The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne

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The Crown of Stones: Magic-Borne Page 4

by C. L. Schneider


  “Your mother was talented,” I said, recalling her ebony skin, her small, strong body. Strong until I channeled the Crown of Stones. Then it was gray and withered and empty. Clearing my throat, I dismissed both memories. “It’s possible you inherited Aylagar’s natural ability. Have you ever lifted a sword?”

  “I was trained in the art, before I was taken from Kabri by Draken’s men.”

  “You must have been young.”

  “I was. I was also good. Five men broke in to kidnap me. Three carried me out.”

  I hid my grin at her bravado. “I see.”

  “My former instructor was slain in the invasion. And no one at the castle is willing to teach me. Not without my husband’s explicit permission,” she added with clear frustration. “But I can’t wait for him to return to give it, and I refuse to be treated as if I’m incapable of making my own decisions. I’m not the child I was when my mother went off to war. I’m not the young girl who cried inside her cell. If the Langorians come to this shore again, I refuse to be caught unaware. I will not cower in secret, in some frilly gown,” she said, plucking in distaste at her skirt. “I spent half my life as a prisoner of Langor. I will not suffer it again.”

  “Well, you definitely have your mother’s spirit.”

  “I’ve been practicing for weeks on my own. But if I’m going to progress, I need a trainer. If you can recommend someone…”

  Her not-so-subtle request made me smile. “I would be honored to train you, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you.” She squeezed my arm. “And please, call me Elayna.”

  I gave her a grateful nod. “I have one question. Have you spoken to Malaq about this? If I’m going to piss him off, I’d like to know ahead of time.”

  With a quick, determined hand, Elayna brushed a strand of wavy dark hair from her face. “Malaq is my husband, not my jailor. And before you ask, Jarryd Kane is even less. We spent two years in a cell together, and the man avoids me like I’m ripe with pestilence.”

  “My father counts Jarryd as a target. Being associated with him would put you at risk.”

  “We have a son. A son Jarryd has chosen not to lay eyes on.”

  “And it kills him.” Being magically linked to Jarryd’s soul, I knew the ordeal he shared with Elayna had nearly wrecked him. Separating himself from the babe she bore wasn’t his best decision, but I understood it. “It would kill him even more if something were to happen to either of you.”

  “I appreciate Jarryd’s worry for our child, but I will not be coddled. The sooner I’m able to better protect myself, my son, and my city, the better.” Elayna stood. She spent a moment brushing the dust off the back of her skirt, making it blue again. “I’m grateful for your help, Ian. I will send a messenger shortly. Please provide him with the details of our first session.”

  I nodded. Elayna left, and I went back to my book. I opened it toward the back half and read aloud. “Today, blood runs on the steps of the house. I am Emperor.”

  FIVE

  “What does this say?”

  I looked at where the boy’s stubby finger was pointing, getting plum sauce on my book. “It describes the use of carnelian in spells and brews.”

  “What does it do?” he asked, wiping his nose. Plum sauce streaked across his cheek.

  “It makes the blood course faster.”

  Sitting beside me on the ledge, legs dangling, he scrunched his small face. “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Well, a soldier could use it to bleed a man to death.”

  His face scrunched tighter.

  “Healers use it as well,” I explained. “Carnelian encourages the blood to flow, to reduce it or increase it where it’s needed.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like lots of places.”

  “Like where?”

  I frowned at him. “What was your name again?”

  “Gallus.” He dunked his spoon in the bowl of pudding on his lap. Half of it fell off the spoon before he shoved it in his mouth. “You said I could come back.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  He pointed with his goopy spoon. “What’s it say here?”

  I pushed the spoon out of the way. “That’s a passage about jade.”

  “Jade’s blue, right?”

  “Nope. Green.”

  “I like green.” Gallus downed another bite. “What does it do?”

  “Jade can be used in many workings by all types of Shinree.” He blinked at me, waiting for more. “Elementals can improve the growth of plants or crops.”

  “That’s what I am.” He paused to lick his fingers. “But I’ve never seen jade.”

  “Now you have.” I showed him the ring on my finger. It belonged to Jarryd, but he hadn’t worn it since he went to prison. Sienn had repaired the physical damage the Langorians inflicted on Jarryd’s hands. The ring would fit him again. But he wasn’t ready to wear it. “Oracles use jade, too. It protects them from getting pulled into the visions they cast for others. Although, don’t let them fool you. Oracles love to eavesdrop.” I glanced back at the journal. “Emperor Tam says consuming it in a soup made with lion’s mane mushrooms can improve your reflexes. Probably,” I leaned in, “it just makes you sick.”

  “Is it a hungry stone?”

  “What you do mean?”

  “A hungry stone. How many lives does it take to feed it when you cast?”

  I winced. I didn’t like how nonchalant he was about the deadly side of Shinree magic. “It doesn’t work that way. The stones don’t determine the amount of energy a caster needs. It’s the size and complexity of the spell, the caster’s strength, what his ability is.”

  “I don’t have much of those…strength and ability.”

  “You’re young. You’ll get better.”

  “I guess.”

  “You mentioned you weren’t off Kayn’l long. How many spells have you cast?”

  “A few,” he shrugged. “I don’t like how it feels after. You know…feeding the spell, and then when it’s been a while.”

  The cravings, I thought, remembering when I first started casting, how apprehensive I was. How embarrassed I was when the sickness came on. My mother was less than understanding. She referred to my anxieties as childish and not fitting for the future Champion of Rella. “None of us like it. But you’ll learn which spells help most and how often to cast them. You have to. Because how you feel about it now is nothing compared to how you’ll feel if you take a life.”

  “It shouldn’t bother you,” he said. “You’re a soldier. It’s what you do.”

  “But it’s not what you do. And it doesn’t have to be.”

  Gallus spent a moment licking his purple fingers. When they were clean, he moved onto the spoon. “Sienn says I need to practice more.”

  I leaned over and bumped his arm with mine. “She tells me the same thing.”

  Abruptly, the boy shot to his feet. “I’m going to look for more pudding. Want some?”

  “No,” I smiled. “I’m good.”

  The spoon dangling from his mouth, Gallus ran off into the tunnel. I took advantage of the silence and read.

  A young man came to see me today. He claims to have the information I seek: the whereabouts of the remaining tablets. He was less than forthcoming. Moreover, the little bastard has decided he can blackmail me. Me—THE Emperor!

  I would have killed him where he stood, except I admired his impudence, and I had not a single idea of what he spoke. I needed to know more. And his request was simple enough. He wants nothing but my permission to marry.

  Killing him is an option. I could break his mind and take the information. But I am in league with Death enough as it is. And I was in love once.

  Neither can I argue with his taste. The girl’s family is one of the most influential in the empire.

  It is, o
f course, customary for the young man’s father to request the union. But as he is long dead, I consented to the match without hesitation. In seven days their vows will be taken and he will tell me the location of the tablets. If I learn what importance they hold to my trespasser, I might understand what he has wanted from me all these years. To know the interloper’s aim has been my obsession for so long. I have consumed countless potions in the name of understanding and countless bottles lamenting the parasite’s existence.

  Though, perhaps, it no longer matters. He has not come to me for some time. My most recent obsidian brew appears to be the most effective to date for keeping him out.

  Still, whether he returns, and whether the motive behind his cruel intrusions ever becomes clear, I cannot deny what he has done. What injury his use has inflicted.

  I am unable to tell if ruling the empire was even my own desire, or his. All this blood on my hands is not mine alone. Of that I am certain.

  And yet, this is my course. This is how I will be remembered; with loathing and fear.

  My only comfort is the Crown of Stones. It will keep the wolves at bay when they come for me. For generations, a Reth has been its caretaker. Now, it cares for me.

  Footsteps struck the stone floor.

  I glanced into the tunnel opening off to my right. Gallus hadn’t been gone long enough to reach the chamber with our food stores and be on his way back already.

  His strides quickened. He was running fast.

  “Troy!” Gallus spun around the corner. Grabbing the cave wall to slow his arrival, the boy slid to a dramatic stop at the brink of the ledge. Chest heaving, he panted, “In the tunnel…they said…” He lifted a skinny arm and pointed out to sea.

  I followed his wild gaze to the horizon where a vibrant strip of sun hung low over the plane of blue water. Shadows were creeping in, darkening the waves, tinging the sky a deep purplish-blue. Strips of pink and orange overlaid the blue; thin, gauzy clouds that stretched like cotton over a loom. It was beautiful, as were most sunsets on Kabri. But another colorful display smack in the middle of the ocean is what had the boy’s eyes popping.

  His reaction was understandable. The door was impressive.

  As the four bands of surging hues came together, their corners met and fused. The glow of their joining, mingled with the setting sun, was blinding. The darkness existing between them—an intimidating gaping maw as tall as a manor and wide as a lake—was absolute.

  This was only the second time I’d seen a Shinree door so large. The first was when Draken and his army infiltrated our camp, launching the raid that crushed our resistance. In one afternoon we lost supplies, weapons, resources, and most of our numbers, including a woman that magic made sure I could never forget: Neela Arcana, and Kit; the daughter of one of my oldest friends. Yet our biggest casualty that day was hope and purpose. Without them, the survivors, crammed into the web of caves behind me, were merely treading water.

  I tucked the book under my arm and jumped up. I put a hand on Gallus and turned him toward me. “We don’t know what’s coming through. If I tell you to run and hide, you do it without question. Understand?”

  Gallus nodded and we turned to face the water. His hand slid inside mine. I tightened my grip around his small fingers and we waited.

  Movement stirred in the darkened center of the door. Interrupted with random sparks of color, the black pushed outward like it was being punched from the other side.

  Dusk and distance made the ship coming through no more than a speck.

  Gallus squinted. “Is it good or bad?”

  “I don’t know yet. It’s still too far away.”

  With a sudden, happy gasp, he pulled out of my grip. Shoving a hand in his back trouser pocket, Gallus retrieved a slender spyglass. He extended the housing to its full length and handed it to me with a proud grin. I ruffled his hair and put the lens to my eye.

  The ship came into focus. The masts stood tall and proud, white sails unfurled. Crew was scarce, but a man occupied the crow’s nest. Two flags flew side by side; Rellan and Langorian. Dark hair beat about the face of the man at the helm. One hand gripped the wheel. I didn’t see another.

  “Well?” Gallus swallow nervously. “What is it?”

  Muscles relaxing, I slammed the spyglass shut. “Answers.”

  SIX

  The square-faced Rellan across the table from me slouched in his chair. He pulled his already dour mouth into a tight frown, making his lips pinch tight. They quivered as a snarl escaped his gritted, yellow teeth.

  “You have something to say?” I asked.

  “I’m pale as a fish,” he grumbled.

  I attempted patience. This was his fourth complaint over the same thing. “No, you’re still you underneath. The man whose form you’re wearing is pale.”

  “And naked.” Krillos gave a disgusted slap to the front of his coarse, brown tunic. “How do these blasted Rellans survive the cold without some hair on their chest?”

  “Lower your voice. Or next time I’ll make you a woman.” His glower worsened. A moment later it lightened as something about the prospect amused him. Not wanting to know what, I hammered in my point. “If we’re going to move about in Kabri, we have to look like we belong. Not like the wanted fugitives on those posters.” I jerked a thumb back to where our likenesses were nailed to the tavern wall. Unfortunately, the artist had done a decent job recreating the sharp bones and the magic-scars on my face. There was even shading for the black strands in my hair.

  Krillos hung next to me with his barrage of facial scars and mess of black curls. The manic look in his eyes was a bit comical, but I suppose I’d seen him that way once or twice. Jarryd’s sketch was less precise. It portrayed him as he was before prison, with his hair long and his face fresh. The posters of two women hung beneath ours. Neither rendering did the subjects justice. In life, Jillyan’s strong features were sensual, not mannish. The image of Sienn Nam’arelle was the least accurate of all. Not that I could fault the artist for his bad interpretation. Of pure Shinree decent, Sienn’s ethereal beauty, (delicate and formidable at the same time) defied logic too much to ever be captured on paper.

  “Anyway,” I went on, “it’s not worth leaving the caves without a glamour spell. Not with Langorians patrolling the streets. Malaq’s Arullan houseguests don’t know about us yet, either. And glamour is what got you on that boat to Langor. So I don’t know what you’re griping about.”

  “I’m griping because you get to be the rich merchant and I’m a ditcher.”

  “What’s wrong with being a ditcher?”

  “What isn’t wrong with it? Besides, I can’t dig a ditch with one hand.” He raised his right arm. At its end was a set of dirty-nailed fingers and a short, stubby hand. But the appendage was a ghost. Krillos couldn’t use the fingers to grab anything. Under the glamour was empty air.

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re not actually digging a ditch. So stop sulking and pretend to enjoy yourself. It’s only for a night.” I lowered my voice further. “If we wear these likenesses too long, the goat’s life I drained won’t be enough to sustain the spell. And if we’re not there to kill another, it will feed off the real ditcher and merchant until they’re dead.”

  Krillos shrugged. “They knew the risks when they took the money.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “You paid the men whose forms we took for a disguise? I thought they volunteered.”

  ‘They did…after I paid them.”

  I would have made plain how I felt about that, but the barmaid was approaching. Middle-aged and on the round side, her breasts reached the table before she did. Strands of silver gray streaked her abundance of blonde hair. The ends dragged through the froth topping our mugs as she dropped them down hard and careless; splashing a quarter of the ale over the rim.

  Now I knew why the table was sticky.

  “A
nything else?” she asked, her tone suggesting an answer of ‘yes’ might come at the cost of our lives. “Speak up, fellas. I ain’t got all day.” Her eyes found my young merchant face, and her attitude swung right around. “But my night is wide open.” Maneuvering the bodice-lashed tops of her immense breasts in my face, she presented me with a sultry smile that had me thinking she’d been real trouble about twenty-five years ago. “Haven’t seen one as pretty as you in here in a long time. If you’re lookin’ to get a little dirty…” the barmaid ran a slow, firm hand down between my legs. “I’m your girl.”

  Apparently, she was still trouble.

  Feigning an exaggerated gasp of appreciation, she squeezed. “Oh, my…”

  “I’m flattered,” I said stiffly, afraid to move for losing anything important. “But…”

  “If that’s where you like it,” she cut in.

  “No,” I grinned, “that’s not—”

  “It’s okay, honey, you can tell me.” She squeezed harder.

  Burying my wince, I glared at Krillos as he laughed at me. “Thanks for the offer,” I told her, mustering a tense, friendly smile. “But I’m good.”

  “I bet you are.” With a last crushing squeeze for good measure, the barmaid let me go. Raised voices and a sudden crash on the other side of the tavern drew her attention. She tossed us a parting grin. “Excuse me boys. I’ve got some manners to teach.”

  “Nice place.” Glancing around at the warped wood walls, the broken stone floor, and the abundance of drunk fisherman making the whole room smell like week old catch, Krillos lifted his mug. “At least now we know why they call it The Brass Ball.”

  Riding out the aching waves in my groin, I shifted in my seat. “Like Langorian taverns are any better.”

  “Langorian taverns are meant to be rude. They’re rowdy, blood-stained, and piss-ridden. This shithole…” his eyes wandered over the dimly lit room and the miserable lot that filled it. “Except for her,” he said, referring to our barmaid who was smacking some grizzled drunk in the back of his head. “It’s depressing.” Krillos took a big gulp of his ale. “And this,” he shuddered, nearly spitting it out, “is awful.” Making a sound, he wiped his chin and slammed down his mug. Annoyance gripped his Rellan eyes as something over my shoulder caught his attention. “Goddamn it. What the hell is he doing here?”

 

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