The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne

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The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 1

by C. L. Schneider




  THE CROWN OF STONES

  Magic-Borne

  C. L. Schneider

  Copyright © 2016 C. L. Schneider

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1522975845

  ISBN 13: 9781522975847

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016900270

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  For you, my reader

  There is no greater muse.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  As always, love and gratitude goes to my husband, Bryan, who encourages me to fly, by making sure I have a safe place to land. Many thanks to Kim, Freddie, and Jeanne for their faith and support, and to Kevin, who introduced me to fantasy so very long ago.

  Much appreciation goes to my gifted cover artist, Alan Dingman, and my editor Marco Palmieri. Heartfelt thanks to my beta readers for their enduring commitment to this trilogy and its characters. They went above and beyond—and beyond that. Dawn, my SFAM, you always have my back. I couldn’t imagine doing this without your friendship, insight, and liquid brainstorming. Sara, you leap tall buildings in a single bound, at a moment’s notice, just for me. It means more than you could ever know. Love to Nicole for always making me look good, and to Amy, Karen, and Jill, for friendship and laughs.

  Hugs and an affectionate “arrgh” to Angela B. Chrysler, and the entire zany crew of the HMS Slush Brain (past and present).You all hold a special place in my heart. To my followers, fellow scribes, readers, and fans: you truly are the best around. I lack the space here to express my gratitude to each and every one of you. But if you’re wondering, as I write this, if I’m thinking of you, then I probably am. To the many talented members of #IndieBooksBeSeen, Awethors, and APC, thank you for providing me with indisputable proof of strength in numbers.

  And last, but not least, to Ian. I took your life in my hands, and I learned so much.

  “Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens,

  or half their greatness goes unnoticed.”

  Peter S. Beagle

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  TWENTY FOUR

  TWENTY FIVE

  TWENTY SIX

  TWENTY SEVEN

  TWENTY EIGHT

  TWENTY NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY ONE

  THIRTY TWO

  THIRTY THREE

  THIRTY FOUR

  THIRTY FIVE

  THIRTY SIX

  THIRTY SEVEN

  THIRTY EIGHT

  THIRTY NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY ONE

  FORTY TWO

  FORTY THREE

  FORTY FOUR

  FORTY FIVE

  FORTY SIX

  FORTY SEVEN

  FORTY EIGHT

  FORTY NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY ONE

  FIFTY TWO

  FIFTY THREE

  FIFTY FOUR

  FIFTY FIVE

  FIFTY SIX

  FIFTY SEVEN

  FIFTY EIGHT

  FIFTY NINE

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  A’nalia placed the stones in a tight circle on the altar. There were nine, uncut and on the small side; celestite, sapphire, magnetite, ruby, spinel, diamond, topaz, amber, and obsidian. Touching each in turn, her aged fingers flowed across the jagged tops from one to the next. A pulse of color followed, making the air between the stones seem to blur and the hues to merge.

  Glancing behind her, A’nalia regarded the eight hooded figures standing silently off to the side. Their consent was not required for her to continue. She was, after all, their equal. But choices of weight, decisions affecting the whole of the empire, were not meant for the shoulders of a single man or woman. And no greater choice had been made in the history of the Shinree as this one.

  The eight nodded in approval, one after the other, so there would be no mistake. A’nalia returned the gesture. Her sandals shifted in the layer of silt on the cave floor as she turned back to face the crowd. The weight of the moment would lend a quiver to her voice. Yet, A’nalia made no attempt to calm her nerves. Let them assume age is the culprit, she thought. Better that than betray the true precipice in which their nation stood. Society had passed judgment enough on the Ruling House. She would have it no more.

  A’nalia beckoned with her hands. “Come forward. All of you.”

  The eyes on her flitted elsewhere, hands clenched, feet shifted.

  A’nalia wasn’t surprised. Being chosen by the House was an honor, yet their hesitation for the ritual was understandable. Magic, blood, and souls would be taken. From this day, the future of the Shinree would be forever changed. For if it is not, it will continue to crumble under the influence of corruption and anarchy.

  Such an end was unthinkable. The ability to channel magic was a gift of the gods. A responsibility bestowed at the beginning of time to the Shinree alone. Given in this holy place, A’nalia knew, as she glanced proudly about the waterfall-ringed room. Her eyes landed on the well in it center. Though what lived inside was not visible from her angle, A’nalia envisioned the auras that swam inside. Imagination was unnecessary for what dwelled within the cavern walls. Their glow seeped out from the gaps between the cascades. Watching it gave her strength, and a confident, determined smile emerged.

  There could be no other course. The oracles have spoken. Fate has guided their visions.

  And Death will guide my hand.

  Waywardness among a people so superior would not be tolerated. No matter the cost.

  A’nalia hid her smirk as the young men and women lined up. Their obedience betrayed what she already knew. They had not the courage to defy her for long. She wondered if her fellow House Members were grieving over what was to come. Regardless, they would never show it. Nor would they flinch. They would commit their sons and daughters to the undertaking as promised. Still, she counted to ensure none had recanted. The number must be exact.

  “Eighteen. Good. You are all here.”

  Her gaze wandered over them again. Their faces, youthful and fresh, with bones as sharp as the stones they channeled. Their white eyes were wary, more from awe than fright. Most had never traveled so far outside the city. Theirs was a generation with little care for tradition. It was a shortcoming that left them ignorant of the impending ritual’s outcome. They were unaware that only one would leave unscathed. Nine would never leave at all.

  A’nalia positioned them around the altar. “Each of you who share familial blood will place one hand on the stone directly in front of you and your sibling.”

  Her order was followed. At contact, color pulsed beneath their fingers.

  “You will pick up the stone together and move it to the center of the altar. Place them as I have; in a circular formation. Channel as you normally would, a small measure of the stone’s power. But do not remove your hand. No matter what you feel. Is that clear?” There were cautious nods all around. “You may begin.”

  A’nalia peered over once more at her colleagues. Their white eyes had darke
ned, adopting the color of the stone chosen to represent each of their families. She felt their magic; ripe and resonating with intent. Their chant was a low, melodic sound. It fled their lips like a chorus of distant thunder. Their level of skill made traditional vocal casting unnecessary. Yet she appreciated their caution. In this, there could be no mistakes.

  Listening to the words of the spell fill the cave, A’nalia offered a silent prayer for Fate’s blessing. She hoped that, centuries later, this moment would be seen as the turning point in Shinree history. That rupturing their gifts, dividing the people and their magic at the very core, would put the power back where it belonged. If it did, she, and the other first families would be hailed as heroes. If it failed, there would never be a greater tragedy.

  A’nalia drew the dagger from the folds of her robe. The stone-laden hilt of the Nor-Taali glistened and pulsed in her grip. Power swept into her and she breathed, deep and grateful; deeper, as the vibrations pierced her veins.

  Eyes radiant, saturated with power and conviction, A’nalia made her way around the circle of eighteen. All of them frozen by the spell, her presence was no longer noticed as she halted briefly at every other one. Lingering only to place blade to throat and slide it across. She tried not to pause longer upon reaching her own sons. They were close, only a year apart in age. The pain would be great for the one who lived. But he was a Reth. He would survive.

  Cutting him open, A’nalia moved onto the next. Her quick work splattered blood on the stones. Their appetite whet, the spell begged for more, drawing and siphoning until crimson rolled like mud down the snared, trembling bodies. The magic they channeled fled with it, slipping over arms, hands, and fingertips.

  Blood and magic slithered into the circle. It seeped between the stones. Gaps filled. Colors flowed and ran, rolling like liquid. The sides of the stones shifted and blurred. Solidity lost, their edges melted one into the other. As they fused, power built within the glistening cavern walls, tensing the air, tightening and warping it.

  One after another, the exsanguinated bodies fell. The auras they shed secreted deep, booming vibrations. Its pulse escalated painfully with each kill.

  A’nalia slew the last one. She beamed with pride and satisfaction at what their sacrifice had created. The auras had united, forming a circlet that was seamless and whole, bursting with more magical power than any artifact the house had spelled before. For a moment, she wished the Shinree were governed as other realms, by a single sovereign leader. Because surely, what they had made here today, was a crown fit for a King.

  ONE

  Swords met. Sparks erupted. The strident song of colliding steel rang out beneath the full moon, bouncing down into the valley of sand; echoing in my head. The shockwave raced up my arms. It radiated through my overworked shoulders, painful and familiar. The tremor set off a different kind of spark. One that was deeper and far more troubling.

  No magic, I thought, ignoring the pang.

  No. Magic.

  Grunting, both hands gripping the stone-studded hilt, I pushed.

  My opponent pushed back.

  It wasn’t much of a standoff. At least, not one I was likely to win. His swarthy Langorian form was broad and hulking. His determination was unflagging. The man possessed a ridiculous amount of stamina and zero impulse to flee or survive. His instinct for self-preservation had been smothered, choked out of existence. His will and spirit restrained. One lone thought filled the man’s spelled mind: kill. It was an aim that was chillingly apparent in the swirling red-black of his eyes.

  My boots slid. Pebbles kicked up behind me. They only had one place to go—over, as the crumbling edge of the cliff grew steadily closer.

  I dug deeper. I shoved harder. With a brief release of one hand from the hilt, I risked a punch. My knuckles split. His broad face, yet intact, cracked with only a smile.

  No magic.

  No…

  Magic…

  My internal chant continued. It was a weak weapon at best. A temporary deterrent in an unwinnable war I’d been fighting my whole life. I could kill the Langorian man trying to shove me off the mountaintop with little more than a thought. And that was the problem.

  One thought would turn to another, one spell would become two, a little magic suddenly became a lot—and the glut of ancient power I’d given shelter to would rise up and imprint another scar on my skin. When too many scars had formed, I would change. I would become something else.

  I would be no use to her.

  My opponent’s eyes suddenly widened with delight. “Ha!” he laughed, spewing stale breath in my face as he reveled in the sound of reinforcements clamoring up the rise. They were a ways off. Their boisterous cries were still issuing from within the boundaries of the moon-lit woods beyond the stream. Yet, he clearly had more help than I did. “Your string of foul deeds ends today, witch. And I will forever be known as the man who took the life of Ian Troy.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I blustered. Though, whatever I was going to do, it had to be soon.

  I risked a glance behind me. Far below, a good two miles out into the desert, torch poles ran along a massive black wall. The monstrosity protected the developing city that sprawled out for miles within its dark confines. Inside the wall, lanterns twinkled. Their yellow pinpricks sprinkled the city with light, but they were too far out to brighten the slope beneath me. Still, I didn’t need more than moonlight to know I was running out of ground.

  Down had been the direction I was headed, just not this way.

  I’d thought to descend with a rope and approach the city covertly. Encountering guards this early on was not part of the plan. Their presence, though a problem, was heartening in its own way. It meant my father was worried. He should be, I thought. I’d barely found out I had a daughter before Jem Reth took her away.

  For well over a month there had been no sighting of Lirih. No news of any kind. So far, my attempts to gain entrance to his walled city to search for her had failed. They wouldn’t with magic, I reasoned, but I’d already risked more than I should by opening a doorway to come here. While my accuracy with creating magical portals had improved, collapsing the space between realms was far from a minor spell. The larger the spell, the higher the price, the more likely my affliction might spread. And I still had to get back.

  Releasing a howl of determination, the guard bore down harder. His blade crept closer. My boots slid farther. The calls of his friends were growing nearer by the second. Dots of approaching torches splashed orange against the night. Faint shapes flitted in and out of the dark maze of branches.

  There were more than I thought.

  In minutes they would reach the stream, a wide, icy brook fed by a spring thaw from the peak above. Once they crossed it, I would be cut off from the water, and my way out.

  Frustrated, I threw my head forward into my opponent’s. He threw his back, harder.

  Pain splashed out across my forehead. Blood trickled into my eyes.

  The auras swirling inside me stirred.

  No magic, I swore. No magic.

  The heel of my boot sunk over the edge.

  Fuck it.

  Rousing the obsidian shard hanging from the cord around my neck, its magic entered my veins. I choked off the flow, channeling only a wisp; enough for a single jolt of strength. Before the rest of what lurked inside me sat up and took notice, I flung the power out. A flutter of indulgence zipped across my nerves. Black blinded my eyes for a flash. Strength flowed through my hands and arms, and I shoved my enemy back in a cloud of dust.

  Overcome by my new found vigor, the man’s blade slid away. Freed from our embrace, I stabbed my sword toward his chest—and a measure of jagged steel burst out through his bearded throat in front of me. The blade reversed. A red fountain erupted from the hole. Choking on his own blood, the Langorian teetered toward me. I pivoted clear, and he tumbled past me over the side o
f the ridge. Watching the night consume him, I took a step back, and the dirt under my left boot cracked. Pieces dropped away and drifted down into the dark. I shifted my stance, and the ground sunk under my right boot.

  I had about a breath before the entire edge broke off under my weight.

  My mind cycled through spells. Selecting one, I was near to casting when blood-stained fingers wrapped around my arm. They dug in hard, and my rescuer, flaunting a Kaelish long-knife in his other hand, hauled me back away from the edge with a grunt. “I tried that without a rope once.” A crooked grin softened the arrow scar on Jarryd Kane’s lean face. He bobbed his shorn head in the direction of the drop-off. “It wasn’t fun.”

  “Neither was trying to haul your heavy ass back up.”

  A breath after my reply, Jarryd’s wry amusement drifted over me. It was accompanied by a good amount of adrenaline. Exertion and exhaustion pounded across the magical link that bound us together. The ache in his hands threatened to compromise my grip.

  Refusing to be engulfed by Jarryd’s discomforts, I shook them off. Separating our sensations wasn’t always easily done. So when I glanced over his shoulder and noticed the forest coming alive with torches and men, he felt my haste, and my full-blown frustration.

  Jarryd’s sharp, blue eyes narrowed. “What do you want to do?”

  With my father’s spell driving our oncoming opponents, I had two choices. Leave empty handed—again—or stay and kill them all. We’d already incurred a sizeable delay with the first wave of soldiers. Another lengthy engagement would further shorten our window for getting in and out by morning. Being stuck behind the city wall at daybreak would increase the risk of a confrontation I wasn’t ready for. It would make getting Lirih back that much harder.

  With one last aggravated glance at the lights punctuating the darkness below, I slid my sword into the belt at my waist. “Come on.” I started for the stream.

  “You sure?”

  “No.” I grabbed the pack I’d abandoned when the patrol attacked and slipped it on. Celestite, diamond, amethyst, tanzanite, and obsidian banded with silver adorned the wristlet tied around my right brace. I channeled their auras in unison as we ran.

 

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