Sneak Peek of Legends: Fractured Throne

MAGIC CRACKLED IN the air of the clearing. Wetca crouched under the shelter of a rocky overhang, his gaze fixed in wonder on the riotous chaos rampaging between the circle of Heirs who practiced their mage craft.

The noise of the tumult echoed off the gigantic boulders that encircled the wide grassy dell. Wetca imagined some giant had tossed the stones about in ages past, as they littered the landscape for a mile in all directions. He watched in wide-eyed fascination. Red and white lights flashed. The wind howled. Stones erupted from the earth only to sink again. Rain burst over a single spot, falling from a cloudless sky. Thunder clapped and rolled. His hair stood on end with the energy pulsating in the air. Something stirred deep within him, and he longed to reach out and touch the power.

Wetca’s father, Ewan, stretched out his hand where he stood in the center of the dell. White arcs of lightning sizzled from his fingers to punch into an invisible shield where one of the Heirs had been standing.

“You must increase your concentration to intensify the power,” Ewan shouted over the noise. “But be careful. When you feel the power tugging at the roots of your being, you have taken in too much. You must release it, or you will burn yourself out.”

He dropped his arm. The dozen Heirs of Ilsie lowered their hands as well.

As suddenly as the chaos had erupted, it fell silent. Dust whirled around in golden circles in the slanting rays of morning light. A pool of water glistened around Fiona’s boots. Her black hair was plastered to her head, and her linen blouse and trousers were soaked. The smell of hot metal and turned earth washed over Wetca.

Fiona had come to them recently after her husband had been killed by the Mage King’s assassins. Her hands balled into fists, and her gaze was hard. Had Wetca’s mother been like Fiona—strong, defiant, and powerful?

Each of the Heirs controlled a different stone. The Heirs ranged in age from twelve to fifty. Wetca’s father and the village leader Harri had been collecting what Heirs they could find, saving them from the bands of renegade mages of the Anarwyn who now served the Mage King of Donmor. The Mage King had seized the kingdom nineteen years before and had murdered or driven into hiding the mages who would not bow to him.

Harri rose from the wicker chair where he had been reclining and applauded the Heirs.

“Well done, everyone. We’ll meet back here after breakfast.”

Harri was a lanky man with an angular face and graying hair. He reminded Wetca of an arrow—thin and sharp, with a dangerous head for strategy. Mage Harri had led the great Council of Mages, who had once reigned over Donmor. Their numbers had been scattered and hunted by the Mage King and the traitor mages who served him. Harri led the small group of Heirs who survived and who now fought against the Mage King from a place of hiding. He seemed as old as the hills, and yet, never aging at the same time.

Wetca crawled from underneath the overhang into the green dell to join his father. His hand alighted on something hard and reflexively closed around it. Warmth rushed up his arm, tingling and pleasant. He paused to kneel in the dirt so he could study the strange stone. It was a little red agate with fine, lacy lines of blue running through it. He was familiar with all the gemstones of the Anarwyn, though he had never been allowed to touch one.

An agate was a stone of power, and if someone saw him with it now, they would take it away. He couldn’t be tested for another three years until he was twelve, as was the custom, though he’d longed to be like his father and the mother he had never known. The dark red of the agate reminded Wetca of blood—the vital fluid of life. An energy pulsed within it, beckoning him.

“Wetca, come,” his father called.

Wetca clamped his hand shut around the stone and jumped to his feet. He dodged between the dispersing Heirs until he caught up with his father, who smiled down at him and turned toward the path that wound its way amid the hulking boulders to the entrance to their hidden village.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked.

Wetca’s father was a husky man with a strong jaw and thinning hair. However, Wetca didn’t look anything like his father. He was lankier with a thin face, though people said he would fill out eventually.

“It was very exciting,” Wetca said. Was it proper for him to have this terrible longing to drink in the power? Was it wrong of him to be jealous of those who could already possess it?

His father chuckled. “Exciting indeed.”

They strolled between two colossal boulders and paused in the deep shadows. His father pressed a hand into a narrow crack. The latch clicked, and he shoved the slab of stone inward. It made no noise. The door and the underground hallways below had been carved by Heirs who controlled the jasper Earth Stone.

Stairs wound downward into the cool darkness of the caverns. Small windows had been cunningly etched into the stone above to let in light and air. Consequently, the tunnels were bright and airy. They stepped onto the wide lanes that looped around the great central hall. Small doors led off to houses on either side. Children scampered about. Mothers called to them.

Not more than one hundred people lived in the village—mostly Heirs and their families—all refugees from the Mage King’s wrath. Wetca enjoyed the warmth of the agate in his hand. It stirred something deep within him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about the way it sent that tingle up his arm.

His father missed a step, paused, and scowled down at him before glancing around as if to check that no one was listening.

He squatted to peer into Wetca’s eyes. His brow furrowed. “What have you done?” he whispered.

Wetca searched around them, trying to discover what had so alarmed his father. “Nothing.”

His father grabbed his arm and hauled him down the corridor and into the cool shadows of their own tiny dwelling. He steered him onto a bench and crouched in front of him. Light beamed in through the two crevices above, spilling a yellow glow over the floor. To the back of the chamber, an oven had been carved into the bare rock. Its chimney was hidden, but it drafted well, carrying away the smoke so the air was fresh and clean. Against either wall, their beds were piled high with furs.

“Let me see it.” His father was not a tall, commanding man, but he had an intensity in his gaze that made him appear ominous. A scar cut across his forehead, which wrinkled now.

Wetca hesitated. How did he know about the agate?

Slowly, Wetca opened his hand to show the little red agate rolling on his palm.

His father glanced at it and then peered deeply into Wetca’s eyes. “You feel it?”

Wetca nodded, wide-eyed and nervous, afraid his father might take it from him and that he was going to be disciplined for lying.

Instead, his father sighed. “You are too young.”

“You said Mother was young.”

“She was.”

“And I want to be like you and Mother.”

“I know, little man. But you have to wait until you turn twelve, and that’s three more years.”

“But it found me.”

His father pursed his lips. “You cannot drink the sacred water until then.”

“But I can feel it.”

His father rose, pacing around the chamber in apparent agitation before spinning to face Wetca. “Close your eyes.”

“Papa?”

“It won’t hurt—I promise. Just close your eyes.”

Wetca obeyed. Of all the people in his small world, his father was the one he trusted above all else. He would never hurt him. He would never leave him.

“Now,” his father said, “tell me if you can feel this.”

At first, Wetca sensed nothing, save the damp smell of earth and the coals from last night’s fire. Then the air all around him stirred.

A gentle vibration hummed—the way the dirt danced at his feet when the village bard played his flute. He smiled but kept his eyes clamped tight. “The air is moving. Dancing.”

“And now?” His father’s voice grew more tense.

The vibration faded and shifted. It was faster, like a rushing creek.

“The air is dancing faster now.”

“Open your eyes.”

Wetca did in time to see the light die on his father’s palm.

His father squatted down beside him again. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze bored into Wetca. His father’s lips pinched into a thin line.

Wetca gripped the agate even tighter. He didn’t want to lose it. It had come to him.

“What you sensed,” his father said, “is the music the stones make when they are attuned to someone and are being used. You should not be able to feel it.”

“I did.” Wetca wanted him to know he hadn’t been lying this time.

“I know, little man.” His jaw worked as if he were thinking. “Did you hear anything?”

“No. I just felt the air dancing.”

“You should not even be able to feel it,” he mumbled and paced their little home. “Other Heirs of the Anarwyn can often feel when someone else uses the power, but they can’t hear the special note each stone makes. Only the person using the stone can hear it.”

“But I did feel it.” Wetca’s eyes burned, and tears brimmed, threatening to spill down his cheeks.

“I believe you.” His father closed his hands around Wetca’s fist that held the agate. “Keep it hidden. I will need to think on what to do.”

Wetca followed his father to the late morning training as he always did unless he had chores to finish. The Heirs practiced forming dyads, experimenting with each stone to learn what they did. Wetca found himself inching closer to the youngest Heir, Gethin. He was a chubby boy with a barrel chest and a small head. He controlled four stones, which was an unusual thing, and he fascinated Wetca. In a few years, he could be in Gethin’s place.

Gethin was struggling to form a dyad with the malachite and jade.

Wetca’s father approached him. “That’s it, Gethin. Listen for the tones. Force them into the quartz crystal and merge them until they create a new tone.”

Wetca closed his eyes and searched for the vibrations in the air. He sensed them, but at first, it was chaos with so many Heirs channeling power through their stones and creating dyads. He could not make out what Gethin was doing. The air danced and whirled in a quivering bedlam of power.

“I could do this,” Wetca murmured. If he was too young to drink the sacred water and be taught the secrets of the power, then he would have to discover what he could on his own.

He filtered through the pulsating waves until he located Gethin—whose waves were closest to him and pure in a way the others were not. Two vibrations quavered in the air before merging into one. The vibration slowed. Wetca opened his eyes to see that Gethin had formed a green sword that floated in the air before him. Gethin grinned.

“Good. Hold it. I’m going to attack the sword. You must maintain the dyad.”

Gethin nodded. Sweat dripped down his face. His brow furrowed.

“Here it comes.”

White lightning arced from his father’s fingers to crackle toward Gethin’s green sword. The lightning slammed into the sword with a crackle of power.

Gethin staggered back.

Wetca sensed the new vibration. High-toned and threatening. The flickering green sword caught the lightning and absorbed it.

“You see?” Ewan said. “By using dyads, you can extend the range of options available to you. You could send that sword anywhere in sight to fight for you.” He smiled, glanced around, and lowered his voice. “Do you want to play a trick on Rhys?”

Gethin nodded with enthusiasm and glanced over at the older boy, who confidently sent his magic into the earth, forcing up slabs of sharp stone or creating sculptured images of animals and even village women. At the moment, he was raising a huge stone sculpture of himself wearing a crown. He was a tall, slender youth, with the scruff of a beard darkening his chin. He kept his hair long like those who used to live on the Plains of Pannon.

“Send your blade over and cut the crown from the stone,” Ewan said.

Gethin grinned. His green sword flew away, trailing green light, and Wetca noted a subtle shift in the tone as the magic responded to the new command. In a flash, the sword swept the crown from the statue’s head.

“Hey!” Rhys yelled. He spun to see Gethin grinning at him. The ground under Gethin’s feet rumbled and rose in a column. Ewan stumbled back, but Gethin surrounded himself in a globe of green light, and the column of rock collapsed in a shower of dust.

“That’s enough,” Ewan shouted.

Rhys continued to glare. “That’s not fair. I wasn’t looking.”

“We are just practicing,” Ewan said. “Remember?”

Rhys recreated the crown with another glower at Gethin.

Ewan slapped the dust from his tunic and shared a conspiratorial smile with Gethin. “We should not tease Rhys anymore, but I want you to keep working on those dyads. Make sure not to force one with an incompatible stone.

Dreadful things can happen.”

Gethin bowed. “Thank you, Master Ewan.”

Ewan glanced at Wetca, motioning with his chin for him to step back.

With reluctance, Wetca shuffled back a few steps. His father smiled and moved to the next student.

The other masters—Chloe, Cynog, Elen, Glenys, and Trevor—worked with the other mages-in-training. The vibrations in the air sang to Wetca, becoming a symphony of sound. It was like having a sweet drop of honey ready to touch his tongue, but he couldn’t quite taste it. The magic was there. He could smell it. Feel it. Sense it in a deep, personal way. But it remained just beyond his reach—because it was forbidden for one so young.

Wetca closed his eyes to revel in the pleasant little tremors the vibrations sent through him. He was beginning to differentiate between them, though he wasn’t always sure which stone created which vibration. There must be a way to find out.

“Hello, Wetca.”

Wetca jumped and opened his eyes wide. Harri, the leader of the community and the famous mage, peered down at him over his long, sharp nose.

Wetca rose and bowed.

“Sit,” Harri said, and sank to the ground to cross his legs as he folded his robe out of the way. He picked up a little stone, and Wetca sat beside him, keeping his back rigid. He didn’t know what to expect. Had his father told

Harri that he was feeling the power of the Anarwyn before he should?

“I’ve noticed you spend most of the day watching the Heirs train,” Harri said without looking at him. His voice was as deep as the stones of the earth, but pleasant like the whisper of the wind.

How old was Harri? He had witnessed the destruction of the Mage Council and fought long years against the

Mage King and his evil power. The grayness of age and wisdom touched the hair at his temples.

“Yes, sir,” Wetca said.

“You don’t want to play with the other children?”

“This is more captivating.”

Harri gave a gruff laugh. “And you have a more sophisticated vocabulary than most children your age.”

Wetca bowed his head. Was there something wrong with that? When he wasn’t watching the training or helping his father keep the dwelling clean and their food cooked, he spent his time in the little room that served as a library where the books, rescued from the overthrow of Donmor, were kept.

Harri rested a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right, young Wetca. You are not in trouble.” He cocked his head to the side. “But I think you have been touched by the Anarwyn.”

Wetca stared at him with wide eyes. Did he dare show him the precious red agate he kept concealed in his pocket? Did he dare tell him that his father knew?

“I have seen it before,” Harri said. “We have rules about when a person can drink the sacred water to protect the young. But the Anarwyn does not always abide by our rules.”

Wetca nodded, still awed that such an important man was taking time to sit and speak with him. He couldn’t remember him ever doing that before.

“Can you tell me what you feel?”

Wetca glanced to where his father was working with an Heir who was raising a shield of shimmering green. He didn’t look at him, so he had to decide this on his own. Should he lie?

No. Harri would be able to tell. He was a powerful mage who controlled eight of the stones of power, an unheard-of accomplishment.

“The air dances,” Wetca said.

An expression of shock slipped over Harri’s face. His brow furrowed. “Dances?”

How did Wetca explain? “It vibrates when someone uses the power, like a lute string being plucked.”

“Ahh,” Harri studied him more intently now. “Interesting. Do you hear music?”

Wetca shook his head.

“Curious,” Harri said. “Very curious. Does your father know?”

Wetca clamped his mouth shut. He did not want to get his father in trouble. He glanced at his father again and caught Chloe watching Ewan. She was a strong woman with beautiful light brown skin, dark brown eyes, and straight, nut-brown hair. He had heard that she came from the south, from lands Wetca had never visited. But she was a powerful mage and had been close to Wetca’s mother before she died. Why was Chloe watching his father?

“It’s all right, child,” Harri said. “I’m not angry.”

Wetca nodded.

“Can we try something?”

Wetca nodded again but prepared to jump up and race away if Harri attempted to take his precious stone.

Harri withdrew a golden, gem-studded amulet from the pocket of his robes. Eight glittering gems sat in a circle with a quartz crystal in the center. A thin line of silver connected each of the stones.

“These are the stones I can control. I am going to activate them one at a time. I want you to tell me if you can hear the vibrations.”

“Should I close my eyes?” His father had asked him to do that.

Harri smiled. “No, child. Just tell me what you hear.”

The red ruby glowed. A pure vibration quavered on the air. It was high and beautiful. A smile creased Wetca’s lips. “It’s like a hermit thrush call. High and wavering.”

“How about this one?”

The lump of amber gave off a yellow fire. The vibration resonated with the one from the ruby. Again, Wetca nodded. “It’s a little lower.”

“And this one?”

The old mage worked through all eight of his stones until vibrations were dancing all around them like butterflies on a summer breeze. It was magical. And now Wetca knew which vibrations went with each stone. They were distinct, ranging from very fast and high to low and gentle.

Harri narrowed his eyes. “Can you sing one of the vibrations?”

Wetca’s mouth dropped open, and he made an indistinct sound. Was that possible?

“Just try to sing so that your voice matches the vibration.”

Wetca closed his eyes so he could concentrate better without the distraction of the movement and magic around him. He focused on the vibration he now recognized as the turquoise. This one seemed to him to be the most beautiful vibration, and he pitched his voice to match it. It took him a few tries, but he eventually hit it. And when he did, a shudder raced through him. Wetca opened his eyes and smiled in triumph.

Harri let the magic fade and grinned. The vibrations disappeared. His eyes were wide with wonder. “Amazing,” he said. “That is truly amazing.”

“I don’t understand.”

Harri slipped his amulet back into his pocket and shifted so he faced Wetca. “When a stone of power is attuned to a person, and they use it, the stone produces a musical tone. Each stone is different. Only the user of the stone can usually hear the tone, although sometimes other mages can feel when someone else uses it.”

Harri leaned in close to peer at him. “Even without drinking the sacred water, you are able to hear the tones of eight different stones, but as vibrations. And you can even replicate them with your voice. I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Is it bad?”

Harri smiled warmly. “No, my child. But it does make you special. Let’s keep this secret between you and me. He glanced to where Ewan was working with Fiona. “And your father.”

Wetca breathed a sigh of relief and nodded.

“But I want to see how many stones you can hear.”

“All right.”

Harri gestured for Gethin to join them. He jogged over. Wetca already knew what his malachite and jade stones sounded like. He liked Gethin. He reminded him of a spider, but all the Anar from the far north looked like that.

Gethin liked to brag that he had been to the Crystal Lake where the Anarwyn had been born, and he had seen Ilsie’s footprints set in the white sandstone just beneath the rippling waves. Wetca had always been a little jealous. He couldn’t remember being anywhere but the village.

Gethin called up each of his four stones as requested, and Wetca nodded. Harri called over three more Heirs until Wetca had listened to the vibrations from all twelve stones of the Anarwyn and knew which vibrations accompanied which stones. The Heirs cast him curious glances, and Wetca wondered if Harri hadn’t just revealed his secret to everyone.

After the last Heir strolled back to their practice, Harri stared at Wetca. He shook his head and blew out his air. He didn’t say anything for a long, torturous moment as his long fingers absently plucked up blades of grass.

“Well, that is surprising,” he said. “I am going to think on this long and hard.” He rose and smiled down on him.

“Keep listening, child, but tell no one, save your father.” He pressed a finger to his lips.

Wetca nodded, trying to still the wild butterflies fluttering around in his stomach. Why had Harri acted so strangely?

Harri strode over to his father, drew him aside, and whispered something in his ear. His father’s head snapped around to stare at him. Harri whispered something else, and his father nodded, but his face drained of color.

What had Wetca done? Why did his father look so afraid?

Wetca fidgeted through the rest of the training until the sun was high in the sky and the Heirs broke for lunch.

His father walked with him but said nothing until they were safe inside their own chamber. He warmed the stew over the fire and ladled a bowl for Wetca and himself before sitting at the table they shared. His face was taut with worry.

He opened his mouth as if to speak and then slipped a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

Wetca swirled his spoon around, no longer hungry. His father was unhappy. He had done something wrong.

His father sighed and set his spoon down. “By the Crystal Waters,” he swore. “All twelve stones?”

Wetca stared at him with wide eyes. His father seldom swore.

“All twelve?” he repeated. “Do you have any idea what this means?”

Wetca shook his head, too afraid to speak.

His father reached across the table and rested a hand on Wetca’s arm. “My little man,” he said with such tenderness, “there has only been one person who could wield all twelve stones of the Anarwyn.”

“Who?” Wetca asked.

“Ilsie, herself.” He stared at Wetca in silence as if waiting for him to understand.

“But—”

“There is no but,” his father said. “If you can hear the vibrations of all twelve stones and replicate them in sound, then you should be able to control them all. Do you understand?”

Wetca withdrew his agate from his pocket, taking comfort in its gentle warmth. It rolled on his palm.

“I always knew you were special,” his father said, “ever since we….” He trailed off and averted his gaze. “I mean, you’ve always been different from the other children.”

“Am I in trouble?” The warmth burned in Wetca’s chest. He blinked back tears.

Ewan gave a gruff laugh, and a tear trickled down his cheek. “Of course not.” He sniffed. “Come here.” He pulled Wetca around the table and wrapped his arms around him. “My precious child,” he whispered. “My special child.”

Wetca clung to him in confusion at his sudden burst of emotion. It wasn’t that his father wasn’t loving and attentive. He was. But not like this.

When his father released him, he held Wetca at arm’s length. “I’m going to teach you everything I can about the Anarwyn, but I don’t think you will be allowed to drink the water until you turn twelve. Still, I want you to be ready when you do.”

“What about Mage Harri?”

“He approves,” his father said. “Now, sit down. I want to show you something.”

He rummaged through an old trunk until he withdrew a scroll of parchment. He unrolled it on the table and held the corners down with bowls and spoons.

The parchment contained a twelve-pointed star drawn in red ink. Beautiful, flowing calligraphy had been scrawled at each point with the name of the stone in some ancient language, what it was called now, and the rune associated with it. In the center was the quartz crystal.

“This,” Ewan said, “is the Lithomancy of the Anarwyn.”

Wetca had heard that phrase before, but didn’t know what it meant.

“It refers to the stones,” his father explained. “Notice how each stone is set at the tip of a triangle. It is compatible with the other stones in the triangle, but not with the one opposite it on the chart. The quartz crystal is the Union Stone that allows us to form dyads like Gethin was creating today.”

Wetca touched the place where the agate was set at the bottom of the star. He placed the little agate there. “This one found me,” he said.

“Which means, you may be a great healer someday.”

“Was mother a healer?”

Ewan gave him a quick glance and then bent closer to the paper. “Uh…yes…she was.”

Wetca looked at his father, who turned away. “Then I want to be a healer, too.” Wetca announced this with all the certainty he could muster.

Ewan was avoiding his gaze, and instead of responding, he pointed to the top of the diagram. “The sapphire is the keystone of the Anarwyn. It is compatible with any stone. Few mages in recent years have been able to control the sapphire.”

“Mage Harri has one,” Wetca said.

“Yes, but no one else I know of. Now let me explain what each stone does.”

Continue the adventure in Legends