The Garden of the Stone

At the heart of the Fortress lay the Garden.

At the heart of the Garden lay the Stone.

It was a living entity of power beyond understanding–not even by the Order of Guardians, who had used its energies to control the unGifted masses, ever since the wrenching cataclysm that shattered the union of Hand and Mind and split the world in two centuries ago. Then came Bron, his arrival long foretold as the one destined to restore the balance between Hand and Mind. But Bron had other plans. Defying prophecy, he stole the Stone…and vanished. Since then the Garden has lain empty, a truth the Guardians are desperate to conceal.

Now Bron’s daughter Cariad, an assassin of the resistance, must follow the footsteps of a father she’s never known into the depths of the Fortress, in search of a missing operative. Waiting there is Jolyon, her father’s greatest enemy, a man whose thirst for domination is matched only by his taste for blood…and who possesses the power to satisfy both appetites. Cariad must learn the secret of Jolyon’s strength before it is too late. For just as her father’s arrival was prophesied, so too is his return. And this time Jolyon is ready–for Bron to die.

Scroll down for an excerpt, or download Chapter 1

Check out Book 1 of the Stone duology: The Arm of the Stone

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PRAISE

The plot is complex yet convincing, and the abundant, well-chosen details of the settings–as well as the carefully developed characters–make this high fantasy a superior and original novel.
– Publishers Weekly (starred review) –

Strauss is a fine writer whose characters have depth and integrity and who has thought through her world with impressive thoroughness. She’s a great find! I look forward to her next book.
– Kate Elliott, author of King’s Dragon –

A worthy continuation of what I have no doubt will be a sparkling career in the fantasy field. Strauss handles the language with lyric dexterity and grace. The world of the Stone is well-realized and often surprising. A very satisfying read.
– Katherine Kurtz, author of The Derinyi Chronicles –

Though building on earlier events, this well-told novel largely stands alone, a powerful tale of repression, rebellion, and prophecy where nothing turns out quite as expected, raising it well above the crowd of seemingly similar, overweight fantasies.
– Locus –

Strauss has created a complex plot filled with action, suspense, intrigue, and romance. Rich characterizations and vivid settings combine in a story that readers will relish….Highly recommended for serious readers of fantasy.
– Kliatt –

Strauss has constructed a very detailed and complex world, one to appeal to fans of Katherine Kurtz, Melanie Rawn, and C.J. Cherryh, but with a subtlety that lets the drama of events speak for itself.
– SF Site –

Victoria Strauss’s first book, The Arm of the Stone, was phenomenal, and The Garden of the Stone is every bit as cool as the first novel!…Strauss’s novels emphasize very well-crafted plots full of wonderful twists and surprises.
– Paul Goat Allen, B&N Explorations –

The writing in Garden of the Stone shines–impeccably honed and polished until each paragraph darn near glistens. You believe in the reality of Strauss’s well-developed characters, and Strauss leads her readers down some nicely twisted paths before the final denouement.

– Crescent Blues –

The world that Victoria Strauss has created is a fascinating one….With suspense and a fast-moving narrative, Strauss’ latest novel is thought-provoking and entertaining at the same time.
– Claire White for The Internet Writing Journal –

Once again Strauss has created a richly textured and intricately wrought novel.
– Diana Tixier Herald for Genreflecting –

This story of parallel worlds divided by their choices to use either mindpower or handpower moves in unexpected and satisfying new directions….Thoughtfully and with finesse, this novel holds a mirror free of enchantment up to humanity.
– Sharon Schultz-Elsing for Curled up With a Good Book –

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EXCERPT

Cariad laughed. Not at his words: at her exhilaration, at the joyous pulse of her Gift, at her core-deep understanding of her own invulnerability. But he could not know that. His expression hardened. He stooped to Margit, and with some effort lifted her up in his arms. He turned, his steps heavy with his burden, and left the antechamber.

With her making power Cariad conjured a binding of invisibility, the resistance-style shifting of the substance of her flesh that made her indistinguishable from the world around her. She set out at an easy lope. Orrin and the transporters were just ahead, at the first tunnel turning; Orrin was arranging Margit in the cart. The little group felt her go by, for she was moving fast enough to stir the air. Orrin turned his head, following the wind of her transit with his eyes.

She guided herself with the tiny mindlight marks she had made, extinguishing them as she passed. At the gate of the Keep’s downworld, she laid her hand on the lock and snapped it open, closing it again once she was past. Through the warehouse she ran, and the night-deserted central corridor, skimming like a shadow toward the stairway that led to the upper domains. She took the stairs two at a time, all the way to the third floor, where she crossed the barrier that shut the servant world away from the inner sanctums of the Keep. She still carried Orrin’s lump of metal, heavy in the little binding-hidden bag around her neck: the barrier yielded without protest, depositing her in the featureless, snaking corridors of the Roundheads’ residence floor.

Outside Jolyon’s chambers, she paused. From her previous visits, she knew that he employed extensive precautions against intruders. Even the walls were protected, with wardings draped like spider-silk across the stones. All these bindings were keyed to the shape of Guardian Gifts, of course. But Roundheads had made the defenses here. As certain as she was of her invisibility to ordinary Guardian bindings, she needed to take care with these.

There were three major hurdles to her intent. This was the first.

She pressed her body against the wall. The gray blocks, nearly a foot thick, offered a more difficult passage than the door, but they were defended by only a single binding, whereas the door was barred by at least two. Closing her eyes, she summoned up the full force of her making power. Those with making Gifts knew that the solidity of matter was an illusion: at the most basic level of being there were only tiny particles dancing in infinite space. A making Gift could regroup these particles or disperse them—or, if it were very strong, pull them aside to make an opening, and hold the space long enough for a body to slip through.

The feeling of crossing was like fever: an expanding lightness, a sense of heat, a spinning giddiness. Cariad sensed the wards around her, but they did not see her. A heartbeat, and it was done. She opened her eyes on the other side of the wall.

She stood in a sumptuous, deserted chamber, strewn with maze-patterned carpets and lit by mindlight flowing down the walls. Silently she traversed it. The door on the other side was not defended, and she passed through it as easily as an expelled breath. Beyond lay a hallway, with more doors on either side. These were the suites of the Companions.

This was the mission’s second hurdle. The servants she could easily bind against waking, for they were unGifted. But the Companions were Roundheads, and she was not certain she could make a binding strong enough to hold them. To be sure, she would have to kill them. To save time and strength, she would do it by hand.

She melted through the first door into a rich sitting room, the globes of mindlight at its corners dimmed for the night. The air was warm and heavily scented, a heady incense smell with a hint of less pleasant things beneath.

The door to the bedchamber stood ajar, a slice of blackness against the figured tapestries that hid the walls. She slipped soundlessly through the gap, her dagger drawn. At its tip she had set a pearl of mindlight, to guide her way. The tiny radiance revealed the shadowy mass of the bed, its coverlets thrown back, the body of the man upon it showing darker than the pale sheets. By his bulk, she recognized Saranero, the largest of Jolyon’s Companions. A dense stink of wine and sweat rose off him, and she thought fleetingly of the sorting room, and the laundress through whose hands these soiled sheets would pass.

Saranero lay on his back. With the precision of her training, she cut his throat, clamping her free hand over his mouth to muffle any sound. The knife parted flesh and cartilege like butter. He was dead in seconds. The copper stench of blood overwhelmed the other odors in the room.

Cariad unmade the blood on her hands and clothes. Reentering the sitting room, she passed through the narrow door that opened onto the tiny chamber of Saranero’s body servant, and bound him into slumber.

The next companion, Ruen, was not drunk like Saranero, but slept the deep sleep of a man secure amid impenetrable defenses. She dispatched him with equal ease. She bound his body servant and moved on. She found the third suite empty. She had known there was a chance of this, for her servant mindscans had showed her that Baffrid, the third Companion, often spent the night elsewhere. It was not what she would have liked, but it would have to do. Baffrid’s body servant was there, in his little room; she bound him as she had the others and then left the suite.

Before the arched double portals that marked the entrance to Jolyon’s private apartments, she halted. Past them lay unknown territory. She had never been able to catch and scan Jolyon’s little body servant, who appeared to go nowhere except at his master’s side. The other servants had never been permitted to enter Jolyon’s rooms.

She banished the binding that hid the drawstring bag at her neck, and slipped it over her head. Inside were Orrin’s lump of metal, three slim cylinders that could be fitted together to make a blow tube, an equal number of tiny darts, and a copper vial. The vial held a measure of the power-deadening drug she and Laran and Shabishara had used on Baldimar. She had carried it with her to the mountains, along with the formula for its making, intending to give both to Goldwine, but because of her foster-mother’s criticism she had never done so. It was a decision that, in retrospect, seemed almost prescient. This was the key to her intent, the thing that shaped a viable plan out of a feverish dream.

She removed the vial, leaving the blow tube sections and the darts—which she would have had to use if Goldwine had not sent the quarterbow—in place. The vial held just enough to treat two of the little quarrels. The drug, heavy and viscous, dried quickly to a leathery film, which would re-liquefy when it met the heat of flesh. She used the trigger mechanism to prime the bow and tucked the second dart into her belt, where she could reach it easily, but where it would not pierce her clothing.

She corked the now-empty vial and replaced it in the bag, then hung the bag again around her neck. She got to her feet, the bow ready in her hand.

This was the moment. She had wondered how it would feel when it came. She was aware of her readiness, her purpose, her power, the beating of her heart and the rhythm of her breath. But these were only the things she had brought with her. What lay ahead, on the threshold of initiation, was suddenly too huge to see.

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