Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

She did not scream as she fell.

Tarl

Tarl had been drinking.  It was what he did when off duty in
the Goralonian King’s Guard.  Those off duty went drinking at the local tavern,
The Lifted Skirt.  The ale was strong, the food bad, and the music loud, but it
was also the closest one to the castle.  But that was not the only reason he
went there.  It was because of her, with her pale skin, long legs and deep
black hair to the middle of her back.  She had yet to notice him, of course, as
he kept his head down and sat against the wall when drinking with his fellow
guards.

But now, he was back in the castle, his legs wobbly and his
head a little fuzzy.  As always for the past five days the conversation had
come around to the topic of note.

“Why’d ya think they closed off the central hall?” one of
his fellow guards began, as usual.  It wasn’t always the same one, but the
speculation always started the same way.  They had been ordered to seal off the
central hall and to let no one in unless they had a special mark.  There were over
a dozen different doors into the hall on four different levels.  It was
basically the main spine of the castle, connecting all wings to each other, and
the first day was the hardest at keeping people out.  With two guards posted at
each door, it took a few injuries to convince all the castle staff and others
to stay away, and take the long way around, bypassing this hall.

“Who knows!  All I cares about is gettin’ paid and bustin’
heads.” Stated another as he gulped down the last of his ale.

“But what about those that’s is allow'd inta the hall?”
inquired the first.  What does ya think they is up to?”  His speech was slurred
by drink.

“None o’ my business, and yours neither.” Suggested a third.

The speculation and rumors all abounded for the rest of the
evening until all of them had drunk enough.  They staggered back towards the
castle barracks.  They were let through the gate by those on duty there, and
they all headed to the left towards the barracks.  Tarl took a side corridor to
the privy closet, closed the door and dropped his pants to relieve himself.  A
wave of dizziness and nausea took hold and he passed out.

A little while later Tarl awoke, with vomit down his vest
and his pants soaked around his knees.  He stood, disoriented, and tried
unsuccessfully to clean himself up.  Staggering from the privy, he chastised
himself for his carelessness.  His girl would be disgusted if she saw him like
this.  He tried to think of what he should say when he finally got the courage
to approach her.  He reached a door and opened it, thinking he was at the
barracks, but it opened up into a small hallway with three doors at the end,
one on each side wall and one at the end.  He looked around, confused.  This
was not part of the castle he knew.  He was not sure where he was or how he got
here.  He opened the door on the left that opened into a dark storeroom.  He
closed that door, and tried the one at the end.

That door opened onto a wide balcony with a stone balustrade
that ran to the left and right, but dropped away in front on him.  Suddenly a
figure floated past him into the air.  He fell onto his backside, startled.  A
second figure flew upwards, same as the first.  He knew this was a
hallucination - men could not fly!  He stood shakily, and stepped forward to
the stone balustrade and looked down.  Suddenly he realized where he was - the
central hall!

Below him were a handful of men moving about, fussing over
several other men that were wearing some sort of harnesses with glowing gems in
the center.  Some were looking up, past where he was.  He stepped over to
conceal himself against a pillar that supported the upper levels and looked up
as well.  He cried out as he fell on his backside once again.  Two men were
floating near the ceiling beams under the pitched roof.  They began to descend
slowly towards the main floor.  One of them met Tarl’s eyes on the way to the
lower floor and shook his head slowly and sadly.  Tarl was confused.  He did not
understand the look, and if it was even directed at him.

“Sorry you had to see this son,” the deep voice of the
captain of the guard said from behind him.  He had obviously come up the wide
steps to Tarl’s right, but Tarl had not heard him.  His head was swimming, and
his stomach cramping, still feeling the effects of his previous bout of
vomiting.

“But it’s unbelievable sir,” he answered.  “Pardon me if I
don’t get up, I seem to be a little dizzy.”

“That’s understandable son, you’ve been drinking.  Maybe we
should get you to the barracks to sleep this off.  It’s really just a bad dream
you’re having.”

“Oh no sir!  The other guys won’t believe this when I tell
them…” he slurred, his speech tired even to his ears.

“That was the wrong answer son,” his captain answered sadly
as he helped Tarl to his feet.

Sudden pain shot through Tarl’s stomach, and he thought he
was about to vomit again.  But this was a different kind of pain.  He looked
down at the blood covering his vest.  The stain was growing larger, dripping
onto the floor, creating a large puddle - of blood.

He looked up at his captain, who was cleaning blood off a
large knife.  “I don’t understand…” his voice trailed off as he fell to the
floor.  He looked at his captain in confusion before the life left his eyes.

Zazaril was still in shock the day after the audience with
the Emperor.  As such, when she had returned to the embassy yesterday she had
given Wendinard a few orders, the last of which was not to be disturbed.  She
shut herself up in her study for the remainder of the day and night to think. 
She had much to think on, but the request by the Emperor was outrageous!  But
of course, he was the Emperor, and though Mahad’avor had no exclusive allegiances
to any one specific country or empire, they needed a place to live without
persecution as had happened in the past, and so had bought that safety.  But at
what cost?  Had they sold their souls to Randramas Kastrum?

Fundamentally, that was Endergot’s problem, not something
she could change right now.  She would have to travel to Mahad’avor once again,
twice in less than a week, not to mention her trip to the Imperial Sky Citadel
and back yesterday.  Each trip through a gatal'shilaar was draining, but
usually there was time in between trips to recuperate.  Not so this week.  She
stood from her desk and stood in front of the felia'shilaar, which, when deactivated
acted as a normal mirror, and looked at the face looking back at her. 

Her skin was paler than usual, with dark circles under the
eyes.  Some of that was from the lack of sleep last night, worry preventing her
from finding that elusive state.  But more telling were the lines appearing at
the corners of her eyes, and a few gray hairs that now streaked her black
hair.  Not enough to worry her completely, but enough to cause some concern.

She took a deep breath and intoned the words that activated
the felia'shilaar, pressing three of the stones in sequence.  She felt a pull
so slight compared to the gatal'shilaar that it could almost pass unnoticed if
one didn’t know to pay attention.  The mirror went milky, swirling clouds and
mist crossing the flat glass, waiting for the person on the other end to
activate theirs.  Finally, after several minutes, the image of the First
Chancellor came up in the mirror, standing before his ornate desk.  He had a
full-length felia'shilaar - magemirror, similar to hers.

“Yes Zazaril?” he asked, annoyance staining his voice.

“Why so many?” was her simple question.  She brushed a stray
lock of hair back from her face.

“That is none of your concern other than to say it is in
defense of the Empire,” he stated, brushing his long lacquered nails off on his
robe.  She looked him over more closely, noticing the bags under his eyes, and
the sheer exhaustion that he seemed to be trying desperately to hide.  “You
were the one who brought the security of the Empire into question yesterday,
after all.”

Zazaril’s gaze softened somewhat.  “That is true Malar,” she
admitted, using his given name with some fondness, “but why
two
hundred
quafa'shilaar - magestones?!  I am not sure we could even get you twenty with this
little notice.”  She was not privy to the secrets of the creation of quafa'shilaar,
but she was pretty sure they did not grow on trees.

“You must succeed in this Zazaril, my flower, it is very
important.  You must convince your council that the need is dire.  On that you
have to trust me.”  He looked deep into her eyes as he finished.  She heard a
knock on his office door through the mirror.  Yalang’s eyes darted to the door
and back to her, “I must go.” He leaned forward and touched one of the stones
on his mirror, deactivating the magic that held the connection open, the mirror
fading into grey mist, then back to a normal mirror again.

She closed her eyes as she sat back down and ran through all
the possibilities.  They had just lost nine of the quafa'shilaar to theft by
the Goralonians, stones meant for the latest students to graduate.  Students,
led by the diminutive Puralina, who was irate at being denied her stone, and
thus her magic, due to the theft, and had tried to stir up trouble.  Celia had
put her in her place for a short time, and Zazaril had ordered them sent back
to Mahad’avor last night to lessen any further trouble they might get up to. 
But if she was to convince the council that they must meet the Emperor’s gently
worded demand, it could mean that Puralina and her friends would not get their
stones for some time.

Well, she decided that this was not her worry in the final
say of things.  She would leave it up to others to make the decision.  She
would still have to present it and sell it, or the Emperor would find her
guilty, and that would cost her life.  She still had too much to do yet.

---o---

Zazaril stepped out of the gatal'shilaar into the courtyard
of Mahad’avor  and stumbled slightly, feeling drained.  She greeted the woman
sent to receive her with a nod.  As much as she wanted to keep things informal
as this had been her home at one time, her position as head of the embassy did
force some formalities.  The woman, who was tall for an elf, had her head held
high, and nodded in respect and greeting to Zazaril.

“Endergot sent me to welcome you back.  He also wanted to
make sure you understood the implications of calling an emergency session of
the Council.” The last was a statement, not a question.  “As I assume that you
do, it has been called for first thing in the morning.  I will escort you to
your room, if I may?”  The elf looked as uncertain as Zazaril had ever seen
her.  Usually, she was as calm as pond water on a sunny day.

“You may,” she answered carefully.  She wasn’t good with
names, and she knew this elf had one harder than most to pronounce.  “I’m
sorry, I don’t think I can remember your name.”  She had meant it as a slight
insult, but the other woman did not take the bait.

“It is Marisha’ilea, Ambassador.  It is a hard name to
remember for humans."  She said it simply, not intended for an insult, but
it cut at Zazaril.  This was Endergot’s pupil, his chosen, possibly his
successor in the distant future.  A position she used to hold.  She gestured
for the elf to lead.

Zazaril watched her companion as they walked beside each
other through the small sideyard towards the gate to the main courtyard.  She
was slightly taller than her, with long silvery hair to the middle of her
back.  It was styled into a complex web of braids that must take hours to
tend.  She matched her strides to keep the same pace, side-by-side.

“What exactly did you want to discuss, Marisha’ilea?” she
stumbled over the elf’s name slightly.  Why did they have to have such
complicated names for everything and everyone?  She knew that the suffix
'shilaar' meant 'of world essence' or really 'of magic', and that the pronoun
'Dar' meant 'wielder' for example, creating the 'Dar'Shilaar" as Wielders
of Magic'.  However, it was not her area of study, so she did not dwell on it.

The other woman was silent for a long time before she
spoke.  “I am worried about Endergot.  As you were one of his favored students
and in his confidence prior to being assigned to the Tala’aharian embassy, I
thought we should speak.”

It was true; she had been one of his favorites and had been
in his confidence for many years.  But that had been long ago, and this elf had
supplanted her in that position since she had been away these years.  She had
gained more as head ambassador in the intervening years than she would have as
Endergot’s shadow.  She knew it, but she still felt bitter.

“Worried about what?” Zazaril inquired.

“His health.  It is deteriorating.  All those consulted seem
to agree that he doesn’t have much time left.  What they cannot agree on, is
how much time.”  She frowned.

“What do the Daughters say?”

“That they cannot cure old age.”

“He is well into his eighties,” Zazaril conceded.  “That is
extremely old for a human.”

“I know, but I still cannot help but feel some sadness.”

Zazaril was silent as they entered the main keep and
proceeded down the central hall.  The stairs to the second floor loomed in
front of them, the full width of the hall.  From the second floor, wings spread
out in several directions, one of which contained her room.

“We will need Endergot to hold on a little longer for the
days ahead.” She said cryptically, now worried for her own life, in addition to
her former mentor’s.  If Endergot died too soon, it could seal her fate.  She
supposed that she could hide on Mahad’avor instead of returning to Tala’ahar,
but suspected that would lead the Emperor straight here, even though they moved
the sky citadel at regular intervals.  In fact, she realized, they may know
where they were right now.  She would have to tell them to move the citadel
after she returned to the Imperial city.

The elf looked at her with a small tilt to her head, “What
do you mean?”

“All will become clear in the Council session tomorrow.” 
She bade the elf a goodnight and turned down the hall towards her room.