The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 27
part #1 of Eidolon Series
“Yeah, she’s dead.”
“How do you know this?” L’don didn’t want to believe it. No one killed her but him. He barely contained the anger rising in his gut.
“Heard it last night from . . .” The man lowered the tip of the pitchfork in his direction. “Oh, no yeh don’t. I ain’t tellin’ yeh nothin’ else.” He stepped back, preparing to thrust. “There ain’t no more tellin’ anything to Inquisitors. Yeh best get outta here now, or them dogs’ll be on yer arse right soon.”
L’don stepped back, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. Keep calm. Why did they kill her? If this fool knows about A’wyn and that I’m an Inquisitor, others must know. Why haven't they moved to get rid of me too?
He had slipped through their little net of deception when he dealt with Bert Forest and Jenny Brewer. If the Squire was coordinating this sham there was more depth to it than he realized. I could be overwhelmed by bodies. I shouldn’t have taken that Sykes woman at her word. This isn’t some idle village prank.
L’don regarded the trampled ground in front of the barn, searching for a clear path to lay a weave in the man’s direction. Finding none, he stepped toward the pitchfork.
The man tensed and stepped back, apparently surprised by the sudden challenge. “Yer good as dead, mister. We got ourselves a Cherished Weaver. She’ll show yeh what weavin’s all about. And, she’s got the voice to work that tuning fork, too.”
L'don's once simmering anger rose to boil. He curled his fingers into fists. She's imbued, you ignorant hayseed. She can't . . .unless . . . He stepped toward the old man. “How do you know she's a Cherished?”
“She showed us, that's how. Now you get outta here, I ain’t tellin’ yeh no more.”
If the tinker woman is a Cherished and Awyn’s dead then . . . L’don’s temper churned to a full boil. His hands rose with weaves at the ready and fury at his fingertips. “She murdered my partner, didn’t she? No one passes judgment on her but me.”
“Junior, loose them dogs.” The man lunged forward and thrust the hayfork.
With the fluid grace of a panther L’don sidestepped the attack and grabbed a tine as the pitchfork drove by. A thready weave wrapped the length of the tool. He shredded the feeble defense with ease and sent a cord down the handle before the farmer pulled away.
Two dogs raced through the barn door directly toward him.
His cord snaked up the man’s arm and coiled around his neck.
The farmer clutched his throat and began to fall.
L’don cinched the cord and crushed the man’s neck to a slurry of blood and bone. He released the dying farmer and sliced the pitchfork in half with a simple thread. The old man hit the ground.
L'don met the oncoming dogs. He lowered each half of the pitchfork to the dogs as they lunged. They fell. Their heads severed.
It was over in a flash. He whirled and caught sight of the oxcart and ox, but not the smiling boy. Furious, he threw the remnants of the pitchfork against the barn. “Blast you and this accursed village to the seven hells. You killed my partner. What did you expect from me? You’re accomplices with that witch.”
L’don’s mind raged at the injustice. A’wyn was his, not theirs to punish.
He strode to the barn and went inside. The younger boy was gone. The two boys were likely on their way to Kerner to sound the hue and cry. The village would be on him soon, ready to kill not just to evict him.
The horses were in cow stalls, nickering in agitation from the commotion. L’don searched the barn and scanned the pastures outside. The wagons had to be nearby.
He recognized the horses in the barn to be those of the tinkers. Under better circumstances he would simply wait for his partner’s assassin return.
Waiting was not an option.
He destroyed the horses with a fury. With his spleen spent and no easy options he headed toward the forest and found a path. He followed it westward toward the great henge. The tinkers must have decided to retrieve the fork. I must . . . I will find them.
The narrow path wound in and out of the forest. An hour later he came across two large twin stones in the forest and stood between them. Above his head on one stele he noticed a patch of blood. The partial print of a palm and two long slender fingers suggested a woman. A’wyn?
He positioned his hand next to the print. He looked in the direction she faced. Through the trees he glimpsed the distant henge. Was she running away from it? A long string of questions ran through his mind. The answers weren’t hopeful. He strode toward the henge at an angry pace.
L’don was no tracker, but he knew A’wyn. She would not willingly give up her bow and arrows. He knew to look for broken branches and snags of cloth, but when he found an arrow lodged in a tree and tangle of red hair clinging to a bush he knew she had been there. As he pushed his way through the shrubbery he found a bloodied white cloth. Maybe it wasn’t A’wyn. She doesn’t wear white. He stretched the cloth smooth. This is from her small clothes. Why would she be in her underwear? Thoughts of violation and torture raced through his mind. A growl rose in his throat and through grinding teeth. No one touches her but me. He set a fevered stare toward the great henge his scalp nearly electric with rage. “You may have the voice, you might retrieve the fork, but you’ll pay for this. By the gods, you’ll pay—your husband, then your son.”
~~~
K’Las followed his father up the knoll and stood beside him, the southern outcropping of the great henge appeared in the distance.
“I’m going to move closer. Bee, you and K’Las wait out of sight by the stream.” Willim handed his kit to B’Tris, but kept his water skin. “I’ll be back as soon as I know where Thad is.”
“Be careful, Will.” B’Tris took hold of his hand.
“I won’t do anything without you. Don’t worry.” Willim released B’Tris’ hand and smiled at them. “I’ll see you soon.”
K’Las watched his father begin his walk toward the henge. He and his mother walked back down the knoll to the small stream Pete Turner told them to follow. At the water’s edge, his mother knelt and washed her hands.
“Wash your hands, K’Las. I have some weaving lessons for you while we wait.”
“But, you didn’t want me to do any weaving today.”
“Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” She rose, shook her hands and patted them dry on her kirtle. “Since we’re alone and no one will see us, and your father will be gone for a while I thought you’d like another lesson.”
The prospect of learning more about wizardry thrilled him. He scrubbed his hands in the sandy bottom, rinsed and shook his hands dry.
They found a grassy spot near the stream to sit and wait.
“Sit here, in front of me.” She crossed her ankles and sat, smoothing out her skirt and kirtle as she settled. K’Las sat and crossed his legs, as well. “Hold your hands out like this.”
K’Las copied his mother. He rested his elbows on his knees and extended his hands, palms up. She examined the tips of his fingers.
“Very good.” She released his hands. “Just as I remembered. Your ridges are intact and you have two of those wonderful little whorls called ‘peacock eyes’. One on each hand. It’s a small advantage, but any advantage is good.”
“Which ones are they?” He inspected his fingertips. “What do they do?”
“They help refine the strands in your threads and weaves.” She pointed to his ring fingers. “I’ll show you what they do, but first, clear your mind, and then listen to your song.”
K’Las wasted no time. He sat up straight, cleared his mind and drew on the music residing within him. Everything else about weaving had an element of work, but not this. Since learning about the tuning fork he had awakened the past three mornings with some variation of the song in his head. It rose to a crescendo and propelled him out of bed. Each night had been much the same, the excitement diminishing to the languid, soothing rhythm of sleep.
The song gave him control of his dreams. He had not had a bad dream since and wondered if it would last. His days had not been so easy to control, but he thought, with practice, someday he would.
While they waited for his father to return his mother played games with him. She taught him to play the weavers version of Cat’s Cradle, without the usual string most kids used. The game taught him how to interact with other weavers threads and weaves by interlacing, cutting and knotting.
They played a version of Pat-a-Cake and Pease Pottage Hot, but with each slap or clap he had to use the skills from the Cat’s Cradle game. As they increased the tempo of their claps his strands had to defend his own and try to defeat his mother’s.
During the early contests he defeated her most of the time. The difference had been his mother’s imbuements. She had but one tone, one color to use. He had the entire spectrum. He had simply overwhelmed her.
Because his skill was still undisciplined she soon overcame him with her single tone. When she had him use the same tone as hers, she taught him how to defend himself more effectively. Their duels were much like the tales of swashbuckling sword fights he heard during the clan meetings at the Tinker’s Converse.
The games ended as his mother tousled his hair and complimented him.
“Well done, K’Las. Well done.” She laid a hand on his cheek. Her touch, and the smile in her eyes filled him with pride.
“Thank you, Momma.” Rising to his knees, he reached over her lap and hugged her. “That was fun, but can we rest for a few minutes. I’m tired.”
“Not yet.” She stood and arched her back, as if to relieve some ache. “This weaving business takes a lot of energy, doesn’t it? One more lesson, then you can rest.” She held her hand out to him. “Come on. Get up and stretch. You’ll feel better.”
As he stood and stretched his arms and legs, his mother went to the stream and lifted a palm size stone from the bed. She washed off the sand and mud and motioned for him to join her at the bank of the stream.
As he walked up to her she handed him the stone. “Take this and sit over there.” She pointed to a sandy area by the stream. “Bring your song into harmony with that of the stone.”
He took the stone and sat down, his legs crossed. With the stone nestled in both hands he cleared his mind and sensed the vibrations, allowing his song to sing with it.
“Run your threads over it. Find the cracks and flaws in the stone. Follow them inside. See where they go, find the strength and weaknesses. Listen to it. Feel its song.”
His threads found the fissures with ease. The strong and weak spots took a little longer. He wasn’t sure what to look for, so he coiled his thread and pushed on different spots. In some places the tone changed. He heard and felt the pops and whistles—the song inside.
“Hand it to me, K’Las.” She tapped his hands gently. He opened his eyes and handed her the stone.
She placed the stone on the sand, an arm’s length away. “Place both hands on the ground. Listen for the stone.”
He closed his eyes, set his song as before, and touched the ground. The harmonics of Rendor seemed chaotic, at first. Waves of grinding, jolting sounds mixed with the rush of water and bursting bubbles. The sudden shudder and clap of thunder under his hands broke his concentration. His palms itched. The ground barked, peeped, hummed and mewed like a barnyard of giant beasts. His mind pushed them aside and searched for the stone in front of him. He sifted through the clamor and ignored the relentless whisper of trickling water. Ants and beetles, worms and roots were hushed until he felt the familiar texture and song of the resting stone.
“I hear it.” He opened his eyes. For a moment he was confused. “No, it’s the wrong rock. There must be another one. Over there.” He pointed to a vacant spot near his mother.
“Very likely.” She patted the ground he indicated. “About here? There will be many others if you search deep and far enough.” She moved her hand to the stone in front of him. “Focus your attention here, to the one on the surface of the sand.”
He fixed his gaze on the stone and listened for the stone. “I found it.”
“Excellent.” Her smile encouraged him. “Now, try to push a thread to it. As you did when you followed the fissures in the stone, find ways over the sand to the stone. Be sure to use a thread I can see.”
He loosed a host of threads, but he sensed no routes to follow. “I don’t see any way over it, momma.”
“That’s because the sand is too loose and disorganized.
Whatever fractures there are will be too short. You need a path.” She drew a line with a finger from the stone to each of his hands. “Now, try pushing threads along this groove.”
His threads went out, pushing over the grains of sand in fits and starts. The slopes of the finger width furrow kept him from wandering off his target. Nevertheless, the going was slow. A few moments later he reached the stone. His fingertips tingled.
“Now, reach into a fracture and try to push the walls apart. Break the stone.” The excitement in her voice urged him on.
He ignored his numbing fingertips, reached into the stone and found a fissure. He pushed his song to a crescendo.
With a groan and a pop, the stone split as if he had pried open a walnut.
His mother cheered and clapped her hands. “K’Las, that was wonderful.” She came to him and lifted him to his feet. “That was simply marvelous. Tell me, did you use just one thread so I could see it, or more?”
“Momma, I think my hands are dead. I can’t feel my fingers.” He wrestled his hands from her and held them up.
She pulled him back and embraced him. “Oh, son. They’re just asleep.” She released him and took his hands, rubbing them back to life. “It takes energy to create a thread, not to mention push them over sand.”
“I used all my tones and colors, momma. Was that alright?”
“Oh, yes. Quite alright.” She dropped his hands. “You go rest. Later, we’ll have something to eat. You’ll need your strength when we see Thad.”
“When will papa be back?”
“Probably not for a few more hours.” She led him to a grassy spot by a bush. “Let’s take a nap here, out of the sun.”
They settled in the shade under the bush.
B’Tris lay on her back, hands under her head, gazing through branches at the sky. Beside her, K’Las lay on his side, facing her. The sun passed through its midday peak and winked between the boughs and clouds above her.
In truth, B’Tris was more than proud of her son. He was a good kid, even if she said so herself. Average, by most folks accounts, polite, good natured, and sometimes a bit mischievous and absent-minded.
His abilities, however, were stunning. In the past few days, he had gone from knowing nothing about weaving to matching her in childhood games of pat-a-cake and cat’s cradle to pushing threads over sand.
She had felt somewhat guilty for putting him through that last, very advanced, test. The fact only his hands fell asleep was better than she expected. If all wilders were as capable as K’Las appeared to be, their coming encounter with Thad may prove to be a nightmare.
The Priory’s objection to such a status for her son chilled her. She pushed that unavoidable thought aside, again. Someday, it would have to be faced.
She watched K’Las. He seemed asleep, though his free hand lay flat on the ground, fingers spread wide over the sandy soil. His expression changed from smiles to frowns, his fingers moved, as if in search of some hidden comfort.
~~~
“I’ve got it.” K’Las leapt up, excited. “Momma. Watch this.”
His mother stood as he waded to a large boulder on the far side of the stream. He placed his hands on the stone for a moment to confirm its tone and ran back to his mother.
“What are you doing?”
“I know the tone of that boulder over there and now I’m going to break it from here.”
“K’Las, no. That’s too big, too far and across water. You can’t run a thread across water, especially moving water.”
“I’m not going across it, I’m going under it.”
She grabbed him by the shoulders. “You’re what? This is no game, son. Going underground can’t be done, especially if the ground is wet. Any cracks or crevasses will have water in them. Besides, it takes time to find the fissures in a stone that size, and a good deal of energy to break it. You barely touched it.”
“I don’t need to find crevasses. Tones are enough. Watch.” He fell to his knees and planted his hands.
He used every ounce of energy he could gather and curled his fingers into the ground, gripping the soil. He already knew the waves of Rendor’s harmonic tones and picked one. Threads coursed from his fingertips and caught the height of a tone. A small mound swelled in front of each hand and moved with the swiftness of an arrow to its target. The soil sank behind the heaving soil, creating a furrow.
His mother jumped and inhaled sharply.
As the furrow sliced forward, his thread raced out. His mind began to rattle like a spool on a too small spindle.
The closer his thread drew to the stream the more confused the tone of the boulder became. Echoes and the rush of water scattered the tones into a disordered mess.
He lost his sense of the boulder, the tone too distant and indistinct. He waited and listened. The spool in his mind came to a welcome rest.
He pulled his thread back until the boulder made its presence known. He picked up another harmonic wave and dove deep, under the stream, sand, mud and stones.
Again, the spool rattled in protest.
On the far side of the stream, beyond the boulder, he turned his thread upwards. The surface heaved and began moving back toward the stone, creating a new furrow.
His mother exhaled loudly.
Heaving sand and gravel knifed up to the boulder and stopped. His arms began to quake. The feeling in his hands grew faint. His vision dimmed. The world went silent.
The boulder lay at the end of his thread. A push into a fissure would do no good without strength.
