The Bone Shard Daughter: The Drowning Empire Book One

by Andrea Stewart

  She was a construct. They were all constructs – built by the Emperor’s hand. The memories she couldn’t explain, but their inability to think of or enact violence she understood. They’d been made this way, commanded by the shards within their bodies. And one had torn free of hers – the one that allowed her to tear free of the fog and to bring others with her.

  She hadn’t told them yet. She’d have to at some point, but she wasn’t sure when was the right time. And she didn’t know their limitations, or her own.

  Rain pattered against the roof of their makeshift hut. A few drops made their way through, sizzling as they hit the stones around the fire.

  “Should we take any of the others?” Frond asked.

  Nisong shook her head. “We can’t keep them out of the fog. They’ll keep falling back into it, and on a boat, that could be dangerous.”

  “But we don’t know what’s causing the fog,” Coral said. “It could be the island itself.”

  It wasn’t, but she couldn’t tell them that.

  And then the world seemed to tilt. It took Nisong a moment to realize the world wasn’t actually tilting. Something in her perception was shifting. Leaf fell. Coral put out a hand to the wall of the hut to balance herself. They were feeling it too, this shockwave emanating from the center of her being.

  As quickly as it had come, it stopped.

  “What was that?” Leaf said. He scrambled to his feet.

  Nisong still felt herself, yet something had changed within her. She wasn’t sure what, but she knew it as surely as she knew she was missing two fingers. She waved away their concerns. “I don’t know. But we should keep planning.”

  Despite the apprehension on their faces, they obeyed. “What should we do with the creature who was sailing the boat? It’s still trapped beneath the boulder and it hasn’t died,” Coral asked.

  “We kill it,” Nisong said. The words fell from her without hesitation.

  They all stared.

  She tried again. “We kill it.”

  “The fog is gone,” Frond said.

  He was right. For the first time in her memory, Nisong’s mind felt bright. She couldn’t sense any cloudiness threatening on the horizon. For a moment, they just sat there in silence, all of them lost in their own thoughts. Nisong could think of violence. She could think of it with a clarity and intensity that surprised her. She wanted to hunt down whoever had left them all here, whoever had abandoned them to live these automated lives until death. She wanted to put her hands around their throat. She wanted to squeeze until their eyes bulged and their face purpled. Until they gasped out one last breath, bloody tongue protruding. The thought sent a flush of heat through her chest.

  She swallowed.

  The one who created them either was dead or had released them from their commands. She could think about violence now. She could easily remember that she had not been on Maila for ever. She had no urge to collect mangoes.

  Coral cleared her throat. “The others—”

  “Bring as many as we can,” Nisong interrupted. “Shell, figure out how many we can take aboard if we plan for rations for thirty days and nights.”

  “Nisong.” Leaf touched her arm, his dark eyes concerned. “If we get out of here, we can always come back for the rest.”

  “We will come back for the rest, but right now we need as many as possible,” she replied. In her memory, she’d made a construct. There were others like them, built for one purpose or another, and now they’d all be without their commands pressing on their minds. They’d all be without a leader.

  “What for?” Leaf said.

  She could feel the weight of them watching her, waiting for her response. She breathed in deep.

  “We’re building an army.”

  Acknowledgements

  It’s been a long road. And like most (successfully concluded) journeys, I did not undertake this one alone. I owe a debt of gratitude to many, many people, without whom this book would not be published, including:

  James Long and Brit Hvide, my editors at Orbit and the whole Orbit publishing team. You’ve helped me put a fine polish on this book and to make this longshot dream of mine a reality. I cannot thank you enough.

  My agent, Juliet Mushens, who through her notes, has taught me oodles about character, plot and pacing. Your insightfulness, hard work and dedication are awe-inspiring and unparalleled.

  All of the Murder Cabin crew: Thomas Carpenter, Megan O’Keefe, Marina Lostetter, Tina Smith/Gower, Annie Bellet, Setsu Uzume, Anthea Sharp/Lawson and Karen Rochnik. Your feedback has been invaluable, and our yearly get-togethers are always invigorating (and a little frightening; it IS the Murder Cabin after all).

  My beta readers for this book: Greg Little, Steve Rodgers and Brett Laugtug. I pored over all your notes and really appreciated your reassurances that this book might actually be . . . good?

  Alvaro Zinos-Amaro, for being a listening ear and offering suggestions when I was puzzling through a couple of plot points.

  My writing groups in Sacramento: WordForge and Stonehenge. You never stopped believing in me through all the books I’ve written, and that belief helped keep me going. I could never disappoint such wonderful people.

  Kavin, Kristen, Mom and Dad, who all read various versions of this book and picked out logical inconsistencies. Your enthusiasm has meant the world to me. Stewarts! Stewarts! Stewarts!

  John, my husband, whose endless support could buoy a lead weight in stormy seas. Celebrating the sale of this book with you will always be one of the highlights of my life.

  And Mrs. Schacht, my fifth-grade teacher, whose praise of my story about a clay falcon come to life made me think, “Maybe I can be a writer?” May every daydreaming child have a teacher as wonderful as you.

  extras

  www.orbitbooks.net

  about the author

  Andrea Stewart is the Chinese American daughter of immigrants, and was raised in a number of places across the United States. Her parents always emphasized science and education, so she spent her childhood immersed in Star Trek and odd-smelling library books. When her (admittedly ambitious) dreams of becoming a dragon slayer didn’t pan out, she instead turned to writing books. She now lives in sunny California, and in addition to writing, can be found herding cats, looking at birds and falling down research rabbit holes.

  Find out more about Andrea Stewart and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  THE BONE SHARD DAUGHTER

  look out for

  THE OBSIDIAN TOWER

  by

  Melissa Caruso

  Find your answers writ in bone. Keep your trust through wits or war [En-dash] nothing must unseal the door.’

  Deep within Gloamingard Castle lies a black tower. Sealed by magic, it guards a dangerous secret that has been contained for thousands of years.

  As Warden, Ryxander knows the warning passed down through generations: nothing must unreal the Door. But one impetuous decision will leave her with blood on her hands [En-dash]and unleash a threat that could doom the world to fall to darkness.

  There are two kinds of magic.

  There is the kind that lifts you up and fills you with wonder, saving you when all is lost or opening doors to new worlds of possibility. And there is the kind that wrecks you, that shatters you, bitter in your mouth and jagged in your hand, breaking everything you touch.

  Mine was the second kind.

  My father’s magic could revive blighted fields, turning them lush and green again, and coax apples from barren boughs in the dead of winter. Grass withered beneath my footsteps. My cousins kept the flocks in their villages healthy and strong, and turned the wolves away to hunt elsewhere; I couldn’t enter the stables of my own castle without bringing mortal danger to the horses.

  I should have been like the others. Ours was a line of royal vivomancers; life magic flowed in our veins, ancient as the rain that washed down from the
hills and nurtured the green valleys of Morgrain. My grandmother was the immortal Witch Lord of Morgrain, the Lady of Owls herself, whose magic coursed so deep through her domain that she could feel the step of every rabbit and the fall of every leaf. And I was Exalted Ryxander, a royal atheling, inheritor of an echo of my grandmother’s profound connection to the land and her magical power. Except that I was also Ryx, the family embarrassment, with magic so twisted it was unusably dangerous.

  The rest of my family had their place in the cycle, weavers of a great pattern. I’d been born to snarl things up—or more like it, to break the loom and set the tapestry on fire, given my luck.

  So I’d made my own place.

  At the moment, that place was on the castle roof. One gloved hand clamped onto the delicate bone-carved railing of a nearby balcony for balance, to keep my boots from skidding on the sharply angled shale; the other held the wind-whipped tendrils of dark hair that had escaped my braid back from my face.

  “This is a disaster,” I muttered.

  “I don’t see any reason it needs to be, Exalted Warden.” Odan, the castle steward—a compact and muscular old man with an extravagant mustache—stood with unruffled dignity on the balcony beside me. I’d clambered over its railing to make room for him, since I couldn’t safely share a space that small. “We still have time to prepare guest quarters and make room in the stables.”

  “That’s not the problem. No so-called diplomat arrives a full day early without warning unless they’re up to trouble.” I glared down at the puffs of dust rising from the northern trade road. Distance obscured the details, but I made out at least thirty riders accompanying the Alevaran envoy’s carriage. “And that’s too large an escort. They said they were bringing a dozen.”

  Odan’s bristly gray brows descended the broad dome of his forehead. “It’s true that I wouldn’t expect an ambassador to take so much trouble to be rude.”

  “They wouldn’t. Not if they were planning to negotiate in good faith.” And that was what made this a far more serious issue than the mere inconvenience of an early guest. “The Shrike Lord of Alevar is playing games.”

  Odan blew a breath through his mustache. “Reckless of him, given the fleet of imperial warships sitting off his coast.”

  “Rather.” I hunkered down close to the slate to get under the chill edge that had come into the wind in the past few days, heralding the end of summer. “I worked hard to set up these talks between Alevar and the Serene Empire. What in the Nine Hells is he trying to accomplish?”

  The line of riders drew closer along the gray strip of road that wound between bright green farms and swaths of dark forest, approaching the grassy sun-mottled hill that lifted Gloamingard Castle toward a banner-blue sky. The sun winked off the silvertipped antlers of six proud stags drawing the carriage, a clear announcement that the coach’s occupant could bend wildlife to their will—displaying magic in the same way a dignitary of the Serene Empire of Raverra to the south might display wealth, as a sign of status and power.

  Another gleam caught my eye, however: the metallic flash of sabers and muskets.

  “Pox,” I swore. “Those are all soldiers.”

  Odan scowled down at them. “I’m no diplomat like you, Warden, but it does seem odd to bring an armed platoon to sign a peace treaty.”

  I almost retorted that I wasn’t a diplomat, either. But it was as good a word as any for the role I’d carved out for myself.

  Diplomacy wasn’t part of a Warden’s job. Wardens were mages; it was their duty to use their magic to nurture and sustain life in the area they protected. But my broken magic couldn’t nurture. It only destroyed. When my grandmother followed family tradition and named me the Warden of Gloamingard Castle—her own seat of power—on my sixteenth birthday, it had seemed like a cruel joke.

  I’d found other ways. If I couldn’t increase the bounty of the crops or the health of the flocks with life magic, I could use my Raverran mother’s connections to the Serene Empire to enrich our domain with favorable trade agreements. If I couldn’t protect Morgrain by rousing the land against bandits or invaders, I could cultivate good relations with Raverra, securing my domain a powerful ally. I’d spent the past five years building that relationship, despite muttering from traditionalists in the family about being too friendly with a nation we’d warred with countless times in centuries past.

  I’d done such a good job, in fact, that the Serene Empire had agreed to accept our mediation of an incident with Alevar that threatened to escalate into war.

  “I can’t let them sabotage these negotiations before they’ve even started.” It wasn’t simply a matter of pride; Morgrain lay directly between Alevar and the Serene Empire. If the Shrike Lord wanted to attack the Empire, he’d have to go through us.

  The disapproving gaze Odan dropped downhill at the Alevarans could have frozen a lake. “How should we greet them, Warden?”

  My gloved fingers dug against the unyielding slate beneath me. “Form an honor guard from some of our nastiest-looking battle chimeras to welcome them. If they’re going to make a show of force, we have to answer it.” That was Vaskandran politics, all display and spectacle—a stark contrast to the subtle, hidden machinations of Raverrans.

  Odan nodded. “Very good, Warden. Anything else?”

  The Raverran envoy would arrive tomorrow with a double handful of clerks and advisers, prepared to sit down at a table and speak in a genteel fashion about peace, to find my castle already overrun with a bristling military presence of Alevaran soldiers. That would create a terrible first impression—especially since Alevar and Morgrain were both domains of the great nation of Vaskandar, the Empire’s historical enemy. I bit my lip a moment, thinking.

  “Quarter no more than a dozen of their escort in the castle,” I said at last. “Put the rest in outbuildings or in the town. If the envoy raises a fuss, tell them it’s because they arrived so early and increased their party size without warning.”

  A smile twitched the corners of Odan’s mustache. “I like it. And what will you do, Exalted Warden?”

  I rose, dusting roof grit from my fine embroidered vestcoat, and tugged my thin leather gloves into place. “I’ll prepare to meet this envoy. I want to see if they’re deliberately making trouble, or if they’re just bad at their job.”

  Gloamingard was really several castles caught in the act of devouring each other. Build the castle high and strong, the Gloaming Lore said, and each successive ruler had taken that as license to impose their own architectural fancies upon the place. The Black Tower reared up stark and ominous at the center, more ancient than the country of Vaskandar itself; an old stone keep surrounded it, buried in fantastical additions woven of living trees and vines. The stark curving ribs of the Bone Palace clawed at the sky on one side, and the perpetual scent of woodsmoke bathed the sharp-peaked roofs of the Great Lodge on the other; my grandmother’s predecessor had attempted to build a comfortable wood-paneled manor house smack in the front and center. Each new Witch Lord had run roughshod over the building plans of those who came before them, and the whole place was a glorious mess of hidden doors and dead-end staircases and windows opening onto blank walls.

  This made the castle a confusing maze for visitors, but for me, it was perfect. I could navigate through the odd, leftover spaces and closed-off areas, keeping away from the main halls with their deadly risk of bumping into a sprinting page or distracted servant. I haunted my own castle like a ghost.

  As I headed toward the Birch Gate to meet the Alevaran envoy, I opened a door in the back of a storage cabinet beneath a little-used stairway, hurried through a dim and dusty space between walls, and came out in a forgotten gallery under a latticework of artistically woven tree roots and stained glass. At the far end, a string of grinning animal faces adorned an arch of twisted wood; an unrolling scroll carved beneath them warned me to Give No Cunning Voices Heed. It was a bit of the Gloaming Lore, the old family wisdom passed down through the centuries in verse. Generation
s of mages had scribed pieces of it into every odd corner of Gloamingard.

  I climbed through a window into the dusty old stone keep, which was half fallen to ruin. My grandmother had sealed the main door with thick thorny vines when she became the Witch Lord a hundred and forty years ago; sunbeams fell through holes in the roof onto damp, mossy walls. It still made for a good alternate route across the castle. I hurried down a dim, dust-choked hallway, taking advantage of the lack of people to move a little faster than I normally dared.

  Yet I couldn’t help slowing almost to a stop when I came to the Door.

  It loomed all the way to the ceiling of its deep-set alcove, a flat shining rectangle of polished obsidian. Carved deep into its surface in smooth, precise lines was a circular seal, complex with runes and geometric patterns.

  The air around it hung thick with power. The pressure of it made my pulse sound in my ears, a surging dull roar. A thrill of dread trickled down my spine, never mind that I’d passed it countless times.

  It was the monster of my childhood stories, the haunt of my nightmares, the ominous crux of all the Gloaming Lore. Carved through the castle again and again, above windows and under crests, set into floors and wound about pillars, the same words appeared over and over. It was the chorus of the rhyme we learned in the cradle, recited at our adulthood ceremonies, and whispered on our deathbeds: Nothing must unseal the Door.

  No one knew what lay in the Black Tower, but this was its sole entrance. And every time I walked past it, despite the unsettling aura of power that hung about it like a long bass note too low to hear, despite the warnings drilled into me since birth and scribed all over Gloamingard, curiosity prickled awake in my mind.