A Stone's Throw Read online




  Book Description

  Connor's supposed to be dead.

  He's not very good at it.

  He did save his village . . . by destroying it. And the armies vying to control his powerful curse think he's dead. But he needs patronage from a high lord or his curse will transform him into a raging monster.

  So Connor creeps back into the land of the living, joining his Aunt Ailsa at the Carraig, the school of the Petralists, hoping somehow to find patronage on his terms.

  He should have known better.

  At the Carraig it's all about the game, and the stakes have never been higher. With old enemies appearing from under every rock, Connor plunges into games within games that form a maze of conflicting loyalties and deadly intrigue.

  Dying again isn’t an option. So with the help of trusted friends, Connor launches his own game, breaking all the rules, gambling on the one chance at a free life with the girl he loves. The alternative is chaining his powers to one of the nations planning to unleash him upon the world.

  Connor doesn't want to kill anyone.

  He might not have a choice.

  A STONE’S THROW

  Book two of The Petralist

  Kindle Edition –2015

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Frank Morin

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Whipsaw Press Original

  Edited by Joshua Essoe

  http://www.joshuaessoe.com/

  Cover art by Brad Fraunfelter

  http://www.bfillustration.com/

  Illustrations by Jared Blando

  http://www.theredepic.com/

  First Whipsaw printing, December, 2015

  Contents

  Book Description

  Title Page

  Other Works by Frank Morin

  Acknowledgements

  Maps

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Petralist Stones

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Works by Frank Morin

  The Petralist Series

  Set in Stone – Book One

  A Stone’s Throw – Book Two (You’re reading it!)

  No Stone Unturned – Book Three (Release date in 2016)

  The Facetakers Series

  Face Lift – Prequel short story, available on Wattpad for free

  Saving Face – Prequel

  Memory Hunter – Book One

  Rune Warrior – Book Two (Release date Q1 2016)

  Aeon Champion – Book Three (Release date in 2016)

  Short Stories

  Odin’s Eye – Part of the Red Unicorn Anthology

  One Horn to Rule Them All: Only Logical – A purple unicorn story, available on Wattpad for free

  Other

  Wolf Hart - An interactive work in progress, available on Wattpad add your comments and help build the story.

  Acknowledgements

  Book two, and my family’s still speaking to me. Actually, they’re still my biggest fans, and as usual they deserve the greatest thanks. Kate was a constant sounding board, and Kyle was the ‘idea guy’ who helped me delve deep into the heart of the story. Emily continues to cheer for the series, and Jacob is one of my most enthusiastic fans.

  And Jenny’s the glue that holds my crazy worlds together, supporting me every step of the way, even when I torture her favorite characters.

  Many people provided feedback across several versions as I split the original book into two and reassembled it into a far greater whole. Again, thanks to my very own team of Fast Rollers for feedback over ice cream: Zachary Huff, and Ben Rivas for reviewing the final draft, and Adam Smith, Louis Ledesma, Jeffrey Steele, Parker Morrison, and Eve Ledesma. Their enthusiasm for the series is a heady thing.

  Thanks to Joshua Essoe for another brilliant edit, and for encouraging me to dig deep and make the book shine, Jared Blando for more incredible illustrations, and Brad Fraunfelter for yet another magnificent cover.

  To everyone else badgering me to hurry up and get the project done, your support means more than you can imagine.

  I hope it was worth the wait.

  Chapter 1

  Connor ran on the wings of basalt, a laugh bubbling in his throat as he tapped the boundless energy burning through his muscles and granting superhuman speed. He flashed across the long balcony circling High Lord Goban’s main hall, moving too fast to enjoy the ornate tapestries or exquisite statues lining the hall. Some of the pieces were fine enough to have come from his Aunt Ailsa’s workshop outside of town.

  “Stop, or you’ll be declared unclaimed,” shouted the Boulder who had discovered Connor lurking above the feast a moment ago.

  “Too late for that,” Connor muttered, taking the corner so fast he had to run up the wall, flinging his body horizontal to make the turn. The hood of his short cloak fluttered, but he pulled it back into place before it came free and revealed his features. He was new to Raineach, but giving his pursuers a face to hunt was still a really bad idea.

  Unclaimed. The term still filled him with dread. Growing up in Alasdair, everyone knew the dangers of a cursed commoner failing to obtain patronage by the age of sixteen, but they’d never given those poor, Tallan-grouted fools a name.

  Connor increased his tap rate, speeding down the length of the hall, grateful the balcony encircled the entire hall. That’s why he had chosen it as his vantag
e point to spy on the harvest feast of High Lord Goban. Everything had gone perfectly according to plan.

  Until it hadn’t.

  The Boulder pounded after him, but the ponderous fellow, tapping granite and slowed by the immense bulk of his enhanced muscles, had no chance of catching him. High Lord Goban had a pair of Striders in the hall, but they couldn’t get up to the balcony in time to intercept him, and didn’t appear to know what to do. A dozen Boulders were stationed around the room, but thankfully the lord’s security chief hadn’t thought to include any slingers in the protective detail.

  “Who are you?” High Lord Goban called from his throne-like seat at the head of the table. He was a meaty-looking fellow, with bearded jowls and a florid complexion. At first, Connor had hoped it meant the high lord was a jolly fellow, but he’d seen enough to know he’d be better off taking his chances on his own against his curse.

  Connor slowed. “One who might have pledged to you if you were worthy of my oath.”

  The high lord surged to his feet, face reddening further with anger. “How dare you? I refuse patronage. You’ll be executed for your insolence.”

  “You have to catch me first,” Connor called down, increasing speed again.

  He would never have dared risk a high lord’s wrath if his situation wasn’t already desperate, but he had nothing to lose. Besides, he’d already been executed once. It hadn’t been fun.

  In seconds, he’d reach the end of the hall with its huge, open window overlooking the inner court of High Lord Goban’s richly appointed palace. He’d already mapped out an escape route in case his clandestine attempt to spy on the high lord failed. He was pretty sure no tertiary affinity Petralists or Guardians were close enough to intercept him. No one else could stop him.

  Using his curse again, despite the risks, was so much fun!

  His smile faded as a middle-aged man rolled over the balustrade and stood directly in his path, not twenty feet away. The man wore rich, but unremarkable clothing, and had been a guest at the high table. Connor hadn’t paid him any special attention.

  He did now as he skidded to a stop. The man faced him, radiating a confident grace Connor had seen in only one group.

  Blades.

  Connor thought back to the pair of deadly swordsmen in General Carbrey’s army and their unmatched, obsidian-fueled fighting prowess. Only the two Allcarvers in General Wolfram’s army had stood against them, and the four had fought a spinning, blurring duel, moving so fast, Connor hadn’t been able to follow their individual strokes.

  “I think you owe my lord an apology, boy,” the fellow said, fingering the hilt of a knife on his belt.

  Soldiers below were scrambling toward stairs. In seconds they’d cut Connor off and his little adventure would be over.

  Aunt Ailsa was going to kill him.

  Connor grinned at the Blade. “I think I’ll pass. Don’t wait up for me.”

  He tapped basalt again and sprinted toward the deadly Petralist.

  “I warned you,” the man said with a shrug, drawing his dagger and settling into a fighting stance.

  If he thought Connor would actually fight him, he was crazier than a sweetbread merchant wandering into Hamish’s family reunion.

  As he closed on the man, Connor tapped soapstone. He’d already downed the gritty mixture of powdered soapstone and water, and it pulsed through him, highlighting the flow of his bloodstream, which was really distracting when he thought about it. Reaching through that tertiary stone, which served as a gateway to elemental water, he connected with every bit of water in the hall. Cups of wine and pitchers of ale glowed in his water sense, but he focused on a bucket of water directly below the balcony where the Blade awaited him, and gave it a firm tug.

  As a fist-sized globe of water leaped into the air from the bucket, Connor drained heat out of it and shivered it apart, then directed it at the unsuspecting Blade. The newly formed snowball struck the man in the face.

  At the same time, Connor yanked on the liquid in everyone’s cups. Streams of wine, ale, and even soapy water for washing hands, all sprayed across the table and doused High Lord Goban, leaving him sputtering with rage.

  With the Blade temporarily distracted by the surprise snowball, Connor released his connection to soapstone and sucked on the tiny piece of quartzite wedged into his cheek. He’d used the tertiary stone to enhance his senses earlier, making it easier to eavesdrop and spy on the high lord. Now he directed its power outward to connect through that gateway to the fickle element of air. Inside the mostly-enclosed hall, the air seemed bored and eager for something to do, so it actually responded when he gave it a sharp, mental tug.

  Despite the distraction of the snowball, the Blade lunged for Connor, muttering a curse.

  Connor jumped.

  He planned to draw air around him like a set of wings to gently lift him over the angry Blade. It was a great plan, and would have looked amazing to the watchers below.

  The air responded with a little too much enthusiasm. The planned graceful dive became an out-of-control tumble as a powerful gust slammed into Connor and hurled him like a stone shot from a giant sling. He squawked with surprise and tucked into a ball just before colliding with the Blade, knocking the man backward and rolling him right over the balustrade. The fellow managed to catch the rail, cursing like a Boulder whose smallclothes got caught in his battle leathers right when he max-tapped granite.

  Connor rolled back to his feet, shaken by the impact, but not daring to slow. It was past time to leave, so he max-tapped basalt as he closed on the window at the end of the balcony. Sharp pain flared through his legs as his thighs fracked, forming new joints that allowed him to increase his top speed five-fold.

  He dove through the window, soaring like a huge eoin bird that forgot it couldn’t actually fly, arcing far over the outer court toward the central fountain that was formed in the shape of a seven-petaled flower. He landed hard, still fracked, and outran the fall, shooting toward the outer gate where Boulders were already pulling the heavy portal closed.

  A dozen guards were responding to the cries of alarm, and they moved to intercept him. He might be faster, but they were trained professionals, and they knew how to take down a Strider.

  They weren’t ready for a Spitter, though.

  Connor released quartzite and slowed, reaching again for the power of elemental water. As Boulders closed from every side, Connor grabbed hold of the nearby fountain with fingers of soapstone power.

  “You’ve hammered yourself into a corner,” a grim-faced sergeant growled, stopping five feet away. “Not smart for a linn seeking patronage.”

  “That’s the thing,” Connor said, winking. “I’m just passing through.”

  “Not any more, you’re not,” the sergeant said.

  “Hold your breath,” Connor suggested.

  “What?”

  They never learned. Connor yanked with his ethereal senses and the waters of the fountain erupted, churning across the court in a five-foot flood. The flood split around Connor, but uprooted the ponderous Boulders, tumbling them across the court. Then the waters flowed back under Connor and lifted him high into the air.

  “It’s been fun,” Connor said, the waters turning him in a complete circuit so he could wave to all the gaping soldiers.

  Then the waters coiled like a giant spring and threw him over the outer wall. He whooped with the thrill of it, waving again at the surprised Boulders. One of them actually waved back before realizing what he was doing and snatching his hand back down before anyone else noticed.

  Connor scanned the surrounding city as he reached the apex of his flight. Raineach was a beautiful, sprawling expanse. The nearby estates closest to the palace were all stately homes and manicured lawns. The central market lay across the river, with the warren of linn hovels on the far side. It could have been a good place to live.

  As he arced down toward a many-columned pavilion set on the beautifully cultivated lawn outside of the palace wall, Conn
or purged the last of his basalt and drove fingers into a small pouch of granite powder at his belt. He absorbed a little of the powdered stone through his skin, as he had the basalt earlier, and the itchy strength of granite skittered up his arm, just under the skin. He applied his life-long curse to his entire body and tapped it just enough to harden his muscles and turn his skin gray, like living granite without swelling so big he ripped his shirt.

  He crashed into the unfortunate pavilion like a meteor, shattering it and tumbling a hundred yards across the soft grass before sliding to a stop in a long trench his stone-hard body gouged out of the earth.

  Connor rose and shook off the debris, then groaned when he saw the shredded remains of his shirt. He’d been smart enough to wear the one he’d worn on his long journey south from Alasdair instead of one of the fine new ones his aunt had gifted him recently, but it would be hard to hide the truth from Ailsa if she ever noticed the condition of his clothing. He’d deal with that once he escaped the city. So he purged granite and shifted back to basalt. He was getting better at managing his absorption rate, but needed to be careful. He didn’t have much power-grade stone, and had to shepherd its use.

  Tapping basalt, Connor fracked and sped away from the palace before the Boulders inside could open the gates and send Striders after him. By the time they took up the chase, he’d be long gone.

  Connor’s good humor faded as he sped into the countryside toward Aunt Ailsa’s distant mansion. He’d escaped another high lord, but that didn’t make his situation any better.

  He wondered if he’d be able to conceal the day’s incursion from her.

  Chapter 2

  “You crashed High Lord Goban’s harvest feast?” Ailsa demanded, her emerald eyes flashing with anger. “Are you cracked, Connor?”

  He hadn’t fooled her. She’d been waiting for him at the door of her sprawling mansion when he’d returned, had taken one look at his tattered clothing, and had marched him into her spacious office beside her workroom.

  The argument was going about as well as he’d hoped.

  “What do you expect me to do?” he asked, trying to pitch his voice in a respectful tone. “I need patronage, or I’m going to turn unclaimed. It’s a miracle I haven’t lost control yet.”