The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price
Read The Crown of Stones: Magic-Price Online
Authors: C. L. Schneider
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Fantasy, #Epic, #Magic & Wizards
THE CROWN OF STONES
Magic-Price
C. L. S
CHNEIDER
Copyright © 2013 C. L. Schneider
Cover design or artwork by Alan Dingman
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1492829064
ISBN 13: 9781492829065
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919478
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
To my dad
Thanks for buying a young girl an old typewriter.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A
bove all, I want to thank my husband Bryan, who somehow kept finding the patience to share me (day and night) with a computer. It wouldn’t have been possible without you.
To Dawn, for diligently reading and listening, and reading and listening, and reading, and reading—and reading. But mostly, for always believing. Thanks for driving off the cliff with me!
To my friends and family; the best cheerleaders I could ever ask for.
Special thanks to Alan Dingman, for taking the image in my head and transforming it into an amazing cover. And to Marco Palmieri at Otherworld Editorial; your excellent, professional advice was like finding the missing piece of a puzzle.
CONTENTS
MIRRA’KELAN
(THE RESTLESS LAND)
PROLOGUE
B
odies pressed in on me on all sides. More were piled up beneath my feet. The grass, gorged with assorted fluids and trampled remains, squished under my boots as I carved open my opponent’s chest, pushed him aside, and moved onto the next.
There was always a next. The Langorians were a swarm…an inexhaustible, savage, mindless swarm. And we had no choice but to become like them to survive. To become animals, going at each other, mechanically pushing against the tide, battering whatever stood in our way with whatever we had; clubs, axes, swords, knives—our bruised, bleeding bare hands. Fighting for days, months, years, striving to hold out against an enemy that knew nothing of mercy, an enemy stronger, and far more brutal than us, we’d become something less than we were.
And we were still losing.
I grabbed the Queen’s arm and steered her out of the fray. “We can’t take much more of this.” Needing to be heard, I drew her closer. “We should pull back.”
“Pull back?” Queen Aylagar Arcana yanked herself free. She gave me a wild, defiant look. Full of passion and reckless resolve, it made her exotic features come alive. “My order stands. We press on, Troy. As always.”
I shook my head. “Our numbers are dwindling too fast. We can’t win this.”
“We can and we will.” Aylagar raised a hand. She touched my face and the sound of metal clashing and men screaming seemed to fade away. Brushing back the blood-splattered, white strands that had come loose from my braid, she ran a finger down the strong line of my jaw. “Trust me, Love. The Langorians will not have Rella.”
“How can you still believe that?”
“Because I must. Because I have faith.”
“Ayla…” I stopped myself. Then I started again. “I saw the messenger arrive from Kabri. I know he carried orders from the King. You can’t keep ignoring them.”
“I can. And I will.” She dropped her hand and backed up. “My husband is a fool. I don’t care how many messengers he dispatches from his throne, he is not out here. The blood of these men bathes
my
skin, not his. This is my war, Troy. Mine!” she cried. “We fight. We die. We go on until we prevail—by my command. I will not surrender. That is the way of it. That is the only way.”
My throat went dry at the fire in her. The way she stood, outlined by the backdrop of chaos, flanked by the crackling flames that consumed our camp, with sweat beading on her dark skin and battle-lust glazing her stare, I wanted to pull her into my arms. I wanted to go back to this morning, on the furs of her tent, when Aylagar’s flawless, ebony skin was on me. Where status and race didn’t matter and death felt far away. Mostly, I wanted to believe her, as I had so many times, that every battle brought us closer to victory. That persistence was our greatest strength and it would carry us through.
But this was it. King Draken of Langor was throwing everything he had at us, making one final push to wipe us all out. To once and for all, lay claim to the land his forefathers had sought, and failed, to conquer. Surrendering was unacceptable; she was right in that. Yet, Aylagar had lost her way. Somewhere along the line, the outcome had stopped mattering to her as much as the fight, and my affection, my awe of her, had blinded me for far too long.
“Give me the order,” I demanded. “Let me shift the odds.”
Her dismissal was quick. “No.”
“We can’t keep going like this, sword for sword, day after day, until there’s none of us left. Let me cast hell down on these black-hearted bastards.”
“I have given you my answer. And it is no different than the last hundred times.”
I moved closer. “You know what I can do. My magic can give us an advantage the Langorians can’t match. We can stop this fucking, never-ending war, Ayla. We can stop it together, with steel
and
magic. If you’ll just—”
“You are Shinree,” she hissed. “Your kind are meant to do as they are told. Yet, after six years in the ranks you still push for something that I will never bend to.”
“Then you’re as big a fool as the King.”
Her hand that, only a moment ago, had caressed me, struck my face. “My husband forced your service in this army upon us both. And from day one, when you stood in my tent, a young man, eager to please, drooling with the urge to cast, I made it plain that this conflict would not be solved with magic. It’s dishonorable. I don’t trust it. I forbid it. Now, you are my best soldier. I have given you free reign in my bed, but not out here. Not in battle. Ever. Is that clear?”
Staring at her, my heart went cold. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. Fighting as half a man. Ashamed of what I am because you say it’s wrong. I’m not just a soldier.” I held up the sword in my hand. I called to the stones embedded in the leather-wrapped handle and they began to glow. Their vibrations pressed in through my skin, down into my veins, and the uncertainty washed away. “I’m a Shinree soldier.”
“Put that magic away,” she scolded. “Do you want to kill us all?”
“I can control it.”
“Can you?” Her eyes were harsh. “Can you promise that when your spell steals the strength it needs to be born, that it won’t steal from one of my men? That it won’t steal from me? Your magic is a disease, Ian. Your need for it, your addiction, clouds your judgment. It threatens us all and undermines my orders.”
“Your orders,” I roared, “contradict my duty to keep Rella safe. I’ve tried to pretend they didn’t. I’ve tried to be what you wanted. But I can’t. I’m Shinree, Ayla. I
am
magic. And if you don’t untie my hands, we will all die here today.”
Stunned, Aylagar looked at me. For a moment there was a rare vulnerability in her eyes, a kind of resigned sadness. Then she raised her sword,
turned, and re-joined the battle. She left me standing alone on the rim of the conflict, watching with a crushing sense of finality as the men I’d fought beside for years, were being slaughtered.
I can save them
, I thought, though they wouldn’t do the same for me. A magic user, granted exemption from the slavery that kept my kind in check; I was tolerated at best. But lately, I’d seen it in their eyes, next to the pain, the hunger and exhaustion. They no longer hated me because I might use magic and bring them harm. They hated me for not using it, for continuing to let them die.
Frustration pushed a scream from my lungs. A pang of rage and resentment sped through me, so sharp, that I pulled my second sword, pushed into the mayhem and started swinging. I sliced through bodies, one after the other, trying to lose myself in the rhythm. I pressed forward, deeper into the madness; wrath blazing in my white eyes as I strived for an answer to the conflict that burned inside me.
My magic knew nothing of sides. My spells fed without discrimination. They were selfish, heartless. They didn’t care who was right or wrong, who was strong or weak. To create themselves, they would drain friend as easily as foe.
In the villages they called me a champion, but I wasn’t. I was a weapon.
Somehow, I’d forgotten that.
I looked around me, at the dogged Rellan soldiers fighting for their realm, at the spirited Arullan warriors of Aylagar’s homeland, and I made my decision.
I sent the magic back into the stones on my sword.
Not here
, I thought.
The cost is too great.
I had to get out in the open. Going against Aylagar’s wishes was bad enough. I couldn’t risk catching her army in the crossfire.
Spying an opening, I started making my way off the field, when the ground began to shake. In seconds, it was undulating with such force that none of us could stand.
It was inconvenient, but it was no surprise.
Mirra’kellan
was a fidgety continent that didn’t stand still for long. And having fought for years in the worst of it, the disputed, quake-plagued region between Rella and Langor, it was understood that the land would quiver when it pleased. After, we would all get up and resume the battle.
But today, something was different. The trembling wasn’t stopping. And the ground wasn’t just cracking. It was rupturing. Not in slender, minute fractures as in times past, but in long, jagged canyons that ripped across the field, dissecting the valley. In deep chasms that opened without warning, swallowing fifteen men at a time and spewing plumes of ancient dust high into the air. Hillsides were sliding away. Overhanging cliffs broke off and tumbled down. The entire landscape was being violently rearranged.
Watching, lying prone on the heaving, blood-soaked ground, coughing out the debris in my lungs, as panic broke out on both sides, I thought,
I should get up
.
I still had a sword in each hand. Enemies were all around me.
I should attack, now, while the ground is still shaking. Before they recover.
But even as the land continued to buckle and roll, my attention had shifted away from the quake and the battle, to the crooked crevice opening up alongside me, and the object buried within it.
