The Stone Bearers - Couverture souple

Stevens, Jacque

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0996619399 ISBN 13 : 9780996619394

Editeur : Future House Publishing, 2016

Synopsis

Fifteen-year-old Ashira just received the worst coming-of-age prophecy imaginable. After years dreaming of oceans, princes, and fairies, she expected the diviner to speak the words that would finally whisk her away from her ordinary desert village. Instead, Ashira hears, “you will live a life of no renown.”

Ready to choose her own fate, she discovers a djinni’s bottle and starts making wishes. When the djinni proves uncooperative and annoying, Ashira sets out to the great city of magicians to learn magic and free herself from an uneventful life as a potter's daughter.

But there is another prophecy being whispered in the shadows. It is said that among the great magicians, there is a demon on the rise with the power to destroy the world. The djinni might be Ashira’s only chance to become someone important, or he just might be the very demon that triggered the dark prophecy.

With the world on the brink of destruction, can Ashira fight her fate and stop the forces that threaten to upset the balance of the universe?

A propos du livre

À propos de l?auteur

Jacque Stevens wrote her first book as a stress relief activity during nursing school that was never meant to be shown to anyone. It had elves and it was beautiful. Then her mother showed it to a published author in a critique group. They killed it with their red pens and sent those poor elves back to the forest crying. But out of the ashes appeared a djinni and even more elves. As a fulltime nurse working mostly in mental health, she continued writing similar books in the shadows until the people at Future House decided enough was enough. It was time for one of those books to be published.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

Prologue

The new princess of Kalum danced with the grace of a drunken brawler, tripping over her skirt on the last turn. Recovering, she brayed with laughter, back hunched over as the sound echoed through the castle grounds. The court forced smiles or buried their faces behind painted fans—except for Prince Mordin. He shook his head, wondering again what witchcraft Cilla had used to capture his brother’s fancy. She was an attractive plow-hand—maybe—but not a princess.
Music from the terrace faded, and Prince Ednar escorted his bride toward Mordin’s table. Cilla’s off-key drawl reached Mordin first.
“I don’t know how I’m supposed to walk with all these petticoats, and I’ve never worn a hooped skirt before— ”
“Don’t worry,” Ednar said, pulling her closer. “We’ll tell everyone it’s the latest dance step and see if it catches on.”
Then they were kissing. Again. Mordin traced another groove in the remnants of his dinner. A bird had fouled the silk tablecloth beside him, and it seemed rather fitting.
All attempts to refine this affair were comical, at best.
“Mordin, aren’t you eating?” Cilla grabbed his shoulder with her free hand, dropping her bag on the table in the same ungainly bound. “You’re almost eighteen. My brothers could eat a cartload each when they were that age. But then, that was after pulling out stumps and wrestling bears all day, if you believe their squawking.”
“Well, that’s . . . inspiring.” Mordin’s return smile came as more of a grimace.
“Mordin’s just picky,” Ednar said. “He’ll get to it. Probably when the dancing is over.”
Horror crossed Cilla’s face. “Then you’ll miss everything. I know dozens of girls dying to dance with the prince. I can introduce you to one of my cousins if you want to get away from the stuffy court breeds.” She gestured to a group of girls who fidgeted in their dresses as if they still contained fitting needles.
Ednar couldn’t seriously expect Mordin to . . .
Ednar popped an olive from a silver tray into his mouth. “Mother will be disappointed if you don’t dance with a few of the guests.”
Traitor. Ednar had never liked these kinds of things, either. Not until Cilla had stumbled into his arms. Mordin had never understood how things had developed so quickly afterward—how in a matter of weeks, Ednar had become convinced that nothing but a backward country girl mattered. Mordin hadn’t been the only one who had raised some objections. And even with Ednar safely married, Mordin wouldn’t have any relief from the persistent flock.
“It’s not like you have to marry any of them,” Ednar said. “Just be polite, and you might have fun on accident.”
“Is that what they told you?” Sharp disgust slipped out—sharper than Mordin had intended. He bit into his tongue as his brother frowned and turned away.
“Cilla, why don’t we go over to the gate and see our parents?” Ednar asked.
“Oh, all right.” She fumbled for her bag.
Ednar put his hand over hers, halting the movement. “You don’t have to drag that with you everywhere. That’s probably what got you tangled up in the first place.”
“I don’t want anyone to take it.”
“Mordin will watch it. He has nothing better to do.”
Mordin opened his mouth to apologize. “Look, Ednar— ”
Ednar spun around, pulling back the half-cape on his shoulder. “It’s all right. It’s not like you made your feelings secret. I just hoped you would give it a rest for tonight, at least.”
They walked away. Mordin slammed his fork down, cursing the gods and his own tongue.
Elbows on the table and head in his hands, Mordin scanned the courtyard. His parents stood at the southern gate, seeing off early-retiring guests. Round lamps illuminated small groups of nobles and Cilla’s family. The musicians rested while servants ran about with filled goblets, but they wouldn’t let Mordin drink like he wanted. Not without getting his parents involved.
He watched the gathering for a few more moments. More than enough torture for one evening. Pushing away from the table, he pulled his cloak from the chair and started toward the edges of the garden. Then he paused, mid-step.
The princess’s bag.
Mostly, Cilla had been obnoxious in her ignorance, but the bag had a mysterious air. Though only a leather saddlebag, Cilla had refused to have it replaced. If there was anything to know about her sudden ascent toward the throne and his brother’s affections, Mordin would bet she carried it in there. Actual witchcraft probably outclassed a girl like Cilla, but perhaps she had used a more common form of blackmail. Ednar did not have any large secrets to hide, but there had to be something—who actually believed in love at first sight?
No one would fault Mordin for taking the bag. He had been asked to watch it and he could return it later if nothing came of his inspection. He just had to leave before his parents cornered him with more lectures or more friends who “just happened” to have daughters his age.
Picking up the bag and draping his cloak over his shoulders, he began to weave through the servants with a practiced air of hurried authority. Wind raced through the cobbled streets of Kalum as he left the castle grounds. He passed empty market stalls and brick houses before he pulled the bag out. His hand slid against a blue-glassed bottle filled with a dark, sluggish solution.
The princess was a drunkard. That explained a lot, but it wasn’t the kind of secret he had been hoping for. Nothing else in the bag. He shoved the bottle into his cloak’s inner pocket and entered a local tavern, the sigil of a green feather hanging over the door.
Oil lamps on the tables flickered as he came in, and a few men glared. Mordin gave an old beggar with a scar and a missing limb a large berth, but he couldn’t get far enough away—memories of a yelling crowd and a red-stained sword assaulted his thoughts. Metallic warm blood so thick in his nostrils he could almost taste it—
Mordin shuddered. Dealing with Ednar’s new bride had been bad enough. If this vagrant stayed too long, Mordin would end up turning over all the money he had in a useless gesture of absolution, confessing every wrong he had ever committed. Or drink himself under the table faster than he had originally intended. Probably both.
He forced himself to focus on the bartender. Jade had her dark hair in a knot as she scrubbed down stools. She had stacked the stools on the counter, but she smiled and took one down the moment she noticed Mordin. Unbidden, she walked around the counter to slide a bottle toward him. “How was the wedding?”
Mordin sat and pulled off his hood to shake out his straw-colored hair. “Mildly entertaining, I suppose.” He downed half the bottle’s contents without asking what it held. As long as it wasn’t mixed with syrup or had “pixy” in the name, he didn’t care.
“Are you still sulking?” Jade laughed. Her expressions were always wide and as open as a child’s, even though she was much older than Mordin. Ten years, at least. “I think it’s romantic, Ednar picking a common girl. I heard she had it pretty rough.”
Mordin held up the bottle to defend himself from her words. “That’s what you’re supposed to think. Really, Ednar would never have had done it if he hadn’t been bullied into it. For some new political game Father’s playing, I’m sure.” Mordin tried the new theory aloud. Nothing else made sense. His brother was hardly a romantic. At least, he hadn’t been.
He took another long swig from his bottle as a young woman of Jade’s same olive complexion breezed past. She took mugs from a table, winking at him with a bold smile. He quickly looked away. “When did Raven get so big?”
“She’s fourteen—barely any younger than you, though I wondered that a time or two myself. The crowd she spends time with nowadays . . .” Jade returned to her scrubbing.
“You can hardly help that at this hour. All the decent folks have gone home.” Mordin smiled as he linked himself with the “bad” crowd. The queen would faint if she knew.
But then, his mother frequently threatened to faint over something.
Jade nodded. “And I can’t keep her locked in the kitchen anymore.”
Mordin tipped back the bottle, and she snatched it away.
“Slow down and eat something.” She pushed some flat bread toward him. “At this rate, you’re going to slip on your sword while leaving, and I’ll be stuck with the mess.”
He chuckled, taking a piece of the bread and pointing it at her. “You’ve been talking to the captain, haven’t you?” The captain of the guards had counted him off as “lazy” and “useless” ages ago. Mordin only carried an ornamental sword to show his rank, same as any other noble.
Jade winked over her shoulder. “No, I’ve just seen you trip over the stools more times than you’d probably like.”
“I’m not drunk now. I’m listening.” Mordin shrugged and glanced at Raven and the table she had joined. “Don’t know why she would bother with them. Those men aren’t even all that cute.” Unless she had a thing for the hairy and toothless.
“Yes, but they’re travelers, talking big about the magic down near the capes. All that strange stuff with the war and that fire-starter Kaldic. I tell her the temples have forbidden all of it, and she would do better not to talk about it, but still— ”
“If that’s all she’s interested in, I wouldn’t worry.” Mordin chewed on the bread and swallowed. “This isn’t your old island. Temple folk are too busy to worry about a few gossipers.”
“That isn’t what I’m worried about.” Jade scowled as Raven bent to listen to a drunken young man whose eyes locked onto the young girl’s curves. “I better put a stop to that,” she said. “Honestly, I’m not old enough to be the only responsible one here.”
Mordin smirked. “But you’re so good at it.”
Jade dropped the rag, her brown eyes firmly set. “You eat all that before I get back.”
“Yes, Mom.”
Jade ignored the jab, wiping her hands on her apron and stalking toward Raven.
Despite his previous words, Mordin was far more willing to eat now than before, and the day-old bread was far more desirable than anything served at the wedding feast. He took another bite as the girls’ voices rose in pitch, and Raven’s shriek filled the bar.
“I’m not a child! Why do you always have to ruin everything?” Raven stormed past him toward the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. Mordin winced as the empty dishes rattled.
Jade came back, sighing heavily. “Now I’ve done it.”
“Can I help?” The offer slipped out, but Mordin had no idea what he would do if Jade took him up on it. Mordin spent most of his time with older nobles and dignitaries—Jade had always been easier to talk to than girls his own age.
“Just clear the bar for me, will ya? Most everyone’s gone already.”
Mordin nodded after her, waving the others out. A man with blood-shot eyes swore at him, calling him a “whelp” and asking who he thought he was. Mordin showed him his sword and the drunken man’s friends dragged the man out.
The bar cleared, but not before Mordin had slipped some coins to the scarred beggar, watching his hand move as if it had its own mind. It seemed the vagrants of this city, veterans of a war long past, had figured out his strange compulsion. More of them dotted his path all the time.
Mordin closed the door behind the last patron and returned to his seat. Jade still pleaded with her sister in the back room. She hadn’t left anything more for him to drink, so Mordin pulled out the blue-glassed bottle.
The princess’s bottle.
He shook it, watching the dark substance slosh around. Common ale. Easy enough to replace. He pulled out the cork and swung the bottle upward.
Burning ash met his tongue. Blinking and sputtering, he staggered into the bar stools. Blue mist streamed around him, then formed a central cone—a smoky, human-shaped torso. A spirit looked at him with flaming orange orbs for eyes, closing the gaping hole that was its mouth and folding its stubby arms.
“What do you want?” it asked, as if watching the prince cower was a tiring sight.
Mordin straightened himself with a stool, staring. His alcoholic episodes had never included demons before. Just a lot of tripping.
“I’m Sakhr Al-kausid, djinni prisoner of this cursed bottle. What do you wish for?” The spirit rippled in Mordin’s silence. “Kid, you need to get yourself out more if you’ve never heard of a djinni before. I’ve been charged to grant one wish every day to whoever is holding my bottle, so out with it.”
Mordin stared at his hands, waiting for his heart to slow. The bottle had come from the princess. Did that mean . . . ? “Your last master was Cilla. She wished . . .” He swallowed and tried again. “She wished to marry my brother.”
The djinni smiled.
Hot anger rolled through Mordin’s chest. He would bury that girl for toying with his brother like that. Or at least he would smile when they dropped her back in whatever gutter she had crawled out of. “If she’s enchanted him, I want it lifted, and you to leave for good.” He couldn’t think of anything else he wanted worth risking the consequences of unruly magic.
“But that is my wish as well,” the djinni said. “I never wanted to hurt anyone, but I’m a slave to the bottle. I long to be free and regain my corporeal form in the other realm, if only you would wish it. Then all I have done would be at an end.”
Mordin weighed the bottle in his hand. “If I free you, Cilla’s spell will be lifted? And you’ll return to your corporeal form in another realm? Can I have your word on that?”
“Of course. I couldn’t lie to you even if I wanted.”
The dragonet his father kept and the other magical creatures at the temples were bound to their word. It would make sense that this spirit was the same. Mordin had no way to test this theory, but perhaps if he were helping, the spirit would have no reason to cross him in return.
It would be awful to be trapped forever granting wishes. He could free them both—the spirit and his brother—and never think of it again.
“Then, yes, I’ll do it.” Mordin held the bottle out, eager to see it gone. Jade could come at any moment. “Djinni, I wish you free.”
The demon’s smile broadened.
Dread swept over him in an instant before burning pain filled Mordin’s chest. He crumpled against a stool as the agony surged through his whole body. He squeezed the bottle, but it still fell from his hand. Smoke burned through his nostrils, filling his lungs, overwhelming his other senses.
Another wave of pain came with the sensation of floating into complete darkness.

Chapter 1

Ashira pulled the water pot from the old well as the sun set over the mountains. Orange light played across the sand, blurring the horizon so it swayed like soft ocean waves—or what Ashira imagined ocean waves would look like. She had never seen one, but someday—after she received her coming-of-age prophecy—she would leave her pot behind and sail a real ocean, a brave and handsome man at her side. She would bask in the luxury of the northern kingdoms and master the magic there—fighting past drakes and any other beast who challenged her. She would find the forest fairies and even taste snow.
The stench of sweat and the groans from camels reached her first. Ashira pivoted toward the sound, water sloshing from the pot on her head. A cloud of dust had formed a few yards away.
The caravan. They were back early—perhaps with news from her sisters. With her prophecy still a few days off, dreams and vicarious adventures would have to do for now. Ashira set her pot against the rocks surrounding the well, holding the skirt of her sari away from her sandals as she bounded down the road. Travel-worn merchants in hooded robes circled the dunes with their animals, moving in slow steps with their backs hunched over.
How far had they gone this time? Maybe to the capital? Maybe past the mountain? Each movement called her attention as the camels lumbered past. Tassels swung from their tack, binding together cloth bags and worn baskets. She eyed their bulging outlines.
They could hold anything, from anywhere.
A long shadow caught her gaze as one of the merchant’s daughters stepped from the crowd. Dirt muted the rich embroidery of Vaslin’s sari and headscarf, but a light in her brown eyes said she had a secret—a secret Ashira would have to spend most of the evening wheedling out of her.
Ashira swallowed past the dust in her throat. “Do you have a letter?”
“Let me look.” Vaslin sorted through her satchel, fingering its contents as if she were sifting through sand. “You’re expecting to hear from Isila?”
“Isila, Liaha, Jalila—it doesn’t matter. Do you have a letter or not?”
“Yes, I think . . . Jalila. That’s her mark, isn’t it?” She held a bundle of parchment just out of reach.
Ashira’s fingers itched to snatch the letter from Vaslin, but it would do no good. She couldn’t read. No one in her family could. Jalila had probably dictated the words to a scribe at the capital, same as the rest of her sisters. “What does it say?”
“Hold on.” A long camel moan mirrored Ashira’s thoughts as Vaslin unfolded the pages and squinted at the ink scratches. “You know, her prophecy was rather vague—her voice echoing in the halls of kings. We assumed she would be singing, but wouldn’t it be just as fitting if she were screaming?”
“Why would Jalila be screaming in the sultan’s palace?” Ashira imagined her sister running past the marble columns, yelling to test the echo, but Jalila was much too dignified for that.
Vaslin took a deep breath as if she were about to dive into a prepared speech. “Because she fell in love with a bandit who wasn’t really wicked at all. He only stole from his evil uncle to keep his village from starving. But then his uncle told the sultan, who was going to feed the bandit to the drakes beneath the palace, and Jalila came in screaming to beg for his life.” She put a hand to her heart, swaying to emphasize every word. “Wouldn’t it be great if she had proof of his innocence, but she had to steal a horse to bring it there in time, becoming a thief herself?”
The image of the misunderstood rogue pulled Ashira in. He would be devilishly handsome, of course. The shadow of a beard over a strong jaw, but with a kindness in his eyes, a longing in his soul, brought to the surface by the deeds of . . .
Jalila.
Ashira frowned, the image spoiled. Jalila was her sister, not a horse thief. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s romantic,” Vaslin said. “Far more romantic than marrying some man who happened to like her voice.”
Ashira staggered a step backward as other caravan members brushed past her to the village gates. “Is that what happened? Jalila is getting married?”
“Yes. It’s all right here.” Vaslin waved the parchment around as if its contents were beneath her. “Liaha helped her get in to sing at one of the palace celebrations, and now she’s going to marry one of the sultan’s vassals. It’s all very dull. Though there was one other thing. She says you may yet marry your prince. What is she talking about?”
Heat rose to Ashira’s cheeks. Hopefully the sides of her headscarf veiled the worst of it. “Just some silly old thing . . .” She reached for the letter so she could dash home with it.
Vaslin pulled her hand away, the bangles on her wrist clinking together. “Come on. I told you what the letter said—I’ve told you what all the letters said.”
Ashira sighed, scanning the faces in the diminishing crowd to make sure no one was listening, but telling Vaslin was the same as shouting it in a gathering. “Remember Isila’s prophecy? ‘You will meet your true love in a city of stone?’”
A completely boring prophecy—no mention of magic or snow. Isila had traveled to the stone bazaar near the mountain pass and caught the eye of an honored soldier. Her tales of romance had caused all her younger sisters to sigh, except Ashira. Her seven year-old self had already decided from watching her father’s apprentices that boys were loud and rude. Nothing to sigh over.
Vaslin beckoned for Ashira’s attention with a shake of her jewelry-clad wrist.
“Then Liaha’s got her prophecy,” Ashira continued. “‘You will find wealth in the sea.’” A slight improvement. Liaha had packed her bags and headed to the peninsula. She had married a fishmonger and made her fortune when they discovered a cache of oysters with pearls to farm.
“So when Jalila got her prophecy, ‘Your voice shall echo in the halls of kings,’ she said the prophecies were only getting better, and I’d marry the prince himself at this rate.” Ashira winced even before laughter overtook Vaslin.
“You want to marry the prince? The sultan’s son?”
Over the years, Ashira’s mind had changed somewhat on the subject of boys, but still she shook her head. “Not really. Isn’t he married twice over?” Nobles took as many wives as they wanted, and being the youngest in a harem hardly seemed a better fate than remaining the youngest of her father’s household.
She still wanted ocean waves.
“So? Oh, I see.” Vaslin straightened her veil with mock severity. “You want a man to yourself, just like Isila. Maybe you’ll marry one of the princes from the northern kingdoms, then. They can only marry once, I believe.”
Ashira snatched Jalila’s letter away so fast the paper crumpled. “I don’t think I’ll marry a prince, but maybe Jalila is right. Maybe the best fortunes do come to the younger siblings.” The order of her birth hadn’t paid her any other favors. She glared at her water pot, still waiting for her. With her sisters gone, Ashira had twice as much work and spent much of her time alone. Fetching, carrying, weeding, cooking, stirring—the list never ended.
She would tell herself she didn’t care and would graciously accept any path set before her. But then the apprentices would trample through her freshly weeded garden, and thoughts of a small fortune, exotic travels, and a handsome, noble husband came to her unbidden.
Vaslin shrugged. “Maybe. Though when you live in sand and mud, most anything would seem grand, wouldn’t it?”
Ashira couldn’t dispute that. Potters were among the lowest caste in Saban. She held out Jalila’s letter as though it possessed an inner power. Ashira wasn’t lucky enough to be an orphan—they traditionally received the best fortunes of all—but maybe she could rise higher than her sisters and get a prince, or something as good as Jalila had said.
She would just have to keep lugging pots around until then.

***

Days later, Ashira raced through the curtained door frame into the house.
It was almost evening. It was almost time. Her hands shook as she washed at the water basin and turned to her sleeping mat. A pale blue sari trimmed with yellow and brass trinkets lay next to her sandals, waiting for her.
Her mother came in, circling through the market-stall door. “Are you ready yet, child?”
A protest built in her throat. She wasn’t a child anymore. But she couldn’t feel dignified in her current fluster. Though pretty, the sari had been made for Liaha and hung long on Ashira’s narrow frame. Her brass anklets clanked together as she hopped around, stork-like, lacing her sandal with both hands.
“Almost.”
“Well, come along. It isn’t good to keep the diviner waiting.” Her mother walked away, letting the curtain fall across the doorframe.
Ashira dropped her foot and found her headscarf, discarded and wrinkled in the corner. She wrapped the sides around her face as she put it on. Maybe she would seem dignified if no one could see past her eyes.
Wind trickled through the spirit chimes as she slipped around rows of pots and vases. Her grandmother slumped in the corner near the kiln, mumbling about “evil spirits” and what terrible fortunes came to those who ran through houses and woke old women. Ashira pretended to listen until her grandmother trailed off into sleep again.
She turned to her mother. “I’m ready now.”
Her mother started toward the dirt path, Ashira on her heels. Muslin drapes waved their greetings over open stalls. Her father was bartering with a customer, so he just added his own short wave as she passed. Other vendors shouted, zeroing in on travelers. Ashira weaved around them to the diviner’s tent, pitched next to a visiting snake charmer.
The diviner, Madam Hajel, was hunched over a basin filled with a murky solution. She dumped a crushed herb in with the rest, scowling at the dust raised by the passing crowd.
“Did you hear all this new business about the magic of the upper kingdoms?” The wrinkled woman had hard, piercing eyes and a rasp that rivaled her neighbor’s snake.
“The fairy creatures?” Ashira’s mother asked. “But that’s old news now.”
“No, there are dark powers abroad. Someone who can create fire started a war in the east. Things the bearers and temple folk would never allow. They’re cracking down on all of us now. Jarold,” she gestured toward the snake charmer, “heard the diviner in one of the smaller cities was taken up to Kalum to stand trial against all those pale folks for his gift.”
Ashira fidgeted, rubbing her clay-stained hands. Hurry up! Her thoughts cried it over and over again. All her grandmother’s methods for predicting fortunes might be nonsense, but hopefully something would take heed of how patient she was forced to be.
The diviner’s potion, the consistency of goat’s milk, turned a pale green. Hajel stood and beckoned Ashira to a blazing fire behind the tent. Ashira knelt beside Hajel as her mother looked on. Locking hands, they held the basin next to the fire. The diviner chanted in a strange language to the god Temporis.
Ashira held her breath. Her veil fell from her chin and bunched at her neck.
Red flames danced in the water’s reflection as the seconds stretched out.
Nothing happened.
Hajel, looking grumpier and more wrinkled, took back one of her hands and brought up a small white vial from her sash. She took a swig from it like one of the local drunks.
Ashira fought off laughter. No one talked much about the particulars of receiving their prophecy, but she had expected it to be much grander.
Hajel jerked in a minor spasm. The potion splashed over their arms as she dropped the vial from her contracting right hand. She looked up with red and pupil-less eyes.
“You . . .” She pointed a shriveled finger.
Ashira leaned in closer, arms trembling. Images played across her mind in rapid succession. Oceans or snow? Fairies or princes?
Maybe something even better?
“You will live a life of no renown.”

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: Future House Publishing
• Date d'édition: 2016
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0996619399
• ISBN 13: 9780996619394
• Reliure: Broché
• Numéro d'édition: 2
• Nombre de pages: 284
• Coordonnées du fabricant: Manufactured by Amazon on behalf of the author; https://www.amazon.fr/hz/contact-us; ; c/o Amazon Media EU S.à.r.l., 38 Avenue John F. Kennedy; Luxembourg; L-1855; Luxembourg