Diamond Stained (Secret of the Jewels #1 ) - J.M.D. Reid Page 0,2

an amethyst could get that big,” Avena said, her heart pounding a rapid beat. She trembled as she stared at the object sitting on the worktable. At one cubit tall, a little longer than the length of her arm from elbow to fingertips, the jewel was massive.

“The largest is the Topaz Staff of Roidan, but that is an artifact from before the Shattering, much like this and that ruby outside,” said Dualayn. “The largest natural gem is a diamond the size of a pig’s heart. I saw it visiting Ondere’s capital. Imagine the light that could be fashioned from it.”

“What do you think this is?” Avena asked. “What purpose could this have been used for? It is such a large gem.”

“Emerald and amethyst mixed,” Dualayn murmured, his hand sliding through his thinning, graying hair. “Preservation and protection together.”

There were seven Colours of Elohm, each representing seven Virtues, and each had a gemstone associated with them. Emerald, Green, was Forgiveness, the preservation of bonds, the stability that allowed humans to continue on after mistakes were made. It was associated with strengthening and the earth. Amethyst symbolized Modesty, the protection of virtue and securing chastity. Locks and binders were made with them.

“Maybe it is a chest,” Avena said. “What if the two parts unspool to reveal contents being protected and preserved?”

“Perhaps,” Dualayn said. “I suspect this is what Naynee Guhin referred to as a Recorder in his Treaties on the Anteshattering Civilization. We’re standing over the ruins of one of the great cities. Perhaps lost Koilon.”

Avena swallowed, her eyes flicking to the hard-packed earth and the hole that led down into the library. It was strange down there, the floor smooth beneath the dust. It looked like the stone had been poured. They hadn’t explored far before finding the artifact sitting amid the collapsed ruin of a table.

“A Recorder?” asked Avena, her mouth suddenly dry. “What does it . . . record?”

“Knowledge,” said Dualayn. He ran a soft finger across the surface, his eyes trembling. Hope burned in them. He plucked his monocle from the dark waistcoat he wore buttoned over his portly frame. He placed the glass lens, attached to a chain of fine gold, before his right eye. He squinted to hold it in place as he leaned forward.

“You think this will save her, Father?” Avena asked, trembles racing through her slender body.

“I can only hope.” With a careful caress, he stroked an exposed bit of gold wire.

Light blazed from the heart of the Recorder. Avena gasped, stepping back two steps, her head brushing the sloping roof of the canvas tent. From the top of the device, a beam of golden light somehow made a ball of liquid radiance. It rippled for a moment, then curious symbols appeared on it, glyphs or letters that appeared to be pressable buttons.

“Old Tonal,” whispered Dualayn as he leaned forward. “The precursor to our modern alphabet. See there, the shape of that letter is reminiscent of our G. And there, the sweep of that . . . Can you see the S in it?”

Avena swallowed, leaning forward. Her heart leaped with joy. If this could hold the knowledge of restoring Bravine Dashvin’s mind, it would revolutionize the burgeoning field of jewelchine healing. New methods to reverse injuries too severe for Dualayn’s inventions to cure. Or the ability to fix deformations and congenital defects the topazes didn’t affect.

“My child, I think—”

“Trouble,” rumbled Ni’mod.

Avena squeaked. She’d forgotten their hulking bodyguard stood at the tent’s entrance. He’d shown no interest in the Recorder after setting it on the table. Instead, he stood with the stoic presence of a weathered boulder, all muscles and brutal strength. A faint curl of steam rose off his bare, ebony chest, especially from the deep scars crossing his torso. His green eyes, the bright color contrasting with his dark skin, almost seemed to blaze.

“Armed men approach. I smell blood on them.”

“Oh, dear,” Dualayn said.

Chapter Two

“Come on, you pus-filled roaches,” snarled Ust, ripping his backsword from its sheath, the blade edged on only one side, the crossguard bent and dented. “Let’s go squeeze the orange out of that fat scholar.”

Orange? Two years living among the heathens of Arngelsh, drifting from Ondere to his present life in Lothon, and Ōbhin still shook his head at the nonsense he heard. Why would you squeeze orange from him?

The rest of the highwaymen charged through the bloody brush, blue-gray smoke drifting around Carstin’s head. Out of habit, Ōbhin jogged after, his chainmail rattling. Brush whipped at his