Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

Finally she tried some calming breathing exercises taught to
all students at Marah’ador in their first year.  It was taught that only with
calm serenity could you tap and harness the powers of the quafa'shilaar.  Then
they tested your ability to stay calm by putting you in stressful situations. 
She passed that class by a hair only.  But in the hall, she was angry and it
seemed to her that her magic was more powerful – she had never been able to
lift a person off the floor with her Vortex spell prior to this.  Something
else to think on.  By this time, her breathing had returned to normal, and she
felt calmer.

She got dressed and ran a brush through her long hair,
trying to get the tangles removed, but failing.  She was so tired after the run
and the adrenalin of fear last night that she had pretty much passed out as
soon as she was dressed for bed.  And even getting changed had taken every dram
of energy she had left.  She certainly did not have the energy to run the brush
through her hair the seventy-seven strokes she normally did each night.  She
gave up on her hair with a sigh, and twisted it up in a bun and clipped it in
place.  She did still have to go see Zazaril after all.

Checking herself in the mirror, she gave herself a barely
passing grade and made her way to towards the stairs to Zazaril’s study.  She
noted that the debris in the hallway had already been swept up by one of the
serving maids.  She passed Mindeela and Arandella separately on the way to
Zazaril’s study; Mindeela giving her a pat on the arm and some polite words;
Arandella just giving her a wide grin.

She knocked on the door that she was beginning to dread
coming to, even though Zazaril was supposed to be her mentor and Celia used to
cherish their time together.  She was invited in almost immediately.

Zazaril was standing facing the full length magemirror to
one side of her desk, the image of Endergot, the Head of the Council of Seven,
fading from view.  Zarzaril turned and faced Celia, walked the two paces to her
desk and sat down, offering Celia to do the same. 
So this was not to be a
reprimand session.

“I am sending the graduates back to Mahad’avor after
supper.” Zazaril began looking at Celia out of the corner of her eye.  “It
seems they are eager to get quafa'shilaar.  Some more than others, apparently. 
It seems wiser for them to wait for the next batch in the safety of our sky
citadel.”  Celia was sure she was referring to the incident with Puralina.

“Oh.  Have The Seven given up on getting the stolen quafa'shilaar
back?” Celia asked carefully.

“No, still hoping, not really expecting, I believe." 
She paused for a short time.  "About that, have you learned anything new
about the stolen stones?” Zarzaril queried.  She picked up the quill at the
side of her blotter and began to fiddle with it.

“Not so much more, no.” Celia started carefully, “why?”

“Because, I have... changed my mind.  I would like you to
continue your investigation with any resources you need from the embassy.  Or
from me personally.”  Zazaril hadn’t yet looked Celia in the eye once.

Celia considered. 
Was that what Endergot was checking in
on?
  He rarely called the embassy, and Celia was pretty certain that
Zazaril enjoyed the autonomy that running the embassy gave her, so would not
contact him often.  Maybe only when there was a major political issue, or when
the embassy needed something only Mahad’avor could provide.  Like quafa'shilaar.

“I do have one item I can think of that is of immediate
urgency,” Celia paused. 

“Well what is it?” Zazaril finally asked after Celia had not
continued.

Celia told her.  Zazaril stared at her with her mouth open –
speechless.

Hoyle awoke to someone shaking his shoulder.  Sathran was
standing beside him, shaking his shoulder gently.  He had fallen asleep, even
when he had no intention to, but even though it didn’t appear to have lasted
long, it was the best sleep he had had since being brought up to the sky
citadel – he was warm.  He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and saw several pairs of
black eyes peeking around the doorway, curious about him he guessed.

“How long was I asleep?” Hoyle asked his rescuer.  He pulled
his boots back on.

“Twelve bells,” Sathran responded.

“Twelve bells?!” he said incredulously, “Wow, I must have
been really tired...” he trailed off as he remembered that his last thoughts
before bed were about trying to figure out a plan on how to get back to the
city.

“You must come,” the diminutive figure gestured to the
doorway anxiously.  Sathran started out the door, shooing away the curious
onlookers.  Hoyle wondered if they had been watching him sleep.  He shivered
slightly at the thought.

“Where are we going?”  Hoyle bumped his head as he tried to
stand after pulling on his remaining boot.  He stooped and chased after the
quickly moving creature.

“You must come,” Sathran said again, not stopping.

“You said that already,” he replied, his anger rising a
little.  Why was this creature, whose life he had saved, and who had basically
returned the favor, being so mysterious – or was it evasive?

Sathran said no more as Hoyle followed him through the veklian
warrens.  Finally they reached a small chamber of normal height, and when Hoyle
stood fully erect he found himself faced with two Palace guards.  He turned his
gaze on Sathran, feeling betrayed.

“Come with us,” one of the two towering, plate and chain
armor covered guards ordered gesturing.  They made no move to take his weapons,
he noted.  He was confused.

“You go.  Be well.” Sathran offered as the guards escorted
him from the veklian portion of the sky citadel, closing the door behind him. 

Hoyle bade his time, waiting for his chance to make a break
for it.  He decided he had better assess his condition before being too hasty. 
His muscles were sore, but now warm.  His joints ached, but moved better now
that he had been out of the cell for many hours.  The days of torture, followed
by healing, followed by more torture had left his body and soul weary, but his
resolve not to return to the cell was growing within.  He would escape, or die
trying.

The Palace guards led him through the sky citadel, down a myriad
of corridors, through doors and across various chambers until he was ultimately
turned around.  At this point, he would not be able to find the courtyard with
the magegate at the center of the citadel, which was basically a circle of stone
floating in the sky surrounded by tall walls and taller towers.

Finally they exited the building into a courtyard through a
small wooden door.  The sunlight seared his eyes, and he had to stop for a
minute or two to let them adjust.  Hoyle recognized the location from the night
he was brought here.  They were in the main courtyard.  They had entered the
courtyard from a side door, but he could see the door to the throne room ahead
and to the left, the archway to the magegate slightly closer on the right. 
Beyond those, other wooden doors entered various buildings and covered walkways
that Hoyle could hardly guess the function.

As they passed the archway, their destination apparent to
him as the open doors to the throne room, Hoyle made a dash for it.  His guards
cried out, ordering him to stop, but he was not going back to his cell.  He
could hear them chasing him, calling for others to help.  Hoyle raced for the
archway, and the open arch, through which a Palace guard was coming.  The guard
stood and planted himself blocking the way, his mace now in his hand.

Hoyle used the guard’s towering height to his own advantage,
and dropped to his knees, sliding between the large man’s planted legs.  He
leapt up, his muscles screaming with exhaustion, but responding to years of
training, and propelled himself through the arch.  As he fled through, he
grabbed the left side of the opening turning his direction and momentum to the
left, and towards the room the magegate resided.

Suddenly he felt himself falling, a spear shaft stuck
between his legs from an unseen guard.  He managed to break his fall with his
arms, but the breath was knocked from him.  He rolled over, shading his eyes
with his arm to see another large guard standing over him smirking.  He was
holding his spear at ease as the other three guards approached from behind.

“You found him.  Where?” the spear wielder inquired.

“In the Warrens.  Robart suggested we look there,” said one
of Hoyle’s escorts.

“You’re to go before the Emperor himself,” the second escort
directed at Hoyle.  “He wouldn’t look kindly at us if we let you escape before
that happened.”  He didn’t sound as angry as Hoyle expected he should be.

He threw on his best grin, as difficult as it now was to
smile, and offered, “Well, it was worth a try.”  He brushed himself off the
best he could, hiding his confusion at the exchange.  “Lead on,” he directed at
his escorts – now numbering four – two in front, two behind.

They returned to the main courtyard and passed through the
large iron doors with the shimmering metal faces.  The guards ahead opened the
second set of doors into the large audience chamber to which Hoyle was brought
when he first arrived.  He noted that there were several dozen people kneeling
with their heads down on either side of a wide aisle that led directly to the
throne. 

Hoyle looked to the end of the aisle and the group of people
clustered there.  A handful of people knelt at the foot of the throne heads
down, several paces back.  Four Palace guards stood at immediate attention at
four corners around the group.  But what Hoyle’s eye was drawn to most of all
was the figure seated on the throne.  Another person was kneeling erect beside
the throne.

He recognized the First Chancellor from that night, kneeling
beside the throne, this time in a shimmering purple robe.  It looked like
Valkiir silk to Hoyle, but it was only a guess.  A gold sash crossed it from
right shoulder to left hip, and he was also wearing a simple skull cap of the
same gold material.  However briefly he drew Hoyle’s eye, his gaze riveted on
the figure on the throne.

Emperor Randramas Kastrum, having ruled now for the last
eighty-nine years sat on the throne, back straight, piercing eyes locked onto
his own, did not look more than thirty years old.  His shaved head was covered
with tattoos, one of which wrapped around his left eye in a stylized wing.  He
had several piercings, including his right eyebrow, his left nostril, and many
in each ear.  A small gold chain ran from the ring in his left nostril to one
in his left ear.  Many of the earrings sported chips of magestone, and glowed
with inner light.  He wore shimmering robes of deep red, similar to the priests
of Benraw, the Twin.  It was belted at the waist with a golden rope, the ends
hanging beside his knees.

Hoyle was led up beside the other group of what appeared to
be four women, and made to kneel.  Two of the women had black hair, one blonde
and the fourth brown.  He could not make out much else, as they all had their
heads bowed in supplication, or obedience at least.  He tried sneaking a glance
to the side, but the woman’s brown hair concealed her face.

“You are Hoyle?”  The voice came from the First Chancellor,
not the Emperor, as he had expected.

“Yes, Eminence.” He directed towards the Emperor, still with
his head down.

“It seems these four women here,” he paused such that Hoyle
assumed he was gesturing to the women beside him, even though everyone in the
audience chamber had their heads lowered, “have vouched for your honor.”

He turned his head to look out of the corner of his eye, and
saw Celia’s face appear briefly from behind her brown hair.  She was smiling
with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.  He turned his head back forward,
lifting it ever so slightly, such that he was able to see the First Chancellor
out of the top of his peripheral vision.

“They have indicated that you were caught up in the raid on
the Goralon Merchants' Guild by mistake, and were there on business completely
unrelated to the reason of the raid.”  Again he paused, “However, the Throne is
not convinced.” 

At that statement, Hoyle looked up at the First Chancellor
shocked.  He heard gasps from the women to his right, and saw Celia cover her
mouth with her hand, and another down the line put one foot under her before
being knocked forward onto her stomach with a grunt.  Hoyle noticed that the
guards who had escorted him had arranged themselves immediately behind the
group.  He looked over and did a double-take.  He had never seen Salrissa in a
flowery dress with a bow in her hair before.  The effect was even more out of
place, with her laying face down on the floor.

At this point, none of the group had their eyes down; all of
them were watching the First Chancellor as he gestured behind him.  Celia immediately
began to shiver and whimper, clutching her amulet and huddling in on herself
beside him.  Hoyle watched as a Fear Squad walked up past the First Chancellor
and approached the group.  He was pretty sure it was the same squad that
participated in the raid.  The grey-skinned scaazi led by the two Rak’soraa,
whose glowing eyes passed over the group with what looked like hunger.

The scazzi
Scenter
sniffed each of the women with his
multi-slit snout, his clawed knuckles dragging on the stone floor, vacant eyes
staring at all.  The Rak’soraa watched the scaazi intently, as it paused
briefly at Celia and Salrissa.

In a dry, raspy voice the taller Rak’soraa intoned, “These
two women were in the guild also on the same night.  Somehow they fled capture.
One is not as she seems.”  He drew out the ‘s’ in each of the words.  Hoyle
imagined that might be what a snake might sound like if they could talk.

“Your Eminence, may I speak?” spoke a voice he did not know,
from the woman at the far end of the row.  She was small, with long black hair
to the middle of her back, and could see an amber magestone on a brooch of some
kind pinned to her stylish gown.  She looked at the First Chancellor with
slight annoyance, to which he shook his head slightly. 
What was that about?

The Emperor’s gesture was non-committal, seemingly
disinterested in the proceedings.  Apparently it was some signal to allow her
to speak.  The First Chancellor nodded his head at the woman.

“It may be better if this conversation was limited to only
those involved in the incident, Your Eminence,” the woman proposed carefully. 
The First Chancellor seemed shocked, and the Emperor looked directly at the
woman.  The woman backtracked quickly, “What I meant to say, rather, was that
it may be better for the
security of the Empire
if this conversation
were private.”  The woman had gone several shades lighter during her
clarification, though he had to give her credit for not stammering – much.

The Emperor stood in front of the throne and made a
gesture.  The guards spent several minutes clearing out the nobles who most
assuredly did not want to leave, and tried to linger as long as possible,
hoping to overhear a tidbit or two.  Some were indignant more for show than
because they had the power to do anything about it, but they did leave.  At
another gesture from the Emperor, the guards closed the massive doors leading
from the audience chamber.

Hoyle was now locked into the giant hall with only four
women, one he did not know – he had determined the fourth was Hicks during the
commotion of clearing the hall.  The remaining people in the hall were the
Rak’soraa and scazzi Fear Squad; a large number of the Palace Guard; the First
Chancellor; and the Emperor himself.  He did not like where this was headed.

“You have my complete attention.”  The voice of the Emperor
was quiet, yet strong and powerful.  His grey eyes bored into the small woman. 
Hoyle could tell he was trained in some sort of combat, as his stance was
ready, even while looking innocuous.

The small woman paled further.  “My name is Zazaril, head of
the Dar'Shilaar Embassy in your fine city –“

“We know who you are!  Get on with why we shouldn’t arrest
you four, and throw
him
back in his cell,” interrupted the First
Chancellor with a heated look at the Dar'Shilaar, and a gesture at Hoyle.  The
Emperor didn’t see the look, or didn’t care.  He laid a hand on the shoulder of
the First Chancellor, calming him.  With a look, the Emperor bade Zazaril to
continue, heat in his gaze.

“As I was saying, as head of the Embassy, I assigned these
three to investigate the theft of a shipment of quafa'shilaar - magestones,
from the Embassy.  I have been since informed that the trail led to the Goralon
Merchants' Guild.  These three took it upon themselves to go investigate by themselves,
without orders.  It landed them in a difficult situation.”  Zazaril had her
hands on her lap, presenting a calm facade that Hoyle could see through.  She
was frightened.

Hoyle actually could not physically stop himself from
emitting a sharp burst of laughter.  Being tortured for the better part of a
week – a difficult situation indeed!  Even now, still kneeling as he was, his
legs were cramping badly.  He did not know if he could stand if he was ordered
to.  He got a cuff across the back of his head for his outburst.  The Emperor
merely glanced at the guard, who immediately stepped back.

“Continue,” ordered the Emperor.

“My investigators managed to discern some possibly valuable
information, other than the fact the thieves were Goralonian.  One was a
powerful warlock, who has managed to combine ancient Goralon blood rituals with
quafa'shilaar - magestones.  My investigators were lucky to survive.”  Zazaril
looked at the First Chancellor out of the corner of her eye.