The Queen's Opal: A Stone Bearers Novel (Book One) Read online

  It couldn’t happen again. Tayvin couldn’t sit silently in another useless council and he couldn’t become a distant, inactive king like the ones before him.

  Whatever this curse or illness was, he was going to stop it. The elves might not have any sort of answers, but humans had magic and illnesses. He had to leave and find out what they knew.

  Now.

  “Tayvinaldrill-Falberain.”

  Tayvin started. His father stood at his side, and Jyrail retreated with his head bowed.

  The High King looked Tayvin up and down. “You want to leave the forest.”

  His heart jumped, but he couldn’t yell. Not if he wanted his father to agree. Accusing him directly would only lead to more lies. “Just to help the caravan, but I thought . . . maybe Drynn—Aldrayndallen-Falberain—could come, too? As a hand? Verngalla said they need more volunteers if they are to leave now.” Tayvin’s breath became bated. He had traveled to other holts in the forest and to the mines before, but their mother had always insisted Drynn stay home. It shouldn’t matter anymore, but maybe to his father it still would. If he was suspicious—

  The High King nodded. “I will speak to the rangers. Tell Aldrayndallen-Falberain that he has my permission to go as well.”

  The answer came so quickly, Tayvin stood breathless for a few beats. He smiled. “Thank you, Father.”

  The High King gathered his papers, looking down. “Take care of him. In foreign lands there are more ways to die than a single sickness.” His father left the table without a backward glance.

  * * *

  Drynn balance on a branch turning page after page, poring over another history.

  He had read it before. It described elven and human interactions before the Drow War and made several references to elves healing humans, but said nothing of the elves getting sick or needing healers themselves. No instructions on how the elves became healers in the first place or why the elves left the human lands, isolating themselves in the forest after the Drow War. But there was something different about reading the records now, an uneasy feeling that the words were vague on purpose.

  There was more to the story. He just needed to find it.

  No longer reading, his eyes darted to the opal. Drynn had carried it through his mother’s mourning period—a reminder, but also a distraction. It blared out light all the time now, calling out to him, spurring him on in his search. The stone knew things, held by the royal line through the ages. Sometimes it seemed that if he just looked harder, it would tell him all its secrets.

  If he could just slip past the green light.

  “Drynn!”

  Tayvin’s single word sounded as a full scolding, banishing all of Drynn’s current thoughts.

  “What are you doing up there?” Tayvin peered at him through the tree’s thick branches.

  “Reading.” Drynn held up the book and tried his best to sound innocent.

  “No, I mean, I mean . . .” Tayvin shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Come down here, I want to talk to you.”

  Drynn closed his book and crawled down the tree’s trunk to his brother’s side. He had hoped to go undiscovered, for a few hours at least, but he had known from the first how unlikely that would be. He had expected to be in trouble.

  “You’ve got to stop disappearing like that!” Tayvin gestured wildly. “It’s worse than usual, and you’re worrying everyone. Even Fayri and Rannah noticed. They were asking just this morning why they never see you anymore.” His eyes narrowed at the opal as if it were responsible.

  Drynn studied the grass at his feet. He had not meant to worry anyone, especially his carefree young cousins on his mother’s side, but he was tired of casual acquaintances and family members—even strangers—asking about his mother and his feelings. They meant well, but all he wanted to do was run away, or at least escape to his books where he wouldn’t have to think about it so much. More for the sense of routine and return to normalcy than anything else.

  He already knew the books were useless. “I’m sorry.”

  Tayvin dropped his hands and sucked in a breath. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not mad at you. I’m just . . . worried.” He tilted his head, stepping closer. “You haven’t been . . . tired, have you? You would tell me if you were?”

  Drynn frowned. Tayvin should understand how little Drynn wanted to discuss his feelings after their mother’s death. He had thought Tayvin would feel the same way.

  “Never mind.” Tayvin turned his gaze to the trees. “I was just at the council meeting. They don’t want to do anything about Mother’s illness, but it looks like the dorrans are warring with goblins—”

  “Goblins?” Drynn perked up. “I didn’t think they were strong enough to threaten a dorran.” Goblins were among the demon races in the northern crags of Vaco, but minor ones. They scattered like rabbits at any show of force. That’s what the books all said, anyway.

  “Not usually,” Tayvin said, “but I heard that they have assembled a force large enough to become a threat. But—”

  “Are the dorrans going to be all right? Will they need any help?”

  Tayvin smiled as though the question were cute, like he had done when Drynn was years younger and asked why they needed to hunt. “I’m sure they will. Dorrans are always fighting someone. It’s the curse of their stubborn race. They aren’t even asking for help, just to trade for supplies earlier this year. Stop interrupting.”

  Drynn swallowed his next question. He really should know better.

  “But earlier would be perfect,” Tayvin continued. “The dorrans live close to humans. There’s a city that’s all humans and dorrans just west from the mines. If we went with the trading convoy, it will take us most of the way there.”

  “We?” Drynn had thought about the connection between the humans and the dorrans the night their mother died, but Tayvin hadn’t mentioned the humans since then. Drynn had not expected to hear about his old plan again, let alone be included.

  Tayvin laughed, snatching the book from Drynn’s hands. “Who are you trying to kid? I know you want to go. You’ve always wanted to go.” He showed the book’s title back to him.

  Drynn flushed as Tayvin continued.

  “You need to start telling people what’s on your mind. Not everyone knows you as well as I do. What would you do if I left you here? Grow roots in that old library, become a recluse like Andver said?”

  That seemed to be all Drynn wanted to do lately.

  Tayvin shook his head again as he handed back the book. “Well, you can come if you want, and you don’t even have to worry about being in trouble. Father already said we can go. On the trading convoy, anyway, and as for anything else, he’ll just blame me and it will be fine. So, what do you say? I hardly know a thing about the humans myself.”

  Drynn hesitated, fear warring with equal curiosity. Humans in books were safe enough, but actually seeing one—a whole kingdomful? How could they possibly prepare for that?

  “I don’t know that much, either.” All Drynn knew about humans and illness came from the dorran histories. “Humans are so . . . active. They change so much all the time. But if the dorrans know the humans, maybe we could ask them?”

  “You haven’t met a dorran yet, have you?” Tayvin asked without waiting for the obvious answer: their mother had never allowed Drynn to leave the holt. “Tell you what, we’ll go look around, and if you still want to chat with them, be my guest, but dorrans are . . . well, you’ll see for yourself. Even if we end up stumbling around a bit, the humans have to be a better bet.”

  Did Tayvin really think so? That their two-thousand-year separation from the humans could be so easily brushed aside? Tayvin had always been impulsive. Maybe that was all this was—Tayvin had wanted some solution for the illness and made one up himself while the rest of the forest kingdom moved on in an endless routine untouched by their personal tragedy. Maybe he was simply drawn to the adventure to keep his mind from his own grief, no matter how reckless.

  But he also
could be right. Drynn wanted to know what happened to their mother, and the books weren’t getting him anywhere. Was it really so crazy to want to hunt down the source?

  Drynn had so many questions for the dorrans and humans—how they dealt with illness was only the most important one. This might be his only chance to find out.

  And Tayvin would land on his feet, no matter the situation. He always did. All Drynn had to do was follow along.

  So he nodded, and Tayvin smiled.

  CHAPTER 4

  ROCKS LITTERED THE slanted mountainside, disrupting plant roots so only twisted, scraggly tree trunks remained. Clouds hovered so close it seemed Drynn had climbed to the highest treetop even though he stood on the ground. Deep voices and the endless slam of stone picks came so thick that the whole valley vibrated with sound. And the entrance to the mines gaped open from the stone as if to swallow him whole. How could anything survive in that deep pit?

  Yet hundreds of dorrans had emerged to greet the elven caravan, like rabbits from a hole.

  The trading caravan had traveled through the forest for weeks to reach its northern most point near the dorran mines. Many of the elves seemed bored while they waited through the endless negotiations, but Drynn couldn’t even bring himself to sit down.

  He had no idea how Tayvin had talked their father into letting him come this far from their holt, but Drynn should have found an excuse to leave a long time ago. He might not have time to see it all, even if he lived thousands of years.

  “Then it’s settled. Aldrayndallen-Falberain,” the King of Verngalla said, the words only penetrating when he reached Drynn’s name. “Kydallerannah-Garnii, please assist the dorrans in locating their purchase.”

  Drynn grabbed his bow and forced himself to turn away from the entrance to the mines, heading toward the forest’s edge. Helping the dorrans find their trees was why he was here—technically—but why did they have to assign him to a group so early?

  It must be another royal privilege that wasn’t a privilege at all. Now he would be back in the forest again, and they had just gotten here!

  At least some of the dorrans were coming with them. Drynn would be able to watch them.

  Wrinkles covered the thick-set men, long gray beards on their chins. They wore metal over their leathers and carried axes, hefting them around as if they thought the trees were going to fight back. As Drynn and an elven maid, Kyrah, joined the woodcutters by the forest’s entrance, one of the dorrans jostled his way to the front. “Are you sure you want to send children in there with us?”

  The elven king gave a short laugh and marked something off on a scroll that hung from his hand to the hem of his robes. “Surely you teach, as you say, an ‘unbearded’ youth to navigate your endless tunnels and mines. Any elf—down to a grounded child—could point out a tree.”

  Drynn found himself staring at the older dorran’s beard again. It must be such a dreadful nuisance to grow hair on your face, but all the male dorrans had one. How did they eat? And they must eat a lot. They weren’t any taller than the elves, but wider.

  The dorran started his group toward the treeline, still grumbling in his own language. “Sure, an unbearded youth could lead you through the mines, but I don’t see none of you pointy-ears sticking your heads down there. We bring our goods to you. Can’t see why you can’t do the same.”

  “We have told you,” the elven king said with thinning patience, “every year in fact, that we don’t cut trees needlessly. Until we have settled on a price, the trees stay where they are.”

  The dorran jerked around with wide-eyes. Sometimes when they spoke in Dorran, they seemed to forget the elves spoke it as well. It was the first language Drynn had learned besides his own, though it wasn’t his favorite. Too choppy and simplistic. And they always sounded like they were yelling.

  “That’s enough. Do your clan proud and stop baiting the elves,” said the dorran matriarch before turning back to the elven king. “I’m sorry for his disrespect, but I do have one more request before they go. One of our forgemasters, Jorrey, will need to go and check the wood before it’s cut. I’m sure it will be as you describe, but at this time, we must be sure that they will be suitable for our needs.” She pointed to another woman.

  Few men were in the audience except the very old.

  “Of course, she may go,” the elven king said, waving at the forest vaguely, “as long as she, like your woodcutters, walks where either Aldrayndallen-Falberain or Kydallerannah-Garnii tell them so they do not stomp out all the undergrowth.”

  The woodcutters groaned. Obviously, they had heard this particular instruction more times than they cared to. The dorran matriarch silenced them with a look then nodded at the woman, Jorrey. She and one of her apprentices moved to join the group of woodcutters.

  Kyrah sighed and entered the forest, Drynn and the dorrans trailing behind.

  Drynn formed several new opinions of his traveling companions on their hike, few in their favor. The dorrans didn’t talk much and were sharp and gruff when they did. Their movements were stiff and deliberate. Even without talking, they made more noise walking than the whole holt on a festival day. The full color and beauty of the forest were lost on them as they spent their time with their eyes closed in some happy place of their own making or scanning the brush for potential threats with their dark, beady eyes. Completely unnerving.

  “Don’t like it at all,” one of the dorrans said as he looked over the tall canopy trees covered with coiled vines. “It’s green everywhere. And the eyes. Always watching, just waiting to pounce. Maybe it is haunted like the humans say.”

  Kyrah shrugged. Her skirt hung near her ankles, and her chestnut curls fell past her waist, but she still slid her lithe figure around the foliage in a delicate, silent dance that the dorrans couldn’t begin to replicate. “The kritta. They like your axes and the beads.”

  The dorrans, women more ornately than men, wore their hair in many small braids and twisted around beads and loops of metal. Drynn didn’t know their significance, but the dorrans in their histories never did anything “just” for decoration.

  The man’s head jerked as he scanned the area more fervently. He must not know what a kritta was. Was he picturing a rabid, bearlike creature with an ax? Drynn held back a laugh.

  Tayvin had been right. Asking the dorrans for help would be pointless. They didn’t know anything.

  Kyrah smiled, a sparkle in her blue eyes. “Your axes glitter in the sun, and the kritta go mad for anything shiny. Kritta are semi-intelligent squirrels. The forest sprites made them. They made all the magic creatures: scrufflings and spree and—”

  “Humph,” the dorran said as if the elven maid had insulted him.

  Kyrah let it drop, and they continued in silence. She led the party in a slightly different direction at the next tree, but one of the dorrans didn’t turn right away.

  A crunch and a shrill sound made the elves cringe.

  “Oh no!” Kyrah gasped as she turned around.

  Drynn rushed to the front. Kyrah knelt near some trampled undergrowth and held up an uprooted plant with reverent horror while the dorrans looked on.

  “Don’t’cha think you’re overreacting justa bit? It’s only a flower,” said the confused culprit. Kyrah blinked at him, too stunned to speak, so Drynn took over.

  “But, sir, it’s not a flower. It’s a scruffling.”

  “A scruffling?” The dorran examined the wreckage with new interest but shook his head, surrendering it to his companions. “I never heard of a scruffling before. That’s a flower.”

  “They look like flowers during the day, but surely you’ve heard the squeals they make when they come out at night?” Kyrah’s patience thinned with every word, and Drynn couldn’t blame her. How could a full-grown dorran living so close to the forest not know about scrufflings? They weren’t exactly shy creatures. “They can be a bit of a nuisance, but they never cause any real harm and are very friendly,” she finished.

  “If they a
re such a nuisance, then why should it matter if we walk on them or not?” a female dorran asked. She wore dark leathers accented with red-orange trim over her taut muscles. Her skin was as tan as an elven elder, but she didn’t have any wrinkles, and her braided hair was dark—that made her younger, right? She clutched a war hammer in one hand instead of an ax, marking her as the forgemaster’s apprentice.

  Kyrah’s blue eyes flashed. “The very idea is barbaric. Kill a creature just because they annoyed you a bit. Truly your race is—” She stopped herself, biting her lip.

  “She didn’t say we’d be doing it on purpose,” Forgemaster Jorrey said, “but accidents will happen.”

  Kyrah scowled, her bitten words breaking through as she wrung her fingers into the folds of her skirt. “Accidents that could have been prevented if you were not too proud to listen.”

  The dorrans had several things to say about that, none of it helpful.

  The scruffling had been forgotten. Dropping to his knees, Drynn put his bow on the ground and dug out a shallow hole for the scruffling to take root. When he had replanted it, Drynn brushed the dirt off his leggings and looked to the girls. He had not missed much.

  Kyrah was still talking. “And tell me, do you know the difference between the paulic and the common raspberry bush? Because on our hike, we had to go through one or the other. If you go through the paulic you’ll come out with bites that sting worse than a whole hive of bees. Why you would be so dense as to—”

  “Kydallerannah-Garnii, I—” Drynn started, but the dorran apprentice broke in again.

  “Dense? You’re the one who has gone mad, you pointy-eared toothpick. I’ll bet you just made the paulic up, just to make some kind of point.”

  “Girls, really.” Jorrey pulled her apprentice aside. “Cindle, learn a little tact and stop baiting the elves.”