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
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 Goralo
nians, 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.
Marisha’ilea
“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.”
Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) Page 18
