The Complete Historical Fantasy Trilogy Read online

  KEEPERS

  of the

  STONE

  Book One:

  Outcast

  Andrew Anzur Clement

  Copyright © 2017, Andrew Anzur Clement

  All rights reserved.

  One

  She galloped away from them, studiously refusing to look back. The horse’s hoofs pounded a quick rhythm onto the white sand as she rode southward along the beach in front of Madras. Palm fronds rustled in the breeze coming off the water and her habit fluttered in its force, revealing wisps of slightly wavy brown hair, a shade lighter than most natives of the subcontinent possessed.

  Where should I go? she thought.

  The two newfound friends who now lay behind her weren’t unintelligent. She’d been surprised when they’d accepted what she had told them about her destination; she knew it in her gut. The one with a strange name, whose country she had never heard of, had seen through the disguise of nun’s robes that only yesterday belonged to her sister. Yet, he had said nothing.

  No. She couldn’t go back to her sister’s order in Pondicherry. She didn’t know its name, or even care about the poor. She didn’t speak a word of French and knew almost nothing about the god they worshiped. She’d be found out as the fraud that she was.

  The girl kicked the horse. It grunted as she urged it to a faster pace. As the wind of her momentum hit her, its force caused the sky-blue sash hidden up the left sleeve of her robe to unfurl. It was the same color as her sparkling eyes, which contrasted sharply with the mid-tan hue of her skin. Clasped by reflex in her hand, the sash flapped fiercely, ignored by its owner. It was the least of her worries. She directed her gaze eastward, out over the water to the horizon.

  It seemed like forever, but it was just a few days prior that she’d suggested something to the one she thought of as Stanley, one of the two she had just left behind. She’d advised that they should take the object that she now carried in the bottom of her satchel, wrapped in a swath of bloodred fabric, to the monks at Mayapur. A mysterious woman had appeared to her and told her the monks could be able to protect it. But she had no idea who the mysterious white-skinned woman was. She knew only that time seemed to stop when the woman appeared. She had a feeling she could trust the apparition. The strange woman had told her that if they could get the jewel she carried to those clerics, it would be safe from the Urumi and perhaps would regain its venerated position next to Shakti, her Black Goddess.

  That was no longer an option. The Urumi knew that she had taken the powerful gem from Pondicherry’s cathedral. They would know that she had stolen it from its votive hiding place in front of the figure that resembled Shakti, but also bore resemblance to a deity that Stanley and his people honored. And, she was sure, it had come to light that she had tried to exchange it with a fake, although she had told no one that the same strange woman who told her about the monastery gave the forgery to her. If she tried to go to Mayapur, it was possible the Urumi would be waiting for her. Ever since she took the gem from its place in the cathedral, they had been one step ahead of her. She couldn’t risk it.

  An inspiration came to her. She could try to get the jewel to the other side of the Raj. Maybe she could hide it in the mountains among the tribes she had heard of there. But, she quashed that option almost as soon as she had thought of it. Stupid idea. The Urumi had been here since long before the British or the Russians. Their Order would find the jewel. And unleash its destructive power.

  Signs of what her friends on the beach would have called ‘civilization’ had fallen away. She turned her horse inland. She had never felt completely comfortable during the short time she had spent with them in the cities of Madras and Pondicherry, having spent most of her life in the camp of her Sect. Scrub brush and sea grapes came up around her as she rode on.

  Suddenly, she urged her mount to a stop. Her shoulders slumped and she directed her gaze to the ground. She snorted. It was ironic, the girl reflected, that she was in possession of one of the most powerful objects in existence. She’d sacrificed what little she had for it. And yet, she was still as good as destitute.

  She sighed bitterly.

  There was only one course of action she could see. She needed to get the gem and herself as far away as she could. Maybe then the Urumi wouldn’t be able to track her. That meant she would need means. And that meant a painful return to the only place she could really remember as having called home. A place now deserted by an adopted family that she had killed, as surely as if she had strangled them herself; all due to that same object that now lay at the bottom of the pouch she had strung over her neck. She had intended for her sister to carry it only for a short time. But the Urumi had found out. They had given her to the Russian who was after it. Antonia was dead now, too.

  Gathering her resolve, the girl dug her sandaled heels into the horse’s sides. She spurred it to a gallop once more and rode until she found the first path leading north. She took it. Her mount sped as fast as she could make it go, circling around Madras and then out into the open countryside. Ignoring the horse’s heavy breathing, she rode on into increasingly dense jungle as night fell.

  Eventually turning west, she passed where her friends had first ‘rescued’ her. It had all been a ruse to keep them from finding the location of the Thags’ camp. She had never understood why her Master had selected that as her first solo mission. It galled her now that she had ended up joining with her quarry, betraying the tribe who had given her purpose. Even if they had never truly accepted her, they were the people who had taught her to be the best thief she could be. Worse, they had gone to their graves at her behest – in defense of those same two young men on the beach and their younger companion. And, she’d told them, in defense of her Goddess’s right to have the jewel by Her side. She couldn’t have allowed an object of such power to fall into the hands of her Goddess’s enemies. They went to their deaths for her, fighting the Russian who sought to possess it. Her tribe was dead. She blamed herself for it.

  The path narrowed. She refused to slow down, breathing heavily as if in need of air. Branches clawed at her, scratching her face and tearing rents in the fabric of her nun’s trappings. The habit was ripped from her head, exposing locks of long, mid-dark hair as she exploded into the clear.

  She slowed her mount and descended the incline into a small valley. She dismounted and walked the animal slowly through the cluster of mud brick huts that nature had already begun to encroach upon. She looked for signs of movement. There were none. Then again, she’d heard stories. Seen them confirmed. Her enemy, the Urumi, could become invisible.

  The girl, maybe somewhere in her mid-teens, walked through half of the village until she arrived at one of the largest dwellings. She entered and looked at her surroundings: a cooking area, some pillows for entertaining guests, and sleeping mats. Centered on the walls around a black feminine figure, there hung a random assortment of valuable items – instruments, jewelry, and even some ceremonial blades. They were trophies of quests made by her Master in service to his Goddess.

  Now, their entire Sect was gone except for her. In the absence of a cooking fire and of the people she had come to know so well, her Master’s home seemed alien.

  Slowly, she reached into the bottom of the satchel and felt the bloodred sash surrounding the object she had sacrificed almost everything for. That piece of cloth was the closest tie she had left to a people. It enshrouded an item she had already come to hate, even though she was now its only keeper. The girl stood in the middle of the hut. Her gaze settled on the figure of her Goddess. As she stared at the figure of her deity, which rested on a primitive altar of human bon
es, the deep angst she’d carried inside of her since the events that had led to the loss of her Sect and her newfound sister began to overwhelm her. The stare contorted into a questioning glare.

  “Why me?” she screamed at the statue.

  She knew that it would have been best to keep quiet, in case the Urumi were watching the camp for her return. But, in that particular moment, she didn’t much care about the consequences. She yelled again.

  “Why me?” Silence greeted her entreat, except for the deafening sound of her own breathing.

  She exhaled roughly and looked around the empty hut as if an answer – a reason – would somehow make itself evident. Some seconds passed before she spoke again.

  “Why?” This time her voice shook at a level only slightly higher than a whisper.

  The statue remained unmoved, evidently choosing to keep its own counsel. She felt her legs giving under her, and she finally allowed herself to fall, giving in to the sobs that wracked her body.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, Malka cried.

  ***

  Malka awoke with a start. The sash of blue fabric was still in her hand, not having been allowed to fall even during her emotional lapse the previous evening. She immediately swung the far end of it into her other hand, pulled the fabric taut and crouched in a defensive position, positioning her back toward the hut’s nearest wall. The feeling she was being watched, that was what had rousted her. She looked around her Master’s former accommodations, At first, Malka noticed nothing out of the ordinary. But then she saw the small piece of parchment that lay on the floor next to where she had collapsed the night before.

  She sighed, kneeling to pick it up. Her hands turned it over. Malka’s blue eyes took in what she expected would be there. The embossed emblem of a snake eating its own tail. Followed by a brief set of instructions and the identities of the senders:

  Head northeast.

  -Arunesh and Zitar

  This wasn’t the first time Malka had received instructions in this manner. During her ordeal with the two she’d left on the Madras beachfront, they had received multiple such letters. The missives seemed to appear out of thin air, sent by the leaders of the Society. An organization she still knew little about. Except that notes such as this one had helped them prevent the Urumi and their Russian pawn, Prince Lubomirski, from unleashing the uncontrolled power of the object she now found herself entrusted with.

  Malka sighed breathlessly, with grim determination. Whoever they were, the Society’s leaders had proven their directives could be trusted. This one was refreshingly direct. It seemed to validate the course of action she’d come up with yesterday, shortly after leaving Madras: get the stone as far away as possible.

  Still feeling as if someone was watching her, she crept to the hut’s entrance. Malka pushed through the tanned entrance flap in a sudden motion, whirling in a blur to face either side of the opening. None of her dark enemies waited in ambush. Still, the uneasy impression lingered that unseen eyes were observing her. She would have to be careful as she executed her plan.

  Slowly, making as little noise as she possibly could, she moved from dwelling to dwelling, attempting to conceal herself behind the walls of each, before braving the opening between her last hiding place and the next.

  As she went from hut to hut, she collected artifacts from the altars in the homes. They were offerings taken by the Sect of the Thags in their hold-ups of those traveling between cities.

  Years ago, she had been one of the Thags’ prizes, spared from death only because of the abnormal color of her eyes. Over time, their Master had taken her under his mentorship and she had become his best student; almost accepted as one of them.

  Now she was stealing the votives – which she had been trained to take from strangers – from the homes of her longtime acquaintances. Her emotional release seemed to have served her well. As she moved from hut to hut, sticking more and more items in her satchel, she did so with a strange detachment. She remembered the green curry that she’d first been served by the elderly couple who had sometimes taken care of her after she had been brought to the camp; she took gold-encrusted jewelry from their altar to the Goddess. When she took a small silver-plated tabernacle from Mira’s hut, Malka recalled clearly how it had been there since before the time she had started to live among the Thags. Yet, she realized with mild shock that she no longer felt any guilt – only a grim determination – as she looted the trophies from their homes. She took all of the items from the dwelling in which her rival Zaima had habitually resided, allowing herself a small pang of satisfaction in doing so.

  After the first few huts, Malka had filled her shoulder bag. Though her finely honed intuition still told her that she was under surveillance, no one had tried to hinder her efforts. Wearily, she spied a carriage, covered in branches for concealment. It stood unused between two mud structures. Looking around her, she trudged toward it.

  A sudden noise came to her ears when she’d almost reached it. She whirled about, keeping her back close to the black carriage’s camouflaged front left wheel. Her sky-blue garrote was raised at the ready. A flock of birds flew from a nearby tree. Malka froze, waiting to see what would happen next. After a few moments, nothing did. She moved on, uncovering the black carriage, opening the door and emptying the artifacts into its reddish interior. If the Urumi were watching for her, they’d have had her by now. Still, she couldn’t shake that feeling.

  Laboriously, she pulled the carriage from hut to hut, loading valuables from each as she went. In one, she found a heap of Western dresses made of silk. She threw these in the carriage as well. They may come in handy, she figured, for what she had planned next.

  Once she had made the rounds of every dwelling in the camp, Malka returned to her Master’s hut, where she had collapsed the night before in despair.

  Again she felt someone watching her. And again she crouched, her sash held taut at the ready. Always be instinctively ready for a fight. Husain, the Thags’ Master, had taught her that. Despite her role in the Sect’s downfall, she was not about to disregard his advice. Again, no one or no thing came at her. She turned and entered the Master’s dwelling, in front of which she remembered many hours of instruction in the arts of deception and combat.

  Purposefully looking away from the altar on the far side of the room, she went to its darkest corner, where she knew her Master kept clothing he’d taken from the trappings of those he had martyred on the road. She assembled an English gentleman’s riding attire. Her skin was somewhat lighter than most natives of the Tamil Nadu; she hoped the guise would help her remain somewhat inconspicuous if someone didn’t look too closely while she was on the road. It wouldn’t do for a Hindu girl to be seen driving a carriage full of treasure across rural India.

  Malka removed the tatters of her sister’s nunnery garments and dressed in black trousers, a white shirt, and leather belt. A black hat, in which she had trussed up her hair, completed the image.

  As she turned, her gaze caught that of Shakti’s statue. Malka glared at it, strode forth and snatched up the trophies Husain had gathered in Her honor, throwing them into the carriage she had left outside. At last, she liberated the final item from the wall: a knife, its grip encrusted with jewels and precious metals.

  In an abrupt motion, Malka lashed out at the altar with her newfound weapon, knocking her idol from its skull-based pedestal. Bones flew everywhere. Her anger sated, Malka grimly turned on her heel, tucking the knife into her waistband. She exited the Master’s hut and covered the valuables inside the carriage with a white sheet. She brought the horse to where the carriage waited.

  The girl hitched the two together. She knew that as she did so, she was saying goodbye to the only home she had known for more than a decade – almost her entire life. It was so empty, populated with only the ghosts of those she had come to know well. She hardly recognized it. Malka felt confused and angry with the deity she had been raised to ven
erate. How had it come to this? Instantly, the question struck her as irrelevant. None of it changed the fact that she was a Thag. She had a purpose to crusade in the name of her Black Goddess, no matter how cruel She may be. She lowered her gaze to her satchel.

  Checking again to see that no one was around, she removed the crown from her shoulder bag. Hunching over, she faced toward the carriage and undid the crimson sash that covered it. Could the gem that lay in the center of the silver crown really be so powerful as to justify all she had done? Was it really so dangerous?

  Malka stared at that object, which she despised. Her faith told her the object belonged rightfully to a Goddess for whom she had sacrificed everything, a Goddess she recently had come to resent and detest, even as her beliefs demanded she continue to protect the jewel in Her name.

  Quickly, she wrapped the blue sash of her sister’s order around it, draping the red fabric of the Thag’s creed over her shoulder, such that it laid across her chest. She put the object back into the bottom of her bag. No matter what she had done, no matter what situation her Goddess had left her in, she was still a member of her Sect, even though some had never completely accepted her as one of them. She would do what she had to do.

  The last surviving member of the camp of thieves climbed into the carriage’s driver’s seat. The leather reins felt cold in Malka’s hands as she pulled them taut, compelling the horse into movement. She directed the animal out through the only path that led into the camp, even as she could still not deny the influence of unseen eyes upon her.

  The carriage ascended the hill. Malka looked behind her and knew that she was saying a final farewell to the life she had known since she was a small child. The last of the Thags sighed in resignation, turned to the road ahead of her, and with that, set out for Calcutta.

  Two

  “I’m sending you away from Madras.”

  “What! Why?” Stas responded to his father’s revelation with shock. They were seated across from each other at the dining room table of the home that Southern India Railways provided Stas’s father, an engineer, as partial compensation for the consulting work he performed for the company. The house’s servants waited silently in the corners of the room, having just laid out a meal of chicken tikka, along with some dal and roti. It was Friday evening; the room was dimly lit by candles on the far ends of the table.