Stones Unbound (The Magestone Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

Gorlag

Gorlag stood at his balcony in the evening light and looked
down at the grey city below him.  Smoke rose from most chimneys against the
early spring chill, he could still see snow in the shadows of the buildings,
where the sun could not reach.  The smoke was thick with the smell of charcoal
and steel.  The air was thick with the sound of smithies working unceasingly,
forging armor and arms.  Those able bodied men that were not working those
smithies, or some other critical function of the Kingdom of Goralon had been
conscripted for the army.  It was a country preparing to go to war - at his
command.

He looked across the capital city of Karvesh, with its squat
towers along the wide walls he could see ringing the city through the smoky
haze.  All the other buildings in the city were squat, with steep sloping roofs
of grey slate to throw off the snow brought by the severe winter storms. 
Everywhere there was grey, and if not grey; black or white.  He was sick of
grey.  And black.  And white. 

Karvesh was nothing like Tala’ahar, with its tall, ancient,
glorious, elven-built towers, and magnificent bridges.  He had visited as a
young boy when his father had been forced by the Emperor to travel to the
Imperial City to renew terms of the peace treaty.  A small faction of
Goralonian rebels had declared war on the Kastrun Imperium and had attacked several
small border towns, killing hundreds, before they were captured and executed. 
What he remembered most from the trip to Tala'ahar were the soaring towers and
streets full of color - the complete opposite of Karvesh.

 Karvesh was built by his human ancestors centuries ago; a
tribe that had survived through all the events, cataclysm, and genocide history
could throw at it.  The low sturdy, thick walls had repelled almost all
invaders, and even when the Dartang tribes to the north had breached the outer walls
two centuries ago, they found two more rings of walls within, and were crushed
between them.

Eighty-nine years ago, Emperor Randramas Kastrum had
appeared out of nowhere at the head of a small army that claimed no allegiances
to any of the eight warring provinces of Morteva, the central portion of the
continent of Kaladahn across the Whitetooth Mountains to the west of Goralon. 
With only his small army, he managed the impossible; the defeat of the
provincial army of Baran, and the seizure of its capital, though there are no
records of how.  With this success, a newly forged alliance with the Dar'Shilaar,
and his growing army, he succeeded in defeating one province after another,
until he had six of the eight provinces within his newly named Kastrum Imperium. 
The other two provinces, realizing the inevitability, bowed their heads to the
self-appointed Emperor.

The Empire flourished, while Goralon waned, watching from
across the mountains to the east.  Imperial envoys were sent to Goralon ensuing
for peace, but were imprisoned, tortured for information, and killed.  Once his
grandfather believed he knew enough about the Emperor and his Imperial forces,
he sent his armies through the pass to the west, attacking their eastern
territories.  For almost two months the Goralonian army went uncontested, until
the Imperial Army arrived, overseen by three floating sky citadels.

The Goralonian army was crushed down to the last man in less
than two days.  Reports indicated that the sky citadels rained flaming death from
the sky, to which there was no defence.  Those same citadels followed the
Imperial army through the Pass of Maran’toral, to the walls of Karvesh, and
demanded the Goralonians’ surrender.

King Gorath, Gorlag’s grandfather, had no choice but to
accept the peace treaty offered.  A peace treaty at least, not outright defeat
and absorption into the Empire.  It was the only thing that kept his family on
the throne.  Even as a figurehead, his grandfather saw it as a bitter pill to
swallow.  But since the Emperor had left a large contingent of Imperial
soldiers behind to ensure the peace treaty was enforced, no other choices were
available.  The Emperor even left a sky citadel guarding the only pass through
the Whitetooth Mountains for hundreds of leagues north or south.  On clear
nights, sometimes you could even see the lights of the sky citadel hovering
over the mountain pass thirty leagues to the northwest.  It was meant as a
none-too-subtle reminder of the consequences of his grandfather's choice.

Gorlag wasn’t even born when his grandfather died, a hollow
shell of the man he was in the past.  His father, King Gorlan, became bitter
after he ascended the throne, even with the new prosperity that Goralon had
found in the twenty years since the Emperor had occupied Karvesh.  His father’s
greatest accomplishment in Gorlag’s eyes, and this was saying very little, was
that he managed to convince the Emperor that the Imperial garrison was no
longer needed to maintain the peace.  His father had ruled the occupied kingdom
for a long time, before passing it to his son cleansed of Imperial oppression.

Upon his father’s death, Gorlag had become King of this grey
city and the Kingdom of Goralon.  Growing up, he had seen how the resentment of
the Empire had wormed its way through his father, eating him from the inside. 
But he played his part well, and the Emperor did not suspect that which Gorlan
was planning with his closest advisor, the warlock Kartem. 

The tall, thin warlock who only spoke in whispers summoned
Gorlag to his father’s private study that fall day over nine years ago.  It was
on that day his father changed Gorlag's perception of him.  It was then that he
revealed his plans to destroy the Empire and kill the Emperor.  The plans that
he had been working on since he attained the crown, plans he had been working
on for over forty years.  Plans he passed on to Gorlag that fall day, knowing
his health was beginning to fail.  Plans he had carried forward for another
nine years.  Plans that were now coming to fruition.

The Emperor had managed to reign now for eighty-nine years,
taking power in his twenties.  He had command of evil magic, Gorlag knew, his
spies in the Imperial Court indicating that he did not look much older than
when he commanded his armies and built the empire.  He had to die.  The fate of
the entire world rest on that fact, his priests had told him so.

---o---

King Gorlag turned and strode from his balcony back into his
private study, the room where all the planning was exposed to him that fateful
day.  Standing at attention was his spymaster, Tregor.  Gorlag was not sure if
Tregor was loyal to him, the Throne, Kartem, or the position, but he did his
duties well, and was rewarded appropriately.  He looked the man over.  He was
as average as a person could be and still exist - bland hair, slightly stooped
posture, and standard leathers of a lowly officer in the military.  Not common
soldier fare, enough rank to get him to those that needed to be informed,
without hassle from the common rank and file.  Of course, if needed, he also had
a special tattoo that he could present that would allow him to be recognized as
a special agent of the king.  With that he could give the king’s orders to
generals, orders which they would obey without question.

“What have you to report?” ordered Gorlag as he turned and
closed the glass doors and then drew the heavy curtains over them.  He had left
the spymaster standing at his desk for a long while since he had appeared
through one of the two secret entrances to his study.  The other was the King’s
secret alone.  Of course, he wouldn’t put it past the other man to know.  What
kind of spymaster would he be if he didn’t?

“Kartem has reported that the plan is proceeding... mostly
to... well - plan,” answered the spymaster carefully.  He was trimming his
fingernails with a small knife, and did not look up.  That riled Gorlag
somewhat, but he kept his temper in check.

“Mostly to plan?” the king questioned, “What exactly went
wrong?”

“Actually, it went more right than anticipated, with one
minor snag that is being rectified as we speak.  The Tala’aharian city guard
assaulted the Goralon Merchants' Guild and arrested everyone within.”

“Everyone?”

“Well, everyone except Kartem himself, of course.  Marcon
got himself nabbed by a Fear Squad, and Kartem indicated there was some outside
interference, but indicated that it was well taken care of.”  The spymaster had
turned and was running his hands along the books in the long bookcase against
one wall.  “It looks like you will now have a reason to go to war.” Tregor
probed.

“All in good time, you insidious worm,” the king warned.  He
hadn’t shared the entire plan with anyone since his father and the warlock had
informed him of it.  It was a good thing he had a sharp mind, as the
complexities of the plan were, in some cases, so subtle that it had taken hours
to go through it in the first place.

“The king’s compliments are always welcome,” his spymaster
purred.  “Your orders, my liege?”  He was impossible to insult.

“Close the borders to trade, and send an envoy to Tala’ahar
with this letter,” the king picked up two pieces of parchment from his desk,
selected one, rolled it and sealed it with wax, imprinting the royal seal from
his ring.  The other he tossed in the crackling fireplace opposite the
bookcase.  He saw the spymaster flinch slightly from the corner of his eye, and
the king knew Tregor saw a secret vanish in flame that he would never know. 
The man hoarded secrets like others hoarded gold.  What he could not know is
that both letters were written months ago, the day he and Kartem put their
plans into action.

Marisha’ilea stood at a lectern to one side of the grand
chamber taking notes with her quill.  She was one of three Recorders that stood
at equal angles around the room.  Everything said in the Dar'Shilaar council
sessions was duly noted and recorded.  The three transcripts were cross-checked
by junior clerks, and compiled into one
True Account
of each council
session.  There were no secrets among The Seven.  Her elven ears were keen,
even when someone spoke under their breath she picked it up.  It did not hurt
that she had a keen mind and eidetic memory, able to remember anything she had
witnessed or heard personally, and recall it perfectly at any later date. 
Being an elf, this did mean some days her head felt like it was getting full,
she thought wryly, being one hundred and sixteen, though still young for an elf. 
It was a burden she was willing to bear, and it had served her well in learning
the magic she could craft. 

She could remember all the syllables of each spell perfectly
on the first try, therefore advanced through her classes quickly to the envy of
many others, even the handful of elves that had travelled from Shi’Shilaar to
learn with the humans.  She was still working on the intensity and strength of
her spells; however this could only come from practice and personal investiture
in the spell.  This used to come easily and naturally to all elves before the
Elf-Orc war two millennia ago, but since the spell-storms that had been
released during the war had ravaged the world, it seemed that the elves were slowly
losing their magic completely.  Long life was still theirs, but they lost the
immortality that had been granted by the Goddess almost immediately after that
war ended.

The current evening session was focused on a report from Tala’ahar
that indicated that the shipment of quafa'shilaar was stolen from the embassy
almost a week ago, and had only now been reported.  Apparently Zazaril, the
head ambassador, felt that she would have things back under control in a short
time, and did not want to bother the Conclave with a ‘trifling matter’ she had
called it.  Now however, only one of the nine stones had been recovered.

“The perpetrators have been arrested, and are being
interrogated in Imperial custody.” Zazaril stated to The Seven.  “It is only a
matter of time,” she added, tossing a lock of hair over her shoulder with the
flick of her head.

“So you say, lady Zazaril, so you say...” archmage Endergot
replied, a serious expression on his face.  As head of the Seven, he was one of
the eldest and most powerful Dar'Shilaar in the world, at least for this era. 
He was small, several hands short of a full span, hinting at extinct gnomish
ancestry somewhere in his distant bloodline.  He had white hair, more coming
from his overly large ears than on his head, with a magnificent white beard. 
Age spots dotted his face and hands, and he walked using a staff that was
almost twice his height.  Even though the Dar'Shilaar were ruled by the entire Council
of Seven, his opinion carried the most weight. 

“Who’s to say the Emperor will pass any information along to
us, should they obtain any?” demanded Brilon.  He was the newest member of the
Seven, appointed just over five years ago.  In that time he had proven himself
to be brash and hasty,
even for a human
, thought Marisha’ilea.  He had
dark hair, as all Goralonians had, which matched his dark demeanor.  Many
questioned his appointment, but he had earned it in some of his encounters with
the druid rebel group, the Drake’s Fang, six and seven years ago now.

“I have an arrangement with the First Chancellor.  It is
possible that the Emperor does not even know of the incident regarding the
stones.” Zazaril looked indignantly at Brilon.  Marisha’ilea noted that her
stare was intense and wary.  There was something more lurking there.

The soft voice of Avara’etha inserted itself into the
conversation, “I assure you, the Emperor knows.  The First Chancellor may be his
advisor, and in charge of the governing of the empire by edict, but he is not
his
only
advisor.”  She was soft in body, as well as voice, her curves
out of proportion to her elven frame.  She wore her plain grey robes, unaware
for the most part that she had a body women envied and males - even proper
elven males - lusted after.  Her long copper hair fell to her waist in a tight
braid, and she wore no jewelry, other than the simple silver circlet that held
her garnet quafa'shilaar on her forehead.  She was one of the few elves currently
in Mahad’avor.

“Whether the Emperor knows or does not know is not the
question of importance,” Endergot stated, “the more important questions are:
Who has stolen the gems?  Where are they now?  And: What are they being used
for, or planned on being used for?” His expression was as serious as Marisha’ilea
had ever seen.  "In addition, we must also ask ourselves if this
particular theft was planned prior to the shipment."

"What do you mean?" Avara'etha replied curiously.

Endergot coughed into a handkerchief before he responded. 
"What I mean, is that this was to be the first time the graduation
ceremony was to occur outside Mahad'avor.  This was a request by the Emperor
himself, according to our Ambassador," he continued, gesturing at Zazaril. 
"The premise was to instill goodwill with the Throne and have a grand
ceremony at the Palace."  He looked pointedly at Zazaril, who paled
slightly.

“Regardless of the reason they were in Tala'ahar, we know
who took them.  As I said, the perpetrators are in custody,” insisted Zazaril.

“Yes, but if that truly be the case, where be the remaining
stones?  For that matter, where be the stone you say was recovered?” came the
blunt question from Doratellan, the Dar'Shilaar from the Seven Isles.  “Be it
possible that one who be having the stones may have escaped from the
apprehension?”  His emerald eyes matched his quafa'shilaar in colour and
intensity, as it pulsed on a choker at his neck. 

“You did inform us that Goralonians stole the magestones,”
Endergot summarized, using the more common term for the quafa'shilaar.  Marisha’ilea
saw Brilon shift uncomfortably in his seat, the movement so slight it appeared
that no one else caught it.  “However, you have not confirmed that they were
not just using the guild as a staging area, and were actually from, or with,
some other faction.  And Doratellan’s questions are still valid regardless.” 
His eyes bored into Zazaril.  “You will involve yourself directly in the
investigation.  We need answers.” He waved his small hand in dismissal.

The Seven waited until Zazaril had left the chamber and the
doors had been closed before opening up into a debate.  Marisha’ilea kept
clear, concise notes, but did so with only a small portion of her mind.  The
important parts of the day had happened, and the discussion occurring now was
mostly irrelevant.  One of her other jobs, as Endergot’s pupil, was to pay
attention to things he did not have the time to in these council sessions and
report back to him privately.  He also expected her to have insight into all of
the topics she brought up.

---o---

Marisha’ilea walked slowly beside her mentor, his staff clicking
on the tile floor in a slow, but steady, cadence.  He only came up to her
shoulder, and she was not tall herself, but his staff – the Staff of Everilon –
topped them both by an arm's length.  She had once been given a chance to
examine the staff by Endergot himself, in his presence obviously, and she was
still in awe of the power she felt coursing through it. 

Almost a span and a half long, it was made from the branch
of a Tashiir tree, which only grew in the deep wilds, and prized for its
strength once properly cured.  It was topped with an amber quafa'shilaar the
size of her fist that swirled and pulsed as if alive.  The staff had been
created almost a millennium ago by the elf Dar'Shilaar Ever’ilon, a senior
member of the Council of Verai, which he would use to teach magic to the new human
Dar'Shilaar that he helped establish.  The elves felt betrayed that he had
taught the brash humans how to learn and access magic, and banished him from
their lands.  Thus the staff had been handed down to the leader of the Dar'Shilaar
since that time, as part tradition, and part of keeping the staff safe.  Only
the strongest could safely use it, so keeping it out of lesser wizards’ hands
was paramount.  The fact that Endergot trusted her enough to let her handle it,
even supervised, meant something to her.

They ascended the circular stairs several levels to the head
wizard’s study.

“Not sure why they make the oldest wizards climb the most
stairs...” Endergot grumbled quietly under his breath, but her elven ears
picked it up.

Marisha’ilea had heard this argument many times before, so
she gave the standard answer she always gave.  It was like a game they played,
or a joke only they shared.  “As a symbol of your station, of course.  I’ve
told you this before, are you sure you’re not getting senile?” she teased.

“Pfaw!  What would you know about getting old, elf?”

“You could always Transport yourself to your study, and I
could meet you up there,” she argued the next line of their game.

“Waste of magic!  You think magic is infinite?!” again he
grumbled something under his breath, but this time she could not hear any true
words.  By this time they were at his study door.

He spoke the magical command words to disarm the traps on
his door and unlock the portal, pressed his hand against the ancient oak of the
door and pushed it open.  They stepped into his study, and moved to sit in the
two armchairs set by the fireplace.  The spring was still chilly, and the
citadel’s stone walls retained little warmth.  Marisha’ilea watched as two
small flame sprites danced along the log within the fireplace as she sat facing
her mentor.  The flame sprites were happy as long as they had new wood to burn
every so often.  She was not sure what would happen if they ever became
unhappy.

Endergot knocked another log from the stack on the hearth,
and pushed into the fireplace with the end of his staff.  The sprites attacked
the log eagerly.

The two of them spent a few minutes watching the sprites in
silence, other than the crackling of their flames.

Finally Marisha’ilea spoke into the comfortable silence. 
“Brilon seemed uncomfortable today, I noted.”

“Why do you think that is?” was Endergot’s quiet reply.

“Well I have several theories, but I suspect that the most
likely is because he is from the Kingdom of Goralon, as are the supposed
thieves,” she surmised.

“Are they supposed thieves, or supposedly Goralonian?”
questioned her mentor.  “As an elf, you, more than anyone, are aware of the
implication of the inaccuracies in your statement.”

She blushed.  Endergot was the only human that could
reprimand her effectively.  Even though she was forty years his senior, she
felt his wisdom in every statement.  She thought through the question for
several minutes while staring at the dancing fire sprites that were now jumping
from the mostly consumed logs to the new log and back again.  Finally she
answered, “Both.”

Her mentor nodded, “Indeed.”  He coughed a few times and
wiped his mouth with the handkerchief he always carried.  Marisha’ilea noticed
blood on the white cloth, but said nothing.  His condition was worsening, no
matter what the Daughters of Shaleesa, the Mother, had tried.  They had finally
given up, saying that they couldn’t heal old age.  Watching the sprites lazily,
Endergot finally continued, “What else did you notice today?”

Marisha’ilea thought carefully for a moment before she
responded, “There were three that stayed out of the conversation completely;
Dar’ell, Brynden and Norella.  Doratellan seems to dislike Brilon
significantly, even though he appears indifferent to his place on the Council,
but weighs all his words carefully.  Other than that, I noticed nothing else
beyond ordinary.”

Endergot was silent for a minute.  “Thank you my dear.  If
you could leave me to get some rest, I would welcome it.  Please let Henkelan
know he can attend me in the morning, I will see myself to bed.”  He coughed
again into his handkerchief.  She nodded briefly as she stood and walked to the
door.  She paused before opening it, looking back at the wise man that ruled
the Dar'Shilaar as he sat quietly in his chair watching the fire sprites throw
balls of fire back and forth at each other, like children playing in the snow. 
She wondered how long it would be before they would need a new leader.

---o---

Marisha’ilea returned to her room several floors below her
mentor’s and found Zazaril waiting in her sitting room.  Apparently Mishka had
been through, as there was a fire burning in the fireplace, the normal kind,
not fire sprites, and her visitor had a cup of tea steaming beside her.  As she
entered, Zazaril rose and inclined her head in greeting.  At the same time
Mishka stepped in from the bedroom.

“Bed’s turned down for the night, and your nightgown is laid
out Marisha'ilea Shilaar.  A small snack is on the side table.  Is there
anything else you need?” the servant questioned.

“Thank you.  That will be all Mishka.  See yourself to bed.”
She directed.

“Very well, mistress.” She curtsied and left the room
quietly, closing the door softly behind her.

Marisha’ilea stood watching Zazaril, saying nothing. 
Zazaril met her gaze for a long moment until she raised one eyebrow in
question.

“I had hoped you would speak to Endergot on my behalf,”
Zazaril stated.

“Why?”

“To remove my direct involvement in the investigation, of
course,” Zazaril turned and walked to the window and looked out into the orange
sunset.  Her back was as straight as a rod.

“Again, why?”  She watched as Zazaril continued to stare out
her window, across the undulating forest canopy of green, fading to black as
the sun dropped behind the Barrier Mountains to the west.