The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 24
part #1 of Eidolon Series
Scribner, Beth and Cassandra gaped at the still ringing tines, their jaws slack.
Scribner recovered first and toppled the forks to the felt, silencing them. “Uh, yes. Yes, I believe it does. Under the shroud of your imbuement you have at least eight tones. That’s as many as Thad has. Only the henge can tell us with certainty.” He stood motionless for a long moment, lost in thought.
“Bernie?” Beth stood and rapped the table. “You have yet to test B’Tris. We finally got someone who might be able to help us. I’m guessin’, we got two. Two that can stand up against that stony, constipated old scat out there.” She gave an irritated wave toward the henge.
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Scribner wiped his hand across his face as if to clear away a distraction. He then repeated his instructions. Silence was called for as he reset the forks.
Scribner nodded.
B’Tris cleared her throat and began to sing.
The mind may taste the pangs of hate and bitterness in the breast,
With acid fist, recants the sacred truth that beats within the chest.
Prepare the heart to cleave distaste, perchance the spice renew,
And learn a gentler tongue, to discern the sav’ry morning dew.
The fading darkness, at dawn’s first light, reveals the tender feast,
With mended thought and ardors rise, hurl in the baker’s yeast.
Knead and curl the sweating brow with discipline’s perspiration,
‘Til failure is refined, by success and gripped by inspiration.
The idea’s buffet provide the vigor to search beyond the hate,
And learn to love the endless realm and live beyond one’s fate.
The forks rang, one after another. A third, fourth and fifth rang strong and firm. B’Tris’ excitement escalated with each response. The song lifted upwards, everyone’s eyes were fixated on the tines.
Willim soon heard a second voice. A voice so soft and familiar he would not have noticed if not for the years of quiet nights, campfires and the fork.
K’Las was humming counterpoint.
Two forks rang at the same time, then three, four. B’Tris’ joyous voice resounded, escaping the confines of the house. The villagers were on their feet. They watched the tines. More forks rang in unison.
Pete Turner burst through the door, yelling. “What are yeh doin’? Yer gonna bring the whole blasted village down on us. I can hear yeh clear out . . .”
Pete strode to the table as Scribner grabbed the felt cloth and wrapped the forks, silencing them.
“Dear gods, oh my dear gods.” Scribner collapsed into his chair, the bundled forks clutched to his chest.
“What’re yeh doin’ Bernie?” Pete grabbed Scribner’s collar and shook him. “Yeh ain’t tryin’ to imbue these folks, is yeh?” He shook harder. “Is yeh?”
“No, Pete, no.” Beth took Pete by the wrist. “The most wonderful thing just happened. We got ourselves a Cherished Weaver.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Spun Up In a SnaRl
A rush of people, led by an officious braggart, entered the undersized Feisty Wench Pub and caught L’don Banks unaware. Trapped, he rose from his seat and pushed his way toward the doorway. It was time to find the tinkers.
The torrent of bodies pushed back. A few well-placed weaves would easily clear the way, but he didn’t need the attention. He found himself pressed against the bar rail, next to the braggart. The tavern owner handed the man a beer and encouraged him to talk.
“Tell ‘em how that tinker lady got that boulder offa Jon.” The innkeeper swept up the coppers dropping on the bar and poured more beer.
“Yeah, Bert. Did she use that fork thing?” An uproar of more speculation followed the unidentified voice.
“Hold on, hold on, give a man time to brew up a little, eh?” Bert swilled a few gulps from his mug. The room grew silent.
“Well, here’s what happened.” Bert belched as the room erupted in cheers. “Yeh see, that tinker lady, she stuck a finger out and hit me with a bolt of lightnin’, she did.”
Some voices bellowed their doubts. Others shouted their agreement.
“Here, I’ll show yeh where she got me. Maynard don’t hit near that hard. Knocked me out cold.” Bert upended his tankard, spit a frothy belch and set the vessel on the bar.
“Yeh gonna show us or not?”
“Show yeh what?”
“The scorch mark, yeh dolt.”
“Oh, yeah.” Bert removed his belt and raised his tunic and shirt. “Right there, see?”
Bodies pressed closer as those in the back tried to see the bruise flaring on his ribcage. L’don found himself fighting for room to breathe. Gasps and groans swept through the pub.
“That ain’t no lightnin’ strike, it’s just a big ol’ bruise.”
“Is too lightnin’. My best pig got hit by lightnin’ two years ago. Looked just like that.”
“It don’t matter anyhow.” Bert lowered his shirt and tunic. “Ol’ Grin Sykes sold that fork to that daft ol’ henge keeper, Thaddeus Stonebreaker. Do yeh know how much ol’ Grin sold it for? Huh? What’s yer guess?”
The pub went silent. L’don heard someone whisper a question. “How’d we go from lightnin’ to old Thad?”
Someone shouted from the corner. “I think Bert’s finally lost his liver.”
“We don’t know, Bert. Hell’s bells, we don’t even know what it is.”
“I do, it’s a vegtible fork.”
“That’s a turnip fork, yeh nit. I got one of them in my barn, too.”
Another argument broke out, wasting more of L’don’s time. He wanted to get out and find the tinkers.
L’Don needed to thin out the crowd. Perhaps he could send this one grumbling to the Squire like he had earlier. He waited for the inevitable lull. “I hear the tinkers were gonna use that fork to destroy the Priory.”
The pub went silent. It worked. Then it erupted into a loud cacophony of disparate voices quarreling about the existence of a priory, enforcers and wizards. Someone began calling out for the room to be quiet.
L’don found the tavern keeper’s face leaning over the bar. “This here fella said that very same thing a while back.”
Unnamed faces stared at L’don.
A voice from the back called. “Yeah, I was here. I heard him say it, too.”
Angry faces turned to L’don.
The innkeeper squinted an eye at him. “Yeh tryin’ to get us spun up in a snarl mister?”
“Hey, hey.” Bert exhaled a long, frothing belch, dropped his tankard on the bar and pointed to the doorway. “Jon’s ordered us to arrest . . . them tinkers . . . at nightfall. Look . . . look out . . . there. I gotta go.” Bert dug into his britches and searched for coin.
Someone yelled. “Nightfall.” Another voice called out. “Get some lanterns. Let’s go get ‘em and make ‘em talk.”
The tavern keeper provided two lanterns and a few candleholders to the crowd and lit them as people filed out of the pub.
Bert drew out a handful of coins, tried to count them and gave up. He leaned into L’don and opened his mouth. L’don turned his face away preparing for the inevitable belch. When nothing erupted, Bert closed his mouth, grinned, smacked his lips and blinked.
Bert extended his hand and dropped the coins, none of which found the bar. He and five copper coins hit the floor at the same time.
L’don dropped two coppers on the bar then stepped over the befuddled forester. He thanked the pub owner and walked out the door to follow the crowd.
~~~
Bernard Brewer threw a bar towel over his shoulder and followed the strange little man to the door. A moment later, when he could no longer see him in the dying light, he walked back to the bar and stood over Bert.
“Alright, Bert. On yer feet.” Bernard held out a hand. “We done it.”
~~~
The tinkers were gone. L’don felt the tinker’s hearth as the crowd milled around him. He knew the tinker’s habit of dousing their fires. The ashes were dry and cool, indicating they had left quite some time ago. But, the rock hearth was still warm to the touch. Which should he believe and why would they bother with such a deception? L’don wanted to pace and work out what he knew. He just stood and listened. No point in drawing attention.
The villagers grumbled about the lost opportunity of questioning the tinkers. They settled for more conjecture about the dealings of the tinkers and Grindall.
“They ain’t been gone long. Might be we could catch ‘em up.”
“Must’ve gone south. Prob’ly out to Turnout Pond by now.”
“Might be they took the wall road to the east gate and headed to Grange.”
“Nah, no good campin’ spots for them wagons that way.”
“Why’d they up and leave in such a rush?”
“Bert says Sir Charles told ‘em tinkers to leave.”
“Yeah, and if Grindall took that fork ‘cause they don’t got a permit, then Grindall was in the right. What about that, eh?”
“Nah, Grin ain’t that smart. I bet Becka’s stuck her nose in the squire’s door and talked her hubby out of trouble again.”
“Well, the tinkers don’t have no fork now, that’s for sure. That old toad at the henge has it, for sure and certain.”
“I still don’t understand what the fuss is. I got me a big ol’ turnip fork in my barn. Ain’t got no permit for it, neither. What about that, eh?”
“Shut up, you twit. Gimme that lantern, I’m goin’ home.”
The crowd disbanded and drifted back through the village gate, leaving L’don alone in the darkness. Now he could pace and think.
When his thoughts coalesced into a plan he left the tinker’s silent campsite and began his walk to the Feisty Wench Inn. As he passed through the village gate, the patter of footsteps followed. Apparently they weren’t going to leave him alone, even though the tinkers had made good their escape. He would ignore them for now.
He walked through the pub with a casual stride and to his room upstairs. He put on his traveling cloak, selected two long pirns from his kit and swept from the room with staff in hand. At the bottom of the stairs he studied the few customers chatting in the pub. They were the same ones he’d seen earlier. My shadowy escort must be waiting outside. He moved down a short hallway to the back of the inn and slowly pulled opened the door. The moonlit alley was quiet. Nothing more than sparse chatters from the pub disturbed the silence. He slipped into the stone-walled alley and closed the door.
He hated villages. They were much too quiet. The faint echo of his own footfall accompanied him as he skittered through the deep shadows. He counted his steps. Too many followed. He slid from alley to street to alley and avoided any light spilling from windows. Still the light patter of footfall followed.
L’don hung a weave across an alley then lay in wait. The patter came to the entrance and stopped. The minutes passed. L’don began to wonder if his mind was slipping.
A moment later a moonlit head peered into the alley. A small figure crowned with shaggy hair crawled under L’don’s weave, into the lane and behind a barrel. These villagers are a wily lot. Will they ever quit pestering me?
L’don remained still. The figure peered from its hiding place then stood. It was only a head taller than the barrel.
He whipped his staff out and struck the skulker across the head. The figure dropped and lay still. He stepped to his victim, knelt and felt for a pulse. A freshet of blood oozed into a pool on the cobblestone. You’re just a boy. If A’wyn ever shows up she’d love to recruit a slippery little redhead like you—if you live.
He left the alley and quietly made his way out the east gate of Kerner and to the Squire’s manor. This should be easy enough. Once Grindall is free they’ll have their hands full searching for him instead of watching me.
The manor had a high ancient wall surrounding the estate. The manor itself was huge, a vestige of the old Rendor Empire. The remnant weaves of Cherished Weavers were still visible on the mansion and its walls. The gates, however, were more recent.
L’don approached the single guard posted outside the gate. The flame of a single lantern hissed in its brass cage. Its light bronzed the guard’s helmet and halberd. “Good evening, sir. Is the Squire available?”
“Squire’s retired for the night and Mr. Scribner ain’t to be disturbed. What yeh need, Mr. Banks?”
“Ah, you know me then.” L’don examined the heavy planks on the gate. “Am I well known in Kerner?”
“Don’t know about that.” The guard stepped in front of L’don and obstructed his view.
L’don clenched his jaw, annoyed by the impertinence of the guard. He lifted his staff and prepared to strike. The guard quickly moved back against the gate and gripped a bell rope. Light from the lantern spread across the gates.
“I’m told yer a Master Weaver, Mr. Banks. If I go down, me and this here bell will have the whole village on yeh right quick.”
L’don stayed his hand. Weaves. The gates are covered with them. Those are a wilder’s weave. Even if I get through this one there’ll be more inside. Blast it, what other surprises do they have?
He stepped back and gave the man a slight bow. I’ll find another way in.
Chapter Twenty-Five
One Jug oR Two?
Becka Sykes practically leapt out of her shoes as someone rapped sharply on her cottage door.
“Who’s there?”
“A friend of your husband.” The quiet, mellow voice of an educated man fixed her gaze on the door. She rarely had visitors, and those she had usually meant trouble. For a moment—a very short moment—she felt drawn to the door. She shook herself free of the fantasy.
“Go away, he ain’t got no friends.” Becka, angry at the embarrassment of her husband’s imprisonment, threw the last chunks of lamb into the stew pot bubbling over a hot brazier. “He ain’t here. If yeh wanna see him yeh gotta go see the Squire.”
“Madam Sykes, it is you with whom I wish to speak.” The man’s mellifluous voice churned her insides to butter. She wiped her hands clean on her apron, spit in her hands, smoothed down her hair and swept a loose strand from her face. As she made her way to the door she evened out her apron and kirtle, scrubbed a finger across her teeth and sucked it clean.
She opened the door.
A man about the same size as her husband stood in front of her. She didn’t let the man’s size distract her from his smiling, handsome face and well-made traveling clothes.
“Good evening Madam Sykes, my name is L’don Banks. May I come in?”
“Yeah.” Becka demurely placed her hand on her mouth and cleared her throat. “Yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Banks. Please do.” Becka stepped back and, as genteelly as she could, swept her hand across the jamb, inviting him in.
L’don bowed and stepped through the door. Becka swiftly surveyed the lane to see if anyone might be spying on her. With no one in sight, she unbuttoned her collar to reveal as much of her bosom as she thought the handsome, presumably rich, man might handle and pinched her cheeks into a blush.
She closed the door and followed L’don to the table at the center of the room. L’don stopped and unclasped his cloak.
He just stood there, holding the clasps up, as if he expected something of her. She became flustered, not knowing if she should touch him, or his cloak. Her hands flitted in front of her, undecided about what to do.
“Would you be so kind as to hang this up while we talk. It is quite warm in here. I wouldn’t want to foul your lovely home with a man’s sweat.” L’don’s warm, sultry voice melted and sautéed her over an open pit of hot coals.
“Whaaa.” Becka let her breath out slowly. She took a step towards him and pressed her ample breasts into his back.
He didn’t move. She pressed closer, ready to nibble on his ear. He pushed back but said something. She breathed on his neck.
“My cloak, Madam Sykes. Please take it.”
His voice seeped into the sauce of her fantasy. She whispered in his ear. “Uh, humm.”
“My cloak, please.” L’don’s stern voice finally pierced her imaginings. She quaked and stepped back.
“Oh, yeah. Right yeh are, then.” She lifted the clasps from L’don’s hold and hung the cloak a wooden peg next to Grindall’s. At the sight of her husband’s coat she took it, rolled it up and tossed it in the wood bin by the hearth.
“Thank you, dear lady.” L’don gestured to a chair. “May I sit?”
“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Yes, please do, Mr. Banks.”
She cleared away a cutting board and loaf of bread from the table as L’don sat. With a flurry of busyness she removed her apron and brushed crusts and crumbs from the table onto the floor. A mouse scurried out, grabbed a chunk of crust and fled back to its hideout.
“What can I get for yeh . . . you? Want some beer? I got a jug right over there.” Becka nodded to a little brown jug on the mantle.
His uninterested gaze never left her. She felt a sudden rush of the jitters as she fumbled to put her apron back on.
“Please sit, Madam.” L’don pointed to a chair across the table from him. “I have a proposition for you.”
“You do?” Becka quickly relaxed. She sat with a coy smile, her breasts rested on the table top as she spread her arms across the wooden surface. Her bust heaved as she pressed forward—threatening to escape their bondage.
“Yes, indeed.” L’don glanced at the heaving mounds.
“For a silver yeh can have anything yeh want.” Becka loosed the top lace of her kirtle.
“I have a task I wish you and your husband to perform. For one hundred silver coin . . .”
“What? How much?” Becka coughed. She sat up straight and shook her head, uncertain she heard right. “How much?”
“One hundred silver . . .”
“One hundred . . . Who I gotta kill for . . . No no, don’t tell me.” That much money could only mean one thing. She thrust a palm out to L’don. “I ain’t killin’ nobody and don’t wanna know nothin’ else about it.”
