The Shewstone Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  What Reviewers Say About Jane Fletcher’s Work

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  In the port city of Fortaine, two young girls acquire new families.

  Four-year-old Eawynn, the unwanted illegitimate daughter of an ambitious noble, is dumped in the temple. When she is old enough, she will be initiated into its sisterhood of priestesses. Meanwhile Matt, the street urchin, earns a crime lord’s admiration, so much so he adopts her as his daughter and heir to his underworld clan.

  Nearly two decades later, their paths cross when Eawynn is appointed custodian of the Shewstone, the mystical orb of prophecy. Unfortunately for her, Matt is on a mission to steal it.

  What Reviewers Say About Jane Fletcher’s Work

  The Celaeno Series

  “…captivating, well-written stories in the fantasy genre that are built around women’s struggles against themselves, one another, society, and nature.”—WomanSpace Magazine

  “In Rangers at Roadsend Fletcher not only gives us powerful characters, but she surprises us with an unexpected ending to the murder conspiracy plot, pushing the story in one direction only to have that direction reversed more than once. This is one thrill ride the reader will not want to get off.”—Independent Gay Writer

  “The Walls of Westernfort is not only a highly engaging and fast-paced adventure novel, it provides the reader with an interesting framework for examining the same questions of loyalty, faith, family and love.”—Midwest Book Review

  “The Walls of Westernfort is…a true delight. Bold, well-developed characters hold your interest from the beginning and keep you turning the pages. The main plot twists and turns until the very end. The subplot involves likeable women who seem destined not to be together.”—MegaScene

  The Lyremouth Chronicles

  “Jane Fletcher once again has written an exciting fantasy story for everyone. Though she sets her stories in foreign worlds where the traditional role of women are reversed, her characters (are) all too familiar in their inner lives and thoughts. Unlike the Celaeno series (which I highly recommend) where there are no men, this series incorporates male characters that help round out the story nicely…Fletcher has a way of balancing the fantasy with the human drama in a precise way. She never gets caught up in the minor details of the environment and forgets to tell the story, which happens too often in fantasy fiction…With Fletcher writing such strong work, readers of fantasy will continue to grow.”—Lambda Book Report

  “The Exile and the Sorcerer is a mesmerizing read, a tour-de-force packed with adventure, ordeals, complex twists and turns, and the internal introspection of appealing characters. The author writes effortlessly, handling the size and scope of the book with ease. Not since the fantasy works of Elizabeth Moon and Lynn Flewelling have I been so thoroughly engrossed in a tale. This is knockout fiction, tantalizingly told, and beautifully packaged.”—Midwest Book Review

  The Shewstone

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  The Shewstone

  © 2016 By Jane Fletcher. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-555-8

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: June 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  THE CELAENO SERIES

  The Temple at Landfall

  The Walls of Westernfort

  Rangers at Roadsend

  Dynasty of Rogues

  Shadow of the Knife

  THE LYREMOUTH CHRONICLES

  The Exile and the Sorcerer

  The Traitor and the Chalice

  The Empress and the Acolyte

  The High Priest and the Idol

  Wolfsbane Winter

  The Shewstone

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks go to Joanie Bassler for helpful comments on my first draft and for the countless cups of tea delivered to my desk, to Nell Stark for her help with Cynnreord, to Cindy Cresap for picking up on my mistakes and oversights, to Radclyffe and everyone else at Bold Strokes Books for making it such an awesome publishing company, and to the readers who have contacted me providing the extra impetus to get back to the keyboard and start pounding out the words.

  Prologue

  The boy laughed in Matt’s face. “Give me that.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “No, it’s not. You stole it.”

  So what if this was true? He was not the one Matt had stolen the fish from, and he had no right to take it. She took a step back, clenching the fish to her chest.

  The boy was at least four years older than Matt, and a foot taller, with straight black hair, dark brown eyes, and light brown skin. He was scrawny, dressed in rags so tattered you could count three ribs in the gap between his shirt and pants. His face was screwed in a mean, hard sneer. In short, he looked just like all the other street children—just like Matt herself.

  Except Matt knew she was that bit hungrier. The last time she had eaten was the morning before, a few mangled cabbage leaves, scavenged from rubbish at the market. Today, she had been watching fishermen unloading their boat when they were distracted by a drunken brawl. It was her chance to snatch a fish and make off. Despite being raw, it was the nearest thing to a decent meal she had seen all month, and Matt was not about to give it up.

  The sound of movement stopped Matt before she could take another step, and the boy’s sneer got broader. He was not alone. Matt twisted to look back. Two of his friends stood there, posing like grown-up rowdy boys. All three were bigger and stronger than Matt. One-on-one, she would still stand no chance in a fight, but could they outrun her?

  The leader was the soft target. Matt could read him easily. He was a blowhard who thought she was going to roll over and give up, a puffed up bully when the numbers were on his side. The friends were too dim to do anything other than follow.

  Matt let her shoulders slump, just enough to let him think he had won, then she charged, driving her elbow into his stomach. He curled forward, his mouth a big circle, like he was about to spew. “Ooof.”

  Matt threw everything she had into a roundhouse kick behind his knees, taking his feet from under him, and then she was off.

  At the corner, she stopped to glance back. The friends had helped their leader to his feet and waited until he had enough breath to tell them what to do. Matt had known t
hey would not be able to work it out for themselves. Now the chase was on. The boys wanted the fish, and probably revenge. Matt raced away from the quay.

  The road took her up the hill, and then through the alleys and winding stairways of Fortaine. Matt knew every street in the city, but so did the boys, and with their longer legs, they were gaining on her. Matt had to shake them off. She darted aside, heading to the main road up from the docks.

  The High Street was its normal hectic rat run of horse-drawn carts. Matt ducked around one, hurdled the tailgate of another, and rolled between the wheels of a third. This was where it went wrong. She got through with no worse than a bruise and a scraped knee, but she dropped the fish and dared not go back for it.

  Matt ran on until she was sure the boys had given up the hunt. Maybe they stopped to pick up her fish. Matt hoped not. She would rather it squished under a wheel than the bastards get it, but either way it was lost, and she would go hungry another day. Matt slumped against a wall, getting her breath back and refusing to cry. Never show you are upset, even when nobody is there to see.

  She was in a part of town she did not normally visit. The maze of narrow-ways around the docks was her home. The only times she left were to scavenge in the markets or to try her luck with the mansions high on the cliffs, with their ocean views and more food thrown away than honest folk could put on the table. Trouble was, they also had armed guards who saw street folk as no better than rats. Some children who went to the high cliffs never came back. Vermin control, they called it.

  The chase had taken her to the middle ground of quiet streets and comfy, well-guarded homes belonging to merchants and master craftsmen. The buildings were tall and brick built, with heavy wooden doors and bars on the ground floor windows. Walking along, Matt caught the sweet scent of flowers and perfume. Then she caught something else, a smell that hit so hard it made her gasp—fresh baked bread, just like Ma would make.

  A rutted track cut between two buildings, leading to the rear of the houses. Some way down, a donkey cart was drawn up at a gate while the deliveryman chatted. The other man looked like a rowdy boy, hired muscle working as a guard. Normally, Matt would have backed off, but he carried no more than a staff, and the bread smelled so good. She sidled closer, reeled in like a fish on a line. The cart held a basket full of bread and wheels of wax covered cheese. Lumpy sacks suggested apples or potatoes. The barrels could be flour or beer. She recognised fish crates from the docks.

  Matt’s stomach squeezed so tight it hurt. Her mouth watered and she had to swallow. Her eyes were glued to the food. She could not tear them away, and all the while she edged nearer.

  “What do you want, kid?”

  The harsh voice broke in like a slap. Matt was almost in touching distance. The deliveryman also stopped talking to look at her.

  More habit than anything else, Matt stuck her thumbs in her ears and waggled her fingers while poking out her tongue. The guard made a half-hearted attempt to cuff her ear, but Matt ducked out of range.

  Both men snorted with contemptuous amusement, then deliberately turned their backs. The deliveryman leaned his elbow on the cart, just to make sure Matt knew who owned it and that he had his eye on the food. She stood no chance of reaching in to grab anything. They would spot her and she could not outrun them, but Matt could not let the food go. She dropped to the ground, just out of their line of sight, rolled under the cart, and clung on.

  The deliveryman eventually finished talking and urged the donkey through the gates. The cart stopped in a yard between the house and the garden. Matt remained hanging to the underside of the cart, even after the man’s legs vanished into the house.

  Matt peered between the wheels. The garden was split into sections, a neat kitchen patch on one side, with rows of vegetables and herb borders, and an overgrown flower garden on the other. At the back were wooden sheds and iron railings. Matt guessed they were dog kennels even before she heard the barking.

  The deliveryman returned, along with another pair of stockinged legs. Matt matched them to a woman’s voice, most likely the cook. The cart shook as something heavy was pulled off. Matt hesitated. Sneaking inside had been gut instinct. It could get her into big trouble, but was the risk any worse than starving?

  The two pairs of legs returned to the house, going through a different door this time. Matt crawled out silently and followed the food down stone steps to a cellar. By candlelight at the far end, the deliveryman dumped his sack in a corner and adjusted its position to the cook’s liking.

  A row of barrels were lined up inside the entrance, with just enough space for Matt to squeeze behind. By the time the two adults were on their way back, Matt was crouched in a dark corner, wedged between the barrels and the wall.

  After ten minutes, all the food was stored and the deliveryman left for the last time. Matt heard a metallic clunk, like a key turning, then cook and candle came back through the cellar and left through an interior door.

  Matt was alone with more food than she had dreamed of. The cellar had no windows, but enough light squeezed under the door for Matt to make things out, once her eyes adjusted. Footsteps creaked on the floorboards overhead. There were also muffled voices, but it did not seem as if anyone was coming. She crept from hiding, guided as much by smell as sight.

  The crust of the bread was rough in her hands. It broke open, releasing a stronger wave of the wonderful smell that had first snared her. But it was as nothing next to the taste, the flavour of sunlight on farmland, rich with yeast and wheat. The crust crunched between her teeth. The soft dough melted on her tongue. The act of swallowing was a dream. Matt took another mouthful, then clawed off a chunk from a wheel of cheese. The next few minutes were devoted to the glory of filling her stomach. Even if she got caught, she could die happy.

  Next, Matt checked the door to the outside, but as she guessed, it was locked. Her only way out was through the house, and that would have to wait until everyone had gone to sleep. Luckily, security was designed to keep thieves out, not in. Matt was sure she could find an upstairs window to drop from. In the meantime, she claimed two crisp apples from an open sack and returned to hiding. With her stomach full for the first time in months, Matt drifted off to sleep.

  She was woken twice by people getting supplies, but nobody came near the barrels. The next time Matt woke, the cellar was pitch-black and the house was silent. Working by touch, she stuffed a small loaf of bread, another chunk of cheese, and four apples inside her shirt, then edged open the door to the rest of the house.

  A wooden staircase took Matt to the kitchen. The fire was damped down for the night, but still gave enough light to see. Another narrow set of stairs climbed one wall, most likely going to servants’ rooms at the back of the house. Matt ignored them. Any window overlooking the garden would not be a good escape route if the dogs were let out at night. Two doors led from the kitchen. A band of light shone under one, so Matt picked the other.

  The next room was a dining hall, dark and deserted. The only other exit from here also had light on the opposite side, and when she pressed her ear to it, she heard voices. Matt thought of going back to the cellar for another hour, but now she was moving, she wanted to be gone.

  A musician’s gallery hung over the end of the room. Matt scrambled onto a table, and the wood panelling provided just enough fingerhold to climb the rest of the way. Up above was so dark she had to run her hands over the wall to find the way out. Matt inched open the door.

  A wide balcony ran around three sides of a large hallway. Light from below wobbled across the plaster ceiling and poked through the railing but did not touch the back wall. The voices were clearer now, although still too low to make out the words. Matt edged over and peered down. Three men stood talking in the tiled entrance below, one of them holding a candlestick.

  Matt did not know or care who they were or why they were up so late. The street door was what grabbed her attention. Now she knew exactly where she was. The room at the end of the balcony w
ould overlook the main street, and if it was one of the men’s bedrooms, her best chance was to get out now.

  Matt crept along, keeping to the dark side of the balcony and making as little noise as possible. Just as she reached the door, the tone of the voices changed. Light and shadow jumped across the ceiling. The men were moving, climbing the open staircase to the upper floor, and bringing the candles with them. With a second to spare, Matt slipped into the room before she was spotted.

  Moonbeams fell across a large desk rather than a bed. It stood four-square in the centre of the room, covered with papers. Cabinets and bookcases lined one wall. A large casement window jutted over the street to Matt’s right. She ignored it and darted across the room to the smaller window opposite, only to discover it was locked, and the voices were getting louder and louder. They would not want to read books this late at night, would they?

  Moonlight glinted on a penknife. Matt snatched it up and dug at the catch. Then the doorknob rattled and candlelight flooded the room. A shout came as the catch popped. Matt shoved open the window, ready to dive out, but too late. A hand grabbed her shoulder, hauled her back, and threw her to the floor. She half scrambled up, until a swinging backhand sent her flying again.

  “Stop that.” A strong voice.

  “It’s a thief.” The man standing over Matt spat out the words. Was he the homeowner or a guard? He was muscled and hard-faced like a rowdy boy, but his shoes were too lightweight to deliver a real kicking, the rowdy boys’ favourite way to pass on their employer’s messages.

  “Yes, but I don’t mind thieves.”