The Crown of Stones: Magic-Scars

by C. L. Schneider

  “Go,” I whispered. “It’s not safe. Use Lirih and get out.”

  She shook her head. “I can help. Tonight, after he’s asleep—”

  “You have to go.”

  “I’m staying. If Guidon was going to hurt me, he would have done so already.”

  “Guidon isn’t the one you need to run from.” I looked past her to make sure no one was watching. “Come closer.”

  As Jillyan leaned in, I closed my eyes. I embraced the burgeoning sensations in me and in the room, and gave myself to them. I let their energy saturate me. Then I looked at her. I showed her my eyes and hers went wide.

  “They’re black,” she whispered in awe. “When did your magic come back?”

  “Apparently now.”

  “Erudite can channel like this, with their eyes showing color before they cast.”

  “Isn’t that what I am?”

  “Yes, but you’ve had no training. And Guidon removed all Shinree stones from within thirty feet of you. Where is the power coming from?”

  I lowered my stare to the floor.

  I saw her thinking. I knew it wouldn’t take long. Jillyan was quick. “The Great Hall? There’s nothing down there, but…” she stifled a gasp. “The black columns? Is that what you’re channeling?” I nodded and she looked uneasy. “You aren’t even touching one. You aren’t even on the same floor. How did you reach it?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Grunting, I pushed the magic back. I felt the color leave my eyes. “You have to empty the castle. Evacuate everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you have no idea what’s building in me. You have no idea how it feels.” Impatience and need was making my voice gruff. I struggled to soften it. “I haven’t cast in a long time. I don’t want innocent people getting hurt. But I want this, Jillyan. I want this bad. You need to get them out.”

  She went to reply, but Guidon was approaching.

  “Please,” I whispered to her. “There isn’t much time.”

  Jillyan stood and backed up. The worry left her face as she turned and curtsied to the King. “Good evening, My Lord. I was just leaving.”

  A bottle in his hand, his shirt undone and hanging off one shoulder, Guidon placed a brief, formal kiss on Jillyan’s cheek. “Already? As much as you’ve been after me to visit the witch, I thought you might stay a while.”

  “I do appreciate you granting my request,” Jillyan replied, “but you know how I feel about this place.”

  “Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “And I believe you protest a bit too much.”

  With a coy smile, Jillyan dipped her head. “Perhaps I’ll return tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow the stubborn dog might be castrated.”

  “Guidon,” she chided. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Of course not. Troy is my prized possession. I might break him a little more though. He’s profoundly stubborn.”

  “I think he’s had enough,” Jillyan said boldly. “He looks near death already.”

  “Don’t worry, love, he’ll last. It’s what he does, this one; survives while those around him die.”

  I shoved my torn, swollen lips into a sly smile. “And look who’s around me now?”

  Before Guidon could address my threat, Jillyan stepped in. “Good night then.” She offered a parting curtsey. There was no sign of unease on her as she left. Her strides were measured and dignified, as if Jillyan were strolling through a garden and not a sea of copulating bodies. I could only hope she would heed my warning.

  Guidon stood and watched me a long while after she was gone. Then, looking content as a cat (and incredibly drunk), he stumbled up to me and took a long, luxurious drink from the bottle in his hand. “Thirsty?”

  I ignored him.

  Putting a hand on my shoulder, Guidon walked around and squatted behind me. He put the drink to my mouth and tipped the bottle high. His nearness made my stomach turn, but the wine was sweet and cool, and I drained it.

  “Now,” he said, wiping the drips off my chin, “that’s more like it.” His fingers lingered. His touch was tender.

  “Get your fucking hands off me,” I growled.

  Chuckling, Guidon moved off. He spoke to a servant, and a moment later braziers were lit all over the room. The odor of the herbs spiked. It was potent. I tried not to breathe deep. I was afraid the effects of the smoke might interfere with my budding connection to the magic. But as the drifting tendrils found their way inside my nose and lungs, it became clear the opposite was happening.

  Guidon’s herbs had made me intensely aware of my body. Just not in the way he wanted.

  With surprising precision, I could sense the individual filaments of the obsidian’s aura swimming in me. I felt where it had merged long ago with the colored strands of my hair, and more recently the skin of my left shoulder, arm, and back. I saw it wafting up from the floor and shooting through the air of the room like iridescent, coiling snowflakes in a black, swirling blizzard. It was beautiful and stimulating; visually and physically. The pull to own it, to feel it, was compelling. I couldn’t resist even if I cared to. So I opened up and let it pour in. I inhaled the smoke greedily. And the details of my captivity became trifling. The bulk of my surroundings I misplaced; the shackles, the walls, the floor, the rooms outside this one, the confines of the castle, the world beyond.

  In some dim, uncaring way, I became conscious of a woman’s mouth on mine. I knew Guidon had returned with a knife. The odor of fresh blood mixed with the herbs. Slick warmth ran down over my skin. People had gathered to watch my pain, but they were blurry, hazy figures. They were background, unimportant compared to the immense power springing from the columns and entering me. There seemed to be no end to it. I was fine with that. I didn’t want it to stop.

  It was ironic. Since waking on the ship, this moment had been such an abstract thought. Channeling was something I used to do. Aside from the involuntary cravings, I hadn’t actually missed the act. Kayn’l had blinded me to the wonders of magic that completely. It caused me to forget what it was truly like to harness the aura of a stone, what it was like to be Shinree—until this moment.

  The pleasure was so encompassing. I wondered if I’d ever really known.

  I hadn’t, I thought bitterly. All my life the truth had been kept from me. I’d barely had time to get used to being a Reth before I learned my mother’s bloodline made me an erudite. Then Draken sent me to prison and I never got to channel the way I was meant to. To be what I was born to be.

  But it was taking too long. I couldn’t wait for the magic to stream in on its own. My need was too immediate, too fierce. My curiosity was too damn great.

  Seizing the auras in the columns in the room below, I started extracting them. I tugged; harder and the floor began to shake. The walls quivered. Slices of meat and bread jumped off their platters. Fruit toppled from their piles and rolled off the tables.

  Thrown off balance, Guidon glanced around. “What’s going on?”

  I pulled harder. The shaking picked up. Braziers and tables collapsed. Paintings and candles fell as the walls bulged and split. A pile of cushions near the bed caught fire. Flames spread. The fountain cracked, and red wine bled out over the mess.

  Staggering, Guidon turned in circles; watching the stone floor push up and break apart. Panicked screams erupted across the chamber as pieces of wall and ceiling gave way. Guards, slaves, even Guidon’s guests, fled, trampling each other in a frantic push for the door. Not one gave a single thought to the King, and I liked that. They ran while he stood in shock, with the knife trembling in his hand, trying to maintain the control he’d already lost.

  “Stop!” Guidon shouted. “I command you to stop! Get back here this instant and tell me what is going on!”

  No one listened.

  “I’ll tell you,” I said.

  Guidon whipped around. “You? What the fuck do you know? You’re not special. You’re just a man. A stupid, weak, used up man.”

  “I’m a Shinree.
”

  “Shinree,” he mocked. “You’re pitiful, is what you are. Defective. Look at you! Ian Troy, Rella’s Champion, and you can’t even get it up.”

  “I’m not anyone’s champion. And my name isn’t Ian Troy.”

  Magic pounded into me. All about the room the floor bucked. The stone snapped in half, sending Guidon to his knees. As more and more of the ceiling began to collapse, power shot up in black coiling pillars all about the room. The one behind me reached out. I threw my head back into its rising stream.

  “Reth,” I said, breathless and smiling as the glowing aura cascaded over me. I raised my head and Guidon’s gaze was wide with fear. Mine was pure black “My name is L’tarian Reth.”

  “No.” Guidon scrambled back. His teeth clenched in angry defiance. “You can’t be doing this. You can’t cast. You don’t have magic!”

  “I am magic.”

  Those three words, I thought, recalling suddenly how I’d once used them as fodder in an argument with Aylagar. Ten years later when my father said them, I’d steadfastly denied it. But they weren’t mere words anymore. They weren’t leverage, or an insult to employ or renounce as the mood struck. They were an honor.

  Transfixed by the display, Guidon stood, sniveling among the chunks of ceiling on the floor. I took charge of the scattered pieces and drew them closer. Fusing them, bending the rock and winding it up around his ankles, I sent a portion of it back down to merge with what was left of the floor; trapping him.

  While Guidon worried over his legs, desperately pulling and pushing at the rock that was holding him, I summoned more. I stacked them in piles, one on either side of him. Melding the rocks, I fused the stacks into spires that curved and closed tight about Guidon’s wrists.

  I laughed at the horror on his face as he struggled to break free. It was pathetic how he thrashed. How he whimpered, praying to the old gods to save him. They weren’t coming, of course. Even they knew better than to try me now.

  “Guidon,” I said.

  The sway in my voice made him freeze. Looking at me through sweat-soaked curls, panting; his brow softened. His eyes watered. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he stammered.

  “Do you remember what I said?” With no more than a thought to the shackles about my arms and legs, they shattered and fell to the floor. “What I would do to you?”

  “No…” Guidon sobbed. “Troy…please…”

  “You mocked me.”

  “I didn’t mean it!”

  “I told you I was going to tear you apart. And you laughed.”

  He tossed his head frantically. “Gods…please…don’t.”

  “You didn’t believe me.” I looked at the ceiling near the door and with a mere thought, it caved. Furnishings from the room above came thundering down. In the wake of the echo, there were more distant crashes, intermixed with shouts and screams as the entire castle shook itself to pieces.

  I got up off my knees. I willed the wounds he’d inflicted upon me healed, and they were. “Do you believe me now?”

  Guidon tried to shrink away but he was held fast. “I’ll give you money. I’ll hide you from Draken.”

  “I don’t need to hide. I have more power than Draken could ever imagine.”

  “You’re right.” Guidon flashed a wild, frenzied smile. “And you can do whatever you want with it—I’ll help you.”

  “There’s only one thing I want.” I stepped over the wrecked floor. Approaching him, I gathered the flickering, dark jets of energy from all across the room. They churned around me, tighter and tighter. With each revolution, I grew stronger. I felt replenished. Potent. Complete. Before now, I had no grasp of how deficient I was. No idea the hollowness in me had run so deep.

  With a great inhale of smoke and an intake of magic, I emptied the pillars. My veins engorged with power. So much, the aura was hemorrhaging out through my skin.

  “Please,” Guidon blubbered. “Please...” Tears and dread contorted his face. “I don’t want to die. I’m sorry, Troy. I’m so sorry.”

  “I said that’s not my name!” Rage and magic blasted out of me. They slammed simultaneously into Guidon Roarke and he started shaking. “I know what I am now. What I was born for. I was made to bring destruction like the world has never known. Starting with you.”

  More pieces of the castle gave way. Guidon’s body shook harder. Faster. Time seemed to slow as they both burst apart, allowing me to watch in exquisite detail the shower of stone and flesh and blood; to experience the violent waves of pleasure that made nothing else matter—the pieces of him splattering on my skin, the floor giving way, the crushing rubble falling on top of me. I registered no discomforts. Encased in a layer of magic, sprawled amid the smoking, dusty ruins of Guidon’s home, I was content, aroused, and immeasurably gratified.

  But the magic left me. The euphoria wore off. And pain came right behind it.

  I couldn’t let it settle in. I damn sure couldn’t let it claim me.

  Calling to the various Shinree stones scattered among the debris, as I took in their auras, I woke the obsidian once more; what was in me and what remained from my use of the pillars. Then I threw off the wreckage on top of me. I channeled what was needed to straighten bones, mend veins, and patch punctured organs. There was no finesse involved. No skill that I could recognize. As I put my broken body back together, I had a notion of other, less-fatal wounds, but my focus was simply to not die. It was a lofty, yet basic goal. When I was confident I’d achieved it, I picked myself up, and started walking.

  The wreckage seemed to go on forever. Dense bands of smoke swirled in and around the chipped, jagged blocks of stone. There was no clear path. Splintered wood and broken glass cluttered the majority of the ground. Smoldering fires covered the rest. Occasional moans and whimpering cries trickled out from beneath the fallen slabs. Bloody hands reached for me. Weak fingers grabbed my legs. I shook them all off. Someone else would tend their wounds. Or they would die. Either way, their lives didn’t concern me. The one that did was in Langor, sitting on his throne.

  Finally reaching the edge of the rubble, I came out in an empty field. Behind me, the fires were spreading. Screams blew with the dust and smoke on the wind. Tall smoldering orange-black plumes loomed high, choking out the light. Lower, a darkening haze had rolled in to hinder my vision and clog my throat. I could scarcely see ahead of me.

  I stumbled on. A small building came into view, outlined against the murk. About the shape and size of a guard post, I thought I might find a horse there. Maybe some water to wash the dusty layer of gore from my skin and the sting from my eyes.

  Hopeful, I headed toward the structure. Men ran past me through the cloud. They were dressed in uniforms, so my theory of the guard post was looking sound.

  I was almost there. I could see the road. But my footprints were made of blood now and my lungs were burning with the hot, acrid air.

  My head throbbed like it would split. I was suddenly so tired.

  I only meant to slow down, but my legs gave out. And in that brief instant, in the time it took for me to fall to the ground, it happened. All that I was, all that I had ever done, seen, felt, thought, or heard—all the moments and the nuances of my life that two years on Kayn’l had taken away; my childhood, the war, my time as a mercenary, the years I spent hunting bounties for Kael, my time at the prison, Neela, Jarryd, Malaq, who Krillos used to be, who I used to be—every single bit of me came rushing back at the same time.

  I’d struggled to remember for weeks. The missing pieces had eaten at me day and night since those first moments when I opened my eyes on the ship. Then, all I’d wanted was to get my life back. Now, it was crashing into me with such perfect, brutal clarity, I would have given anything to make it stop.

  TWENTY

  I squinted against the brightness. Something sharp was poking me. Prickly, was a better word. And itchy, I thought, brushing like mad at the abrasive things in my face.

  I felt silly as my head cleared, and I realized it was only
straw. I was sitting in a large pile of it. Pieces clung to the filth on my bare skin. Clumps were imbedded in my hair. A small tuft was sitting on my head.

  Shaking it out, I looked around the large barn I was in. Aside from the straw I’d strewn about, the floor was exceptionally clean. There was barely an odor of animals. Shiny windows flanked the upper walls. Carved planks crisscrossed the high ceiling. Saddles, various riding implements, and a selection of grooming tools, hung from pegs on the wall. Horse stalls lined both sides of the spacious structure, from one end to the other.

  I was on the property of someone with money. But where? I thought. And how?

  I didn’t know if I was even in Kael anymore, how long ago I left, or how I got here. The cuts on the bottom of my feet were still open, but the ash and blood on me had dried, so clearly some time had passed.

  After walking out of the debris field, the last thing I remembered was—

  Everything.

  Groaning, I dropped my head in my hands. Not from pain. Nothing hurt. Apart from needing food and water, I felt mostly all right. But putting things back in order in my mind hadn’t exactly brought that steady, settled feeling I was hoping for. What it did, was make clear the fact that I’d been living in ignorance for weeks.

  I’d started over when I woke up in the hold of that ship. No matter how many stories I was told, or how many scattered memories I got back, I’d still had no real grasp of who I was before the Kayn’l. I’d been living as a watered-down version of my former self; trusting my life to a crew of Langorians simply because I was told to; fighting at their side; drinking with them. Hell, I even slept with one—and enjoyed it immensely.

  I backed down. Gave in. Took orders from Malaq. I was easier.

  But I’d just murdered a castle full of people. And I enjoyed that too. I was pretty sure easy was a thing of the past.

  The door opened at the far end of the barn. Morning sun streamed across the floor, and I scooted down inside my straw pile. I watched a male, a little less than average height and build, come into the barn. He wore trousers, a hat, and a light coat, like a chill was in the air. Filling a bucket from one of the grain bins along the wall, he stuffed a brush in his coat pocket, grabbed a stool, and headed down the corridor in my direction.