The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne

by C. L. Schneider

  Jarryd took the lead. I followed his steps over the rock-strewn landscape, turning my concentration inward to the storm of magic surging through me. It was a beautiful mix. Their combined auras were a blizzard of frozen fire. I concentrated on it, refusing to let my mind wander beyond it. One drifting thought of more was all it would take to wake what else lay inside me. Each spell I cast was a gamble against Fate for more scars. And no god liked being bet against.

  Hitting the knee-deep water at a fast clip, our boots churned up the rocky streambed. Spray slashed to our thighs, but it was the only protection I had against the abundance of hornblende that comprised the city wall. I had no real idea how far out its influence would reach or exactly how water blocked the black stone’s negative effects. At the moment, though, ‘how’ didn’t matter.

  Torchlight flared to my right. Arrows pierced the water. I released the magic and the auras spilled from my veins in a twist of color; giving birth to my door a few feet ahead with a pop of colored lines. Swiftly, the lines came together. Blackness grew in between. Wind blew from the door’s edges, shooting out around us, tossing the water into a fine mist.

  As sparks burst inside the black, more arrows fled the trees. A barb shot in between us dangerously close. Another stuck in the pack on my shoulder. I grabbed Jarryd and we dived, skimming the streambed and tumbling into the void.

  TWO

  Like water being sucked through a siphon, the black behind me collapsed and shrunk, drawing itself inward; moving us forward. But it wasn’t forward, or up, or down. It was movement without definition. It was blackness without weight or boundary, a rush of noise without sound. Yet there was a sense of heaviness pressing in. Its cold touch embraced me as I traveled. I couldn’t tell how long. Time was hard to keep inside a Shinree door. Thanks to the disorientating impression that you’re neither falling nor floating—yet doing both—a journey of a handful of seconds felt far longer.

  I stopped trying to count and focused on our destination: the island city of Kabri.

  Formerly part of Rella’s mainland, Kabri was situated off the coast, with its rocky cliffs, hidden caverns, and its city built into the graduated slope. I pictured the system of caves I’d been hiding in, and the people that hid there with me. We were an odd group, hailing from all realms. A blend of Arullans, Kaelish, Langorians, Rellans, and Shinree, that had somehow lost interest in killing each other. Freed slaves, refugees, and rebels from a disbanded resistance; we were the only vestige of peace in a land forever on the brink of war. We were survivors labeled as fugitives for daring to defy the brutal reign of Mirra’kelan’s former High King Draken. We were branded traitors by a zealous, self-proclaimed emperor who was struggling to assert his will on a land too weak to fight back: my father.

  Exploding though the black, light and pain blasted my senses. I skidded, scraping palms and face on the dusty stone floor. A spill of water, some crispy lily pads, more than a handful of arrows, and a few shriveled tadpoles skidded with me. I was sure I’d left more dead than that behind.

  I stopped just shy of slamming into Jarryd. Lying on his back, amid his own puddle, the fool’s chest was heaving from laughter more than lack of air. He panted out his appraisal of the evening. “That…was…great.”

  On my stomach, drenched and breathless, I scooped the damp white hair back from my eyes and frowned at him. “You’ve been hanging around Krillos too much.” Jarryd laughed harder, and I gave him a good-natured kick. “It wouldn’t have been so great if those arrows had hit their mark.”

  “But they didn’t. And you’re getting good at those doors.”

  “Not good enough. I need to figure out how to open one closer to the wall.”

  I’d done it in my vision. In my five year trip to the future I’d cast accurately, with no water, less than a hundred feet away from the hornblende wall. I knew not all spells were guaranteed to be warped by the dark stone, but I didn’t think that was it. Fate wasn’t in the habit of drawing cards in my favor. My future door-making success was more likely something else.

  Something else the Crown of Stones decided to handle without telling me.

  Aching everywhere, I rolled over and sat up. “Jillyan,” I said, startled at finding the Langorian woman lounging on the bed of furs in the middle of my room. Dressed in nothing but shadows and firelight, and a few strategically placed strands of lengthy black hair, her long, shapely legs were stretched out. Her dark eyes were alight with dry amusement. The point of her chin was tight and tilted in annoyance. It was a futile cover for the upturned curve of her lips.

  Jillyan wanted to be mad, but given our current state, she couldn’t quite manage it.

  Jarryd picked himself up. Groaning through a stretch, he reached the exit and I felt an internal snap as he walled off our link. The privacy he was granting me was a nice gesture, but mostly pointless. The network of caves we lived in carried an echo farther than most of us wanted to admit.

  Jarryd paused to glance back at me. “We’ll try again.”

  “No. Not like this. I have to either go in with magic blazing and say to hell with the scars, or…” Learn how to stifle the crown better. Get its power out of me.

  I never meant for it to be in me this long.

  I’d intended to return the magic to the confines of its home, to fix the artifact I’d broken. Such power as I’d willingly given refuge to emboldened me in ways that were beautiful and completely unsafe. And my ability to control the power’s appetite (and mine) was sporadic at best. I knew even less how to banish it. Both were problems that required time to solve, which left my daughter in the hands of a man who gave torture not a moment’s pause.

  Jarryd waved at Jillyan and ducked from the room. Stripping off my sword belt as I stood, I walked stiffly to the boulder near the fire. Jillyan was still reclining beside the modest flames. She tucked her legs to the side and sat up. Raising arms over her head, she extended them in a slow stretch. The bulk of hair flowing over her shoulders shifted. Not that it was covering much to begin with. The size of Jillyan’s breasts defied concealment.

  “So,” she purred, her refined Langorian accent rolling off her skillful tongue. “When Ian Troy says he plans to retire early, what he really means is….?”

  “I didn’t want to hear it.”

  “And what it would that be?”

  “You would have told me not to go.”

  A frown struck her strong features. “Have I ever attempted to give you orders?”

  I grabbed a nearby skin of water off the ground. “You’ve made your views clear. You all have. You think I’m not ready to face my father. I need more training and there are still nuances to my erudite abilities that escape me. I have trouble controlling the magic I’m harboring, and even when I do, I rashly disregard the personal consequences and use it anyway.”

  “If you are going to quote me, Shinree,” Jillyan said, her dark brows going up, “please do so correctly. I believe, what I said, was that you fall to the power living in you far too readily in desperate moments.”

  “Desperate moments are all I have.”

  “Do you forget how many of us have shared in those moments of late? I was Langor’s Queen, as well as Kael’s. Now, I have a bounty on my head like a common outlaw. However,” she went on, before I could apologize for my lack of empathy, “our precarious situation in no way makes my assessment of your readiness incorrect.”

  “Which is why I’ve been working with Sienn.”

  “Apparently, not enough.”

  “It might never be enough.”

  “You may be right. Sienn Nam’arelle is an excellent teacher. But she lacks the knowledge to expel the crown’s magic from your body. Neither can she calm the whirlwind that spins inside you—the one I see in your eyes even now. Only you can do that.” Reaching to the side, Jillyan retrieved one of my shirts from the pile of open packs on the ground. She shook the granite-
colored garment out and slipped it on over her head. I was a little disappointed as the fabric settled over her curves and took my view. Thankfully, she left the black lacings in the front loose and undone; an oversight that provided me with a provocative glimpse of pale, round flesh. She stood, unfolding her long legs. The shirt’s hem brushed the tops of her thighs.

  I sighed, staring. Sex rang off of Jillyan like a claxon. Yet, her sensuality was never forced. It was always there, out in the open, casual and unapologetic, like she’d simply forgotten to consider modesty as a factor. Like my potential reaction was my own problem.

  I knew better. In her mind, Jillyan was plotting to wring every drop of enjoyment out of my ‘problem’ that she could manage.

  With a noticeable slither to her walk, she came to stand in front of me. “It was agreed we would do nothing until Malaq returned with news from the mainland.”

  I dragged my thoughts and my eyes back where they were supposed to be. “I tried that.”

  “We have no idea who has assumed control of Langor’s throne in the wake of Draken’s death. We have no solid information on when your father might strike, where Lirih is being held, or how to stop what the crown’s magic is doing to you. There are too many unanswered questions to act in haste.”

  “And sitting in these caves isn’t answering any of them.”

  “You knew my brother’s trip might be lengthy. Traveling by a Shinree door to Langor’s border has no doubt cut that time considerably. But Malaq must manage the time in between on his own. All we can do is to wait for his return.”

  “I tried that, too.”

  “Try harder. If you are captured attempting to breach Jem Reth’s city wall there may be nothing we can do to recover you. Now…” Jillyan drew a breath. “Would you like me to work the soreness from your muscles, or shall I wake Sienn?” I hesitated, and Jillyan lowered her voice to a seductive whisper. “My recuperative powers may not be steeped in magic, but I assure you, Shinree, pain would be hard pressed to stand against them.”

  Jillyan offered her hand. I took it readily. I had no interest in waking Sienn. The Shinree woman’s lecture would be far less forgiving than Jillyan’s.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, letting her lead me to the furs. “Attempting to penetrate Jem’s defenses right now isn’t smart. But it feels like Malaq’s been gone a year.”

  “Time can be a difficult burden for one not accustomed to sitting still. With each passing day the inaction becomes harder to abide.” She paused, as if I might argue. I couldn’t. “You need to adjust your focus.”

  I stripped off my wet shirt. “What I need is to use more magic.”

  “Your midnight forays into Jem’s domain will succeed when you are ready. I was referring to your narrow measurement of success.” I raised an eyebrow and she elaborated. “To you, a win is retrieving Lirih and the crown from your father. But the emphasis you place on that goal keeps you from seeing the strides you have made here. Lay down.” She gestured at the furs. “Teaching the refugees to defend themselves, teaching yourself the history of your people—even instructing the Kaelish in improving their tracking is a worthy cause. It might lend to an accidental dinner if they could refrain from speaking long enough for a trap to be sprung.”

  Grimacing through a laugh, I knelt and lowered myself down. My stomach and chest rested against the furs. I breathed gratefully as the warmth settled in. “I’m glad to help where I can, but don’t make it sound selfless. Staying busy is about the only thing keeping me sane.”

  “I am aware.” Jillyan sat beside me. “However, I believe you have tended your poor horse to the point that she unlikely has any hair left to brush.”

  I glanced back. “Kya hasn’t complained.”

  “No.” Her lips pursed. “I suppose she has not.”

  Grinning, I lay back down. Jillyan put her hands on my back. She pushed and kneaded, and I closed my eyes, nestling into the mound of overlapping pelts. The skins were thick and warm, taken from the same breed of northern wolves that once chased Krillos, Liel, and I across the plateau in Langor. The pile had been my bed since my first night in the caves. Yet, I’d never noticed how strongly they still smelled of the outside. It wasn’t the salty air blowing in from the beach. This was the fresh, crisp air of the mountains.

  Somehow, after months on a trader’s cart, a day on a ferryman’s boat, who knows how long in a market stall, and weeks on a dusty cavern floor, the scent had endured.

  I took a long breath, inhaling the cool pine and the sweet, cloying aroma of winter berries trapped within the fibers. They weren’t alone. A whiff of rich soil and wet clay clung to the dense pelt. It was layered by a musky tang (feline, rodent, canine, and others) and the distinct, metallic suggestion of blood.

  Drawing the odors in deeper, they intensified; soaring and overwhelming; hurling through my body like a sudden squall whipping over a mountain peak. Something about the mix of fragrances set my muscles to itching. Each inhalation was like a straight shot of vigor.

  Enjoying the strange, overwhelming sensations, I gave into them.

  My heart pumped faster.

  I felt fierce. Alive. Wild.

  Then I understood. It’s starting.

  From my first use, the crown had imprinted me with scars. But the patterns of swirls and lines weren’t simply marks. They were the precursor to a long-lost spell. They were the forerunner of my inevitable change into an eldring; a vicious, predatory beast brought to life centuries ago with the blood and magic of my ancestors. I’d been waiting for weeks for the spell to progress. Yet I’d seen no outward changes. The scars hadn’t joined or expanded. There was no sign of the thin, mottled hide that overtook my father’s body at the beginning of his transformation. I’d hoped mine would never advance that far. I’d prayed like hell to find a way to stop the change before it started. I’d limited my casting to try and keep the spell at bay. But it was already happening. I was turning eldring, from the inside out.

  Panicked, I lifted my head from the furs—and it all went away; the smells, my perception of them, and the invigorating sensations they produced. My senses found nothing but the mustiness of the cave, the burning wood of the fire, and the damp smell of stream on my clothes.

  Breathing a silent sigh of relief, I lay back down.

  It’s not permanent. Not yet.

  Thank the gods. I still have time.

  The spell was only peeking out, showing its mettle.

  Promising things to come.

  My dread returned. I had time, yes, but how much?

  How long until I look like him?

  An abrupt twinge shot through me as Jillyan hit a sensitive spot. She rubbed harder, and a curse escaped my clenched teeth. “Damn it, woman…”

  “My apologies. I was attempting to ease your discomforts as quickly as possible. Of all the positive attributes you possess, Shinree, waiting is not one of them.”

  Not bothering to disagree, I crossed my arms and rested my head on top of them, putting distance between my face and the furs. Jillyan moved her attention to my lower back. My thoughts drifted. Lately, they’d been going one place. “I don’t want her to think I’m not coming.”

  I felt her pause. Jillyan’s tone softened. “I doubt she would.”

  “We barely know each other. I have no idea what Lirih thinks of me. But it’ll damn sure be a lot less the longer I leave her with him.”

  “Well, perhaps life will be more palatable…now that I have found your book.”

  I turned around and set up. “You found it? You’re sure?”

  My eagerness put a noticeable twinkle in her eye. “The journal written by your ancestor, Tam Reth, the one Jem stole from me and Sienn lost, the one you have torn apart the entire island hunting for this past month …” Jillyan smiled brightly. “Yes, Ian, I found the Emperor’s journal. It was among the many piles of
debris gathered from the city streets. While I applaud the Kabrinians’ efforts to clean up, another day and your book would have been ash.”

  “You sifted through garbage? For me?”

  “Not all my actions are for your pleasure. I waded through the city’s waste to preserve a valuable piece of history. Not to—”

  I cut off her sarcasm with a kiss. Why she’d gone to such lengths didn’t matter, only that she had. And now, the book written hundreds of years ago by the last man to use the Crown of Stones before me was in my hands, not my father’s. Whatever secrets of the past it held, whatever answers were contained within its pages, I would uncover them first.

  Pulling back, I smoothed the silky strands off Jillyan’s face. “Thank you.”

  She studied me a moment. A hint of concern touched her dark eyes as Jillyan stared into my white ones. “And now the whirlwind spins faster.”

  THREE

  My name is Mara’tam Reth. I am a Shinree soldier, residing in the greatest city of the empire, in the land of Mirra’kelan. I am a member of the Ruling House. I am a husband, a father, a magic user.

  I write the above affirmations not to posture, or to brag. I write them because I must. Because seeing the words is the only way I can be sure who I am.

  For months, I have been losing time. I have memories I never formed. I find myself in places I never traveled. People speak to me that claim acquaintances I never made.

  This journal was meant as a means to track my experiments, to document my formulas and progress. Alchemy is not a haphazard pursuit. One must be precise with ingredients and measures. My wife purchased the book in hopes that consistent scribing might cause me to stop mumbling lines of spell in my sleep and leaving scrolls scattered about the house.