The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 13
part #1 of Eidolon Series
The black veil reached for her.
~~~
Thadeus Stonebreaker watched Bert curse as Maynard left him alone with Jon Warden in the sinkhole. Thad drew further back into the deep shade of the forest, muttering questions about his sanity.
“You blasted fool. What were you thinking? How could you have miscalculated that tone? That pit never should’ve happened, even with a cavern under it. She was a B-flat for sure and I used the right fork, didn’t I? The calipers, maybe I . . .”
He palmed his forehead with both hands wiping the stress from his brow.
“Even if both A’wyn and Jon are B-flat’s that sinkhole just should not have opened up. There’s something wrong here. I’ve got to check that reference book. Must’ve figured it wrong, somehow.” He scowled as he turned, clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk toward the twin stones.
“Nah, never happened before, why now?” Frustrated at his mistake he kicked the ground sending a flurry of leaves and twigs in the air.
“Because you’re losing your grip, old man, that’s why.”
Thad counted his steps to the Twins. The two huge stones waited for him to prove them wrong. He double-checked his original estimation of the distance to A’wyn with his paced distance. He re-examined the tables in the reference book and confirmed his process.
“Close enough.” He clapped the book closed and threw it hard to the ground. His thoughts turned dark as he pressed his forehead to a megalith. “So, what went wrong?”
The surfaces of the twin steles were flawless, as he expected.
A dark thought crossed his mind. He got to his feet, set his back against the stone and tried to repress an impossible thought. “How could you do this to me?” The Twins silently mocked him. “What’s the matter with you? You killed one person and damn near killed another.”
A growl rumbled in his chest when he could no longer avoid the prospect. His henge must be out of tune. “It just isn’t possible. Not now. I’d need a dozen Master Weavers to fix it.”
If Thad were the type who cried easily, he would have. Instead, he sighed heavily, slipped down the side of the stone, gazed at the treetops and shook his head in denial.
Minutes passed as he recalled each event of the day. A nagging thought fought its way forward. He slapped his forehead.
“The Southern Reach.” Thad sat up and fixed his gaze north, toward the henge. “Yes, the Southern Reach.” He jumped to his feet, looked south to the sinkhole, then north again. “Yes, yes, there may still be a chance.”
Chapter Eleven
Wood Talc
K’Las watched Jon Warden ride away. When the warden disappeared into the nearby forest his mother knelt in front of him and took his hands. “What can you tell us about the weaves you saw? Were there any on his bow and saddle?” Her voice sounded tense.
“I don’t know what you mean?” He shrugged. “They were just . . . weaves . . . like on Donker’s hoof, but not as tight.”
“Were there a lot of loose ends?” His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Did they look frayed?”
“Yes, they were kind of fuzzy. Didn’t you see them?”
His mother sighed and gave him a pat on the back. “No, we didn’t. They were probably old weaves left over from a master saddler and boyer. That’s a relief.”
His father smiled, tousled his hair and walked to the lead wagon as his mother stood.
“Will you teach me how to make a thread like you put on Mr. Warden’s saddle blanket?” The thought of such a magical thing excited him.
His mother chuckled and nudged him to the home wagon.
“Ride with your father. He’s going to teach you how to lay threads today.”
K’Las yipped then ran and climbed into the lead wagon just as his father loaded a small bundle of wood into the footwell. “Do we need the tuning fork, Papa?”
“For what?” A quizzical expression came over his father’s face while he donned a rain slicker.
“To teach me how to lay threads.” A wide smile of anticipation spread across his face.
“No, I don’t think we’ll need it quite yet.” His father climbed into the wagon and took the reins. “Tie the canvas flaps closed. I expect a dusty day.” K’Las scanned the sky and trees for any hint of wind.
“Why are you wearing your rain gear, Papa?” His father’s smile simply turned into a knowing grin.
“Are you ready, Bee?”
“Ready, old man.”
His father raised the reins, slapped the horses rumps. The wagons rolled from the meadow onto the road and quickly settled into their traveling routine.
His father took a piece of kindling from the bundle under the seat. “Watch how I lay a thread along the side of this stick.”
K’Las chirped happily at the sight and took the stick from his father. The strands didn’t fade or change shape except to merge into the wood, following its contour.
“You’ve done well learning to listen. Now use your other senses. What you see, feel, smell and taste in that piece of wood will help determine how you lay your threads and weaves. Use your song to form each thread; the more soothing your song the smoother and straighter the thread. Now, see if you can lay a thread next to mine.”
K’Las gazed at his father for a moment trying to absorb what he had seen and been told. He examined the stick. His father clucked at the horses and gently slapped the reins on their rumps again.
“All of my senses?” He studied the stick, unsure of himself.
“Yes, use them all. Later we’ll teach you how to adjust your senses for each thread and each purpose. For now just try to lay a thread next to mine.”
K’Las turned the stick to view it from every angle, trying to understand what he saw. He held it to his nose and smelled it and stuck out his tongue to taste it. He glanced at his father who sat on the bench, impassively staring at the road ahead, giving no hint he was doing the right thing.
“Clear your mind and let your senses tell you what has to be done.” His father pulled the hood of the slicker over his head. “Then think about how to use what they tell you.”
K’Las held the stick firmly in one hand, imagining his mother’s finger pointing at his chest. His mind cleared. He felt the bark and splintered grain, smelled the fragrant resin, heard the bark crackle as he slid his hand along the length of it, sensing its coarse exterior. Awareness grew in his fingertips as his mind wrapped itself around the wood. A familiar feeling climbed up his arms into his neck and brain blooming into a thought. The thought gelled into desire. Desire raced down his neck, his arm, into his fingertips. K’Las saw threads erupt from his fingertips. Every hue of green, brown, red and yellow seemed to encase the branch. His threads were disorganized and chaotic. They ran the length and breadth of the wood as each thread split and frayed.
CRRRAAAACK!
The wood exploded into a rapidly expanding cloud of dust. The startled horses leapt forward. K’Las fell backward into the canvas as the wagon lurched forward.
His father fought to regain control of the normally placid horses.
The team snorted and settled back, coming to a stop. K’Las’ hands, clothes and face were covered with dust. The entire front of the wagon and half of Donker was covered.
His father chuckled and shook the dust from his hood and slicker. K’Las was not amused. He stood and began dusting himself off, irritated. “You knew that would happen, didn’t you? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“There were two lessons there, Son. What do you think they were?”
K’Las finished dusting himself, cleaned off the bench and sat in a huff. Despite his annoyance he forced himself to consider the lesson.
“The first, to lay a thread.”
“And you did a magnificent job. Five threads, all at once. Quite impressive, Son.” His father tousled his hair and smiled broadly. “What else?”
K’Las felt his anger subside.
“Bad things can happen if you don’t do it right?” He gave his father a questioning gaze, uncertain of his answer.
“Very good, Son. Now try again.”
~~~
The forest gave way to a shadowed clearing as the road forked. Willim examined the sky with its high, crimson clouds and deep blue expanse. “Looks like we have about an hour of daylight left. That’s enough practice for now.”
“Just one more, Papa.” K’Las continued to concentrate on the stick in his hand. He slowly laid two parallel threads beside his fathers.
“Put that down, Son. Let’s get ready to make camp. We’ll go up this rise and camp near the pond.” His father drew the reins taut and stopped the wagon. K’Las focused on the stick, unaware of his surroundings.
“K’Las.” His father grabbed the stick. K’Las reached after the kindling then withdrew as he met his father’s stern glare. “Go dust yourself off before we make camp.”
K’Las petulantly shook dust from his tunic and slapped at his sleeves.
“Mind your manners, young man.” His father, with a stern squint, pointed the stick at him. “You’ll have plenty of time to learn afterwards. For now, focus on the business at hand.”
K’Las reached for the stick, but his father held it back.
“You’re getting tired, Son. But, if you’re up to it, I’ll teach you some weaves after the dinner. Until then, we set up camp. Understand?”
K’Las gave him a peevish stare then nodded and climbed down from the wagon.
“Will we be using the fork to make weaves?”
“We’ll see.” His father pointed at the road. “There’s some deep ruts ahead. See if your mother needs help through them.”
~~~
When the tinker train got underway Willim followed the right fork leading to Kerner and the camping spot by Turnout Pond. They made camp near the water with their usual efficiency. The horses were relieved of their burdens, hobbled and allowed to graze on the grasses by the water’s edge. B’Tris erected the protective camp weaves.
Their evening meal consisted of more rabbit stew, honey biscuits, raspberries and dried apples. K’Las hardly ate and sat quietly trying to lay threads on a stick, but frequently nodded off, nearly falling from his stool. He finally lay down between his folks and the campfire still trying to focus on his task. Willim and B’Tris sat, drinking tea and watching their son slowly succumb to sleep. The sky was getting dark as frogs began croaking.
“He’s certainly put a lot of effort into his threads, hasn’t he?” B’Tris poured more hot tea into their cups.
“He’s been at it all day,” Willim lifted his cup and took a sip. “I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. Did you see this?”
He leaned over, picked up a discarded stick K’Las had been practicing on and handed it to his wife.
“He laid five threads down at once on this. There’s no question in my mind he’s ready to weave.”
B’Tris took the wood and studied it. “He’s gone from knowing next to nothing to this in three days?” She considered the threads again. “Do you want to lay over here at the pond a while to teach him?”
“I think so. We’re fairly isolated here so there won’t be many eavesdroppers. We could set up some weaves along the road to warn us of any travelers. While you teach him I can run into Kerner to see if the road is repaired and get some supplies. It’s only about an hour’s walk.”
B’Tris rose and looked westward to the forested hill on the far side of the stream. “Jon’s moving this way, in a hurry.”
“Can you sense where he is?” Willim rose and stood beside her.
“I would say he’s about half a mile or so to the west of us.” B’Tris set her cup down then placed a blanket over K’Las lying at her feet.
“In a hurry, eh? How soon will he be here?” Willim sipped his tea.
“At the rate he’s moving it won’t be long.” B’Tris casually picked up her tea and sipped. Willim lifted the lid on the kettle and peered inside to see if there was enough stew left for the warden.
~~~
Maynard paced himself. He needed to conserve his waning strength to get to Kerner. He was no sprinter, but when it came to moving through the thick understory of the forest he was unequaled. He powered his way through ferns and brush making his own trail. His knowledge of the forest led him around the steeper, more dangerous slopes toward Kerner Creek and Turnout Pond.
He had left Bert and Jon in the sink hole with all the water and food they had with them; which wasn’t much. He hadn’t taken the horse simply because he didn’t like the beasts and he had never ridden one. For luck, he did take the one of the pretty little tassels hanging from the saddle blanket.
Bert was still screaming at him when he left, but he had promised to be back by late morning with help. His first goal was to get to the road before it got too dark. And it was nearly that now.
The big forester crested a hillock and began his descent toward the road to Kerner. He caught the flicker of a campfire through the trees and took heart that help might be closer than expected. As he approached and got a clear view of the camp site he stopped and found cover in a copse of trees. He recognized the campers for what they were. He hissed. “Tinkers. Blasted theivin’ tinkers.”
Giant though he was Maynard could creep through thickets as quiet as any shadow. And in the night he was invisible. He made his way to the brush that lined the edge of the creek. The tinkers were not more than a stone’s throw away.
“Two wagons.” He began to consider his options, muttering in his sleeve. “I ain’t never seen no tinker with two big wagons. Pretty easy pickin’s, I’d say. An old man and a scrawny old lady. Have to take out the old man, first.”
Though he approached them as stealthily as he could, the woman kept glancing right at him, as if she knew he was there. The old man stood up and hitched one shoulder then the other. Now, he seemed bigger, more powerful.
“Now that just ain’t right. It ain’t possible.” Maynard looked around to see if there was anything else they might be seeing, but he heard and saw nothing in the growing darkness. The two tinkers talked and then a boy got up. “That be all of ‘em, I’m thinkin’.” Dismissing his concerns about how they could have seen him he decided to act. “They ain’t goin’ to like this, but I got thing’s gotta be done.”
Maynard left the thicket and crossed Kerner Creek onto the road. As he made his way up the low rise to the pond he called out. “Hey, the camp.”
“Don’t come any nearer, mister. What’s your business?” The man, who didn’t seem so old anymore, started walking toward him.
“I need some rope and harnessin’ and yer gonna give it to me.” Maynard increased his pace and menace.
“I’m warning you again. Don’t come any closer until we can talk.” The man gestured for him to stop. “Stop now. Don’t come any closer.”
“We’ll talk when I have the rope and har ….”
Maynard felt something brush across his legs as a rush of nausea rose from his gut. He saw nothing. He continued to approach the camp. Fatigue crept up his legs. His pace slowed to a stop. The man said something and drew closer. He got bigger, younger and more dangerous.
Maynard cursed and pulled a hunting knife from his belt to defend himself.
“Mother of Nyrikki.” His arms became leaden, the knife slipped from his hand. He collapsed to his knees and gasped for air. He sat back on his heels. Exhaustion overtook him. He slumped face first into the dirt. A hand pressed against his temple.
Chapter Twelve
Lightning
Maynard woke up. He tried to shake the cobwebs from his brain and found himself bound, gagged and strapped to a wagon. The woman sat by the campfire, her head resting on folded arms across her knees. She sat up and looked at him with a startled expression. He glared at her and tried to talk through the gag. No sound came from his throat. He tried to wriggle free of his bonds. His head didn’t move. His legs were lifeless. The woman placed her hands on his temples and he fell asleep.
Maynard stirred and opened his eyes. He tried again to shake the cobwebs from his brain. The old man was at the campfire on one knee adding wood and stoking the flames. Once again, the woman met his gaze with surprise. The man glanced over his shoulder, then gave a start and glanced again. The man scowled and came to him. Again, he felt a hand on his temple and fell asleep.
The next time, Maynard woke in a fury. He struggled against the bindings. Much of his childhood had been spent tied in ropes. His father beat him until Maynard was so weak he could not resist while his mother tied him up. Sometimes he spent days bound, lying in his own filth. Until the day he was big enough. The day he knocked his father to the floor, pushed his mother aside and ran away.
He stumbled, bleeding, to the cottage of his friend. Bert’s uncle refused to let him in. Then Maynard went from house to house, pleading for shelter, but every family refused, out of fear of his violent father. His own reputation for using his fists didn’t help. For three days he hid in the forest, but in those days he lacked skills to survive in the winter woods. Starvation and the cold finally drove him back home. The ropes were still there.
Now, his rage swelled as the woman stood over him a moment too long. He fought his restraints, the wagon groaned, her hand pressed against his temple and he calmed. But his legs had moved this time. He felt a surge of triumph with his small victory. She smoothed out her skirt and kirtle before kneeling in front of him and removed the tassel gag. She looked him straight in the eye. He tried to spit profanity at her. His tongue and jaw seemed to swim in tar.
He broke their dueling stares and tried to turn away. He couldn’t. She was directly in front of him, his head wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes.”Go away.” His heart pounded in his throat. “Go away.” Scrunching up his face into a grimace he willed the woman to leave him alone. If he held it long enough she would, just like his mother did. He felt his heart slow, confident his tactic would work. He counted the seconds until he knew she would give up and pried open one eye to peek out.
