Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (7 page)

She took her seat at one of the round oak tables, joining
one of the other sorceresses from petitioner duty.  She noticed four of the new
graduates enter the dining hall and take a table in the far corner.  Puralina
was with them, and glared at Celia before pointedly turning her back to her and
ignoring her.  Celia sighed loudly and turned to her meal that the server
placed before her.

“Don’t mind her,” said her table-mate, a mousy little woman
with straggly light brown hair streaked with grey falling past her shoulder,
“twasn’t your fault someone broke in and stole them stones.”  From her accent,
she was from the western edge of the Empire, or possibly further.  Celia
remembered her name as Mindeela from the introductions on her first night at
the embassy.  “The fact that they were stolen falls on all of us, and Zazaril
most heavily, I think...” she trailed off, tearing her bread roll in half and
dipping it into her thick stew.

“It feels like my fault,” she said quietly to herself. 
If
it wasn’t her fault, why did she feel so guilty?

Mindeela spoke around a mouthful of food, “It reminds me of
a time back in my village, ‘fore I became a Dar'Shilaar of course, when this
boy decided that...”

Celia’s mind wandered, though she managed some polite ‘ohs’
and ‘ahs’ at the appropriate times in the other woman’s story – she didn’t want
to seem rude, after all.  She went through the events of the past thirty-six
bells in her head, trying to piece together why the Goralonians needed the quafa'shilaar. 
What could they use them for? Almost anything
she answered to herself.  She
was determined to solve this one riddle, knowing that she would have to leave
Salrissa to help Hoyle by herself.

She finished her dinner without really tasting it, stood up,
made her excuses to her table-mate, and headed for the embassy’s small
library.  She had some research to do.

Hoyle sat alone in the dark.  Okay, maybe not quite alone. 
He could hear the skittering and squeaking of rats nearby.  His thoughts began
to drift. 
How did rats get onto a sky citadel?
  It was an absurd
thought considering the situation he was in.  He laughed out loud, the sound
echoing in the dark.

“Did your mind break already
thief
?” came the deep
voice from Brows in the cell across the corridor.  Hoyle couldn’t see the brute
in the darkness, but he heard his movement as his chains rattled.

Hoyle did not answer.  His muscles were cramped due to the
chains linking him to a ring in the floor.  He could not stretch out fully, nor
stand upright, so his muscles had started to cramp and joints ache.  The cell
he was in was cold stone, which added to his muscles' misery.  It was not large
enough in any direction, that should the chains allow him to stretch fully; he
would not be able to lie flat or stand without hitting his head anyway.  He
knew that Brows would be having it worse, being the larger man.

He did not know how long they had been imprisoned, but he
had drifted off at least once.  He had been brought a thin, watery stew once a
few hours ago, by a thinner than average veklian, so Hoyle guessed it was after
breakfast, but not yet twelve bells.

No outside sounds reached the cells at the center of the
stone island that the sky citadel rested on.  The only other sounds were from
other prisoners down the corridor from them.  He could only hear three, and
they had been here longer and were much weaker than Hoyle or Brows.  The only
sounds they made were some moans and the rattle of their chains as they moved.

The First Chancellor’s predictions were, so far, not true. 
All hadn’t been revealed in ‘no time’.  In fact, since they were locked in the
cells, the only person they saw was the veklian who brought them the stew.  And
the veklian was not generally regarded as a person.  Whoever this Robart was
that they were threatened with; he had yet to make an appearance.

“No witty banter
thief
?” taunted Brows.  “Nothing to
say?  Your
women
managed to escape, yet
you
were caught.  So much
for being the ‘best in Tala’ahar!’”  He broke out into deep, booming laughter,
which caused one of the other prisoners to begin screaming.  “Shut up!” Brows
yelled at them, turning the screaming into whimpers.

Hoyle had thought on the last few minutes in the guild
tower.  He asked himself more than once since. 
Why had he sacrificed
himself to protect Celia?  He had never risked his life for someone he had just
met before, so why now?
  He remembered the look on Salrissa’s face when she
saw him.  It was a look of frustration and disappointment.  She knew that he
had lightening quick reflexes, and was rarely caught by surprise.  But he
focused on her last words to him; “I will come for you.”  He trusted her.

His mind turned to other things, things it had been working on
as he had gathered various pieces to the puzzle of the magestones. 
Why had
the Goralon faction needed magestones?  What were they going to use them for?
 
Granted, Whisper had hit him with a powerful spell, and he suspected that the
magestone mixed with the blood had something to do with it, but he had only
seen the one stone.  If the First Chancellor had another one, that left seven
remaining. 
For that matter, how did the Chancellor even
know
that
nine had been stolen?
  Lots of questions, less answers.

---o---

Another indeterminate time later, Hoyle was awoken from a
light, uncomfortable sleep by the sounds of banging.  He heard the creak of the
door at the end of the corridor, muted voices, and footsteps.  His eyes stung
from the light of the torch they carried.  The three men stopped in front of
Hoyle’s cell and looked in through the bars.  All three were large.  Two of the
men were palace guards with their blood red cloaks over plate and chain armor. 
One was carrying the torch, which was casting flickering shadows around his
cell.  The guard placed it in an iron sconce on the wall just beside his cell
door.

“I want the Goralonian first,” said the third man.  He was
just as large, as thick as he was wide, with a bald head and a bright orange
beard.  He wore all black; leather armor, leather leggings, leather gloves,
leather boots.  All easy to wash blood off of, or so Hoyle understood from
Salrissa.

The guards opened up the cell across from Hoyle, and he
could see Brows lunge for the guards as they opened the bars on his cell.  He
was pulled up short by his chains, and fell back.  One of the guards stepped in
and slapped him with a mailed fist across the face.  Brows reeled, and
collapsed on the floor of his cell, sputtering.  He looked up at the guard,
death showing in his gaze.

The man in black stepped into Brows’ cell, and pulled a
short silver rod from a belt loop and touched it to Brows’ cheek.  A flicker, a
sizzle, and then a sharp bang knocked Brows to the floor – limp.  The smell of
cooking meat drifted through the air.  “That will be enough out of you - for
now,” the man in black noted with a sneer in his voice.

One of the guards lifted Brows while the second one unlocked
the chains from the ring in the floor.  Then each one lifted him with their
shoulder under an arm, and proceeded to drag more than carry him down the
corridor and through the door at the end.  Hoyle watched them from his position
on the floor of his cell.  The man in black remained behind, looking at Hoyle
with no emotion in his eyes as he put the silver rod back on his belt.

“I’ll be back for you when I’m done with this one,” he
gestured vaguely down the hall.  He grabbed the torch and headed back down the
corridor toward the exit.  Hoyle shifted so he could watch the lingering light
until it was gone.    

He
really
hoped Salrissa would hurry.

---o---

Hoyle woke again to the sounds of the door at the end of the
corridor creaking, hard boots thumping on the stone floor and something heavy
being dragged.  He hadn't meant to drift off, but with no light, only the inky
blackness for company he found it hard to stay awake.  Flickering shadows lit
his cell as two guards dumped an unconscious Brows back into the cell across
from him. They reattached his chain to the ring in the floor and stepped out. 
They closed his door with a loud clank, and Hoyle could hear whimpering from
further down the hall.  In the flickering torchlight, he could see fresh blood
on Brows face and clothing, but other than being unconscious, he appeared to be
fine.

He watched intently as the guards turned to his cell, and
unlocked the door.  The man in the black leather, stepping in front of his
cell, held the torch in his left hand and the small silver rod in his other. 
“I know you’re not going to be a problem, are you?” the man asked.

Hoyle shook his head after finding that his throat was too
dry to speak.  He waited quietly while the guards unlocked his chains from the
floor ring, and managed to stand awkwardly, his muscles stiff and sore.  Once
in the corridor, he was able to stand fully upright and take the opportunity to
stretch his back out.

The man in black stepped aside to let the guards usher him
down the corridor.  A few steps from his cell, he heard movement in the
adjacent cell, and the deep voice of Brows say quietly to the man in leather,
“I will enjoy watching you die.”

The man in black chuckled softly to himself, shaking his
head as he followed Hoyle and the guards from the cell block.

The guards led Hoyle through the guardroom at the end of the
corridor, past the stairs up, through several more doors and along passages,
until they came to a large room with no other exits.  The guards placed Hoyle
in a strange metal chair in the center of the room, and strapped his arms and
legs to the chair with thick leather straps.  The two guards went to stand on
each side of the now closed and locked door.

He looked around the mostly dark room, lit with only a few
candles.  There were a couple of dark alcoves that he noticed at first, but
those were now behind him based on the way the chair was facing.  He faced the
door.  To one side was a rough wooden table with various sharp implements laid
out in a leather case.  There was also two pitchers and some goblets, a bowl of
fruit, several candles in holders, and a pile of clean rags.  On the floor next
to the table was a wooden pail containing a bunch of bloodied rags.  Next to
that was a typical wooden chair.  Now that Hoyle concentrated, he could see
fresh stains on the stone floor below the chair he was sitting in.

The man in black leather walked over to the table at the
side of the room and poured something from a metal pitcher into a goblet. 
Turning, he walked to Hoyle and raised the goblet to his lips, “Drink,” he
ordered.

Hoyle drank warily, but it was fresh water so he consumed
the entire goblet.  “Thank you,” he said, actually grateful.

The man placed the goblet back on the table and ran his
hands over the leather case almost lovingly.  He picked up one of the other chairs
and carried it over to the middle of the room.  Placing it so the back of the
chair was facing Hoyle, the large man straddled the chair facing him, and
rested his arms on the back.  From a pace away, he could see the man’s dark
eyes as they stared at him intently.  He raised his left eyebrow inquisitively.

“You’re Robart, I assume?” guessed Hoyle quietly.  He
glanced at the guards over Robart’s shoulder.  They did not move.

“Correct, but some call me 'Slowkiller'” he paused, “Guess
what I want to know?”  His eyebrow was again raised.

“I would say the current exchange rate between the Goralon
Archer and the Imperial Mark, but though I suspect that is going to change in the
near future, therefore my information may not be of much value.  Am I close?”
Hoyle arched his eyebrow to mirror that of his questioner.

“And see, here I thought you were smarter than the other
brute, but it seems you just have a smarter mouth.”  He backhanded Hoyle across
the face.  He tasted blood.  He felt his split lip with his tongue.

“Well, would
he
even have considered the implications
to the exchange rate between the Archer and the Mark?” he ventured.  “Or did he
even do anything but growl?”  Hoyle could tell he hit the mark with that
comment.

“Oh, he did more than growl, I assure you.  Now, are you
prepared to answer my original question?”

“I thought I had,” he said with one corner of his mouth
turned up.

Robart pulled the silver rod from his belt, and pressed it
to the arm of the chair.  Hoyle’s whole body went slightly rigid as arcs of
lightning flowed along the chair and jumped along his arms.  His earring
started to become warm, and then finally hot as it absorbed the magic of the
rod.  And then the earring was finally overwhelmed and the excruciating pain
coursed through his body.  He could smell burning, and realized it was him.  Finally,
he could grit his teeth against the pain no longer and let out a giant wail.

As suddenly as it was there, it was gone. 
So
that’s
why the chair was metal...
  It took Hoyle a few seconds to recover, his
muscles twitching and jumping.  His earring was hot against the side of his
face.  It would not be able to absorb any more magic for many hours.

“That was on the lowest setting,” said Robart, his eyes
wary.  He seemed to sense something wrong.  “Shall we try again, with a more
direct question?”  His voice was booming in the stone chamber.

Hoyle nodded as best he could.  He did not trust himself to speak;
his mouth was always making bad situations worse.

“Why were you in the Goralon Merchants' Guild when the guard
stormed the place?”  He went straight to the point.  The First Chancellor must
have briefed him.

“They had some things of mine, and I wanted them back.”
Hoyle replied more casually than he felt.  It was more of a stutter than his
regular voice.

 The large man stood, stroking his orange beard.  “And what
was it they had of yours?”  He strode to the table and poured from a second
pitcher into another goblet and took a long drink.  Hoyle saw that he had the
tattoo of an eagle across the back of his bald head.

Hoyle knew he had to be careful here.  “Gold and gems.  I
did some work for them, and they refused to pay.”

“You stole something for them, and then they stiffed you.” 
The larger man wiped the dark wine from his beard with the back of his hand as
he put down the goblet.

“I
found
something for them, and then they stiffed
me,” he corrected.

“And what did you
find
for them?” he demanded,
walking behind the chair to which Hoyle was strapped.  Hoyle’s muscles suddenly
jumped from the twinge of lightning running through the chair.  “That was the
medium setting a handspan from the chair,” warned his questioner.  “Don’t make
me touch the chair.”

Hoyle stayed quiet.  He knew those magestones were important
and that his life was possibly forfeit if he answered truthfully.  Hoyle
screamed as the rod touched the chair.  And screamed, and screamed.  Finally,
he passed out.

---o---

Hoyle laid in the grass staring at the clouds as they
drifted across the blue summer sky, his older sister Vanda beside him.  They
were finding shapes in the clouds.  Keela, his Sarethan hound bounded up to the
two of them and licked their faces until they were laughing.  His younger
sister Niala was down playing in the creek at the bottom of the rise upon which
they lay. 

It was his tenth birthing day, the twenty-fifth of Jarn.  It
was five days before High Sun, the longest day of the year.  The town was
readying for the celebrations, hanging wreaths and decorating their houses for
the festivities.  Several caravans full of spring produce had arrived earlier
in the day and the men of the town were helping unload.  Some merchants had
arrived from deeper in the Empire, and some from across the Whitetooth
Mountains, from Goralon to the east.