The Singing Stones of Rendor, page 6
part #1 of Eidolon Series
“No, he isn’t hurt.” The man patted Willim’s shoulder. “I think we’ve gotten them all.”
“All of what? How come he can’t move?” K’Las pointed to the little man lying nearby. “What’s holding him?”
Willim sat up and searched for his hat. “Weaves, son. You’ll learn about them one day—when you’re little older.” He pointed to his yellow cap under the goods wagon. “Hand me my hat, would you?”
K’Las fetched his father’s hat then helped him stand. “When? I want to know how. Is it magic? I helped, you know. I got that tall lady’s feet snagged in the cord, just like you said.”
“You did a great job, son. We’ll talk about all this later.” Willim lifted K’Las and carried him to his mother. “This worked out quite well, don’t you think?”
K’Las looked at his father with pride. “We got ‘em, didn’t we, Papa.” He scrubbed his right hand on his britches. His fingertips itched.
~~~
“You are hereby declared to be wilders, insane and a threat to society. By the authority of the His Highness, King Horrald Gripper and the Gripperite Kingdom in accord with treaties and traditions set forth by the five world trade houses you are hereby sentenced to either death or the eternal din of silence. Upon notification of your home guild within the Royal Trade House you may choose your everlasting fate.” The magistrate struck his gavel. “This court is adjourned.”
The court bailiff came to the front of the court. “All rise.”
Willim and B’Tris stood and clasped hands, glad of the quick trial and verdict. The judge walked out. The crowd erupted in angry shouts calling for the deaths of the two multi-toned weavers. Willim’s request for help from the Southern Pillar Priory had paid dividends.
The priory had sent six of their Enforcers to witness L’don’s and A’wyn’s weaves. Recruiting the bucolic Kennerites had been a stroke of luck. The Inquisitors would no longer vex Willim and his family, and the southern priory had gained political leverage over the Eternal Realm Priory.
Nevertheless, they had to leave almost immediately. The rumor of a henge key would soon gain the full attention of someone in the southern priory council.
B’Tris shrugged. “Well, I was getting tired of the heat, anyway.”
Chapter Five
THe BoX
K’Las sat at the campfire sulking. Nobody tells me anything. A few more months and I’ll be eleven. I should know why my fingers are tingling. I should know why things happen the way they do, but no. All I get is ‘later son’, or ‘when you’re old enough, son’. It isn’t fair. He glanced up to his parents who sat across the fire pit drinking their morning coffee. They talked like they did almost every morning about the road ahead
He stared back into the flickering embers of the campfire. The dying fire no longer held the cool morning air at bay. The morning sun streaked rays across the treetops surrounding the camp. Soon they would pack up and continue their endless journey. They had come to the western realms two years ago and spent most of their time in the Greybull Kingdom. This year they would return, for a third time, to the Great Western Henge. He and his father peddled their goods in the village of Kerner while his mother spent her days searching for something at the great henge some three miles away. He never got to go with her. Whenever he asked about it he got the usual reply, ‘later, son’. We’ll spend another week there and she still won’t find what she wants—whatever that is. Even the villagers say so.
“K’Las.” His mother’s voice pierced through his brooding mind. “Would you get my shawl for me, please? It’s on the travel chest in the tent.”
K’Las grumbled as he stood. Why can’t she get it? They treat me like a slave, not their son. He walked a few yards to the tent and glanced back to his negligent parents before he entered. They aren’t even watching. What do they care? If I ran away they’d have to do this by themselves. That would teach them. He went into the tent scrubbing his itching fingers on his britches.
Neatly folded across the travel chest lay his mother’s old grey shawl. He lifted it and began to leave. He stopped. The box with that strange key sat next to the chest. He suppressed the urge to open it again. Every time he had tried in the past his mother appeared within seconds and scolded him. Sometimes she poked him with that boney finger of hers—right in the ribs. He rubbed his right side as he recalled the bruise she left the last time he lifted the lid of the box. She uses this every night. I know what it looks like. I know it helps her sing better. I don’t know why, but it does. There must be magic in it. How else would she know when I open the box? Why else would it make her sing better? Perhaps if I—”
He laid the shawl back on the chest then stood in front of the box. Without another thought he lifted the lid, removed the shiny key and struck it on the side of the box.
Ting.
The small, round orbs at the end of each shiny tine sang. It sang with his mother’s voice. It pealed chords more pure and resonant than his father’s rebec and lyre and viol and fiddle together. It unbound his senses. His body tingled. He gasped. The fingers of his left hand seemed to meld with the hilt as he raised the singing key. Wisps of color flared from his fingertips. The threads danced up the handle of the key and merged into a reverie of weaves and intangible, dancing images. His mind savored the texture and fragrant bouquet of the vibrant filaments which erupted from the silver tines. His knees buckled. He wilted to the ground and sat on his heels. He embraced the dream as his right hand reached for the vibrant vision. A cascade of colors and threads leapt from his fingers. They blended into a vibrant confusion of tenuous weaves. He was ecstatic.
Then the key vanished. His mind cramped. The sudden withdrawal of so much pleasure became too painful to bear. He passed out.
K’Las awoke to his mother’s gentle touch.
“Ah, you’re awake.” She stroked his cheek. “You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?”
“What happened, son?” His father’s voice came from somewhere nearby.
He pushed himself from her embrace and scrambled to his feet. His father sat on the ground beside her. He searched for the key. The longing for more of what it offered foremost in his mind. When he noticed the box he grew angry. A lock hung from the clasp. “I don’t know what happened? What is that thing? Is it magical?”
His father rose to his knees and met K’Las’ gaze. “We’ll talk of this later, son. For now let’s break camp.”
K’Las’ eyes narrowed as his body shook at the indignity of the locked box. They had closed him out again. He clenched his fists. “No. I want to know now. What is it? What happened to me?”
“K’Las, I said we’d talk of this—”
“I know.” K’Las screamed. “It’s always the same. ‘Later K’Las’, ‘when you’re older K’Las.’” He glared at his father and clenched his teeth. “I am older and it’s later. Tell me now.”
His father grabbed his shoulders and returned the glare. “I said later. Now break camp and—
K’Las spun out of his father’s grasp and ran from the tent. “Do it yourself.” He sprinted from the camp and onto the rutted road. As he ran tears began to flow. He stumbled and fell. The hardened ground scraped his hands and knees. He cursed, scrambled to his feet and ran to the crest of a low rise. When he turned and looked to the campsite his father stood outside the tent and watched him. Not wanting to see the anger in his father’s face K’Las quickly turned away and gazed at the long empty road ahead of him. What am I doing? The loneliness of the days to come pressed at him.
He went to the side of the road and sat in a patch of dandelions. In the silence he felt his mother’s embrace. As stern as she might be he knew she loved him. I hurt her. Why did I do that? I shouldn’t have touched the box or rang the key. They warned me not to, but I just had to do it, didn’t I. But, it was so. . . What is that thing? It’s not like any other key I’ve ever seen. I can’t run away, I want more of it.
A conflict of emotions roiled through him. The desperate desire to use the key again clashed with being an unacknowledged slave. Nor did he want to hurt his mother again. His father had to be angry and deeply disappointed in him, as well. He desperately wanted to please his father. Tears poured down his face as he sobbed for the loss of his father’s love. And, I’ll never hear momma sing again. He examined his scraped hands and scrubbed out the grit. His fingertips showed no sign of those magical threads. Nothing. Just dirt.
He wondered what would happen if he continued to run. The chance to use the key would be lost. No chance to experience the wonder of it again. His parents were tinkers, traveling was their life. In those travels he had seen many boys his age making do with next to nothing. Most were orphans living as thieves and beggars, but free to come and go as they pleased. Others were simply outcasts relying on relatives to give them room and board while they performed menial tasks. He knew how to sweep a floor, chop wood and build fires. He built fires—and put them out. Sometimes he got to barter minor items from their goods. He had enough skills to get by.
K’Las tore at the grass beside him as he pondered his boring chores. That’s all he did. He fed the horses or set them to pasture, hobbled. He gathered wood, set up the campfire, washed the pots and plates after meals then placed them back in their travel kits. It was the same old thing every day. His parents just didn’t appreciate all he did for them—didn’t even thank him. He threw the handful of grass into the breeze, watching it drift away as he tore more blades of grass from their roots. Surely some merchant would take him in. He picked a blade of grass from his grasp, bit the tip off and spat it out.
Then again, many of those orphans and beggars were beaten and went days without food. He had seen their scars, bruises and sunken eyes. Maybe they deserved what they got, but there were a lot of mean people out there. Some were highwaymen who tried to rob his mother and father, from time-to-time. His father always managed to stop them, usually by pointing a crossbow at them. Sometimes he just talked them out of it, but there were times the thieves came into camp and fell asleep. Why, he couldn’t say.
When they traveled between villages, his mother would take the fork from the box and walk some distance away from camp. She was always within earshot when she sang with the fork. She sang all the songs he had come to love while she circled the campsite. He loved her voice. The words were mysterious and common and gave him the sense of belonging to her song. He picked a small yellow bouquet of the flowering weeds beside him.
Perhaps he had been too hasty in thinking he could make do on his own. After all, he had rarely gone hungry. This morning’s meal would be his last for a long time. Maybe he should try to make amends. The next village was a long way off, and he didn’t like being hungry. He could give his mother this little bouquet. Maybe she’d forgive him. Maybe his father would love him again. Maybe I should learn to wait.
His parents were very stern with cheaters and liars, but they never turned anyone away. Not when they saw a need rather than a want.
I’m not a very good liar. Momma always seems to know. I may have cheated a little to get a good look at the key. That doesn’t mean I’m a bad person, does it? However, he had promised never to touch it until he was old enough. When would that be—when I’m old enough to weave? They’ve never told me when that would be either. Perhaps he should have asked if he could just hold it. Actually, he had never thought to ask. They would let him, wouldn’t they?
“That’s stupid. I should have asked. The worse that could happen is they’d say ‘Not yet.’” His eager little bouquet of dandelions stood proud and he made his decision.
~~~
Willim followed K’Las out of the tent while B’Tris sat inside cursing her foolishness. I should have made my weaves stronger—or put a lock on it. Will warned me about little boys. She caressed the smooth wood of the box. He has been complaining a lot about his fingers itching. Perhaps he’s already dropping enough thread to cut through my weave. He’s too young, though. No child threads at his age, do they? She shook her head. No, no, he’s too young. I must have set my weaves wrong. That cloud of threads and weaves . . . just my imagination. They couldn’t have been there. She tugged the small lock on the key box then she set a double layer of her protective weaves on both.
She joined Willim outside the tent and followed his gaze to their son sitting in a patch of dandelions. “Well, go get him and let’s get on the road.”
“What?” Willim looked to her, his brow furrowed. “What about those colored threads you saw—and the weaves?”
“What about them?”
“What about . . .” Willim stopped, his lips pinched together, staring at her. “His fingertips itch and he can see and weave threads with the tuning fork. What more do you need? It’s too late for an Imbuement Ceremony—we don’t have the tools for it anyway. We have to finish the job and awaken him.”
“I don’t believe they were really there.” B’Tris sniffed and set her gaze on her apron strings. “He’s too young to produce anything like that, even with the help of the key.”
Willim took her by the shoulders. “Bee, you can’t really believe that. I glimpsed something myself before you took it from him. He’s going to awaken on his own, and soon, if Haegatess was right. If we don’t guide him, we may lose him to madness.”
“You don’t believe he’ll go mad any more than I do.” She untied her apron and idly examined the strings. “We’ve agreed, the imbuements are worthless.”
“You’re muddling the issue.” He released her and stood to his full height. “We’re talking about awakening him, not putting his abilities to sleep with an imbuement.”
He was annoyed with her. She hated it when he drew himself up, one shoulder at a time. It was fine if he did it to someone else, but not her. It meant he wasn’t going to budge from his position. She tied her apron strings and drew them tight with a yank, then huffed and planted her fists on her hips. “Alright, you may be right, but I don’t like it, not one bit. He’s still too young for this.”
Willim folded his arms. She stabbed a finger into his chest. “He’s too young.” He didn’t flinch. She pursed her lips and glared at him. She tried to fry his soul with her hardest stare. It didn’t work. She persisted. He didn’t so much as blink. “Burn you Willim K’Las Campanill.” She threw her hands up. “Alright, we have to awaken him, but not until I’ve had a talk with him.”
“About?”
“About Haegatess, Sir Tomas and the key.”
“Agreed.” Willim assumed his usual hunched position. “But, how about we just call it a tuning fork? We don’t know it’s a key to anything, yet. Let’s not make more of it than it is.”
“Fine.” Frustrated, she waved a hand at the tent. “Hoobie, doobie, the key is now a fork.”
Willim tsk’d and shook his head, trying to hide a smile. He glanced to K’Las. “Looks like he’s about cried out, now. I’ll fetch him.”
B’Tris nodded. She watched her husband walk up to their unsuspecting son as he plucked at the dandelions. Another kernel of dread spouted in her mind, next to her fear of madness—Haegatess’ anger.
~~~
“Well, are you coming back, or do you plan on watering these Dandelions all day?”
K’Las’ sprang to his feet and into his father’s arms, crying.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I’m sorry.” K’Las felt his father’s secure embrace and the gentle pats.
“No harm done, son. Maybe it is time you learned more about that fork. Ride with your mother, today. There are a few things you need to learn first.”
He laughed and sang his way through his chores. He removed the hobbles from the horses and brought them to the wagons. All four horses smiled at him. Well, maybe the horses weren’t actually smiling, but they were nickering and nudging him and being unusually cooperative while he helped his father harness them. He tried to get his mother to sing while he helped her gather the tent and camp items. Then he doused and stirred the cold fire pit one last time and said farewell to the campsite.
K’Las’ father took the lead in the home wagon with their personal goods. His mother drove the second wagon filled with general stores.
K’Las could hardly sit still while he and his mother waited for his father to ask the traditional question to begin the day’s travel.
“Are you ready, Bee?”
“Lead on, old man.”
He heard his father’s reins slap Lightning and Donker’s rumps. The home wagon lurched forward.
His mother raised her reins and brought them down smartly on Blinker and Thunder’s rumps, clucking her tongue at the horses. The little caravan began its lumbering daily journey settling into the rhythmic sounds of clopping, scuffing hooves and groaning, clattering wagons. The dry, firmly packed road with its meandering ruts caused them to sway and lurch occasionally. They could expect to make good progress again today.
K’Las clutched the edge of his seat, eagerly waiting for his mother to begin his first lesson about the fork. To his surprise, she handed him the reins.
“You drive, K’Las, while I tell you a story.” B’Tris reached under the seat, brought out the box.
“Alright, momma.”
“You’ve heard much of this before, but you need to hear the rest and try to understand. The fork is only a small part of it, but it is important for you to understand why we hold it so dear.” She opened the box and drew out the tuning fork.
K’Las had known a little about his crazy old Aunt Haegatess. What his mother told him now seemed odd. He didn’t understand how the fork could instill so much into him before he was born. The whole idea seemed to come from the old tales of wizards and their magical abilities. That suited him just fine. He liked wizards and magic.
She began to tell a story about Great Uncle Tomas, but stopped before he made any sense of it.
His mother seemed lost in thought for a while, swaying with the wagon as it rolled from side to side. She set her elbows on her knees, holding the fork with both hands so they both could see it. The silvered prongs glinted as she rolled and turned them several times before speaking again.
