The Queen's Opal: A Stone Bearers Novel (Book One)

by Jacque Stevens

  The cart jerked to a stop. Drynn’s eyes snapped open, boxes tumbling around him.

  “Hey! Quiet down in there!” a man outside the cart yelled as if it was Drynn’s fault the boxes almost squashed him. The humans always seemed to be right outside, shouting and ready to burst in the moment he made any noise. He tried to ignore them.

  Several men filed in and out of the cart as the day went on, taking down the storage boxes. This had happened once before when the cart had stopped for several days. This time, the men left the cart door open while unloading. It didn’t matter anymore.

  Drynn hadn’t been able to move much since being tied with the metal rope. He couldn’t even reach most of the boxes anymore. When the restlessness took over, he shook until the strain overpowered his racing heart. The bruises around his ankle stung from trying to twist out of the metal rope and his calf ached from being pulled in new directions so often.

  Nothing to do but curse himself for being stupid enough to think meeting a human might be exciting, that upsetting Tayvin might be worse than being cornered by one.

  The humans entering the cart avoided looking at Drynn, and he did the same. After removing most everything from the cart besides a few empty boxes, the men left. The voices and outside sounds faded. It seemed the humans had just unpacked and left him behind.

  Then the brown-haired boy called Picc walked in. “Cain’s givin’ me the day off. Says someone needs to watch you. Don’t know why. You’re stuck pretty well now, ain’t you?”

  Picc turned one of the empty boxes over and sat across from Drynn. The metal rope clanked as Drynn scooted back. How long did the human plan to sit there staring?

  “He thinks you’re part spirit, you know,” Picc said. “Drove ’im mad the way you were always slippin’ your ropes and stuff. And most the men that are s’pposed to watch you are ’fraid you’ll curse ’em, even with the iron, so none of ’em want to come in ’ere. But I gotta pass the time somehow with everyone else out workin’ the city.”

  Drynn studied the wooden panels under him. Other humans were nearby. If they knew he was here, would any of them help him? Or did they all want him locked away in the dark?

  Picc grunted. “They say you don’t talk, but I know you can. Wot’s wrong?”

  A rather long list came to mind.

  “You think you’re too good to talk, do you? You might get away with that ’ere, but once you’re sold to the Tower, that won’t fly no more. You’ll talk to ’em, or they’ll chop you up and find out wot they wanta know all by themselves. The robes do it to magic animals all the time. Then they sell whatever they find to whoever wants it, and plenty of people will, in your case. Even the prince, I’d bet. He’s been wantin’ to rid the forest of your kind for ages.”

  Confusion outweighed Drynn’s fear. How could a robe or any other piece of clothing chop him up, and what did they expect to find? Elves didn’t leave corpses like humans did. Just dust.

  “Like this?” The human fiddled with a knife in his hand. A red jewel glittered in the handle. “Nicked it off some noble brat that probably didn’t know what end to hold. They don’t want me to carry knives, strictly speakin’. Think it would blow my cover faster than a few extra coins if I was ever picked up. But I ain’t never been caught, and wot Cain don’t know won’t hurt ’im. Not fair anyway. They let Kol have all the knives he wants.”

  Drynn agreed with the other humans for once. This boy should not be trusted with blades of any kind. Kol was preferable only because he never looked at Drynn anymore.

  Picc shook his head. “Whole thing isn’t fair. Sure, Cain will get some gold for turnin’ you over, but I doubt the rest of us will see any of it. Even though I was the one that found you in the first place. Even though I could get stuff off you just as easily as the robes can.”

  Drynn scanned the wall. If the boy wanted sympathy, he would find none here. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long for Picc to get bored and find a new activity.

  “We’ll do it right now,” Picc said, “while everyone else is gone. I’ll ask the questions. All you ’ave to do is answer ’em. Then, after I know what I’m workin’ with, we can go from there, got it?”

  Picc could ask any questions he wanted. That didn’t mean Drynn had to answer. Fumbling through the human language for this boy’s entertainment would be a waste of breath.

  “All right, first question.” Picc jerked the knife back and leaned forward. “Is it true that fairies are immortal? I’ve seen you smacked around some, and you bruise normally enough, but Cain kept food from you for days to see if you’d settle down, and it didn’t faze you. So can you die? If you were to bleed out or something? Or is that part of your magic?”

  Drynn sighed. Of course, he could die, and whatever magic the humans thought he possessed, it certainly hadn’t allowed him to escape. What, exactly, did they think he could do?

  “Hmm . . . Still not answerin’. Good thing I started with an easy question. I can see for myself. Is your blood red or like green sap or something?” Picc stood. He had the knife ready, smiling like nothing would make him happier than watching Drynn bleed out. “Just tell me when you feel like talkin’.”

  Drynn jerked back into the wall. The metal rope clattered, and his heart raced. “I-it’s red, and I’ll die if I lose it.”

  Picc sat, still grinning. “See? That wasn’t so ’ard. Now, freak, do you ’ave a name?”

  “Yes.” Drynn swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. Picc wasn’t going to stab him.

  Yet.

  Picc paused. “You wanta tell me wot it is?”

  “No.” Drynn didn’t want to tell him anything.

  Picc’s eyes narrowed, but then he shrugged like it wasn’t important. “Fine. I’ll just keep callin’ you a freak.”

  Drynn didn’t mind. He wasn’t sure what the term meant, but he had heard it several times in regards to himself, and it wasn’t the word for elf. Probably better off not knowing.

  “Next question. Wot magic do you ’ave? Can you turn people into toads and all that?”

  “Of course, I cannot.” If he could, this boy would top his list of potential victims. After all, toads were decent creatures that never waved knives in front of people’s faces just because they were bored. It would be a vast improvement.

  Despite the potential of his own personal transmogrification, Picc seemed rather disappointed to hear this. What would he do if he didn’t like Drynn’s honest answer? Stab him for not turning him and his comrades into toads? Who knew? Maybe that would seem logical to a human. At least a crazy human like Picc. What tree did he fall from exactly?

  Picc scowled. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

  Was he supposed to answer that question, too? And if he was, would a simple yes or no do, or was Picc expecting a full self-analysis of his current state of intelligence?

  Even without the knife, talking with Picc was exhausting.

  A grin crossed Picc’s face. “I got it! It’s a really important question, and you won’t be able to wiggle out of it either.”

  Picc paused again as if waiting for the suspense to build. Drynn considered asking what the big revelatory question was just to speed things up a bit.

  “I want to know where you came from,” Picc said.

  That was the big question it had taken Picc so long to come up with? It was easy, and Drynn could answer him in one word. “Elba.”

  “No, I mean, where’s your city at? You must ’ave some kind of home base. The prince would love to know that.”

  What did he want, turn by turn instructions? Elves never mapped out the locations of their holts. They read the intricate details of the forest and used them to find where the holts were. It wasn’t something that could just be explained; it had to be shown, and somehow felt.

  Elves could do it, but Drynn doubted humans could.

  And this was assuming Drynn was willing to tell Picc anything. If the human prince and the rest of the humans were anything like these ones,
giving them directions to the holts was unthinkable. The farther that men like Picc stayed away from his forest and his home, the better.

  So much for an easy question.

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Picc glared. “Look, elf freak, I may’ve been too nice to you before. We’ve already got that you bleed, but keep playin’ ’round with me, and we’ll try it out anyway. Got it?”

  Drynn’s heart regained its former pounding, but it didn’t change anything. He tensed, bracing himself for the pain that seemed inevitable. “S-sorry.”

  “That’s too bad.” Picc considered his dagger. His face wrinkled so much Drynn wondered if it hurt—not out of any concern, but mild curiosity.

  It was better than focusing on the blade he carried.

  Picc shrugged. “I guess Cain won’t care if I scratch you up a bit, until you tell me, that is.”

  Picc lunged forward. Drynn ducked and rolled but the metal rope held firm. He leapt to his knees, only a few inches away from his former position with nowhere to run. Right next to the empty box Picc had used as a chair.

  Picc pulled on the metal rope. Drynn’s jaw hit the floor as the human dragged him back. Drynn found Picc’s brown eyes. The human held the knife in one hand, squinting at Drynn’s neck.

  “Wot’s that?”

  The opal. It had slipped into view. The human was going to take it now, and Drynn would never see it again. His last escape and connection to his mother would be gone.

  Picc reached forward. Drynn threw the empty box over his head as hard as he could. The human bellowed when it slammed into him. The knife clattered to the ground. Drynn sprung to his knees, but nothing else was close enough to grab.

  Picc wrenched the metal rope again, dropping Drynn to the floor with little effort. He stood over Drynn red-faced, his fist raised.

  Hopefully dying wouldn’t hurt too much.

  CHAPTER 15

  “SOME OF YOU might think me cruel, but death is not such a horrible fate for this creature.” Kol put his dagger down, turning to the usual crowd of farmers in suspenders and tradesmen in dirty aprons. Sometimes, he thought his bandit character deserved a little sympathy.

  Or, at least, a good soliloquy to keep his mind off things.

  He waved to Kitti with a flourish of his blade. “Can’t you see the feral glint in her gaze? The hunch in her shoulder? She might seem merely ugly to an untrained eye, but she is, in fact, a troll—a demon half-breed from the northern waste. If allowed to her own devices, she would eventually hunger for human flesh.” A few more heads in the crowd turned in their direction.

  Kitti’s face scrunched into something purple and very similar to a troll. She made his job far too easy. She might make him regret it later, but for now, she was tied, and he was free.

  “If I release this creature from her unholy vessel before she tastes human flesh, she could petition the gods with the strength of her human blood and find rest in their realm. A rest that I could not claim for myself.” Kol bowed his head, gripping his chest in mock humility.

  At the same time, he called to the unseen energy in the air to prepare for his next throw.

  “Perhaps with your blessing and faith, this final blade will reach its mark with the strength of the ancient avatars, the same bearers who slew the demons and put our fair wizard king on the throne to rule in their stead.” Kol spun, ready to throw the dagger. “After all, to kill a demon is not a crime at all.”

  The blade “missed” its mark, outlining Kitti’s body on the rotating disk with the rest of the thrown daggers as planned, but he still won. A smile overtook his face when Dwarf released Kitti, and she lunged for Kol with a snarl.

  He leapt off the stage. “I told you she was a troll!” He ducked under the lip of the raised wooden platform as Dwarf yanked Kitti away to the collective jeers of the crowd.

  Kol climbed back to the stage top to give a final bow and collect his winnings, still chuckling to himself. Kitti wouldn’t be hauling him off this time. Cain might even insist this new angle become a permanent part of the act when he saw the extra coins it received.

  Kol picked up his coin-filled cap and walked into the crowd.

  “That’s quite the talent you have there.”

  “Thanks . . .” Kol found the blue eyes of a noble and jerked to a stop.

  Flames, a woman’s scream—this man, this robe, brought the memory back at once, playing across Kol’s mind in rapid succession, but he couldn’t pretend to be the bandit now. He was just the boy, crying and coughing in the smoke. He had pushed things too far again, called more attention to himself than was prudent. The robes had found him, and the whole city would burn.

  The wizard smiled, distorting the image of flames and death. The man was young—early thirties or so. Clean shaven with a narrow build. Not at all intimidating if it weren’t for the magic he must carry. “Don’t worry. There’s a reason I’m going undercover.” He indicated the street clothes that hid his fair features without closer inspection. “I’m looking for someone and you’re not it, but I couldn’t help but notice your magic act. Why haven’t you gone to the Tower?”

  Kol took a step back, but The Lord had prepared him for this. Kol checked his drawl and his scowl. Never use magic. Never stand out. A bandit on the stage could be sophisticated and fierce—even magical. A boy on the street could not.

  He just had to play the part. “I—”

  “Most, if you forgive the term, ‘mixed bloods’ go to the Tower at once, waiting for us to bend over backward to accommodate them, so to find someone of your talent entertaining for coppers—”

  “It’s not magic, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, milord.” Kol bobbed his head so much it seemed a nervous tick. “Lots of performers dye their hair blond. Adds to the effect.” This was the only reason he didn’t dye his hair darker anymore.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Kol didn’t answer. It was dangerous to disagree with a noble. Rumor said they could see through lies, and he didn’t have much of an argument anyway. The magic of the nobles was limitless and spectacular, much more than the small tricks Kol had achieved, but he couldn’t deny their existence any more than the color of his hair.

  “You sense it all the time now, don’t you?” the man asked. “The magical energy? It’s in the air—the earth. If you don’t learn to block it out, one day you’ll get too much and . . .” He shook his head with a hint of a shudder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? I’ll be returning to the Tower soon, and you’d have your pick of sponsors. Every house wants powerful wizards, and only the very highest care about blood mixing.”

  Kol’s scowl slipped through. He ducked his head to hide his face, pouring his earnings into his wide pockets. Despite The Lord’s guidance in this area, there was a reason Kol didn’t work the street anymore. The role of a simpleton grated on him too much to do it under pressure. This man already looked down on Kol. Why should he have to make it so easy for him? “Am I under arrest?”

  The man blinked. “What?”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then thank you for your contribution, Lord Sage.” Kol pulled the oversized cap over his hair, bowing from the waist in elaborate fashion. The crowd buzzed at Kol’s display, which had brought the noble’s identity to light. They all stumbled over themselves, giving the wizard as wide of a berth as possible. Kol retreated in the small chaos that followed.

  Kol felt no guilt in exposing the wizard. Despite the man’s guesses about Kol’s growing ability, the robe had been still spinning lies as thick as a spider’s web. No commoner accused of magic went to the Tower willingly. They were pawned off as surely as the elf would be—just like any other magical object—and never heard from again.

  Kol’s house had burned. His mother had died. He was well-versed in all the robes’ crimes, and taking their gold was the only activity worth imagining. Slipping through the streets and back to the still-empty camp, he
cursed the wizard who had ruined his mood. He threw his hat down.

  As if in an answering echo, a crash came from the depths of the prop cart.

  A dagger slipped to his hand. Kol ran the few feet separating him from the cart and fumbled with the latch, opening the door wide.

  Picc leaned over the elf in a fit of rage, hitting its already bloody face.

  Kol stopped mid-motion, staring. Flames appeared in his head and he became the bandit again. Beatings were a part of life. Cain beat those he felt deserved it or anyone who happened to get in his way when he was in a foul mood. Those who had any authority—and some big guys who didn’t—regularly passed their beatings to those under them. Picc, Kol, and the rest of the boys were at the bottom of this chain. It was only natural for Picc to find someone he could actually lord over. It was the way the world worked. Become the bandit or the boy. Beat or be beaten.

  Kol focused on the flames, schooling his expression into vacancy, but the wind stirred around him. Energy filled the cart, filling his chest without thought. He watched the dagger leave his hand as if someone else controlled it.

  As it spun, he barely twisted it in time so the flat side hit Picc.

  Picc yelped, cursing. A fist directed at the elf reversed itself to feel his own bruised shoulder. He whirled around, wild rage still sketched on his face. “Ah, Kol. Wot'cha think you’re doin’?”

  “I could ask you the same question. You’re damagin’ Cain’s prize.” Kol matched the malice in Picc’s tone. Kol might not have planned the throw, but he was the picture of confidence now. Another dagger dropped into his open hand.

  Picc stood, brushing himself off like it was nothing. “It’s no more than it deserved. Freak attacked me.” He gave the elf one last kick. It flinched and rolled over without a sound.

  Kol gave a shallow laugh. “Good luck convincin’ anyone of that. Only blood I see is his.”

  “That was after he threw a box at me and broke my kni—near broke my hand.” He eyed a capsized box leaning against one of the cart’s walls. “He tried to hit me too after I threw ’im down.”