icy plateau at a line of rocky, snowcapped peaks in the near distance. At the base, a swathe of tall, willowy pines bent and swayed as a biting wind swept down out of the mountains. Tearing through the forest, it blew unfettered across the flat, harsh terrain. It ruffled the sleeves of his sleek, white tunic; finding its way into bare skin and making him shudder.
At his right, a young, dark haired boy bowed low. “Welcome to Langor, My Lord Prince. How was your trip?”
“My trip,” Malaq replied, “was exactly six seconds long. And I forgot my coat. Again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, My Lord. Perhaps you’ll remember it next time.”
“Perhaps I’ll remember it if traveling from the beach to the mountains in the blink of an eye ever becomes a little less disconcerting.”
As if sensing a degree of instability to the Prince’s mood, the boy moved on. “If you’ll follow me?”
Turning from the view, Malaq climbed up the wide front steps of his brother’s keep. They tapered at exactly halfway, narrowing steadily to no more than a footbridge. Crossing it, his long, cavalier strides became more measured as he stared over, first at the dark moat that ringed one side, then the sheer drop that bordered the other. As he reached the threshold of the towering entranceway, he paused.
The boy stopped and looked back. “Is something wrong, My Lord?”
The Prince shook his head, but he didn’t move. Here, in this spot, more than any other in the entire labyrinth of Darkhorne, he could hear them. They were the condemned, forced to work the mines deep in his brother’s dungeon; the poor souls whose lives consisted of endless pain. The echo of their cries carried up through a gap in the rock clear as day. It was a haunting sound that never failed to stop Malaq in his tracks. “There’s a Rellan man in the mines,” he said to the boy, “a prisoner by the name of Kane. Do you know of him?”
“I’m afraid not, My Lord. I rarely go past the guard post. And when I do,” his gaze lowered, “I try not to look at anyone.”
Malaq nodded. He motioned for the boy to start walking and they moved inside. They traveled deep into the castle, through shadowy stone alcoves and endless arched hallways. Past grand vaulted chambers whose ceilings were so tall no light could touch them. Winding up a set of black stone stairs, they continued down one tapestry-lined hall after another. Perched high above the archways, somber granite statues marked each junction. Their warped, beastly visages loomed in forewarning over all who walked beneath.
Halting at a set of floor to ceiling double doors, the boy looked regretfully back at the Prince. “I’m sorry, My Lord. It’s their eyes.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s why I don’t look at the prisoners. There’s madness in their eyes. It scares me.” With a grunt his spindly arms pushed the doors open. “The King is expecting you.”
Malaq muttered his thanks. Leaving the austere hallway behind, he slipped inside to utter contrast. Bright and spacious, a good half of the room consisted of a curved, open-air balcony complete with white marble benches and a white stone bathing pool. Steam rose from the water. Vines of winter berries hung from an iron trellis at the head of the pool, giving the pale decor a splash of red. The roofed portion of the chamber was more functional, with shelves of reference books and a large writing desk crowded with maps and papers. A raging hearth whose flames consumed an entire wall kept the wintry air at bay. The silent guards posted discreetly in each corner kept all else in check.
Malaq stopped in front of the flames. Soaking up their warmth, he declined to step out onto the balcony where King Draken stood, looking over the edge, seemingly unbothered by the snow falling on his head. “My Lord King?” he said.
Draken turned. Tall and arresting in flowing black trousers and an unbelted gray tunic, the King came eagerly forward to greet his half-brother. He offered a smile, but the gesture made his majestic features far more ravenous than welcoming. “Malaq,” he said. “You look well. How are the repairs coming along in Kabri?”
“Slow,” Malaq answered. “She’s starting to resemble a city again. But we have a ways to go. And many villages across the realm are still in shambles.”
“Forget them. I’ve a
lready given the order to have them burned.”
A slight widening of Malaq’s eyes betrayed his shock. “May I ask why?”
“The repairs are a waste of wood. It takes considerably less resources to simply resettle the villagers elsewhere. Besides, we need that farmland. You know how hard it is growing crops on these mountains.”
“I understand your logic, My King, but that land is all some of them have left.”
“That land isn’t theirs,” Draken replied, oblivious to the veiled distress in Malaq’s voice. “It never was. The Rellans were invaders. They’ve trespassed on Langorian soil for generations. But no more. I did what my father and my grandfather and all the Langorian Kings before me failed to do. I righted the wrong done to our kind. I reclaimed our land. What to do with it is my decision. Where to put the violators is yours. Relocate them as quickly as possible, Brother, by whatever means necessary.”
Eyes down, Malaq nodded. “I could use more men to rebuild Kabri.”
“That will be difficult,” Draken winced. “The Shinree are in high demand.”
“I wasn’t talking about slaves.”
“Then I definitely can’t help you. Every available man has been recruited to stock my new fleet. My campaign to take the northern lands must be underway the minute my ships are ready.”
“Then let me use the Rellans. You—we,” Malaq said, fixing his mistake, “claimed their realm with great force. If we’re going to allow them to continue to live there under your rule, the least we can do is let them help rebuild.”
“The least we can do?” Draken echoed, frowning. “I’m afraid, Brother, that the Rellan blood running in your veins has you taking your position as Regent there a tad too seriously. Just because the peasants grovel and whine, doesn’t mean you need to answer every single petition they make.”
“They want to work.” Malaq stepped closer. “With all due respect, I don’t understand why that’s a problem.”
“Of course you don’t.” Draken clasped his brother’s arms firmly. “If you let them work, the next thing they’ll want is pay, then fair treatment. Then they’ll refuse to show up when they’re ill. And the list goes on and on.” With a shake for emphasis, he let Malaq go. “Before you know it, they’ll be rioting in the streets and you’ll have no choice but to put them down. Although,” Draken drawled, caressing the slim, black beard outlining his jaw. “A thinning of the herd before they can start an uprising does have some appeal.”
“The Rellan people are in no position to rise up against anything. They’ve accepted our presence as best they can. All they want is to restore their homes as we promised. As I promised.”
“Really, Malaq,” he sneered, “a Langorian keeping a promise to a Rellan?”
Smiling thinly, Malaq walked over and sat down in the chair in front of his brother’s desk. “I don’t wish to be rude, but can I ask why you’ve summoned me?”
“Must there be a reason? Is it so inconceivable that I simply wish to spend time with my baby brother? It has been a while since you were last home.”
Almost imperceptibly, Malaq tensed. “You called me to Darkhorne not three weeks past to look over the plans for your fleet.”
“So I did. And if the Kaelish weren’t so fucking lazy I might actually have ships instead of plans. You have some pull at the yard, Malaq. Inspire your stepfather and the worthless sloths he employs there to get moving.”
“You commissioned my stepfather on the quality of his work. The amount of vessels you’ve ordered built takes time.”
“Then he needs to double his efforts. I want his men working night and day.”
“Crafting a ship requires considerably more care than a wagon. If the labor is performed hastily or without precision, it won’t be a wheel you lose. It will be a crew.”
Abruptly, Draken’s manner changed. “Get it done, Malaq. Or I will.”
“Yes, My King.”
Draken picked up a pile of papers off his desk. He dropped them in Malaq’s lap.
“What’s this?” Malaq asked.
“A proposal of marriage. It seems you’ve turned all the women’s hearts a flutter.”
Malaq’s eyes lifted. His face was still. “A proposal from which realm?”
“Several, actually. But there is a recently widowed Duchess from Doratae that sounds rather fun. Her dowry borders on obscene. I hear her morals do as well.”
“She sounds charming.”
“Yes,” Draken laughed. “Look them over. Pick one. Pick several, if you like.”
“You’re letting me choose?”
“I’ve already weeded out the objectionable ones. Just bear in mind the future when you select your bride. You might be High King yourself one day.”
“Have you decided to announce it, then? I’ve heard the people are growing concerned that you have no official heir.”
“Are they now?” Draken’s lips curved into a sly smile. It fell swiftly. “Find a wife, Malaq. Then we’ll discuss your aspirations…and my expectations.”
The doors opened again. Swinging slowly apart, the enormous slabs had a way of making all who entered seem no taller than a child; an effect even more exaggerated by the size of the woman passing between them. Dark of skin and hair and small of stature, the slender body of Langor’s Queen seemed to get lost even in the folds of gauzy fabric trailing off the back of her gown. Rustling like soft, pink waves, the train flowed behind her as she strode gracefully across the rom.
Standing, Malaq set the papers on the desk. He bowed as she drew close. “Your Grace. You look lovely, as always.”
The Queen’s exotic round face lightened with a smile. “Malaq.” A letter clutched in her hand, she tucked it to the side and embraced him. “No titles, Cousin,” she said, holding him tight. “Not from you.”
“As you wish.” Malaq pulled back. “It’s good to see you, Neela. I’m sorry I missed you last time. They said you were unwell. I trust you’re feeling better?”
“She’s fine.” Draken moved up beside them. He shoved a drink in Malaq’s hand and turned harsh eyes on his wife. “I left orders not to be disturbed.”
Neela offered him a deep curtsy. “Forgive me, My Lord. A letter has arrived. The messenger said it was urgent.”
Draken snatched the envelope from her hand. “Since when does my Queen stoop to delivering messages? Isn’t that what we have slaves for?” Shaking his head, Draken snapped the seal on the envelope and removed the sheet of paper inside. As his dark, vulturine eyes roamed the page, his mouth fell open, and then a leisurely, gratified smile slipped out, then outright laughter. Draken crossed to the table, poured himself a drink, and could barely contain himself to swallow.
Malaq watched him. “Something I should know?”
Draken tossed the message on the table. “It’s a report from the prison on the western edge of the realm. The prison where he is.” Draken eyed Malaq for a reaction.
He gave him none. “A scheduled report? Or something of consequence?”
“Oh, it’s definitely of consequence.” Turning slightly, Draken beckoned to his wife. “Neela, my love, join us in a toast.” As the Queen approached the table, Draken filled another cup. Handing it to her, he raised his own high in the air. “I would say, ‘may he rest in peace’, but I believe it’s more likely he’s in pieces.” Draken knocked his drink back in one, eager mouthful.
Malaq took a less enthusiastic sip. “Who, or what, exactly are we drinking to?”
“He’s dead,” Draken announced. “Ian Troy is finally dead.”
As Neela choked on her wine, Malaq said calmly, “How?”
“Not how I’d like,” Draken admitted. “Once I finished expanding my realm, I’d thought to have him publicly beheaded in celebration. It was going to be a grand affair, with dancing and juggling. I do so enjoy a good juggle,” he grinned, nudging Malaq. “But that man always finds some goddamn way to mess up my plans.”
“This must be a mistake,” Neela cut in. “Troy was transferr
ed from his cell months ago. You said he’d been assigned to a work force. Not slated for execution.” Defiance raised her voice. “How did this happen?”
At the table, Malaq picked up the letter. “The mine collapsed,” he said, reading it. “A few bodies were pulled from the rubble, but….” He looked up at Neela. Malaq steeled his gaze and held hers, as if trying to give her strength. “There were no survivors.”
Drawing herself up, Neela turned on Draken. “You swore if I turned him over, he would not be harmed.”
“You hold me responsible for this?” Draken shot back. “The gods have been after Troy for his misdoings a long time, my dear. It appears they finally got tired of waiting.”
“No,” she argued, “I have kept my vows. I have been your loyal wife. I honored our agreement. An agreement that included you sparing his life.”
“Calm yourself, woman,” Draken warned. “I don’t care that you slept with the man, but it’s unseemly for a queen to be so agitated over the death of one, dirty witch.”
“Then what of my sister, Elayna? Am I allowed to be agitated over her? You vowed to let her go. Yet she’s still locked away, right here under our very home.”
“Her release hinged on you giving me sons,” Draken countered. “It seems we’ve both broken that vow. Haven’t we, my dear?”
Neela flinched. “You are never going to let her go, are you? You are never going to let any of my people go.”
“Your whore of a sister,” Draken growled, “lives and dies on my whim. You ALL live on my whim. In fact, I think I’ll have the bitch dragged up here and gutted right now. I’m in the mood for a little pre-dinner entertainment.”
“You bastard!” Neela raised a hand to slap him. Draken moved faster. The back of his hand struck her face and Neela went reeling. The cup fell from her grasp. Red splashed across the pink of her gown and she tumbled into Malaq’s arms.
He righted her gently. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not,” she whispered. “He’s going to kill her, Malaq. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but he will kill her.”
Malaq took a breath. He looked at Draken. “Elayna,” he said.
“Yes…?” Draken gestured at him impatiently.