The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price

by C. L. Schneider

  I glanced around at the flat, open, grassland and the sandy, barren road that seemed to go on forever. “You shouldn’t be out here. Remote places like this are a haven for things a lot worse than thieves.”

  “Like you?” he said, with a knowing gleam in his eye. “You’re that Shinree. The one with the white hair and the eyes, and the magic.”

  “We all have white hair and eyes, old man. And magic.”

  “Ha!” He wagged a bowed, shaky finger at me. “But they ain’t all like you.”

  “I tell him every day that we should move,” Rosalyn said then, returning with a wooden crutch as worn and craggy as the man that used it. “It isn’t safe, being on our own with no neighbors to speak of.”

  “She’s got a point,” I said, putting my knife away. Bending, I bore the man’s slight weight and helped him stand. “King Raynan’s law doesn’t reach these outer regions. And Langor’s border is no more than a day’s ride.”

  “A point,” he grumbled. “Rosalyn’s always got a point. But that border’s been nothing but a crooked line on a map for years. The Langorians don’t cross it to bother us. They don’t bother nobody. Not since the war. And you know that,” he said to me, as I took the crutch from Rosalyn and positioned it under his arm. “You saw to that.”

  Rosalyn shushed him. She turned to me. “I’m sorry. He’s always going on.”

  “It’s fine.” I stepped away to my horse. Having wandered off the road, the mare was uprooting great clumps of grass from the pasture, and swallowing like she knew it wouldn’t last. “I don’t have much food,” I called back to them. “I haven’t seen a village for a while and I’ve been hunting on the road for weeks. But I’ll give you what I can.”

  “That’s kind of you,” Rosalyn said, coming over. “But unnecessary.” She lowered her voice. “My father doesn’t mean any harm. You seem to be in a hurry, and…we don’t want any trouble.”

  “Your father is trouble,” I grinned.

  Rosalyn hid a giggle behind her hand. “I know. I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “Your attacker, did she leave you anything?”

  “Just the one horse. And the wagon. Really though, we’re all right,” she said firmly. “I appreciate your charity, but we don’t have far to go.”

  “It’s not charity.” I pulled out a flask and put it in her hand. “It’s water.”

  Rosalyn offered me a grateful smile. Her close-set eyes were ringed and tired, but I saw strength in them, and outright, unremitting endurance. It was a trait I was familiar with. And added to her brown hair, brown eyes, and her normal, every-day features, I was able to say with confidence, “You’re Rellan.”

  “I am.” Her stare flitted to my hair. “And you’re Shinree.”

  There was something in her voice. “You can’t decide if that should worry you.”

  Rosalyn shrugged. “Our village is small. We don’t go into the towns much, so...”

  “Am I the first you’ve seen?”

  “No, but you’re not like them. You’re not like the slaves I remember.”

  “Because he’s not one.” Hobbling closer, her father wormed in between us. He leaned over toward me so far I thought he would fall off his crutch. “Got business out here, do you? Planning on sneaking over and dealing those Langorian fuckers another round? Maybe you ought to shove one of them spells of yours right up Draken’s ass while you’re at it. I’m all for that,” he chuckled slyly, eyes twinkling like we were in on some great conspiracy together.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just passing through.”

  “Are you now?” He let out a snort. “Like they just let you Shinree folk run around all wild and free like you please. Only them healers get to do that, or one of them showy, oracle types. And since every oracle I’ve ever met was looser than a bow-legged whore, I’m guessing you’re not that.”

  Rosalyn gasped in horror. “Father! How can you say such a thing?”

  “It’s okay,” I told her. “He’s right. I’m not an oracle, or a healer.” I glanced at her as I tied my bag shut. “And I’m not bow-legged,” I said, making her blush.

  Muttering to himself, her father backed up a step and made no attempt to hide his in-depth study of me. He peered boldly at my swords, my boots, the braces on my arms, even my dusty, leather coat, like they told him everything he needed to know. “Yep,” he said, decisively, “you’re him. You’re that soldier. That, Troy fella, that fought in the war.”

  “The war’s been over ten years, old man.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” His tone turned serious. “I know what you did.”

  My jaw clenched. I looked past him to Rosalyn. Her eyes had fear in them now, but it couldn’t be helped. “Which way did she go?”

  “In there.” Rosalyn gave a jerk of her head and I followed it to the large expanse of swamp to the east. Bordering all three kingdoms of Rella, Kael, and Langor, as well as the outskirts of the uninhabited wasteland where the Shinree Empire once stood, the broad swathe of marshland had been aptly and unimaginably named the Northern Borderlands. Encasing near the entire northeast, and a bit of the south, the thick, dark, vast wall of vegetation was topped with an even thicker, darker roof of swollen, gray clouds.

  Where the swamp’s edge bled out into the meadow was a good mile away. Yet distance wasn’t doing a damn thing to blunt the sweet fragrance of rot on the wind.

  “I hear the place is more foul even than Langor,” Rosalyn said nervously.

  “Nothing’s more foul than Langor.” I studied the shadowy clouds gathering over the dense wetlands. “But I’m guessing it’ll be a close second.”

  Her father tapped my leg with his crutch. “So what are you now? It ain’t ever easy puttin’ down the sword, so I’m guessing…mercenary? Bounty hunter? Or did she just piss you off?”

  “I’ve done both,” I relented. “Mostly bounties for the last couple years though. But, pissed off works too.” Taking the reins in my hands, I stared back into the twisted mess of overgrowth and fog. Tracking through it was going to be difficult.

  Not with magic, I thought, knowing it wouldn’t take much.

  A simple tracking spell and I’d have her by nightfall.

  The stone on the cord around my neck warmed. My pulse jumped.

  Tightening the reins in my hands, I shook off the urge. “When did she leave?”

  Rosalyn scanned the sky. “Two or three hours ago?” Her gaze fell to mine. “Who wants her, your lady outlaw?”

  “She escaped from the city prison in Kael a couple months back. But from the amount of bodies under her belt, I imagine a lot of people.”

  “Well, she’s met her match now,” her father said boldly. “No way some girly with a sword is more dangerous than you, a Shinree soldier. I know what you did,” he said again.

  I nodded. “Do we have a problem?”

  “I was an army man myself,” he said, completely disregarding my question. “First Lieutenant. King’s Regiment. In fact, the last time I had two good feet under me, I was standing guard at the very gates of the castle. That was,” his eyes wandered, “must be twenty-five, twenty-six years ago. But you were probably too young to remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  “How it smelled the day King Draken burned Rella’s greatest city to the ground.”

  “Kabri,” I said. “I was six. I remember well enough.”

  “Things turned straight to shit after that day. Rella issued a formal declaration of war on Langor and I sat around with this one leg,” he slapped it angrily, “growing old and useless while everyone else went off and died defending my home.”

  Rosalyn put a hand on his arm. “Father, don’t.”

  “Hush, girl.” Craning his neck, he looked around me to the packs on my saddle. “So where is it then, that filthy piece of magic? I’m guessing there’s no way King Raynan let you keep it.”

  I pictured the Crown of Stones where I left it ten years ago, in Rella’s capital, on the island city of Kabr
i, nestled in the folds of Aylagar’s burial robes. “It’s safe.”

  He watched me a moment. “You know, I get what it was like. I did my time on the line. Reports would trickle in…the massacres in the villages, the kidnappings. I can imagine the things you saw, how desperate it was at the end. The bastards were whipping us pretty good those last few months, but…damn, son…there had to be another way.”

  “Another way?” My anger flared. The expectance in his voice—it was like I owed him an explanation. Like he wanted me to swear that I tried everything else first. That I did everything I could to find a peaceful solution. It was what they all wanted.

  But I didn’t. And I had to live with that truth every single day.

  I said again, “Do we have a problem?”

  Tilting his head, he held my gaze pretty steady for his age. “Stories say Ian Troy could fell a man in less than a minute. Course, you were younger then. Probably take you at least two, now, eh?” Grinning slightly, he shrugged. “Nah, you best be on your way. I’m too old for problems.”

  “Good.” I put a boot in the stirrup and climbed up into the saddle.

  “And you got some chasing ahead of you, anyway” he said. “Chasing…” he gave me a measured, weighty glance, “and I’m thinking maybe some running too.”

  TWO

  I landed flat on my back in the marsh. Cushioning my fall, the soggy ground swallowed me on impact then spit me back out. Thick, wet chunks of mud flew up and the assassin was on me before they ever came back down.

  “Now, let’s have a little chat.” Straddling me, pressing a long, thin knife against my throat, Taren Roe leaned in close and her weight pushed me down. Silt gurgled into my ears. It sloshed up over my arms and legs, flowed, thick and cold, over my stomach and shoulders.

  “We can talk all you want,” I told her. “But do you mind if I get up first?”

  “Actually, I do.” Her short, leather tunic creaked as she wriggled a bit to make herself comfortable. “I like it here.”

  “Glad you’re happy,” I said sourly, mourning the loss of my dignity and my sword. “But you’re not the one sinking.”

  Tossing a chunk of muddy yellow hair out of her lean face, Taren’s lips curved into a suggestive smile. “Don’t you like me on top?”

  “You’re only up there because you didn’t play fair. You distracted me,” I said, eyeing the cord dangling in my face. It was holding the front of her shirt together and I could almost catch it in my teeth. One, little tug, I thought. That’s all it would take to release the generous amount of pale flesh bursting out. I don’t even need my hands.

  “Well. Look at that.” Snickering, Taren raised her body up slightly off mine and looked down between her legs, to where our breeches met. “I would have never thought that, Ian Troy,” pausing, she threw a measure of drama into her words, “notorious sword for hire and ruthless hunter of bandits and brigands, would ever sink so low as to be aroused by one of his own prey. But…there it is.” She glanced back up at me. “Like it rough, do you? Or maybe it’s just been a while.”

  “Maybe,” I said, edging my fingers through the muck, searching for my sword, “you’re just the most attractive, bloodthirsty criminal that’s sat on me in a long time.”

  “Is that why I’m still alive? You were hoping I might do you the favor of a tumble before you kill me?”

  “You’re alive, Taren, because in the last three months you haven’t slowed down long enough for me to catch you. Now that you have, I’d really like to know why.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She pushed the very tip of the knife into my skin. “I’m surrendering.”

  I grunted a laugh. “You killed six guards in your escape from the city prison. You’ve ridden horses to death, one after another, barely stopping to eat or rest. You’ve lead me all through the mountains of Kael, clear across Rella to the very edge of Langorian territory and back. And now you stop here.” Mindful of the knife, I glanced around. “I could have gone my whole life without stepping foot in this fetid hole and you’ve got us in so deep it’s going to take weeks to get back out.”

  “Sorry,” she shrugged.

  “What are you doing here, Taren? Why did you stop?”

  “That poor excuse for a horse I was riding got stuck in a bog. I tried to get him out, but the lazy bastard just stood there.”

  “That’s because he was stuck.” I risked a slight, annoyed shake of my head. When she didn’t object, I shifted my shoulders some, fidgeting to camouflage my continued hunt for a weapon. “I’m not buying your bullshit, Taren. You’re an assassin. You hide in the shadows. Slit the throats of defenseless people for money. Put off a kill for days to avoid confrontation. Apparently, you steal horses from defenseless old men as well. But you don’t sit and wait for me to show up so we can fight head on. And you don’t surrender.” Purposefully, I held her cold dark eyes with my pale ones. “You’re up to something.”

  Taren leaned down. She put her grimy face in mine and pressed her leather-clad breasts against my chest. “Have you ever thought that I let you catch me?”

  I laughed. “Who’s looking for a tumble, now?”

  “I admit I was curious, to see if you were as pretty up close as you are from far away. After all, with the amount of dust I was kicking up in your face it was hard to get a good look at those fabled, Shinree features of yours. Now that I have,” Taren ran a slow finger down the sharp slope of my nose, “it was so worth it.” Her caress meandered over the well-defined bones in my face, then across my mouth and jawline. “I find most of your kind uninteresting to look at. They all seem so watered down.”

  “That’s what happens after five hundred years of crossbreeding.”

  “But not you. You’re different,” she said thoughtfully, continuing to scrutinize me. “They really should make more like you.”

  “No, they shouldn’t.”

  Fingers still wandering, Taren bit her lip and shivered in approval. “Gods, but you are a tasty one.”

  “You can stop now.”

  “Why? Did I embarrass you? Don’t you like standing out?” She read the answer on me and laughed. “Gods, Troy, get over it. You’re a throwback. A relic. You don’t blend with anyone, not even your own kind.”

  I didn’t bother replying. Taren’s amusement evolved into a peal of taunting laughter and I knew, not only would she dismiss anything I said, she was right. Having been deliberately bred from two, full-blooded Shinree, I was one of the few of my race alive to descend directly from an untainted line. That made my appearance literally straight out of history.

  The old records describe my ancestors as tall with a build that’s naturally strong and lean. The sketches show their keenly sharp features and tanned skin, their distinctive pure white, colorless hair and matching eyes. And I wear their stamp, blatantly. Not just physically, either. I could draw the energy out of any stone pulled from the Shinree mines, shape it and bend it to my will, quicker and better than most.

  From the perspective of any breeder, I was the perfect Shinree specimen. From the perspective of the common man, I was an oddity, a curiosity. A danger. And they weren’t far off the mark. If you combine my conspicuous appearance with the brutal history of the Shinree, as well as my own, grave, personal transgressions, the air tends to get real uncomfortable when I walk in a room.

  Taren, however, looked a little too comfortable.

  “What do you want?” I asked her, shifting in the mud.

  “This.” She lowered the knife down inside the collar of my shirt and slid it under the thin strip of leather tied around my neck. Lifting the cord with the blade, she exposed the slender, black shard of obsidian fastened at the end. “I want this.”

  “The stone?” I hesitated. “Why?”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “It’s a rock. A poorly cut one at that.”

  “You’re just being modest.” Almost lovingly, she stared down at the shard. “We both know the energy it holds. The dark, wonderful power.”<
br />
  “There’s no power, Taren. I picked it up on the road a while back.”

  “And you kept it, why? Because it matched your coat?” She laughed at me, but the sound cut out abruptly. “It’s been trapped for so long. Waiting,” she said, in a dreamy, tender tone. “Waiting for you to feel it, to wake it up…to embrace it.” Taren’s eyes snapped from the shard, to mine. “It calls to you.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “And you lie. I know what the stone is. Where it’s from. What it can do.”

  “Drop the act, Taren,” I said, faking disinterest even as my unease grew. “Whatever con you’re playing, it won’t work. You’re Kaelish, not Shinree. Your kind can’t use magic, or sense it, which makes this stone nothing more than a chunk of black rock to you. So what do you want with it?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. You gave up channeling magic a long time ago. Yet, you keep a piece of temptation on a string around your neck. So, what do you want with it?”

  “I want you to get your filthy hands off it.”

  Smirking, Taren lowered the knife to my chest and the obsidian went with it. “What’s it been, Troy? Ten years since you last cast a spell?”

  “Something like that.” Groping in the sludge, I stretched my arm out further and finally felt steel at the end of my reach. Gradually, I tugged it closer.

  “Are we pretending to forget? Or wasn’t your reason for quitting memorable enough?” Taren’s eyes tightened and she grinned slightly. It was a cruel, devious expression that went well with her next words. “Slaughtering all those men. Killing your own commander. What was her name again, Rella’s whore of a Queen?” Taren tilted her head pensively. “Oh, yes…Aylagar.”

  My temper spiked. “That’s enough.”

  “Personally, I don’t understand what you saw in the little, dark savage, but I do like the way you repaid her attentions. A Queen shares her bed with you, a lowly Shinree, and you drain the life out of her with magic…along with several thousand of her soldiers.” Taren’s grin morphed into a proud smile. “It really was a brilliant strategy. Wipe out all the fighters on both sides so there’s no one left to fight. I love it.”