Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1)

by Richard Innes

  Karvesh was built by his human ancestors centuries ago; a tribe that had survived through all the events, cataclysm, and genocide history could throw at it. The low sturdy, thick walls had repelled almost all invaders, and even when the Dartang tribes to the north had breached the outer walls two centuries ago, they found two more rings of walls within, and were crushed between them.

  Eighty-nine years ago, Emperor Randramas Kastrum had appeared out of nowhere at the head of a small army that claimed no allegiances to any of the eight warring provinces of Morteva, the central portion of the continent of Kaladahn across the Whitetooth Mountains to the west of Goralon. With only his small army, he managed the impossible; the defeat of the provincial army of Baran, and the seizure of its capital, though there are no records of how. With this success, a newly forged alliance with the Dar'Shilaar, and his growing army, he succeeded in defeating one province after another, until he had six of the eight provinces within his newly named Kastrum Imperium. The other two provinces, realizing the inevitability, bowed their heads to the self-appointed Emperor.

  The Empire flourished, while Goralon waned, watching from across the mountains to the east. Imperial envoys were sent to Goralon ensuing for peace, but were imprisoned, tortured for information, and killed. Once his grandfather believed he knew enough about the Emperor and his Imperial forces, he sent his armies through the pass to the west, attacking their eastern territories. For almost two months the Goralonian army went uncontested, until the Imperial Army arrived, overseen by three floating sky citadels.

  The Goralonian army was crushed down to the last man in less than two days. Reports indicated that the sky citadels rained flaming death from the sky, to which there was no defence. Those same citadels followed the Imperial army through the Pass of Maran’toral, to the walls of Karvesh, and demanded the Goralonians’ surrender.

  King Gorath, Gorlag’s grandfather, had no choice but to accept the peace treaty offered. A peace treaty at least, not outright defeat and absorption into the Empire. It was the only thing that kept his family on the throne. Even as a figurehead, his grandfather saw it as a bitter pill to swallow. But since the Emperor had left a large contingent of Imperial soldiers behind to ensure the peace treaty was enforced, no other choices were available. The Emperor even left a sky citadel guarding the only pass through the Whitetooth Mountains for hundreds of leagues north or south. On clear nights, sometimes you could even see the lights of the sky citadel hovering over the mountain pass thirty leagues to the northwest. It was meant as a none-too-subtle reminder of the consequences of his grandfather's choice.

  Gorlag wasn’t even born when his grandfather died, a hollow shell of the man he was in the past. His father, King Gorlan, became bitter after he ascended the throne, even with the new prosperity that Goralon had found in the twenty years since the Emperor had occupied Karvesh. His father’s greatest accomplishment in Gorlag’s eyes, and this was saying very little, was that he managed to convince the Emperor that the Imperial garrison was no longer needed to maintain the peace. His father had ruled the occupied kingdom for a long time, before passing it to his son cleansed of Imperial oppression.

  Upon his father’s death, Gorlag had become King of this grey city and the Kingdom of Goralon. Growing up, he had seen how the resentment of the Empire had wormed its way through his father, eating him from the inside. But he played his part well, and the Emperor did not suspect that which Gorlan was planning with his closest advisor, the warlock Kartem.

  The tall, thin warlock who only spoke in whispers summoned Gorlag to his father’s private study that fall day over nine years ago. It was on that day his father changed Gorlag's perception of him. It was then that he revealed his plans to destroy the Empire and kill the Emperor. The plans that he had been working on since he attained the crown, plans he had been working on for over forty years. Plans he passed on to Gorlag that fall day, knowing his health was beginning to fail. Plans he had carried forward for another nine years. Plans that were now coming to fruition.

  The Emperor had managed to reign now for eighty-nine years, taking power in his twenties. He had command of evil magic, Gorlag knew, his spies in the Imperial Court indicating that he did not look much older than when he commanded his armies and built the empire. He had to die. The fate of the entire world rest on that fact, his priests had told him so.

  ---o---

  King Gorlag turned and strode from his balcony back into his private study, the room where all the planning was exposed to him that fateful day. Standing at attention was his spymaster, Tregor. Gorlag was not sure if Tregor was loyal to him, the Throne, Kartem, or the position, but he did his duties well, and was rewarded appropriately. He looked the man over. He was as average as a person could be and still exist - bland hair, slightly stooped posture, and standard leathers of a lowly officer in the military. Not common soldier fare, enough rank to get him to those that needed to be informed, without hassle from the common rank and file. Of course, if needed, he also had a special tattoo that he could present that would allow him to be recognized as a special agent of the king. With that he could give the king’s orders to generals, orders which they would obey without question.

  “What have you to report?” ordered Gorlag as he turned and closed the glass doors and then drew the heavy curtains over them. He had left the spymaster standing at his desk for a long while since he had appeared through one of the two secret entrances to his study. The other was the King’s secret alone. Of course, he wouldn’t put it past the other man to know. What kind of spymaster would he be if he didn’t?

  “Kartem has reported that the plan is proceeding... mostly to... well - plan,” answered the spymaster carefully. He was trimming his fingernails with a small knife, and did not look up. That riled Gorlag somewhat, but he kept his temper in check.

  “Mostly to plan?” the king questioned, “What exactly went wrong?”

  “Actually, it went more right than anticipated, with one minor snag that is being rectified as we speak. The Tala’aharian city guard assaulted the Goralon Merchants' Guild and arrested everyone within.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Well, everyone except Kartem himself, of course. Marcon got himself nabbed by a Fear Squad, and Kartem indicated there was some outside interference, but indicated that it was well taken care of.” The spymaster had turned and was running his hands along the books in the long bookcase against one wall. “It looks like you will now have a reason to go to war.” Tregor probed.

  “All in good time, you insidious worm,” the king warned. He hadn’t shared the entire plan with anyone since his father and the warlock had informed him of it. It was a good thing he had a sharp mind, as the complexities of the plan were, in some cases, so subtle that it had taken hours to go through it in the first place.

  “The king’s compliments are always welcome,” his spymaster purred. “Your orders, my liege?” He was impossible to insult.

  “Close the borders to trade, and send an envoy to Tala’ahar with this letter,” the king picked up two pieces of parchment from his desk, selected one, rolled it and sealed it with wax, imprinting the royal seal from his ring. The other he tossed in the crackling fireplace opposite the bookcase. He saw the spymaster flinch slightly from the corner of his eye, and the king knew Tregor saw a secret vanish in flame that he would never know. The man hoarded secrets like others hoarded gold. What he could not know is that both letters were written months ago, the day he and Kartem put their plans into action.

  Marisha’ilea

  Marisha’ilea stood at a lectern to one side of the grand chamber taking notes with her quill. She was one of three Recorders that stood at equal angles around the room. Everything said in the Dar'Shilaar council sessions was duly noted and recorded. The three transcripts were cross-checked by junior clerks, and compiled into one True Account of each council session. There were no secrets among The Seven. Her elven ears were keen, even when someone spoke under their breath she picked it up. It
did not hurt that she had a keen mind and eidetic memory, able to remember anything she had witnessed or heard personally, and recall it perfectly at any later date. Being an elf, this did mean some days her head felt like it was getting full, she thought wryly, being one hundred and sixteen, though still young for an elf. It was a burden she was willing to bear, and it had served her well in learning the magic she could craft.

  She could remember all the syllables of each spell perfectly on the first try, therefore advanced through her classes quickly to the envy of many others, even the handful of elves that had travelled from Shi’Shilaar to learn with the humans. She was still working on the intensity and strength of her spells; however this could only come from practice and personal investiture in the spell. This used to come easily and naturally to all elves before the Elf-Orc war two millennia ago, but since the spell-storms that had been released during the war had ravaged the world, it seemed that the elves were slowly losing their magic completely. Long life was still theirs, but they lost the immortality that had been granted by the Goddess almost immediately after that war ended.

  The current evening session was focused on a report from Tala’ahar that indicated that the shipment of quafa'shilaar was stolen from the embassy almost a week ago, and had only now been reported. Apparently Zazaril, the head ambassador, felt that she would have things back under control in a short time, and did not want to bother the Conclave with a ‘trifling matter’ she had called it. Now however, only one of the nine stones had been recovered.

  “The perpetrators have been arrested, and are being interrogated in Imperial custody.” Zazaril stated to The Seven. “It is only a matter of time,” she added, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder with the flick of her head.

  “So you say, lady Zazaril, so you say...” archmage Endergot replied, a serious expression on his face. As head of the Seven, he was one of the eldest and most powerful Dar'Shilaar in the world, at least for this era. He was small, several hands short of a full span, hinting at extinct gnomish ancestry somewhere in his distant bloodline. He had white hair, more coming from his overly large ears than on his head, with a magnificent white beard. Age spots dotted his face and hands, and he walked using a staff that was almost twice his height. Even though the Dar'Shilaar were ruled by the entire Council of Seven, his opinion carried the most weight.

  “Who’s to say the Emperor will pass any information along to us, should they obtain any?” demanded Brilon. He was the newest member of the Seven, appointed just over five years ago. In that time he had proven himself to be brash and hasty, even for a human, thought Marisha’ilea. He had dark hair, as all Goralonians had, which matched his dark demeanor. Many questioned his appointment, but he had earned it in some of his encounters with the druid rebel group, the Drake’s Fang, six and seven years ago now.

  “I have an arrangement with the First Chancellor. It is possible that the Emperor does not even know of the incident regarding the stones.” Zazaril looked indignantly at Brilon. Marisha’ilea noted that her stare was intense and wary. There was something more lurking there.

  The soft voice of Avara’etha inserted itself into the conversation, “I assure you, the Emperor knows. The First Chancellor may be his advisor, and in charge of the governing of the empire by edict, but he is not his only advisor.” She was soft in body, as well as voice, her curves out of proportion to her elven frame. She wore her plain grey robes, unaware for the most part that she had a body women envied and males - even proper elven males - lusted after. Her long copper hair fell to her waist in a tight braid, and she wore no jewelry, other than the simple silver circlet that held her garnet quafa'shilaar on her forehead. She was one of the few elves currently in Mahad’avor.

  “Whether the Emperor knows or does not know is not the question of importance,” Endergot stated, “the more important questions are: Who has stolen the gems? Where are they now? And: What are they being used for, or planned on being used for?” His expression was as serious as Marisha’ilea had ever seen. "In addition, we must also ask ourselves if this particular theft was planned prior to the shipment."

  "What do you mean?" Avara'etha replied curiously.

  Endergot coughed into a handkerchief before he responded. "What I mean, is that this was to be the first time the graduation ceremony was to occur outside Mahad'avor. This was a request by the Emperor himself, according to our Ambassador," he continued, gesturing at Zazaril. "The premise was to instill goodwill with the Throne and have a grand ceremony at the Palace." He looked pointedly at Zazaril, who paled slightly.

  “Regardless of the reason they were in Tala'ahar, we know who took them. As I said, the perpetrators are in custody,” insisted Zazaril.

  “Yes, but if that truly be the case, where be the remaining stones? For that matter, where be the stone you say was recovered?” came the blunt question from Doratellan, the Dar'Shilaar from the Seven Isles. “Be it possible that one who be having the stones may have escaped from the apprehension?” His emerald eyes matched his quafa'shilaar in colour and intensity, as it pulsed on a choker at his neck.

  “You did inform us that Goralonians stole the magestones,” Endergot summarized, using the more common term for the quafa'shilaar. Marisha’ilea saw Brilon shift uncomfortably in his seat, the movement so slight it appeared that no one else caught it. “However, you have not confirmed that they were not just using the guild as a staging area, and were actually from, or with, some other faction. And Doratellan’s questions are still valid regardless.” His eyes bored into Zazaril. “You will involve yourself directly in the investigation. We need answers.” He waved his small hand in dismissal.

  The Seven waited until Zazaril had left the chamber and the doors had been closed before opening up into a debate. Marisha’ilea kept clear, concise notes, but did so with only a small portion of her mind. The important parts of the day had happened, and the discussion occurring now was mostly irrelevant. One of her other jobs, as Endergot’s pupil, was to pay attention to things he did not have the time to in these council sessions and report back to him privately. He also expected her to have insight into all of the topics she brought up.

  ---o---

  Marisha’ilea walked slowly beside her mentor, his staff clicking on the tile floor in a slow, but steady, cadence. He only came up to her shoulder, and she was not tall herself, but his staff – the Staff of Everilon – topped them both by an arm's length. She had once been given a chance to examine the staff by Endergot himself, in his presence obviously, and she was still in awe of the power she felt coursing through it.

  Almost a span and a half long, it was made from the branch of a Tashiir tree, which only grew in the deep wilds, and prized for its strength once properly cured. It was topped with an amber quafa'shilaar the size of her fist that swirled and pulsed as if alive. The staff had been created almost a millennium ago by the elf Dar'Shilaar Ever’ilon, a senior member of the Council of Verai, which he would use to teach magic to the new human Dar'Shilaar that he helped establish. The elves felt betrayed that he had taught the brash humans how to learn and access magic, and banished him from their lands. Thus the staff had been handed down to the leader of the Dar'Shilaar since that time, as part tradition, and part of keeping the staff safe. Only the strongest could safely use it, so keeping it out of lesser wizards’ hands was paramount. The fact that Endergot trusted her enough to let her handle it, even supervised, meant something to her.

  They ascended the circular stairs several levels to the head wizard’s study.

  “Not sure why they make the oldest wizards climb the most stairs...” Endergot grumbled quietly under his breath, but her elven ears picked it up.

  Marisha’ilea had heard this argument many times before, so she gave the standard answer she always gave. It was like a game they played, or a joke only they shared. “As a symbol of your station, of course. I’ve told you this before, are you sure you’re not getting senile?” she teased.

  “Pfaw! What would you know ab
out getting old, elf?”

  “You could always Transport yourself to your study, and I could meet you up there,” she argued the next line of their game.

  “Waste of magic! You think magic is infinite?!” again he grumbled something under his breath, but this time she could not hear any true words. By this time they were at his study door.

  He spoke the magical command words to disarm the traps on his door and unlock the portal, pressed his hand against the ancient oak of the door and pushed it open. They stepped into his study, and moved to sit in the two armchairs set by the fireplace. The spring was still chilly, and the citadel’s stone walls retained little warmth. Marisha’ilea watched as two small flame sprites danced along the log within the fireplace as she sat facing her mentor. The flame sprites were happy as long as they had new wood to burn every so often. She was not sure what would happen if they ever became unhappy.

  Endergot knocked another log from the stack on the hearth, and pushed into the fireplace with the end of his staff. The sprites attacked the log eagerly.

  The two of them spent a few minutes watching the sprites in silence, other than the crackling of their flames.

  Finally Marisha’ilea spoke into the comfortable silence. “Brilon seemed uncomfortable today, I noted.”

  “Why do you think that is?” was Endergot’s quiet reply.

  “Well I have several theories, but I suspect that the most likely is because he is from the Kingdom of Goralon, as are the supposed thieves,” she surmised.

  “Are they supposed thieves, or supposedly Goralonian?” questioned her mentor. “As an elf, you, more than anyone, are aware of the implication of the inaccuracies in your statement.”