I laughed at her. Women can be far too dramatic.
Yet, I am not a stupid man. I thanked her properly and immediately put ink to page. I remember thinking a record of my successes and failures might prove helpful. It would certainly serve a purpose if any of my sons should decide to continue my work when I am gone.
Now, I fear only this journal will keep me from going mad.
A throat cleared behind me.
I pulled my head out of the book in my lap and squinted over my shoulder at a Shinree boy of about nine or ten. He stood back a ways from where I was sitting at the open ledge of the cave mouth. Possessing the signature white hair of my kind, a subtle hint of reddish brown betrayed his mixed blood. The strands were cut short. A good number stuck straight up, as if he’d been wearing a hat for a week and had only just this moment removed it.
A cup in one hand, and a small plate of food in another, the boy’s slender shoulders were stiff. His white eyes were low and darting. He was nervous about getting too close. It wasn’t the exposed ledge that troubled him, though, nor the fatal drop. What froze the boy in place was me.
I endeavored to move things along. “Did you need something?”
His head snapped up. Despite his current anxiety, the attitude in the boy’s small, square-chin was obvious. His face held the usual strong bones of our kind, but I didn’t recognize it. He wasn’t a survivor of the massacre that razed our camp. Neither was he a former resident of the Menagerie, the underground chamber where the Arcanas had kept their private stock of Shinree. The boy’s wariness of me was too acute, and my father had pilfered such things from those born in the Menagerie, taking a good deal of their magic and emotions in an attempt to replenish his own abilities. The cruel theft was just one of Jem’s many charming attempts to gain power.
The boy was likely from elsewhere in the realm. I’d seen more than a few liberated slaves brought in recently under the protection of Malaq’s men. Most were skittish like this one.
I tried again. “Is that for me?” I motioned at the food.
The boy inched closer. He stretched out his arms, long, gangly things that protruded from a shirt I was confident had been too small two seasons ago, and sat his delivery down. “Bread,” he said. “Fish. And water.”
“I can see that,” I smiled, glancing at the steaming plate. The fish smell wafting up was pungent. I closed my mind to it, quickly. I had no idea what might trigger my emerging eldring senses, or if using them might spur the change faster.
“Sienn said you might be hungry.”
I pushed the plate aside. “Thanks.”
The boy nodded, trying not to stare at the black markings swirling down the left side of my face and neck. He failed instantly. The twitch that ran through his flushed face as he gave in and gawked, implied he knew the story behind them. Or thought he did.
Yielding to curiosity, the boy took in the similar lines on the back of my left hand. The ones under my shirt that swept up my arm and shoulder, across my chest and stomach, and down my back, weren’t visible. It was just as well. Those would really spook him.
Realizing I’d detected his scrutiny, his gaze tore away. It fixed on the second most conspicuous thing in view: the landscape. We were high up on the mountaintop, on the backside of the island, where sand spread without the impediment of the city. It covered a wide swathe, white and glittery like a field of snow set afire by the late afternoon sun. Soon, the tide would wash in with purpose, stretching back to crash against the rocky crags flanking the beach. Protruding from the mountain, the thin stony formations trapped a wide section of sand within their borders, creating the flattest, emptiest stretch of land on the entire island. It was a beautiful sight, and it was right below me. Making the open ledge I’d claimed a few days ago the perfect place to roost for some reading.
Except for the weekly burning.
Thankfully, the strong salt smell off the water masked the stench. The pull of the breeze helped dissipate the smoke as the men on the beach below circled their pile of flaming debris. Poking long sticks into the mound, they kept the fire even and contained. By afternoon, another wagon would come, carrying more remnants of shattered lives; trinkets, keepsakes, furnishings, wares, unusable materials and supplies, and the unfortunate surplus from Kabri’s overstuffed graveyard. Whatever else was useless, unwanted, and unclaimed was tossed onto the heap.
Including books, I thought, clutching the journal on my lap protectively.
Almost three years had passed since the Langorians raided the island and robbed Kabri of her vitality and beauty. Their invasion and subsequent occupation had nearly destroyed what little remained. When Malaq became Kabri’s Regent, and then later Rella’s King, he’d set out to rebuild not only the island, but the entire realm. Doing so under the pitiless rein of Mirra’kelan’s High King, Draken, however, had been slow going.
I wondered again of the boy’s origins. “Where are you from?”
“Taros,” he said. “It’s a farming village out on the plains. I worked in the fields. I was…on the drug.” He swallowed. The admission made him uncomfortable.
“When I was in prison, I worked in the mines.”
“Oh?” Interest leapt into his voice. “How was it?”
“Dusty.”
He nodded. “Figured.”
“Is this your first time in Kabri?”
“Kind of. I have memories of it, but I don’t remember making them. Is that weird?”
“To someone who was on Kayn’l? No. When the drug leaves your body, you don’t remember your life. You relive it, far more vividly than it actually happened. It isn’t easy.”
He shuffled his feet and shrugged. “My memories are okay, I guess. Are yours okay?”
“Some. Others…not so much.”
The boy didn’t reply. He stood in silence, seemingly content to stare out at the waves. I eyed their edges, lapping gently against the beach, and wished my mind could be that tranquil. If it were, controlling my magic would be far simpler.
B’tay roo-sta, I thought in envy.
To be that still and calm...
He stirred beside me. A sense of sadness hunched his shoulders. I thought I knew why. “When I was a little younger than you, Kabri was a different city. There were performers and festivals. Tournaments and trade drew people from all over. You could barely get through the streets. Then the Langorians came and burned it to the ground.”
“Did you hate them for it?”
“I did. But the Rellans rebuilt. They will again.”
“I hope so. I’d like to see a city like that.”
“You will.” I glanced at the plate again. “Why don’t you have it?”
His eyes brightened. “Really?”
“I’m not hungry. Besides, I have some reading to do. Maybe you can come back later. It’s a nice place to sit.”
Braver now, the boy stepped up and retrieved what he’d brought with a small smile. He disappeared into one of the tunnel openings behind me, and I went back to my book. Flipping randomly through pages, something caught my eye. “Brielle’atroy?”
Seeing the proper name of my mother’s family in Tam’s writings didn’t surprise me. Before he was emperor, Tam had an affair with the handsome Lady Brielle’atroy. Or rather, my father did, when he was occupying Tam’s body through an oracle spell. One of the fabled erudite, the lady was a direct descendent of the First Ones, the founding families of the Shinree that created the Crown of Stones. What stunned me was the journal’s content. The words were written hundreds of years ago, long before Jem interfered with Tam’s life. Yet his interference was all through the pages.
As Jem changed Tam’s life, did the passages change as well? Or was it always meant to happen? Had B’naach, God of Fate, in his infinite divine wisdom, linked these two men throughout history? Not just them. B’naach had toyed with the entire Reth line
—including me. Strapped to the crown, connected to the fall (and rise) of the empire, the spread of Kayn’l, and the future of our people’s place in this land. Fate had been playing with my family a little too long for my taste.
I read on.
I woke up in bed today with the Lady Brielle’atroy. It was a conquest I had considered for some time. It was also one I had dismissed, as our views are staggeringly different. She, along with the rest of the Ruling House, is content with what we have. She sees no reason to move beyond the shores of Mirra’kelan, to expand and conquer. But, how can she, without the fire of a soldier’s blood in her veins?
Erudite know nothing of the drive to explore and vanquish. They covet stability and structure, and entertain no challenges to their views, or their preeminence.
Lady Brielle’atroy seemed satisfied with our tryst. She was most complimentary.
I cannot recall a moment of it.
The healer claims nothing is wrong. His spells were quite invasive. He performed a short dream weave, hoping to wake my mind to the events it slept through. When that proved unsuccessful, he cast an oracle spell, sending me back into my own, recent past.
I could not seem to find myself.
I believe I have a visitor; one of the spiritual type. It is the only remaining explanation. Yet, those with the gift of an oracle are not allowed to eavesdrop in the lives of another. Not without permission from the Ruling House. They are unquestionably not allowed to hop inside, play puppeteer, and lead me around until I have no recollection of my own life. So, I suppose, what I really have is a trespasser. The intruder must be highly skilled to sway me to such a degree. But I am the clever one.
My new brew mixed with the fabled dark stone should interfere with the squatter’s comings and goings. It may not stop him completely. Nevertheless, with the mixture in my blood, it will run his spells afoul in some way or another. There is a risk to mine as well. But it will have to do until I discover a more permanent solution for exorcizing him.
My son, Varos, is dead. His blood is on my hands, my robe. How could I have killed my own son and not know?
FOUR
“Hello?
I closed the book. Irritated by two days of interruptions, I turned on my latest intruder with a scowl—then instantly buried it. Before I could rise, my visitor had pulled up the folds of her dress and sat on the ledge beside me. Booted feet dangling over empty air, she smoothed the embroidered folds of her deep blue skirt with an almost obligatory gesture. Saying nothing, her eyes wandered, scanning the beach as she played with the layer of sand between us, flicking the pebbles about.
I didn’t want to be rude, but I wanted to ask what she was doing. Most Queens weren’t disposed to sit in the dirt, let alone with a Shinree. Yet, Elayna Arcana wasn’t like most Queens.
Born with the royal blood of a Rellan father and an Arullan warrior mother, Elayna had the appearance of neither Raynan, nor Aylagar. Her raven hair wasn’t curly or straight, but somewhere in between. Not exotic, nor plain, her oval face had a furtive look, with deep, brown eyes positioned perfectly above a slender nose that broadened at the tip. The fixed upturn of her lips suggested she was perpetually pondering something; adding to her palpable air of mystery. Yet, what truly set Elayna apart from other royalty was her rearing in a Langorian prison.
Curiosity getting the best of me, I asked, “Is there a problem, Your Grace?”
“Not at all,” she replied. “It’s been quiet since Malaq left, other than the Arullans marching about, giving their opinions on everything.”
Her casual ways and informal speech didn’t surprise me. Elayna had grown up among prison guards. “You don’t sound like you trust them.”
“Our alliance is fresh and unproven. But the Arullans have sworn to aid us in whatever comes next. This particular group at least,” she added, referring to the not-so-recent fracture of Arulla’s government. Half sided with Draken and my father. The other half apparently had more sense. “But they do have a presence about them. Their leader, especially, is rather eccentric. He seems unable to understand how we survived before he arrived.”
“Their leader is your half-brother?”
“Yes, Elek,” Elayna sighed. “I’d hoped to get to know the man my mother gave birth to before she came to Mirra’kelan. But Elek isn’t inclined to speak outside of pleasantries, other than to inform me of his superior lineage, and how better I might run the castle in my husband’s absence.”
“Sounds charming.”
“Some might say so. Personally, I find him tedious and narrow-minded. I don’t recall those traits in my mother.”
“I wouldn’t have called Aylagar narrow-minded. Set in her ways…maybe.”
“That I do recall.” Elayna laughed. The lighthearted sound died too quickly. “May I ask you something?”
I hesitated. I’d hoped to spend today losing myself in the thoughts of my ancestor. But in all the weeks I’d been hiding on her island, the Queen hadn’t once sought me out.
I gave her a smile. “Of course.”
“I was wondering if your accommodations were adequate.”
“As far as cave hideouts go, I’d say this one’s fairly comfortable.”
At my jest, her cheeks plumped in a genuine smile. “I would expect a man with your background to be accustomed to scant conditions. Hunting bounties for the Kaelish, fighting for my people—no doubt you’ve lived on the road a great deal. But there are women and children here. Are not many of your followers used to more than meager comforts?”
“My followers?” I didn’t like the sound of that. I was raised a soldier. Descended from the strongest line in Shinree history; combat was in my blood. It was only recently I discovered other things were as well. My mother’s erudite ancestry granted me access to magic I’d never imagined. But that didn’t make me a leader. “I’m not in charge, Your Grace. But I’d say the refugees are content. They have food and shelter. No one’s tried to kill them in weeks. Not sure they can ask for much more right now.”
“Even so, I brought extra blankets. As you may remember, the stormy nights can be chilly. My attendant is making his way through the caverns now handing them out.”
“That’s kind of you.”
Elayna nodded, but it was an absent gesture. She fell quiet, and I watched her a moment; playing with her bell sleeves and scrunching up her skirt, as if the gown annoyed her. It made me think she hadn’t fully adjusted to her new life as Rella’s Queen.
I was also thinking she hadn’t come to talk about blankets. “Is there something else, Your Grace?”
“Your group here is diverse,” she said, factually, as if the Queen had been observing us from afar. “Many appear to have specific talents. Do you assign tasks based on their skills?”
“I don’t assign anything. If anyone is in command here, it’s Krillos.”
“Captain Krillos isn’t here.” Elayna’s voice turned brisk. “He’s currently with my husband, deep in enemy territory.”
“It isn’t enemy territory to your husband. Malaq is half Langorian.”
“That doesn’t make him immune to the danger. Draken may be dead, but his soldiers still crawl across Mirra’kelan like an infestation. Simply traveling from one village to the next is perilous. And if Langor’s hierarchy suspects Malaq’s involvement with you, they will kill him.”
“Malaq can handle himself. His tongue is as sharp as his blade.”
“I believe you’re correct. Still, I can’t understand why Malaq insisted on taking that rogue pirate with him. The man may know ships, but how can he offer my husband protection with only one hand?”
“Krillos would die before he let anything happen to Malaq. And, forgive me for asking, but…” I trailed off, thinking better of my question.
“You’re wondering why I care so much.”
I grinned at her bluntness. Jarryd must have
liked that. “I am.”
“I haven’t known many men in my life. The guards were cruel and violent. My fellow inmates were shells of whatever they once were. Jarryd was…” Drifting off, Elayna shook herself, refocusing. “Darkhorne taught me one thing: to survive. Whatever affection I may or may not have for my husband, my chances of surviving without him are slim as long as Rella is governed by Langor.”
“There are many here who would protect you,” I assured her. “I would protect you.”
She smiled gratefully. “Thank you. But if Malaq were to die now, Langorian law would have me returned to prison or given in marriage to another. I’m unsure which would be worse.”
“I appreciate your honesty.” I dipped my head in reverence. “But we’ve had no information out of Langor since Draken’s death. We need to know who—if anyone—is on that throne.”
“Malaq should be on that throne. He was Draken’s brother.”
“Half-brother,” I corrected her, “who was publicly denounced as a successor. They’re not going to let him swoop in and lay claim.”
“What about your father? Could he have already seized Langor’s throne?”
“If he had, I imagine rumors of battle would have trickled down out of the mountains by now. But he’ll try soon enough.”
“Someone with magic as dangerous as Jem Reth should have been put down a long time ago. This is why the Shinree were suppressed in the first place.”
I tried not to take her views personally, seeing as they used to be mine. I also understood they were rooted in anger and worry. “There is good in magic, Your Grace. It took me a long time to see it. Just as long; to realize not all Langorians are the enemy. We’ve let history condition us, suspicion influence our opinions. If Mirra’kelan is going to survive, we need to be better.”
“I agree.” Her brown eyes darted.
“What’s troubling you?”
“The fate of my realm is at risk. Yet, I’m made to sit on my hands simply because I’m Rella’s Queen and not her King. It was something my mother would never have tolerated.” Elayna drew a determined breath. “I want to fight. I have the blood for combat. I know it was a long time ago, but surely you haven’t forgotten my mother’s aptitude for battle?”
The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 3