Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (19 page)

“Two
hundred
?!” cried Brilon incredulously.

“That’s preposterous!” blurted Norella, normally the
quietest and wisest of The Seven.  Her hair was greying, and held back in a
tight bun.  Her grey eyes mirrored the anger of her deep red garnet magestone
resting in a choker at her throat as it seemed to flare with her anger.

Marisha’ilea was recording each word along with the other
two Recorders at third points around the circular chamber.  Zazaril was true to
her word from the previous day.  Everything was becoming clear as the session
blossomed into full chaos as all began to talk at once over each other.  Even
she was having a hard time separating each of the voices from the general noise
to record their comments.  She paused her quill.  General mayhem was not
something she felt needed to be recorded word-for-word.

She watched Zazaril as she stood in the center of the
council and watched as her words fueled a fire in the Council.  The small woman
was pale, with dark circles under her eyes that had magnified since she had met
her at the gate the day before.  Her statement that the Emperor had demanded
two hundred quafa'shilaar in defence of the Empire had certainly incited
distinct opinions from all of The Seven, except Endergot.  He had yet to speak,
and just watched as the others burned their anger out arguing the same point
over and over.  She noted that they all pretty much agreed, even if it was
possible to supply two hundred quafa'shilaar, that The Seven were not
interested in agreeing to the demands.

As the shouting died down, Endergot stood with effort and
stamped the butt of his staff on the floor three times bringing silence to the
chamber.

He waited, eyeing each of the other Seven in turn; Brilon,
the newest of the members, with his dark hair and dark demeanor; Avara’etha,
the soft spoken yet voluptuous elf; Doratellan, the cocky but capable Islander;
Norella, the wise motherly type with the grey hair in a bun; Brynden, the quiet
but blunt Sarethan; and finally Dar’ell, a bitter elf with a chip on his
shoulder.  As his gaze settled on each of them in turn, they sat and
straightened themselves in their chairs.

“Obviously we are not in a position to give in to this
‘request’,” Endergot said carefully, “even if we wanted to.  The next batch of quafa'shilaar
will not be ready for another eight days, and then there will only be about
twelve viable ones.”  He sat in his chair slowly, adjusting his robes around
his small form.  “The fact that we have nine students that currently need the
small stones, as well as the various other uses that they are given to be put
to, it would take years to meet this request.”  He leaned back in his chair and
closed his eyes, covering them with his hand.  The other hand held the Staff of
Everilon erect beside him, its large amber magestone glowing serenely.

“But if the security of the Empire is in question, how can
we not give the Emperor what he requires?” Zazaril supplied into the quiet
air.  Marisha’ilea noted a tinge of desperation in her voice.  She was not sure
if anyone else caught it.  “Have they… has the Emperor not given us a place of
safety from persecution for the better part of the last nine decades?”

“Your passion does you justice my dear Zazaril, but you
yourself have confessed to knowing nothing of the threat to the Empire.  No, we
cannot supply the Empire with that kind of number.  They have been paid quite
handsomely for our safety over the years.” Endergot responded.

Zazaril paled visibly.  “Master…” she paused, considering
what to say, or unsure if she should.  Endergot looked at her calmly.

Finally he prodded her, “Please continue.”

“If we cannot supply the stones to the Emperor by the end of
Murn, prior to the Spring Planting Festival, just seven days away, then my life
is forfeit.”  The last sentence was barely a whisper, but Marisha'ilea's elven
ears caught every word.  The others of The Seven craned forward to hear her
words.

“Can you please repeat that last part my dear?” Avara’etha
spoke up.

The room quieted such that Marisha’ilea thought she would be
able to hear a mouse breathing on the other side of the chamber.  All of them
waited for Zazaril to repeat what she had said the first time.

“My life will be forfeit.” Zazaril repeated with more
volume.  The silence extended throughout the chamber as each absorbed the
gravity of those words.

“What do you be meaning?” came the question from Doratellan,
his emerald eyes intense.

“In order to prove my innocence in the matter relating to
the theft of the magestones by the Goralonians, and the subsequent attack on
the sky citadel, I must provide the stones within those seven days, or my life
will be forfeit.” She looked around the chamber at each of the members.

“I see,” said Endergot. 

Brilon cleared his throat loudly.  “I hesitate to bring this
up, but there may be a way to collect enough quafa'shilaar to satisfy
Randramas.  But it is an extreme solution, however.”

“Go on,” Endergot urged eagerly.  Marisha’ilea thought he
might be desperate to save one of his protégés.

“We collect the quafa'shilaar we have now, from all the Dar'Shilaar.” 
Brilon stated cautiously.  Pandemonium erupted around the hall.

Three loud booms from the staff brought the chamber back to
a reasonable level of noise, to which Endergot spoke over, “That would take the
stones of almost all the Dar'Shilaar that exist today.  We would be powerless. 
That power is the only thing protecting us from the Empire.  Our power and the
fact that we move Mahad’avor every few months is the only reason we have been
safe.  That solution would see us defenceless.”

“As you said, they would not find us, and we would only be
powerless until the next batch of stones is available in a mere eight days.”
said Brilon in response.

“That might not be quite true.” Zazaril squeaked out.

“Which part?” this time the question came from Dar’ell.  His
amber magestone flared on the bracer he wore on his wrist.  His gaze was hard,
accusatory, and it was aimed at Zazaril.

Zazaril cringed.  “The Emperor had a scaazi scent my quafa'shilaar
amulet.”  There was complete silence again in the chamber as all present
weighed her words.

Finally Endergot spoke quietly into the void.  “So, they
know where we are, or can at least find us, if they so choose, while you’re
here.  We can move Mahad’avor, but they could still track us.  Your life is
forfeit if we do not come up with two hundred magestones by the end of the
month, which is just seven days away, so you cannot stay in Tala’ahar much
longer.  But if we give up almost all of our magestones to appease the Emperor,
we will be defenceless if he, or someone else, does choose to attack, or at
least have his forces pay a visit.  This is too neat and tidy.  Someone has
engineered this all somehow.  We need to find out who, and how.  Who would
benefit most if the Empire and the Dar'Shilaar began to disagree or possibly
fight?”

The obvious answer hung in the air unspoken.  Goralon.

---o---

Marisha’ilea climbed the circular stairs towards Endergot’s
study, alone.  She was thinking about the emergency session that had just gone
into recess for each of The Seven to deliberate on the courses of action
available to them.  They were to be reconvening again after lunch.    Endergot
had not traversed the stairs with her today, their usual teasing game
forgotten, and had immediately relented to her insistence on Transporting
himself to his chambers.  She was worried.  It appeared his age and this crisis
was wearing on him, and she knew there was nothing she could do to help.

She knocked on the sturdy oak door.  No one answered.  She
knocked a second time, slightly louder.  This was not a door that she wanted to
try the handle to see if it was unlocked.  The wards would certainly
incapacitate her, if not seriously injure her.  After another moment she heard
Endergot’s voice beckon her in.  She opened the door cautiously and stepped
into the room.

As she closed the door, she turned to find Endergot sitting
in his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace staring into the flames. 
The flame sprites were still there, jumping from log to log, throwing balls of
fire at each other.  He didn’t move as she sat in her usual spot in the chair
next to his.

She waited quietly, watching the capricious sprites dance
and jump in the fire, creating little footprints of flame where they stepped
along the wood.  She knew he would speak when, and only when, he wanted to. 
She was an elf, and as with most elves, she had learned patience.

Eventually, after more than a bell had passed, she could
finally wait no more.  “The lunch bell approaches, and Henkelan will be up soon
with your meal.  Have you come to a decision?”

Endergot made no move to answer, just sat, staring into the
flames.  Finally he spoke, her quiet ears able to pick the words up easily. 
“What observations do you have from today’s session?  I need aid in making my
decision; maybe your input will sway me.”

“Well, it appears this warlock, if indeed this is all his
work, has managed to put the Emperor and the Dar'Shilaar into a precarious
spot.  ‘Between a rock and a stone’ I believe the saying goes.  We obviously
cannot turn over Zazaril to the Emperor for torture and death, nor can we make
ourselves defenceless by turning over all our quafa'shilaar, as Brilon has
suggested.  That is even assuming the Emperor has figured out how to use bound
quafa'shilaar in a different way than their current uses.  Or maybe he has
determined a way to break the bond.  Without one of those revelations, the
stones would be useless to him anyway."

"However, if we do not capitulate to the Emperor’s
demands, what other options do we have, other than fleeing?” continued Marisha’ilea
as she pressed her fingers together in front of her face, staring past them
into the flames.  There had to be a way out.

“Truly, that is the fundamental question, is it not?”
Endergot said, weariness evident in his voice.

“I also thought I noted a reaction from one of the other
Recorders during the council session.  Not sure if his reaction is important in
this situation, but he is from Goralon, based on his coloring and facial
features.”  All those that came to Mahad’avor were required to formerly
renounce their ties and allegiances to any place or person but the Dar'Shilaar. 
That was the rule, but it did not mean that they did not hold a special place
in their heart for the country or city of their birth, as she did.  That could
be all that she had noted, or it could be more.  She made a note to herself to
look into it.

She heard a quiet knock on the study door, and then the door
opened.  Henkelan backed into the room carrying a tray containing Endergot’s
lunch.  Marisha’ilea studied him a moment, his greying hair thinning on top,
and sprouting from his ears almost as much as Endergot’s.  He was tall and rail
thin, to the point of skeletal, and carried himself with a stiff back, which
was starting to bend with age – he wasn’t that much younger than Endergot.  He
wore the standard livery of Mahad’avor – forest green with yellow.  She noted
the charm he wore about his long neck that indicated his position as head of
the staff.  It also gave the wearer the ability to ignore most of the wards in
Mahad’avor so they could do the work the position required without getting
injured or killed by an errant spell.  He placed the tray on a side table, and
began to arrange the silverware and crockery.

“I will see you after the recess,” she said to her mentor,
who nodded his head absently as she rose.  She nodded a silent acknowledgement
to Henkelan, who returned the nod, and saw herself out.  The next few hours
were going to be something to be talked about.

It was late.  The emergency session had lasted most of the
afternoon, with each of The Seven presenting their position with arguments and
being questioned by the other six as to how they would work.  It was quite
entertaining.  His master had tied the situation into a nice box with a neat
and tidy bow.  And now he knew the result and couldn’t wait to share it with
his master, to tell him how well things were working out.  It was almost his
shift at the felia'shilaar - the magemirror.  He didn’t mind having the night shift
as it allowed him a lot of freedom that he wouldn’t otherwise have.

The day shift had many of the Dar'Shilaar of Mahad’avor coming
and going, having the students send out messages and missives to other mirrors
across the Empire, and to the embassies.  At night, no one bothered to do so,
knowing that most everyone else was asleep, or should be so.  Only special
messages came in at night, usually the urgent or the secretive.  And he liked
seeing those messages.  They allowed him to learn things he might not
otherwise, and in two cases, he had not recorded the message, and in so doing
had brought about his part in the current situation.

He reached magemirror room number three and opened the door
to find two other students working together in the room.  It appeared they were
practicing at spells and counter spells, their quafa'shilaar - their magestones
flaring, while they waited for any messages.  As they noticed him, they stopped
their casting and took a break.

“It looks like my replacement is here,” chimed the male,
“See you tomorrow for lunch?” he directed at the female.

“Yes, I look forward to it,” she responded, her voice like
water trickling over glass, all musical and sparkly.  It grated on Koltan’s
nerves.

“Treat her well, but challenge her,” the male student, whom
Koltan seemed to recall was named Durkinal, directed his way.

“You’re not both going?” Koltan inquired a little too
quickly.  He looked away quickly and moved towards the desk.

“Why no,” answered the girl, who seemed like one of the
second or third year students, “I got in trouble with Faradan this morning, and
after a hundred lines he banished me here for two shifts.  My name is Serah.” 
She stuck out her hand, which Koltan ignored, setting his books down on the
side desk with a slight frown.  How would he be able to talk with his mentor if
this girl was here the whole shift?

“See you tomorrow,” Durkinal directed to Serah, and closed
the door behind him, not waiting for an answer.

Koltan had an idea.  “So what were you two working on when I
arrived?” he asked with feigned interest.

Serah smiled, “Durk was showing me how to defend myself
against harmful spells.  Would you be able to help me also?”  Koltan smiled, it
was too easy.

“Certainly.  Prepare yourself.”  With that he took several
steps backwards in the round room, so he was facing her, hands outstretched. 
“Ready?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly.

“
Cravash!
” he intoned and flung marbles of light from
his fingers directly at her.

“
Voydu!
” Serah responded, creating a glowing shield
before her that absorbed the marbles of light before flaring away into
nothingness.

“Very good.  Try this.” He directed, and intoned his next
spell under his breath so she would have less of an idea what was coming. 
Suddenly whirling blades of grey appeared from his hands and flew towards her.

“
Drasto!
” she spat, causing yellow orbs of light to
streak in every direction in front of her, like the sky lights they set off at
the High Sun Festival, each one intercepting and overloading the power of his
Whirling Blades.  She smiled smugly, which Koltan felt along his spine.

“Acceptable.”  He turned his shoulder slightly to block this
middling amateur’s view as he ran his thumbnail, sharpened just for this
purpose, along his palm cutting it open to allow the blood to pool there.  “Try
this.”

His words were garbled, like nothing the girl had ever heard
before, nor would ever hear again, as the blood ritual took hold, drawing its
power from Koltan, taking a life of its own.  Black shadows rose around the girl,
who began to look afraid.  Like tentacles the shadows began to feel about,
touching the girl’s arm, causing her to jerk away as if burned.  He could see
frost covering that patch of skin.

“
Braxafar!
” she nearly screamed, causing flames to
engulf her body, but not consume it.  Anyone trying to touch her would be
burned, and it would even protect her from cold for a period of time, but this
was not cold.  It was the nothingness of the ether.  Another tentacle of
nothing touched her leg, and caused the fire to wink out in that area, more
frost burning her leg.  She screamed in pain and dropped to one knee.  “I
relent!” she cried, “You win!” looking up at him, tears in her eyes.

“Yes I do.  Win I mean.  I do not relent.”  His eyes bored
into hers, no mercy to be found within.

The girl looked up in horror as the tentacles began to close
around her, causing her protective fire to vanish and frost to begin to cover
her body.  “Please, I will… do anything…” she pleaded between sobs.

“You only need to do one thing.”

“What is it?  Please tell me and I will do it.  Anything!” 
Tears were running down her face and freezing to her chin.

“Die,” he replied as the tentacles surrounded her, one
snaking down her throat to silence her screams.

---o---

Koltan knelt before the small magemirror a short while later,
after stashing the girl’s body in the nearby well containing one of the nine
magestones powering the sky citadel.  No one had actually gone into the wells
or tunnels in as long as Koltan had been at Mahad’avor.  He figured the body
might never be discovered, freeze-dried as it was it would never rot or give
off smell.

“The Council has voted not to capitulate to the Emperor,” he
said to his master on the other side of the mirror.  They could communicate in
shadow form, but this required less energy and preparation.  “Instead, they
will close up the embassy and relocate Mahad’avor to another part of Kaladahn. 
Brilon was very convincing in his argument to hand over the stones of the
existing Dar'Shilaar.  It was definitely the swaying point against that
solution.”

The tall form looked past the kneeling Koltan in thought. 
“Either result works to our advantage,” the figure whispered.  “Each path works
in its own way.”

Koltan kept his head down.  He thought he heard approval in
his master’s voice, but it may just be a trick of his own mind.  His master was
not generous in his praise.

“Did you manage to determine why the Emperor needed so many
stones?”

“No, even the ambassador was not told,” he responded with
scorn.

“Nevertheless, the time that we will act is near.  The night
of the Spring Solstice will be moonless and exceptionally dark this year.  It
is then that the next step in our plan will occur,” continued the whispering of
his master.

“And will I be able to return to you then, master?” he
inquired hopefully.

“No.”  His master’s voice ripped through his hopes like
paper.  “You have one more task to accomplish before you return to me.”

“Anything!” he said, the irony of the repeating scene bitter
on his tongue.

And so the warlock told him.  And he was both scared and
excited.