The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 20
part #1 of Eidolon Series
“That depends on how far under my hat you want me to keep it.” Stefan handed the fork back to the Forester.
“Well, I near stole it from some tinker.” Grindall took the fork. “I don’t think he knew how much this here is worth. Truth tell, I don’t neither. But I know it’s more than I give him for it.” Grindall practically burst over the notion he had just told the truth without telling it. He chuckled. “What yeh think this here tunin’ fork’s worth?”
“Well, I don’t want it, if that’s what you’re asking. I don’t need it. I’ve got a pretty good ear for music.”
“Well, what do yeh think it’s worth?”
“You know those are controlled items, don’t you?” Stefan pointed to the fork. “The Craft Trade House regulates them. Did that tinker give you his permit as well?”
Grindall squeaked as his eyes bulged. Panic rose from his gut. He didn’t know he needed one and hadn’t seen any permits in the tinker’s box, either. For all he knew the tinkers had stolen the blasted thing from someone else, which made this riskier than he wanted to think about.
“As for what it’s worth?” Stefan placed his mallet in a well-organized toolbox. “Well, I suggest you go see Thaddues Stonebreaker. He collects all kinds of stuff. He might do some trading with you.”
“Ol’ Thad? Yer pullin’ my leg.” Grindall groused at the idea.
“He’s as tetched as a wet cat. He wouldn’t part with a spoonful of midden to buy his own ma a cup of tea. What makes yeh think he’d buy this here treasure?”
“Like you said, he’s tetched.” Stefan shrugged. “What do you have to lose? You’re going that way anyway.” Stefan pointed east to Kerner. “You might as well stop in and see what he has to offer.”
Grindall was trapped. He had talked his way into returning to Kerner whether he wanted to or not. He groused about, scuffed the ground with his feet and finally submitted.
“Blast it all!” He growled and jammed the bothersome prize back in his pouch. “I guess it’s worth a try.”
“And if Thad doesn’t want it, there’s always King Gerald or the Craft Trade House. They might take it off your hands for a tidy sum.” An odd smile curled the edges of Stefan’s mouth.
“I ‘spect King Gerald would want me to be about me job before I run ‘round sellin’ trinkets and such.” He wanted nothing to do with the Royals or the trade house, except, of course, in his official capacity.
“Tell you what, Grin. I’ll go with you. He’s doing some stonework for me and I’d like to see how it’s going.” Stefan walked to his cart, took off his apron and gloves, and placed them on the top of the toolbox. He dusted himself off, squared up his hat and turned back to the Forester.
Grindall noticed the unlatched toolbox. “Ain’t yeh gonna lock up yer tools?”
“No.”
Maybe I could snatch one of them chisels. Grindall offered to let Stefan lead the way, but a firm hand on his shoulder nudged him onwards.
“Where’s yer horse?” Grindall grimaced and stooped to rub his legs. “Do yeh reckon we could ride? My feet are a might soresome.”
“Oh, I’ll be here a few more days, so Bud Trencher set him to graze near his place.” Stefan picked up his kit and gestured to the east. “Shall we go, then?” Grindall winded a grumpy sigh and began walking. Stefan patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, I think you’ll get something out of the old man. But, like you said, it might not be as much as you’d like.”
The walk to Thad’s house took about an hour. Their conversation was sparse, but Grindall had to endure a series of songs about sailing and sailors. He knew the carpenter’s father had been a sailor of some sort but hardly understood any of the lyrics. Many of the words were meaningless. Words like binnacles, barnacles and brass monkeys were nothing but gibberish. Stefan obviously enjoyed himself, but Grindall just tolerated the nonsense.
The well-traveled road made the walk pleasant. As country roads go, the way gently curled back and forth, over and around the rolling hills, pastures and farms. Half a mile from Thad’s house, they came to a stone outcropping at the top of a hillock.
“I heard about these things.” Grindall walked to one of the larger stones and touched the surface. “Never really been out here, though. Got no reason to, I ‘spose.”
Stefan removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Why not? They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Smooth, ain’t they? I ain’t felt no rock this smooth before.” Sykes examined the surface more closely. “What’s all them lines?” He slapped and pressed his hands to the stone and gasped. “By the gods! That looks like gold and silver and . . .” His excitement grew as he recognized what looked like precious stones. “These must be worth a fortune.” His hands began a frantic, greedy search over the megalith in hopes of plucking a morsel of wealth from the stone.
“That they are, I’m sure.” Stefan threw his head back and laughed. He went to the side of the road, picked up a large rock and brought it to Sykes. “Here, pound away. See if you can break off a hunk of henge.”
Grindall eagerly grasped the rock and began hammering and gouging at the dark, silent giant, to no avail. His hammer finally gave up and shattered. He bent down to select the largest remnant, only to realize Stefan was laughing at him. He picked the two largest then stood and faced the master carpenter.
“Give it up Grindall. People with bigger, stronger hammers and arms than ours have tried to free that treasure. Even if you could, King Gerald and the Craft Trade House would be here to collect anything you managed to break free.” Stefan took him by the shoulders and directed Grindall’s attention to the horizon. “You see those three other henges in the distance? Those three and the one we stand in are each at a compass point. And the one there, in the center? Those are more of the same. Twelve in each of these five henges. Each equally filled with treasure and mystery. But, that center henge? It has one more stone that looks like an upturned platter that’s even—”
“These ain’t natural. Someone made ‘em.” Grindall squinted at the carpenter, impatient and undeterred. “And, if someone made ‘em, someone can break ‘em.”
“Well, my greedy friend. There’s only one person who knows anything of the sort about the henge. I believe you want to trade that tuning fork of yours. Perhaps he’ll teach you something in return.”
~~~
When they arrived at the old man’s house Thad was sitting in a porch swing. He swayed at a leisurely pace in the deep shade of a canvas-covered pergola which ran the length of the house. Young grape vines at each end of the porch had begun their climb over the rough-hewn wooden frame. A dismaying sense of dread wafted over Grindall at the sight of the cantankerous old coot. Thad watched as they approached the house but did not acknowledge them.
A stone path of flat, closely fitted, slate green flagstone led them to the front door, with its large, low lintel of creamy white limestone, the doorjamb of deep gray granite. Under the pergola lay a deep green, almost black, slate floor. On the border of the slate floor were laid rough chiseled limestone, the same as the door’s lintel.
At the four corners of the house rose huge hewn tree trunks oiled to a dull sheen. The trunks framed interlocking granite blocks of varying sizes which formed the walls of the old man’s home.
Two shuttered windows with creamy lintels and sills penetrated the thick walls, one on each side of the door. The roof was heavily thatched and draped low, well over the eaves. At each end of the house a stone chimney extruded from their respective walls. A thin curl of smoke rose lazily upwards, disappearing into the midday sky.
Grindall could not grasp the wealth this home represented. How is it no one spoke of the old man’s home? How come I ain’t heard about this?
Stefan set his kit down at the front of the pergola and gestured for Grindall to do the same. Grindall unshouldered his bow, quiver, and kit and set them beside Stefan’s. They walked under the pergola and into the shade as the old man, humming a low tune, raised his head. The swing hung by ropes as it swayed with a creaky hypnotic cadence. Two chairs and a small table were set nearby.
“Hello, Thaddeus.” Stefan removed his hat and held it at his waist. “I’ve come to see how that ordered stonework is coming along. And Mr. Sykes, here, has something to trade.”
Thaddeus Stonebreaker looked like chewed gristle. He was long, thin and swarthy. Whether he was naturally dark skinned or just weathered, Grindall couldn’t tell. Thad’s hair was long and white, pulled back tight, and woven into a long braid which hung over the back of the swing. The eyes of this gnarled old man were keen and black with bristling white eyebrows. He wore a dusty gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dark gray britches and sandals. A dusty brown leather stonemason apron draped heavily over the back of the swing. A pair of gauntlets and a sagging, very broad brimmed hat lay on the chair. Thad sat on the far end of the double swing, polishing a small stone. A basket full of the finished stones rested on the slate floor, between his feet.
“Stone’s out back.” Thad’s graveled baritone voice held an immodest note as he thumbed in the direction of the stonework. “Go take a look, boy.”
Stefan tossed his hat on his kit, turned and walked through the open door, into the house. Grindall wanted to follow him to see what fortune lay within. However, he wanted to know how to mine the treasure from the henge even more. With only one gambit to play, he was glad to see Stefan leave.
“Sit down, boy.” Thad pointed to the nearest chair. “Let’s see what you’re peddling.”
Grindall stepped around the basket of stones and sat. “Whats that yer polishin’ up, Thad?”
“The name is Thaddeus, boy.”
“Sorry.” Grindall shifted uneasily in his chair. “What’s that yer polishin’, Thaddeus?”
“Marble.”
“Marble, eh? Where’d yeh get it?” Grindall wondered if he might find leverage over the old man with a charge of thievery. He knew of no marble quarries in the kingdom.
Thad ignored him and just sat, polishing the stone.
“Is it from around here?”
Grindall’s annoyance began to rise as, once again, he was ignored. The old man wasn’t going to bite. He pulled his chair closer to the old man, drew the fork from his pouch and told the same story he told Stefan. Then he tapped the fork on the swing’s armrest.
“This here fork sings like the angels of the twelve heavens, don’t yeh think? How can yeh resist such beauty, eh?” He twirled it, wishing he had some sunlight to show off its brilliant surface. “And have yeh ever heard of steel? Well, that’s what this is. Pure steel. The finest in the land.”
Thad dropped the stone in the basket, took the twirling fork from Grindall and gazed at it for a long moment. He turned a suspicious eye to Grindall. “Pah! You wouldn’t know steel if it hit you in the head, boy.” Without warning, he whacked Grindall over the head with the fork. Grindall reeled from the strike.
Thad continued to examine the fork. “I’ll give you a dozen eggs for it. Not a cluck more.”
“What? A dozen eggs? Grindall leapt to his feet, incredulous, rubbing the whacked spot. He grabbed the fork from the old man. “Yeh never seen the likes of this here fork in yer life, yeh daft ol’ dodger. A dozen pearls and yeh got a deal. A dozen eggs? Pah! Sit on them eggs ol’ man. Might be yeh’ll hatch one of yer own. Or, might be yeh can hatch one o’ these.” He kicked over the basket of marble stones and began to stomp away. However, his first step landed on a cluster of the scattering little orbs. His foot flew forward while his back foot stayed firmly in place.
Grindall lay spread eagled on the slate floor. His legs splayed in opposite directions. He groaned.
Thad laughed himself to tears.
~~~
Grindall rose slowly, with Stefan’s help, and sat in the chair nearest the door. Still groaning, he clutched his groin and rocked, trying to ease the pain. “I’ve had my fill of this thing. Bad luck all ‘round, it is.” He raised the fork over his head. “Here, just take it.”
Stefan took the fork and passed it to Thad.
Thad leaned forward, hand stretched out to receive the trophy. “Had a bad day, eh, boy?” Thad wiped a tear from his eye.
Grindall stopped his rhythmic rocking and took a deep breath and sat up. “Yeah, yeh could say that.”
“Well, I’ll give them eggs to you, still.” Thad slapped his leg. “It’s a good thing young Stefan heard you bellowing, or else you might still be on the floor.” He leaned forward, rested an elbow on his knee and buried his weeping face in his hand. “That was the funniest thing I have ever seen.” He burst into a heaving, tearful laugh again. After a few moments he sat up, arms spread out, pleading. “If you do it again I’ll give you another dozen . . . no . . . two dozen eggs.”
Grindall wrapped his arms around his legs to keep them from twitching. It took several more minutes for him to recover.
Stefan collected the eggs from Thad’s larder, put them in a small basket with straw, and set Grindall tottering off toward Kerner.
~~~
Thad struck the fork on his armrest and studied the cloud that erupted. “Hmmm, faceted thread spirals with . . . five . . . ten, eleven, twelve woven layers. Looks like varying thread count to each weave. Only seven thread variables that I can see. Blast. Stefan, come here.” With a gentle push on his porch swing he poured over the possibilities the tuning fork presented. He allowed some hopeful excitement rise in his voice.
Stefan finished sweeping up the loose marble orbs and sat next to Thad. “A bit hard on Grindall, weren’t you?”
“What? No. That worthless piece of skin deserves harder luck than that. Besides, I hadn’t even gotten started when he kicked over those stones. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.”
“Do you think he’s telling the truth about that fork?”
“Mostly, yes. I’m sure he got it off those tinkers. What I’d like to know if they gave it up willingly? Unless I miss my guess, no prince, king or Priory Peer would give that thing up without a fight. It’s a good thing you got him to bring it here.” Thad handed the fork to Stefan.
Stefan struck then examined the ringing tines. “When he showed it to me, I knew you’d want to see it.” He pointed at the saddle of the fork, where the tines met. “I see a number of very tightly woven threads here, but there seems to be some missing. Do you think we could use a set of your forks to reveal more?”
“You don’t need to.” Thad took the fork and struck the armrest of the swing. “Look again? Look past the colors and thread cloud and focus on the saddle.”
Stefan again studied the fork. “Yes, there seems to be at least four strong, faceted threads with some partials. I count . . . no, those are all underlying weaves tightly bound to the saddle.” His voice rose in excitement. “At least four that I can see, for sure, with two partials. How many did you see?”
“I saw seven full weaves.” Thad barely held his delight in check. “Allowing for overlap in our chromatic scales, I’m still short three weaves. But, if I’m right about this, there are twelve full weaves layered over the length of this very ordinary looking tool.”
“What’s it used for?” Stefan silenced the ringing tines.
“There’s supposed to be one of these for each great henge. If you can believe the histories, it’s to make a High Weaver into a Cherished. See the sigil on the heel?”
Stefan examined the heel. “What makes you think this might be one of those forks? Is it the sigil, the weaves, or what?”
“It’s the quality and intricacies of the tones and weaves. So far, they match those of my henge. If we can find a voice to wield this thing, then we’ll know for sure.”
“I’m a pretty good singer. What should I sing?”
“It doesn’t really matter. Any solid semitone will do. Go ahead, sing something.”
Stefan stood, cleared his throat and took a deep breath. He proudly belted out a single, steady note for several seconds. Thad stood and held the fork to receive the full force of Stefan’s voice.
“Nope, it didn’t hear you.” Thad patted Stefan on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, my boy. You’ve got a fine voice. Just not one tuned to this fork. Now sit down and help me polish more of these stones.
You need the practice.” Thad returned to his porch swing.
“Why only five forks?” Stefan sat next to the old henge keeper.
“Power, my boy. Power.” Thad placed the fork in his tunic and patted the pocket. Thad pulled a handful of coarse pebbles from a leather pouch and offered them to Stefan. “If I had all five keys, I could rule the world.” And I’d have the Anvil of Rendor.
“Or, destroy it again.” Stefan picked one of the nuggets from Thad’s hand.
Thad returned the stones to his pouch and stroked the pocket hiding the fork. “The person Grindall got this treasure from must have stolen it from the vaults of a Priory Archive.” Thad stared into the distance, beyond his henge. “I doubt any ordinary tinker picked this up in a trade.”
~~~
Grindall walked slowly along the road to Kerner. The pain receded from his legs bit by bit as he ambled. The road led him to the eastern outcrop of the great henge where he placed a covetous hand on one of the huge stones.
“One day you’ll be mine. By the gods, you will.” Palm sized stones covered the ground beneath the megalith. He picked two that appealed to him, walked meekly a few paces away and hurled one at the indifferent henge.
The megalith rang a somber tone.
Grindall stared blankly, the ringing in his ears faded. He dropped the second stone and wiped a cobweb from his brow, wondering where he was.
