Per the Luxian teachings, Insights were blessings to share, just as Lux had shared knowledge with humans after he’d infused them with magic. Teaching spells was encouraged in theory, but a human giving away raw magic through lodestones was considered a false imitation of Lux’s powerful gift—it was considered blasphemy. Spells were harmless currency. Raw, biological magic was not to be shared.
Worse, the teachings of Lux stated that a lodestone-maker could steal another person’s magic and store it in a stone for later use. Melaine knew that was a ridiculous notion. Magic could never be stolen. Lodestones had to be freely created by their makers and willingly given to someone else. And lodestone-makers could only infuse their own magic into a stone, not anyone else’s.
But the idea of a poor, low-bred person harnessing a nobleman’s magic was too dangerous. The incorrect logic of the Luxians hadn’t stopped them from using all fear tactics at their disposal to dominate Dramore for years. It hadn’t stopped the violent hunt of “accursed” lodestone-makers from happening. The imprisonment of all blasphemers, the mass executions, all approved by King Malik’s rule.
But the Overlord had changed all of that. He banned the Luxian religion; he encouraged the secular exploration of magic that had been suppressed by them. He rewrote laws and made sure they were enforced.
Yet he was still vilified by so many. Too many people judged the ethics of the methods he used to conquer the city, and the masses who had supported the Luxians refused to believe the Overlord had changed the kingdom for the better.
Melaine knew she shouldn’t dawdle in the day’s preparations, but she felt compelled to walk a few more feet along the wall. She passed by the back of the Greasy Goat until she stood in a small space between the pub and the piddling grocer’s shop next door. There, plastered on the wall months ago, was a frayed broadsheet. Ones just like it were posted on numerous streetlamp poles and sides of buildings. Twice a year, Shields would come through the Stakeside wall to escort the plasterers through the gritty streets where they would put the broadsheets up. Even Stakeside residents deserved to see—or be reminded of—the Overlord’s powerful visage.
If any other posters had been put up in Stakeside, they would have been stripped that very hour to be used as chamber pot paper or stuffing for bedding or tinder. But if the Shields came through again to see pictures of the Overlord missing or desecrated, there would be random beatings in the street for the act of heresy. Melaine had witnessed it before.
That knowledge was the only thing that kept her from removing the broadsheet she looked at now. There had been many times when she’d been tempted to take it down and bring it with hurried steps to her room, where she could look at it for as long as she liked before bed at night and imagine her own face on a broadsheet, reigning over the city, leaving Stakeside far behind.
The Overlord had filled her head ever since she was old enough to comprehend the stories adults told in pubs or on the streets. Melaine had listened with avid anticipation whenever some old-timer would talk about the Overlord’s insurgence and the brief Praivalon War that followed, which had neared its end just after Melaine was born. Stories of the young, fierce Overlord charging into the White City with his armies and his mighty Followers to take the kingdom of Dramore for his own. Stories of the powerful magic he used to solidify his reign when the foreign kingdom of Praivalon attacked, their King Vasos trying to take advantage of Dramore’s political turmoil. The Overlord had beaten them back swiftly and without fail. Even the tales of the horrific atrocities, fueled by dark magic, that he and his Followers performed made Melaine’s heart pound with excitement.
To have fought in that war, to have ridden on horseback at the Overlord’s side, to watch him take the power he wanted for his own without conscience, without hesitation, everything blocking his way be damned…. Those imaginings had kept Melaine going in her darkest hours. Whenever she was on the verge of giving up on her hopes of escape from the life she led, she envisioned the Overlord in all of his indomitable glory, and she would go on for another day.
She looked at the Overlord’s face on the wall, painted by some artist’s hand. A replication spell had then copied it onto hundreds of broadsheets to be spread throughout the city. The broadsheets served as a reminder that he was always watching, that his overseers and his Followers were protecting Dramore, Centara, and all who lived within.
The painted image hadn’t changed for at least five years now, but Melaine knew the Overlord must still look as strong and magnificent as he did when the painting was rendered. The ruler’s black hair framed his pale, statuesque face and touched his shoulders, a few strands wisping out as if he were riding a warhorse in the wind. His every feature was strong, with a noble brow, straight nose, and sharp jawline. His eyes were what had captivated Melaine from the moment she saw his face. They were a fierce, bright blue. Even in the faded colors of the months-old poster, she could see in his eyes how full of life and passion the Overlord was.
He was a constant in her life, as unwavering and expected as the dawn. Yet, the truth was, no one had heard of him before the war. No one knew his birth name or where he came from. Rumors circulated, some spoken in more hushed tones than others. Some people speculated that he wasn’t from Dramore at all but hailed from one of the other four kingdoms. They claimed he had seen Dramore’s political disease and Luxian-decreed executions from a distance and decided that something had to be done. Others agreed with that origin but viewed him as an avaricious plunderer rather than a savior. A handful of people thought both he and his dark magic came from the Wilds, though that was the most outlandish, to be sure. No one who went into that foreboding forest ever came out. No human could survive the Wilds.
One of the most common viewpoints, and Melaine’s personal slant, was that he was once a lesser-known noble who persuaded those who knew him to “forget” his old life. She couldn’t imagine him possessing any less wealth and magnificence than he had now, and he’d fought for Dramore with such fervor and invested so much wealth into Centara, it seemed impossible he could have been born anywhere else.
“Melaine,” called Salma, startling Melaine from her reverie. She looked back toward the Greasy Goat, where Salma stood halfway out the back door. “Starin’ at that ol’ thing again? Come get yah breakfast before s’all gone.”
Melaine clicked her tongue but nodded. She pulled herself away from the Overlord’s visage and walked to the Greasy Goat’s back door.
“Someone who didn’t know any better might think yah’re sweet on him,” Salma said with a wink.
“Good thing you know better,” Melaine said.
Melaine didn’t view the Overlord at all like a man—he was nothing like the leering brutes in the streets. She had no doubt that the ruler was above the primal urges that kept other men drowning in lust. The Overlord was different.
“Ah yes, Follower Melaine,” Salma said with a mock bow. She chuckled as Melaine scowled and ducked through the doorway. “Used ta talk about that when yah were a little thing, do yah remember? Bread’s on the counter, love.”
Melaine stalked to the pub’s serving counter and grabbed the hunk of bread Salma had left for her. All of her meals were included in her rent. Salma might be a friend, but nothing came free in Stakeside.
She grabbed a chair at the closest table and sat down. She took a bite of bread, but it tasted dry in her mouth—and not just because it was stale. Salma’s words were eating at her more than her usual teases.
Follower Melaine. Back when she’d had dreams. Back when she hadn’t known any better. Back when she’d been foolish enough to think that a nobody-orphan from Stakeside could ever set eyes on the real Overlord. Back when, even as a small child, the Stakeside wall hadn’t seemed so high.
Salma followed her into the pub’s main room, which was empty so far, and she slid behind the counter. Her olive-green skirts were cleaner than Melaine’s but were still worn and patched. Her hair bounced with curls that were a unique shade of auburn
, though graying around the edges. Salma’s bosom was much more pronounced than Melaine’s, and the pub matron was smart enough in her business to deepen her cleavage for drunken men to lose themselves in.
Salma might have survived Stakeside longer than many, but she still looked good for her age, an even rarer achievement. Good stock, Salma had always said, though as far as Melaine knew, Salma’s parents hadn’t been anything special. Just another pub owner and his wife. If Salma had gotten anything good from them, it’d been the Greasy Goat.
“Thought yah’d be more chipper this mornin’,” Salma remarked as she started stacking scratched, but clean, tin mugs behind the counter. “I heard Vintor was lookin’ for yah yesterday. Might want ta find him. See what he says.” She sent Melaine a conspiratorial smile.
“I already did,” Melaine said, picking at the crust on her bread with one fingernail. “Our business is ‘concluded.’”
Salma frowned and leaned on the counter. “What? He’s turnin’ down your stones?”
“Buyers are. The Luxians are scaring them away.” Melaine raised her bread to Salma in a wry toast and then took a miserable bite. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and let the bread hit her roiling stomach as she considered the loss of opportunity she’d endured.
“Wise of Vintor,” a woman said from the front door of the pub. Melaine twisted in her chair to see the familiar face of Jianthe. She stepped into the pub and shut the door behind her.
Jianthe was a scrawny woman, even by Stakeside standards. She wore a dress made from spare strips of any colorful fabric she could lay her hands on. She left the garment free at the hems, so strips swayed in a light, mystical way that made her look like a gilded feather-duster.
She was a descendent of immigrants from Zraihya, one of the most distant kingdoms from Dramore. Over sixty years ago, Zraihyans had been invited en masse by King Malik because of their skilled craftsmanship in navigation magic and as cartwrights. His offer of payment was so generous, it seemed no one questioned his reasons for needing their services, and Zraihya had been suffering from a severe drought back then. The number of people who took him up on his offer was enormous.
But when the Overlord conquered Dramore, he had closed all its borders at once. He had offered safe passage for a limited time for Zraihyans to return to their homeland if they wished, but with their travel-related services no longer a commodity, most couldn’t afford to travel themselves. Now, the ones who remained were trapped within Dramore’s closed borders and had no choice but to enter other, typically less lucrative, lines of work. Resentment against the Overlord was even more pervasive among the Zraihyan people than most Dramorean natives.
Like most Zraihyans, Jianthe had green eyes, dark brown skin, and thick blonde hair. She’d woven her textured locks into braids that also contained feathers, colorful beads, and other sundries that added to her colorful, slinking appearance. She also wore her usual sly smile.
“Those Luxian bastards are causing quite a fuss uptown,” Jianthe continued as she slipped between tables on her way to Salma and Melaine. “Even the overseers aren’t indulging in their little vices as often.”
“Thought I told yah not ta spy on me,” Salma said, but her tone was light. She knew as well as anyone that telling Jianthe not to eavesdrop was futile.
Jianthe was a well-known and vital member of Stakeside society. At one fortunate point in her life, she had come into possession of a highly valuable Insight containing a keen-ear spell. She had since made her livelihood as a keeper and divulger of secrets. Whether she did one or the other was a matter of the highest payment that any concerned parties could shell out.
It was a dangerous job. She had stumbled into the Greasy Goat numerous times with injuries inflicted by an angry person wanting to shut her up. But it seemed that there was always an opposing person who would give her enough protection to live another day.
This morning, she was unharmed. She settled herself in a chair opposite Melaine, a smile stretched across her face. Salma poured her usual choice of drink after a long night of eavesdropping and brought it to the table. Jianthe sent her a fliratious wink in thanks. Salma blushed and looked aside, but she shook her auburn locks a little, preening from the attention.
“So, it’s like Vintor says?” Melaine asked, her voice down. “No one’s buying lodestones anymore?”
“Oh, here, I’m sure they are,” Jianthe said, taking a sip of her drink with relish. “People are always in need of a boost for their hard labors, personal exploits…”
Salma snorted, and Jianthe chuckled. Melaine ignored them. She knew why people bought her lodestones. Jianthe was right in saying that some customers only wanted energy to keep them going in honest labors for days straight, but most had more nefarious uses. Pitch fighters used them to gain a cheating edge for their next match. Thieves used them in petty thefts, even a grand heist now and again. Even murderers sometimes paid Melaine for a stone, guaranteeing that their magic would be more powerful than their opponent’s, should their victim put up a fight.
Melaine had no qualms with whatever use her magic was put to once it left her body and entered a lodestone. That was the customer’s business. She had been asked once before to perform a murder for a client, rather than just selling him a stone. She had refused. On several occasions, she had been asked to join in a heist or a scheme for riches, but she had turned them all down. Though she’d never been invited to compete, she knew, even with her magic, she was too skinny and small to win a fight against a typical trained, muscular pitch fighter.
The acts she had been asked to perform didn’t give her pause from a moral standpoint. Everyone did what they had to in order to survive, even Melaine. But as much as she detested selling her magic away, she knew lodestones were the most reliable source of income she could attain. Murders could easily go south. Most of the big heists she’d heard of had failed. And, as degrading as lodestone-peddling was, it made her more money than any honest, laboring job ever could.
Lodestones were consistent. They were in demand, and following the Luxian’s past generational purge, she was one of the few people born in Dramore with the ability to make them.
But lately, consistent and safe didn’t sound so good anymore.
“Ah, Melaine, cheer up,” Jianthe said, raising her glass. “You’ll always have a place in Stakeside.”
“The overseers have vices,” Melaine said as an idea prodded her brain.
“Yah’re surprised?” Salma asked.
“No,” Melaine said. She looked at Jianthe and lowered her voice. “People can use that against them, though. Right?”
Jianthe raised an eyebrow, and the corner of her red lips matched.
“Of course, they have vices,” she said. “Which is why they come here for their very worst.”
“Here?” Melaine asked with an incredulous bite of her bread. “To Stakeside?”
Jianthe nodded, leaning forward with delight.
“Then…” Melaine lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. She knew Jianthe, with her keen-ear spell, would hear it. “They can be blackmailed.”
Jianthe’s lips quirked in an even curvier smile. Her green eyes flicked in a sneaky affirmation, but then she sidled back in her chair and sipped her drink.
“I’m afraid, though, that no one in Stakeside has that power. Who would listen to us? Well”—she nodded at Melaine—“to you. Everyone knows I, at least, might have something of worth to tell, even the residents of Crossing’s Square.”
Melaine felt a familiar resentment burn in her chest. It mingled with disappointment and the temptation to resign herself to her fate. But she pushed it all aside and sat straighter in her chair.
“Whatever do you want to blackmail an overseer for?” Jianthe asked. Salma startled behind the counter.
“Do what?” Salma asked. Melaine glared at Jianthe for outing her words at a volume Salma could hear.
“What about bribes?” Melaine asked, ignoring Salma. “You pass on
information for payment. It’s possible to trade secrets for favors, isn’t it?”
“What favor could you possibly want from an overseer?” Jianthe asked.
“Melaine,” Salma said, her lips pursed.
“Is it true that the Overlord doesn’t accept audiences with the public anymore?” Melaine asked.
“Not for the past five years,” Jianthe said, sounding like she was humoring her for now.
“But the overseers still see him.”
“They do,” she said.
“So…the only way to the Overlord is through an overseer,” Melaine said quietly.
“Mela, what an outrageous idea,” Salma said. “We shouldn’t be talking about this, not a one of us.”
Melaine bristled at the childhood nickname.
“The very idea of meeting the Overlord,” Salma continued, forcing a laugh. She returned to her preparations for the day’s business, in this case, watering the hearth-brandy. “I thought yah stopped with that childish prattle years ago. If yah’d been alive when the Overlord—”
Salma stopped and licked her lips in a nervous habit. She focused on corking the hearth-brandy bottle. Then she grabbed the one beside it and started counting each pour of water she added.
“Maybe you could spare me a secret,” Melaine whispered to Jianthe. “I’ll pay you in installments.” Jianthe held up a hand to stop her.
“You couldn’t afford me, dear,” she said. “Not for a secret involving an overseer. Besides, secrets are my domain. My advice? Stick to lodestones. You’re good at it. Everyone uptown thinks so.” She gave her another conspiratorial grin. Melaine only frowned in return.
“Thank you, Salma, as always,” Jianthe said, tipping her glass. Salma nodded. Jianthe didn’t fish in her pocket for coins. Even with Salma, she’d paid for a drink-a-day for life with some secret or another.
Lodestone Page 4
