by M. S. Verish
Legend of the Ravenstone
Night Apple, LLC
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the authors.
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2015 by M.S. Verish (Night Apple, LLC)
msverish.wix.com/secramore
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Written by Matthew & Stefanie Verish
Edited by Night Apple Publications
Cover design and maps by Stefanie Verish
eBook layout by Matthew Verish
Author photo by David Posakiwsky
First published: 02/14/2015
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also Available
Acknowledgments
LEGEND | of the | RAVENSTONE
Prologue | In the Dark
1 | The Foreigner
2 | An Opportunity
3 | The Letter
4 | Journey by Caravan
5 | What Thunder Brings
6 | Travel by Foot
7 | Jinxed
8 | A New Familiar Face
9 | Names, Secrets, and Stories
10 | The Plains of Delmadria
11 | The Second Marker
12 | A Wizard Named Bill
13 | An Evening with a Wizard
14 | Confessions
15 | Keeping Company
16 | Looming
17 | Interred
18 | The Arrival
19 | Future and Fortune
20 | Instigators and Imposters
21 | The Old Man’s Words
22 | The Enforcer
23 | The Wizard
24 | The Leader
25 | Journey’s End
26 | Refuge
To Be Concluded In…
Afterword
Glossary and Pronunciation
About the Authors
Also Available
RAVENSTONE
Legend of the Ravenstone
(Curse of the Ravenstone)
BLACK EARTH
Dawning
Meridian
Nightfall
SHORT STORIES
The Hawk’s Shadow
Wraith and Demon
(Forthcoming)
Acknowledgments
This book would not have come to fruition without the support and time given by friends who believe in our world of fantasy. Richard, Cari, Archer, Ray, and Brian. We cannot thank you enough for your advice, fierce honesty, expertise, and unwavering friendship.
LEGEND
of the
RAVENSTONE
Prologue
In the Dark
There was a hole in the floor: a gaping patch of darkness large enough for a man to fit into and descend. The Priagent of Lornabaez was not an average person. He was a short, wiry man, and before Tyrianne could protest a tenth time, he was being swallowed into obscurity.
She glared at the hulking giant across from her. “I can’t tell you how many ways this is going to be a mistake,” she grumbled.
Nesif said nothing, his dark eyes meeting hers for but a moment before he looked away. This aggravated her even more. “I don’t like this. Not at all.” She stepped down into the hole, barely able to see her footing.
The Priagent’s voice found her. “You do not have to like it, Miss Xiuss. You need only do your job.”
Difficult since you went ahead of me, she thought. As she descended the narrow steps, a soft, amber light—too constant to be a flame—broke the darkness. At the bottom of the stairs, her liege waited beside an illuminated rune in the wall. Jornoan magic. In a secret passage. No good can come of this. He is up to something. Something big. The Priagent’s face, however, betrayed nothing. She joined him just as Nesif finished the stairs. She had scarcely heard him descend; the passage, like the darkness, devoured nearly all sound.
Tyrianne had been in many unpleasant places: alleys, dungeons, tombs… It was to be expected in her line of work, and she had come to expect a certain feel to these locations. Darkness, dingy, slimy stone, dank, oppressive air weighted with the smell of decay—none of this was new to her. This passage, however, was different in that it lacked any sensory familiarity. There was no odor, no sense of moisture, coldness, or warmth. There was darkness, but it was unnatural darkness, as though someone was purposely shielding their eyes from what lay beyond. She suppressed a shiver and noticed the Priagent’s black eyes were upon her. Immediately she straightened her shoulders and faced the passage ahead of them, but her fingers subconsciously wrapped around the hilt of her sword.
The Priagent moved forward, his hand grazing against the wall so that more hidden runes began to glow. For each new illumination, the one behind it faded into blackness. There were no rats, no beetles or roaches, no spider webs or stringy roots. They were surrounded by stone, shadow, and silence, moving forward in a dim oasis of light. Trapped, Tyrianne thought. She half expected Nesif’s hand to fall upon her shoulder—to assure her as he usually did when his people’s magic was involved. For the years of service she had given to the Jornoan ruler, she was still a foreigner in an ancient land built upon customs and powers she did not—or would ever—understand.
When her shoulder remained untouched, she glanced to see if Nesif was attentive to her at all. His eyes were locked on his brother, but she knew better. You are a terrible liar—with or without words. And you know what this is about, don’t you?
“Miss Xiuss, you are treading upon stone that has not been touched since the days of the Cataclysm,” the Priagent said, his voice nearly too soft to be heard.
“How did you learn of this, my lord?” she asked. “What is it that brings us here?”
“Did you know,” he began, “that there is a tower in this palace that contains an old archive?”
She frowned. He is mocking me. “Of course, my lord.”
“Knowledge is mightier than any blade forged by man,” he said.
And now he is being cryptic. He should know Jentica was forged by a woman. She sighed and tried again. “What does this passage lead—”
“We have arrived,” the Priagent interrupted. A low arch stretched above them, slowly brightening with amber inscriptions. Beyond the arch was a small chamber that contained a stone altar at its center. The Priagent strode forward and set his hands upon its surface. “As shameful as it is that my people’s legacy has been forgotten, I will be the one to reclaim the future,” he murmured.
Tyrianne looked to Nesif for enlightenment, but it was a wasted gesture. Much like the altar, he stood motionless, his face blank. She turned back toward the Priagent, but she was reluctant to pass beyond the archway. Her grip on her sword tightened when she saw his hands pass through the stone and into the altar.
Whether it was a look of triumph or a look of madness, she could not say, but never had she seen such an expression upon the ruler’s face. Eyes wide, lips parted, his hands emerged from the altar laden with an object the size of a Human skull. It was black, lustreless, and shaped like the withered corpse of a…bird? A dead crow, Tyrianne thought, disgusted.
As the Priagent raised it higher for them to see, she realized that it flickered dimly from within—a glimmer of silver light to indicate some magical vitality. At any moment she expected an explosion of lightning, a thickening cloud of deadly mist, or a malevolent demon to emerge and destroy them all. Her knuckles were white on Jentica’s pommel, though she knew there was no way she could bat
tle such a force. Magic was evil; magic trumped all.
“You can relax, Miss Xiuss,” the Priagent said. “You need not fear the Ravenstone, as you are not a being of magic.”
“What is that thing?” she demanded, dispensing with formality.
The Priagent smiled, and ice could have formed around his lips and beard. “It is a gift from beyond this world. It is a beginning and an ending. It is the future that I wield.”
“I don’t understand,” Tyrianne said.
“I expect if you did, you would have acted against me long ago.” The Priagent made a gesture—not to Tyrianne, not to Nesif, but to someone else.
Tyrianne spun to see a tall, broad form had moved up silently behind her. His unyielding arms enveloped her so quickly that her grip was wrenched from her sword. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried. Her eyes darted from the Priagent to Nesif, but the latter would not face her.
The Priagent left the altar, cradling the black object in his arms. “You have done your job well, and you have done it faithfully,” he said, moving past her. “My future ambitions, however, do not require your services.”
She could feel a change in the air as it came alive with an unseen force. It swarmed around her, brushed against her, pushed into her. Her flesh tingled, and she fought frantically against her captor’s hold. “No! I won’t let you do this to me!”
“Do what?” the Priagent asked over his shoulder. “I wanted to kill you. It is my brother’s compassion that has granted you a merciful end. Be grateful.”
“Grateful?” she cried, but her voice was not her own. “Nesif!” she shouted, commanding the lingering man’s attention. “Islai!”
He looked at her then, and it was his unuttered words that engulfed her in fury. Sorry.
“Damn you!” she spat, her struggle renewed in a fit of twists and turns. But Nesif was already out of sight, disappearing with the last trace of light.
1
The Foreigner
“My name is Kariayla,” she said to herself, examining her blackened fingers before cleaning the quill and sealing the ink well. Then, slowly, she straightened her back and felt the tears well in the corners of her eyes. She wiped the evidence away on her sleeve, took a deep breath, stood, and waited.
Like the promise of a new day, she heard it: the tolling of the tower bell. The darkest recesses of the library could not mute its peal. Thank the Spirits, she thought, shoving the stool beneath the desk. She had begun to feel like the gargoyles perched above the grand doors: hunched and immobile.
“My name is Kariayla,” she repeated in a whisper. He will learn my name. I must make certain that he learns my name. She wiped her hands on her apron, blew out her candle, and left her cell. Her feet scarcely made a sound on the old wooden floor; she knew where to step so that it would not creak. The head librarian’s desk was at the heart of the vast labyrinth of a chamber, and she wove her way around the shelves and tables until she could see that it was….
Empty? Kariayla stopped and glanced around her. The man seldom left his desk, as much a fixture in the room as the oldest, most dust-covered book attached by a rusty chain to the shelf. She took a hesitant step forward, deciding if she should wait or search for her overseer.
If he should see me idle… Her feet set to motion as she navigated the narrow passages between the shelves. Beyond her sight, around the corner, she heard the sound of paper—a page turning. She pushed her shoulders back. “My name is Kariayla,” she mouthed like a prayer. Then she rounded the corner.
“Ur!” she gasped, and her determination dissolved in the presence of a red-skinned old man. To her it seemed like a full minute of paralysis, her eyes bound to the wine-hued figure who sat at the table, several open books before him. The hair receding from his face was as white as the marble statue of King Jannus in the Great Hall, and it was brushed neatly back from his fleshy face and over his shoulders. His thick frame filled the chair in which he reclined, a book in one hand, a pipe in the other. The chair groaned as he shifted and came to look directly at her with his black eyes.
Kariayla darted from sight, dumbstruck by his appearance. When the library was visited—which was not often—it was visited by the nobility, and though they were literate, their presence was usually attributed to a secret rendezvous or flirtatious affair. Red-skinned men with pipes were even more uncommon. She must have been at the transcriptions longer than she thought, for her eyes were no longer trustworthy.
Needlelike fingers gripped her shoulder, and she started. The head librarian stood behind her, glaring down. “Come with me, girl.”
She shrank at his words and followed him back to his desk, her head bent. For what it’s worth, my name is Kariayla.
He sat behind his desk and was no less ominous than a vulture eyeing some carrion. With his black robes draped upon his hunched shoulders, his bald head, and pointed nose, all he need do was hiss at her, and she would be convinced. But the head librarian did not hiss. He opened his ledger, dipped his quill in the ink, and began to write. As he did so, he spoke to her in a quiet but patronizing voice.
“You left your cell. I do not recall relieving you for the evening.”
“No, sir,” Kariayla said, staring at the floor, “but the bell….”
“Means nothing to you,” he said without a break in his activity. “For you to be here is a privilege. Someone discovered you were literate, and I happened to need the help. If you prefer to be a scullion, I will send you back to Clerk Melgora. Otherwise, I expect a bit more dedication.” At last he looked at her, and his sudden silence lifted her head.
“Yes, sir. I will wait for your dismissal,” Kariayla said, defeated.
“Since you wish to wander, you may do so with a broom in hand. When the floor is clean, you may go.”
“Yes, sir.” Her shoulders sank a little lower as she turned to go.
“One more matter,” the head librarian said, his words holding her fast. “Under no circumstances are you to associate with the patrons.”
“I didn’t—” Kariayla started to protest, but his frown stopped her. “Yes, sir.”
When she was out of his sight, she could breathe again. She retrieved the broom with her shoulders slumped. If she hurried, she might still be in time for dinner. Unfortunately, every motion of the broom flarred the pain in her back.
It doesn’t matter if he learns my name. Not if it’s attached to an order or a punishment. This may be an improvement from the kitchen, but it will never earn me redemption. Not if I swept the entire castle or copied every book on these shelves. I will grow old here—dusty and worn as these forgotten tomes.
Kariayla stared, forlorn, at the chains attached to the books before her. I’m chained, too, but not for any sense of value. She paused to rub her shoulders. I need to stop complaining. The Spirits have given me shelter and food. I feel they have been watching over me since I left Nemeloreah. I must not be ungrateful.
She straightened her back and focused on the accumulating pile of debris. Her thoughts meandered back to the red-skinned stranger. Who was he? Where was he from? Someone like him surely possessed magic… His eyes—like the night sky—a field of black with a pale moon at their center. Could he be some sort of demon—like the one who terrorized travelers in the desert?
Don’t be stupid, she chided herself. A demon—in Belorn’s royal library? Because demons read books. And smoke pipes. The broom took her down an aisle—the same aisle, in fact, she had been down before. The very aisle that had surprised her with—
Gone! she thought, peering around the corner. The chair was empty, but the table was not. The hefty book through which the strange man had been browsing was now shut, abandoned. Cautiously Kariayla crept forward and craned to see the title. Famed Cantalere of Mystland. She drew a breath. A book about magic!
*
The cook’s line was empty, though the mess hall tables were not. It seemed all the castle’s servants were occupied with dinner and gossip. When Kariayla ap
proached the serving counter, the cook tipped the pot to give her the traces of broth left at the bottom. Among the crumbs on the wooden trencher was half a chunk of bread. He shrugged at her and turned away to give the empty platters to the scullion.
Clerk Melgora’s scratchy voice assailed her from beside the hearth. “That’s what you get for being late, you whelp.”
Kariayla stifled a shudder and hurried away from the counter before anything else could be said. I wasn’t hungry anyway, she tried to convince herself. She found room on a bench near the chamber maids, who were already immersed in a whispery discussion. They turned their backs to her when she glanced in their direction. Kariayla was not one to eavesdrop, but she was naturally an attentive audience. When the words, “red” and “foreigner” crossed her ears, her spoon paused halfway to her lips.
“Have you seen him? Mary said she passed him in the corridor to the library. Skin the color of blood. Can you imagine? He must be appalling!”
“My cousin traveled a bit, and he told me about such people. ‘Blood Mages,’ they call them. And they can poison your blood just by looking at you.”
“That is absurd!”
“Do you think so? Then you go and find him and see what happens.”
“Analind is in charge of his room. Where is she?”
“Probably poisoned.”
“Don’t say such a thing!”
“Well….”
“As I hear it, he has come on the good graces of Duke and Duchess Barendorn.”
“Whatever does he want? And why would Lord Barendorn have any dealings with such a foreigner?”
“Blood Mage. And I heard he saved the duke’s life.”
“Right after he poisoned his blood, no doubt!”
“What are you looking at?”
It took Kariayla a moment to realize the question was directed at her. The women were all glaring at her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was staring,” she said, turning away.
“You can mind your own business,” one of them said. “This castle is full of foreigners. The good king is too tolerant.”
Kariayla tried to focus on her soup as they continued to whisper about her.