The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars

by C. L. Schneider

  I crept out into the open. Snow swallowed the sound of my footsteps. Utilizing the fog and the shadows as cover, I moved for the cabin. I was so focused on my destination, so harried by my need to flee, that I nearly missed the man strolling across the deck. He was the first crewman I’d seen since I left the hold. Broad and bulky, with a big head, a mass of inky dark hair, and skin the color of dusk, I knew where he hailed from right off. I knew his kind, his character. He was brutish and ruthless. He was Langorian.

  He was my enemy.

  The man stopped outside the structure. Dressed in rolled up breeches, a heavy, wool tunic and coat, he had a wooden bucket in his gloved hands. Sitting the bucket down, he pulled a cloth from his pocket, and tied it around his head to hold back his curls.

  From his other pocket, he retrieved a long-handled brush. Going down on all fours, the man started diligently scrubbing the boards of the deck. As he worked, his steady breath made little clouds in the cold. Snow speckled the blue of the cloth and the black of his hair. His hands and cheeks took on a ruddy color.

  Washing the deck seemed an odd task to be done at night in a snowstorm. The deckhand must have fallen out of favor with someone. Yet, it didn’t seem like much of a punishment, with all the whistling he was doing.

  He was completely engrossed. I could likely creep over and snap the man’s neck before he ever knew I was there. I’d done it before. A myriad of enemies had died at my hands and at the end of my sword. Most of them resembled the man I was staring at now.

  One thing stopped me. If I was a prisoner on an enemy ship, why had I been left untied and unguarded? Were they looking for an excuse to kill me? Or was my mind so mixed-up that the Langorians weren’t the threat I believed them to be?

  I looked at the man again. He’s not a soldier, I thought, noting his lack of armor or a ready weapon. His movements were casual and relaxed. I got the idea he’d be more comfortable with a mop in his hand than a sword.

  Soldier or not, though, I needed off the ship. And he was in my way.

  Still scrubbing, he put his back to me. I slid up closer. I intended to incapacitate him quickly and quietly from behind. Only, as I came in range, my target suddenly stood up and turned around. His dark eyes blew up in surprise. I had a handful of seconds to kill him before he killed me. Langorians struck without thought or mercy. They didn’t hesitate.

  Except, why then, I wondered, was this one?

  “So…,” the deckhand said, his gaze darting side to side. “You’re awake. And you’re… here.” With a tense laugh, he ran a hand over his hairy jaw. He licked weather-worn lips and glanced around, but he didn’t draw a weapon, or sound the alarm. The habitual brutality, the contempt I recalled secreting from the pores of every Langorian I’d ever met, was nowhere on him. “Hold on.” Dropping the brush in the bucket, he raised both hands. “Don’t do nothin’. Stay here and I’ll go tell ’em you’re awake.” He raised his arms higher. “Look. I’m unarmed.”

  I gestured at him. “There’s a knife in your boot.”

  He flashed a sheepish, gap-toothed grin. “Noticed that did you?” I said nothing and his grin sagged. “You got no cause to trust me, I get that. Truth be told, I don’t trust you much neither. But Captain says not to provoke you and not to harm you, so I’m not. So I’d appreciate it if you do the same.”

  I tilted my head at the cabin. “He in there?”

  “Captain? Nah. He’s at the helm.” Directing me with a shake of his head, displaced snow went flying. “Don’t think the man feels right without a wheel in his hand. Know what I mean?”

  “No. Where am I? What ship is this? Where are we headed? From what I’ve seen you barely have a crew so we can’t be going far.”

  Indecision pulled his face into a grimace. “I don’t think I’m the one to be answering your questions. Captain’ll explain everything if you let me—”

  I punched him. Grabbing his shoulders, I spun the man around and shoved an arm under his neck. It was my second opportunity to break it. Strangely, I hadn’t the urge.

  Holding tight until he passed out, I dragged the deckhand’s body back to the barrels. I found an empty one round enough to accommodate his form and dumped him down inside. His head stuck out the top, but a nearby tarp took care of that.

  My second approach to the cabin was significantly more vigilant. Taking time to brush away the drag marks and the footprints in the snow, I stopped outside the door. There was a tiny window in the center. The glass was foggy. I couldn’t see well. But peering inside, there were no obvious movement and no shadows that were clear-cut or definable as a man.

  The cabin appeared exactly as the deckhand said: empty. Meaning, he’d told me the truth. Huh, I thought. Then more appropriately: why?

  Ducking inside, I closed the door. Multiple lanterns swung from the rafters. Only one was lit. I followed its light as it moved back and forth, revealing a rectangular room that was cramped yet comfortably furnished. In the center, an unlit brazier was fastened to the floor. At the rear of the room, a bunk overflowing with crumpled blankets was built into the wall. Rolled maps and sea charts protruded from slots behind a sturdy desk that was also bolted in place. Above the slots, a recessed shelf held such treasures as a loadstone, a brass scope, a tin of matches, and a logbook. As the storm tossed the boat, a scattering of papers, a sextant, and a wooden plate containing the half-eaten carcass of a fowl, slid from one side of the desk to the other.

  I went straight to the maps. My plan was to take a few with me, find a boat and float until morning. By then, more of my past might return. I might recognize the landscape, the stars, even something on one of the maps. I had just as good a chance of drifting aimlessly until thirst and starvation made me stop caring.

  Either way, I wasn’t staying here.

  Pulling the first map, I resisted the impulse to open it and stuffed the roll under my arm. I picked another at random. As I went for the third, the door opened and someone came in. At most, I had a breath or two before the light swayed my way. I spent half of it cursing myself for not taking the deckhand’s knife. The other half, I looked for a weapon.

  Only one sharp object was in view: a two-tined, silver fork sticking out of the Captain’s dinner.

  The ship tipped. Light hit me. I heard the sound of steel leaving a scabbard.

  As the light waned again, I dropped the map and dove for the fork.

  Throwing myself across the desk, papers fluttered. I rolled over the plate, knocking it to the floor, and came off the other side of the desk with the chicken bones scattered at my feet and the fork in my hand. I held up my tiny weapon in challenge to the man pointing his much longer one at me (a thick, sturdy short sword). For some reason, he lowered it.

  It was a curious gesture, but it meant nothing. This one was no deckhand.

  I didn’t think twice. Walking right up, I grabbed him and pressed the fork against his throat. “Drop the sword,” I whispered.

  He released his grip and it clattered to the floor. “You look like crap,” he said.

  “Shut up.” I kicked his blade out of reach. “You the captain?”

  “I am.”

  As the light flashed on and off him, I stared into a face full of ugly scars, a head covered in wavy black hair, and a severely crooked nose. His clothes were a mix of coarse leather and linen, under a woolen coat. A worn, empty scabbard and a metal flask hung from the belt around his waist.

  My eyes went back to his face. I couldn’t help envisioning the pain that must have come from such brutal disfiguring. But there was one scar I felt no sympathy for. It stood out from the rest. Being newer, it stood atop them as well. It was a designation, a military rank, burned into the skin of his left cheek. I’d seen its like before. Only one race branded their people like cattle.

  “Langorian,” I grunted.

  “Shinree,” he grunted back.

  “You’re a soldier,” I said accusingly.

  “So are you,” he replied, equally critical. “At leas
t you used to be. And maybe you can be again now that you’ve finally gotten out of bed. All that puking and groaning you’ve been doing has been bad for morale.” The captain’s lively dark eyes looked me over with amusement. “Gods, Troy, you need a bath.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “Troy.” He squinted. “That’s your name. Ian Troy. Is it familiar?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Why don’t you put down the…” awkwardly, he glanced at my weapon. “Gods,” he snickered, “is that a fork?”

  I pushed the tines into his skin. When little trails of blood welled and ran down the scruff on his neck, I eased up. “Seems to work.”

  “That it does,” he winced. “Look, I can see you’re a bit jumpy—”

  “You know me. How?”

  “What do you remember?” He glanced at my fork again. “I’m thinking not much.”

  “I remember you’re my enemy.” Releasing him, I sunk a fist into his stomach and he doubled over.

  “And I remember,” he gasped, “that you cut off my hand.” Straightening, he drove a knee into my groin—and my body chose a fine moment to wake up.

  Pain rolling through me like a stampede of wild horses, my stomach lifted into my throat and my legs buckled. I had to grab the side of the desk to keep from going down.

  Teeth tight, I choked out an embarrassingly un-masculine, “Son of a bitch.”

  “Ah, so you do remember me.”

  I lifted my head. I’d thought to throw him a scowl, but my anger lost momentum when I saw it was true: he had no left hand. A metal sheath was fastened to the stump. Buckled on tightly, the casing stretched up to cover his forearm. At the end, in place of fingers, four long, thick, bony black claws protruded from slits in the metal.

  Seeing me staring, he held up the claws. “I took these beauties off a creature called an eldring. Big. Nasty. Hungry. Extinct. At least they would have been,” he added, “if your father had left well enough alone. Must be where you get it.” Shrugging, the captain glanced at me, then back to the claws. “Their parts do make nice souvenirs, though.”

  The pain in my groin had subsided enough to talk. “If I did that,” I panted, nodding at his missing hand, “you likely deserved it.”

  His dark eyes narrowed. “I lost my command because of you. The King thought me useless.” Jaw grinding, he stared a moment. “But, I would never have been assigned to protect the Prince otherwise. And he finds me extremely useful.”

  “Does this Prince also find your mouth moves too much?”

  “Definitely.”

  The lantern swung the other way. Darkness came over us, and he moved.

  Lunging after him, I clasped the captain firmly about the waist and pushed him backwards into the wall. His head hit with a loud thump, but he was resilient. Shoving me off, he came back for more. We traded a few punches. He swiped at my chest with the claws and I learned quickly he was good with them. Shredding one sleeve of my shirt and then the other in barely a heartbeat, he could have splayed me open if he weren’t holding back.

  I had no interest in returning his charity.

  Ducking under the man’s reach, I stepped past and knocked him forward into the desk. He sprawled out across it, and I slammed an elbow into his back. Straining as I pinned him down, the captain reached backwards with his claws, sliced open the leg of my trousers, then a layer of skin.

  I raised the fork to stab his face, and the cabin door flew open.

  Snow and wind blasted in to dominate the room. Ruffling the maps, scooping up loose papers and spinning them around; the gale made the walls moan. It whipped the lanterns, creating a dizzyingly rapid, back and forth dance of light and shadow that came just shy of reaching the tall, silent figure in the doorway.

  He was little more than an outline. I saw the driving snow pelting his back better than I did his face. A fur cloak beat loudly about his ankles as he stood and stared at us. He did nothing else. Just stare. Yet his presence brought with it such a blatant sense of quiet authority that the captain and I immediately stopped hitting each other.

  The man kicked the door closed and the storm of paper glided to the floor. The lanterns slowed and went back to keeping time with the rocking ship. The wind outside became distant and muffled. Inside the air had calmed, but it was tense as hell as the silent, imposing man moved farther into the room. He took his time shaking the snow from his short, black hair and brushing the flakes from his sleeves.

  I was about to interrupt when he finished and looked at me. Slow and even, he said, “My name is Malaq Roarke, and I want you to listen to me very carefully. Put down your weapon and back away from Captain Krillos.”

  I glanced between them. “And why exactly would I do that?”

  “Because I asked you to,” Malaq said simply. “And because I can’t let you kill my right hand man.”

  Krillos chuckled softly.

  “Shut up,” I told him. I squinted at Malaq. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

  “If you normally laugh at lame men then I suppose it was,” he replied. “But you have no idea, do you, Troy? You don’t know what you find amusing or what you hate. I can help with that.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Malaq smiled. “I can’t believe I’ve actually missed hearing that.”

  I yanked Krillos up off the desk. Pulling him against me, I put the fork back to his throat. “I’m getting off this ship. Whether he dies in the process is up to you.”

  “Kill him if you must,” Malaq said, “but I can’t let you go. It took far too much to get you here. And if you leave this ship now, you’re as good as dead. We all are.”

  THREE

  “Look at me, Troy.” Malaq’s voice was sharp. “Tell me who I am.”

  I took a deep breath and tried. I studied Malaq’s veiled gray eyes and aristocratic nose. I took at his trimmed black hair, his neat beard and goatee, his tall, muscular build and somewhat swarthy coloring, and understood he was only part Langorian. I stared at the distinct snake pattern branded into his face and the one formed into a circle of gold at the neck of his cloak, and knew he was royalty. More gold adorned his fingers and the buckles of his sword belt. An air of refined intelligence and a sense of command wafted off the man. Without question, he had money and he was in charge. But I didn’t know him.

  “Focus,” Malaq said. “Remember.”

  “I can’t,” I argued.

  “My father was king of Langor. My mother was a Rellan princess. But you were the first to overlook those flaws.”

  I looked at him sideways. “You see noble blood as a flaw?”

  “No. You do. Still, you saved my life on more than one occasion. In the mountains of Kael, a man named Jem Reth used magic to turn our shadows against us. You stopped him. Another time, in this filthy Kaelish tavern, you struck a deal for my life even though we’d only just met.”

  “That doesn’t sound smart of me.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “You’re wasting time,” Krillos broke in. “He isn’t ready for this.”

  Malaq shot him a look and went on. “You bargained with a woman, a magic user. You promised her a favor if she spared my life. Only, when she came to collect you refused. She said the consequences would be steep.” Subtle tension tightened his voice. “They were.”

  “I knew the penalty and I welshed anyway? Why the hell would I do that?”

  “Because lives were at stake. And you have more honor than you’d ever admit.”

  “How do I know you’re not making all this up? That you aren’t tricking me?”

  “I suppose you don’t. But I’ve never lied to you. Not outright, anyway.”

  “Then tell me what I’m doing here. Is this a transfer ship? Am I being moved to another prison?”

  “No, Ian. This isn’t a transfer ship. It’s a rescue. A long overdue rescue.”

  The suggestion of sympathy on his face worried me. “How overdue?”

  Malaq hesitated. “We
should sit down.”

  “Prince,” Krillos warned, “I don’t think—”

  “Didn’t I already tell you to shut up?” I pressed the tines in tighter against the captain’s skin to emphasize my warning. “Answer me,” I said, boring my eyes into Malaq’s. “How long was I in prison?”

  Resolved, he took a breath. “Two and a half years.”

  “Two…?” The air fled my lungs. My heart raced. Sweat broke on my face and beneath my shirt. I should have been happy to feel it beading on my skin. But I’d so badly wanted my memories to be wrong. “Then it’s true. I’m a fugitive. A criminal.”

  “You’re not a criminal,” Malaq insisted. “You’re a Shinree magic user.”

  “Shinree? What the hell is that?”

  “It’s the name of your race. Your kind can sense the aura—the energy— in certain stones. It’s called channeling. You pull it in. Command it. Use it.”

  “Kill with it?” He didn’t disagree. “I kill people, don’t I? How can I not be a criminal if I kill people?”

  Malaq swallowed, like my question made him uncomfortable. “When a Shinree uses magic, their spells steal energy from any living things nearby. The process is somewhat arbitrary and often fatal. Because of the risk that poses to the rest of us, most of you are made to live in confinement. It’s been the law for hundreds of years. But that’s not why Draken put you in prison.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. I remember being in this place, this city. Kabri. It was an island. It—”

  Clouds obscured the tips of the spires on the blue stone castle. Farther down, on the slopes of the forested mountains, a sprawling city overlooked the beach. Tall ships, moored off shore, rode the swell. On the dock, people milled about, dressed in bright colors. The colors grew smaller and indistinct as the boat moved farther away.

  A hand slapped me on the back. “It’s probably best. You leaving for a while.”

  “A while?” I glanced at the ferryman. “I can’t come back here. Ever.”

  “That’s what they all say,” he grinned, rubbing his scraggly beard. “But they come back sooner or later. And you will too. The anger will fade. They’ll forget.”