Lodestone

by Katherine Forrister

  She remained awake till morning.

  Chapter 8

  Sleepwalking, Melaine decided.

  That was the only explanation for the Overlord’s strange behavior the night before. When she arrived in the great hall under Karina’s instructions mere hours later, he made no mention of their brief encounter. She didn’t dare bring it up, but he acted as if nothing had gone amiss.

  He did, however, hold out his palm as soon as she sat down at a table that had been placed far from the dais that held the formidable throne.

  “Lodestones,” he said, his voice scratchy. He had been twisting his neck and shoulders when she’d walked in, and now his hunched body looked like every bone and muscle ached.

  “Stones?” she asked.

  “Two,” he said, curt and bitter as he always sounded when he expressed his need for her magic. Did he hate being vulnerable as much as she did?

  If he did, that didn’t stop him from making her feel weak by taking her stones. Melaine frowned deeply but lowered her head so he wouldn’t catch all of her displeasure. She slowly peeled off her glove, exposing her bare palm to his eyes.

  He had never asked for two stones in one day. She knew she shouldn’t resent it—he was training her as she had wished, and she still didn’t have to make near as many stones as she used to. But as she pulled the second stone from her body, she couldn’t help but feel a familiar hatred for being used.

  The Overlord took them both, inhaling one right after the other. He took a moment to catch his breath, to feel her magic flooding his veins, and when a little color crept back into his deathly, pale face, he gestured toward a narrow wooden box resting on the table beside him.

  “I have something for you,” he murmured. His voice still scratched like sandpaper.

  Melaine raised her eyebrows. The Overlord slid the box into her hands with care. She got the impression that lifting it would have been beyond his capabilities.

  “Open it,” he said.

  She raised her hand toward the box but hesitated, the dangers from the night before creeping into her mind. He had just asked her for two stones, more of her magic than usual. What if her suspicions of him stealing Talem’s magic held weight? What if the Overlord craved her magic so much that he meant her harm? What if something horrible was in the box?

  “It’s not a snake,” the Overlord commented.

  Melaine flushed. She pinched her lips together and flung the lid open on its hinges. Her eyes grew round. She halted her rebellious speed.

  “A wand,” she uttered, her voice hardly there.

  She had never been this close to one before. But oh, how many times she had ached to touch one, envious of the pretentious thieves who’d managed to get their hands on one after a successful heist in Crossing’s Square. As if they even knew how to use a wand. Most only paraded them around for show, just like the previous, rich owners did.

  This wand, however, didn’t look like it would ever be waved around by a rich person. It was not carved with ornate scrollwork or gilded with gold and jewels. It was instead rough-hewn from dull wood. The shaft wasn’t perfectly straight, and there was no distinct handle to ensure a firm grip. A small spike of indignation hit Melaine, making her realize that the Overlord wouldn’t waste any of his good wands on someone like her. But that thought was overridden by her awe-filled lust for any wand at all.

  “Take it,” the Overlord said. His voice was tinged with impatience but also carried a hushed excitement.

  Melaine took a quick breath and snatched the wand from its box. A shudder ran through her as she held it, and a dirty, strong flood of magical grit grated her skin—the same sensation she’d experienced when touching the root Insight in the library, but worse. She flung the wand away and jerked her hand back. The wand hit the floor, and Melaine scooted her chair back with a twist of disgust on her lips.

  She flexed her hand, now coated in residual magic, and glared at the Overlord.

  “Why would you give me that?” she said. “Your idea of a joke?”

  The Overlord’s cold eyes met hers, and fear flashed through her as it dawned on her how she had just spoken to him. But she held her ground and his gaze.

  “Not to your liking?” he asked.

  She scoffed. “I guess you think even that’s too good for me. A stonegirl doesn’t deserve better than a wand coated in refuse? If that’s your idea of charity, I don’t want it.”

  The Overlord was silent for a moment—calm, his visage unreadable. Then, he flicked his hand toward the wand. A soft, glimmering wisp of crystal blue magic flowed from his hand and wreathed the wand like frost. Melaine’s lips parted as she admired his raw magic’s beauty, and she watched the wand rise from the ground and into his grasp. He shifted it to lay flat upon his open palm on display. He showed no disgust, which baffled her.

  “You gleaned knowledge from the tree root Insight through its residual magic,” he said. “Why is this different?”

  “There was only a little on that root, and that was bad enough,” Melaine countered. “That wand is…filthy.”

  “It hasn’t been used in a very long time,” the Overlord said.

  “Neither had that old root.”

  “Wands are different from Insights,” the Overlord said in his lecturing tone. “Insights were once living. Wands, in a sense, are living. And this one is from my personal collection. Are you going to refuse it?”

  Melaine eyed the wand as if it was a cockroach and fought the urge to run and wash her hands. People had gotten ill off of far less residual magic than what tainted that wand. But the Overlord held it with ease, and whatever caused his weakness didn’t match the symptoms of the res sickness.

  She hadn’t gotten sick from residual magic since she was a little girl, despite the filth of Stakeside. After a long moment’s hesitation, she gave in and took the wand from the Overlord’s proffered hand. She shuddered as she felt the magic scrape her fingers, but she twirled the wand a little, trying to focus on the speck of cleaner magic she felt within, just as she had with the empty root Insight. And that cleaner magic beat strong like a heartbeat. Its cool, breathtaking energy felt like the Overlord’s magic.

  Then she felt her own magic pouring from her fingers as if reaching for the magic of the wand. As soon as their magic combined, the residual magic started to chaff away like dead skin. It was as if the wand was another person, working with her instead of just infusing her with static knowledge as an Insight would. The wand craved to learn and practice magic just as much as she did.

  “Do you see?” the Overlord asked, leaning forward.

  She nodded slowly. “I think so.”

  A wry smile curved the corner of the Overlord’s mouth. He rested his elbows on the table and linked his fingers together. “Do you know where I got this wand, Melaine?”

  She shook her head, still focusing on the flow of magic between herself and the wand.

  “I whittled it from the shaft of a broom handle,” he said.

  “What?” Melaine asked, looking up.

  “This was my first wand,” the Overlord said. “It took years to make it. Years to collect enough magic to give it any use.” His eyes darkened and flicked to the side before returning to Melaine. “Are you telling me that a wand crafted with this much care is not good enough for you, Stonegirl?”

  Melaine swallowed and contained her impulsive retort.

  “Why did you have to do that?” she asked instead. “Make a wand that way?”

  The Overlord chuckled. “I thought you would have caught on by now that I wasn’t always rich.” He nodded at the wand. “How does it feel?”

  A smile touched Melaine’s lips. Now that the residual magic had reduced to nearly nothing, the thrill of holding a real wand returned. Residual magic or not, this wand felt powerful. The longer she held it, the more she felt infused with its magic, meeting with her own that pulsed through her veins. It was such a heady feeling that it caused her to sway.

  “Good,” she answered.
She studied the wand with a closer eye, drawn to its every detail, every scratch, every nick, and uneven edge.

  “Tell me, Melaine,” the Overlord said after a moment, pulling her from her immersion. “Do you have anyone out there?” He inclined his head toward a window. “Anyone who misses you?”

  Melaine hmphed. “No.”

  “You’re an orphan,” he said. “But surely there is someone?”

  Melaine shook her head. “There’s only me, my lord.”

  After the words left her mouth, a delayed warning bell tolled in her consciousness, too slow for comfort. The state in which she had found Talem’s body last night crawled into her head. She still didn’t know if the Overlord was somehow responsible for Talem’s drained magic. Admitting that she had no family and no one who would miss her if she never returned was probably not the wisest idea.

  “Have you ever had any desire to find your parents?” the Overlord asked. His voice was reflective. The change in his line of questioning felt less threatening. Perhaps she was overreacting.

  “No. Why bother?”

  “Perhaps you have relatives somewhere. You might come from a good family, possibly even a wealthy one. Have you never considered it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. No righteous, upstanding person wants anything to do with a stonegirl. Not even blood. They wouldn’t want to lower their status that way.”

  He eyed her with a subtle, conspiratorial look. His mouth twitched in a hint of a smile. “Ah, but the upstanding never have any real power.”

  Melaine frowned and looked from the wand to the Overlord. When he smiled like that, she felt compelled to look away and draw into herself, conjuring an image of blinding sunlight that flashed through thin cracks in a stone wall. He seemed less imposing and more honest, more like a real person. More…more than just an Overlord.

  “I…” Melaine’s cheeks grew hot as she avoided his striking blue eyes. She took a deep breath, and her thoughts slowed and focused. A small ache throbbed in her chest, dull and long-resigned. “I suppose, sometimes, I’ve thought that my parents may have died…may have been killed by the Luxians in the aftermath of the war. I can make lodestones. Maybe they could, too. Maybe they died before you were able to banish the Order.”

  She gnawed the inside of her cheek, still not looking at him. She had never talked to anyone about her theories, though she knew Salma had probably guessed the same thing.

  She heard him sigh, but otherwise, he was silent.

  “People say the Luxians are coming back,” she said. “That man…that prisoner I saw my first day here…” She didn’t dare name Talem. She couldn’t reveal that she’d spoken to Serj about his brother. “He wore the crest of Lux. People say you aren’t doing anything about the resurgence of the Order, but…” She finally looked up. “Are you?”

  The Overlord was sitting straighter than he had been. His eyes flickered with concern.

  “I hoped those were the rantings of a lunatic,” he said. “I’ll have my overseers look into the Luxians in Centara. They’ll root them out.”

  “People say some of the overseers are part of the Order,” Melaine said before she could stop herself.

  The Overlord looked aside, his expression pensive, but Melaine couldn’t tell what his reaction meant. He swallowed and massaged his throat as if it pained him, an absent gesture while his eyes lurked in shadowed thoughts. The man looked tired. So tired. She’d never imagined that carrying the weight of an entire kingdom on one’s shoulders could be so hard.

  The fine-lined crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes deepened, but then he exhaled, coming out of his reverie.

  “I want you to practice using the wand today,” he said. He nodded to a small collection of Insights at the end of the long table. “Touch those with your wandering hands and glean what they know. You’ll find a wand very helpful with this vein of spell work.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Melaine said. She wanted to press him more, to ask why he was letting his overseers run the city when they were so corrupt while he was holed up in Highstrong, claiming he was experimenting with magic when in reality he was too weak to show his face to his people.

  His reminder of the lesson ahead, however, persuaded her to push all questions aside. She stood from her chair and walked to the assortment of Insights. As with all Insights, they were odd things, all containing organic matter of one kind or another. Many were coated in silver or plaster, decorated with trappings so that the twig or hair or animal horn inside was hidden from view.

  She scanned the lot and then picked up a small statue of a rathmor. She’d seen a street artist draw one of the beasts before, but this depiction of the sinewy carnivore was crafted from porcelain. Its hunched, feline body and long legs looked incredibly lifelike, as if the creature was about to pounce on unsuspecting prey in the eastern deserts. One of its many teeth was larger and sharper than the others, coated in gold. No doubt that was the real rathmor’s tooth, in which the deep knowledge of the Insight was contained.

  Melaine touched the tip of the sharp tooth. A spike of magic shot through her. Her whole body stiffened, and she heard a fierce snarl as the power of a beast coiled in her muscles. She gasped as the internal beast leapt up her spine and dug its claws into her brain, sinking its teeth into her mind so deeply she would never forget the rathmor’s spell. As she held the wand in her tight fist, she understood why the Overlord had summoned her to the great hall rather than the library.

  She set the rathmor statue back down and looked up. A series of moth-eaten tapestries lined the wall opposite the table. She smiled fiercely and aimed her wand at a woven man riding horseback.

  “May I?” she asked, keeping her gaze fixed on the tapestry with predatory focus.

  “Yes.”

  Melaine raised the wand and thrust her arm toward the man in the tapestry. A burst of yellow magic sprang from the wand like a rathmor’s pounce. It hit the tapestry with an enormous bang and split each thread wide. When the magic disappeared, a large, black hole smoldered on the wall where the man’s moth-eaten face had been.

  Melaine felt a powerful thrill overcome her every sense.

  Battle magic.

  “Well done,” the Overlord murmured. “Do you see how the wand channels your magic into a more direct, powerful surge? Wands are practically essential in casting any spell that needs precise aim.”

  Melaine smiled at his praise and looked at him. He still seemed pensive, only half of him within the great hall, the rest of his mind elsewhere. Her smile fell. His mediocre reaction rankled her mood, but she clenched her jaw and ignored him. She scooped up another Insight. This one was a black-and-white striped deraphant horn, nearly as long as her forearm, with a thick base that filled her palm. Like rathmors, she’d never seen a deraphant in person, but the lumbering, hooved herbivores were said to have faces covered in such horns. They used them to shove aside heavy stones and trees blocking their migratory paths through the northern mountains of Wrimid. She’d heard they could toss a boulder up in the air like it was a pebble.

  She eyed the rest of the Insights—a dried othyrem blossom that she knew could be poisonous if its fresh sap was touched, an eyeball in a jar that looked distinctly human, though its pupil glowed red, and a vial of ash and fingernails.

  Offensive battle spells, the lot of them.

  She smiled. This magic was why she had come to Highstrong Keep.

  Melaine cried out as crystal decanters and glass baubles exploded around her, shooting shards at the walls and windows of the hearth room adjoining her bedroom. She shielded her head until all was still. She darted her eyes to the guard statue outside of her room, still within sight. It remained dormant, wreathed in confining vines. Normally, she would have been in her room at this time of night, but she needed more space to work. She hoped, as long as she stayed within the statue’s sights, it wouldn’t compel her to return to her bedroom should it wake.

  She looked away from the statue and cringed at the sparkle of a glass s
liver embedded in her finger, punctured capillaries spilling blood through her split skin. Drops hit the glass shards around her, spreading on the surfaces and running along their edges until the red liquid hit the stone floor.

  Whispers seeped from the floor in indistinguishable words. Melaine strained her ears as her heart thudded against her chest. The whispers were haunting and many. They pulsed with ancient magic that smelled of decay and buried secrets. Her throat went dry as if she’d inhaled a cloud of smoke or ash. She coughed and tried to clear her throat, rubbing a hand over her mouth.

  The whispers…. They were the same as the ones within the ancient urn she had smashed. But she was nowhere near the urn or its ash-covered shards. Had she released something? If so…what?

  Melaine took a freeing breath and twitched the sliver of glass free from its invasion of her fingerprint. She raised her other hand, which held the Overlord’s wand, to compel the shattered glass to re-form into useless trinkets. She then concentrated on lifting the blood drops from the floor, but it was as if the stone had soaked them in like a sponge to feed the whispers that kept filling the air with an undercurrent of sorrow and fear. She wanted to scream at them to stop.

  Something crunched the broken glass in the curtained doorway that connected to the sitting room of her quarters. The magic she had summoned to clean up the blood halted in its tracks through her pathway of veins. She looked up and froze when she saw the shadowed form of the Overlord watching her from the arched doorway.

  The whispers collapsed into a collective whimper and ceased.

  “My lord,” she uttered. She licked her lips and pushed herself off the floor. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was practicing.”