The Prison Stone Read online

  Grunting, Riza succeeded and Elsorin pushed past her, hearing the great doors shut behind them as Riza and her mouse flitted once more to his side, ready for whatever he might need.

  He lifted his eyes to the dais where the oracle sat. He froze.

  Objor the Seer sat bolt upright, his thin, atrophied muscles taught as a bow-string. His sightless eyes were wide, and the rheumy film that covered them seemed to glow. His mouth was open, and on his face was a look of abject horror. His familiar, a moth named Tepi, fluttered nervously about his head.

  “What is it?” Elsorin asked. “What has he said?”

  Two scribes sat at the base of the dais. It was their job to record anything the oracle uttered. One of them slunk down, his shoulders sagging, refusing to meet Elsorin’s gaze.

  “What’s with you?” Elsorin snapped. “Let me guess—it has been twenty years since the oracle has spoken, and so you have no ink in your pot?”

  The young man withered before him, squirmed in his seat, looked like he wished he could disappear. Elsorin turned his attention to the other scribe. “I trust you are better prepared?”

  “I am, master,” the young woman tried not to look superior. She failed. Her familiar, a ferret with enormous eyes, beheld the oracle with rapt attention. Every now and then it shuddered.

  “Good. What has he said?”

  The young woman looked down at her paper in order to report the words precisely. “The key has been found.”

  “Key? What key?” Elsorin scowled. “Is that all he said?”

  The scribe met his eyes. She nodded.

  The oracle stirred. Elsorin whirled about to face him, his muscles tense, his pains forgotten.

  The oracle gazed off into some far part of space that only he could see. His jaw worked as if he were trying to get his mouth around an unpronounceable word. Finally, the words came.

  “The unbreakable barrier…will be broken. There is a pinprick of light…it illumines the void. The prisoner writhes in the darkness…now he has hope. Oh…oh…woeful hope! Oh…oh…baneful hope!“

  The oracle began to shake. He was standing up, and the stick-like legs beneath him could hardly support his weight. But stand he did. Tepi’s fluttering became even more agitated. Objor held one bony finger aloft, his sightless eyes beholding a horror that he seemed incapable of expressing. “The tinder has been touched to the fire! Soon, the whole universe will be ablaze!”

  Objor collapsed, his robes billowing as his skeletal frame crumpled beneath him, and his wizened head hit the stone dais with a sickening crack.

  1

  The Dale was soaked with brilliant sunlight, and Ellis reclined among the wildflowers. The meadow was so green it almost hurt, and Ellis breathed a deep sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his best friend Kit spinning. She was performing a dance traditional among the maids in Everdale, especially when they were looking for mates or families to join. It struck him as odd that she was doing the dance with only him in attendance. It also struck him as odd—no, truly off—that she was dancing at all. Kit did not dance.

  Yet here she was. She was also smiling—and Kit did not smile. She was smiling at him. She leaned down amid the wildflowers and touched her nose to his. And then she cocked her head at just the right angle for a kiss, and he felt the whisper brush of her lips—

  “Oy! Slug-a-bed! So this is how the Royal Mail spends its money, eh?”

  Ellis Sunderland felt a sharp pain in his side. He opened his eyes. The round face of Tubber Goodfoot was staring down at him. Tubber kicked him in the ribs. Then he did it again.

  “By the Horn, Tubber! Stop it!” Ellis rolled away from Tubber as fast as he could.

  “Wait until old Bracegirdle hears about this,” Tubber said. “Sleeping on the King’s farthing! You think that’s the kind of lazy beastie they’ll want for postmaster? ’Cause I don’t.” Tubber kicked him again.

  “Tubber, I’ve nearly finished my route. What does it matter if I take a break? Everyone takes a break! You take yours in the pub.”

  “Oh, that’s how it is, is it? Can’t take responsibility for your own failings, so you have to lash out at yer betters? Oh, that’s pretty, that is. Yes, sir, Bracegirdle will be very interested in all this.”

  Ellis wanted the postmaster’s job so bad his back teeth ached. But Tubber wanted it, too, as did several other couriers in the Dale. Ellis was sure he’d do a better job than any of them, especially Tubber, whom he suspected was more interested in the prestige and the paycheck the position brought than actually improving Everdale’s postal system.

  The sun was directly behind Tubber’s head, and Ellis had to squint to see him. Then his head blocked the sun completely and he was able to plainly see the look of satisfaction on his rival’s face. He was also able to look up the young man’s nostrils, straight into his sinus cavities. The sight made Ellis shudder and look away.

  “Tubber, it was just a nap. All haffolk take naps. It might as well be required by law—along with second breakfast and tea-after-tea.”

  “Aye, you can try telling that to Bracegirdle.” The young man looked around, then raised his boot to stomp Ellis in the head.

  Ellis curled into a ball, issued a cry of protest, and raised his hands to ward off the blow.

  But he needn’t have bothered. Before Tubber’s boot could come down on his face, the burly haffolk slapped at his neck. “Oy! What was that? Was that a wasp?”

  He slapped again, this time at his head, and spun around wildly. Then he slowly backed away from Ellis.

  Ellis lowered his arms and propped himself up on his elbows to peer over the wildflowers. Kittredge Cornfeather was striding toward them, slingshot armed and aimed—directly at Tubber’s head.

  “That was the tiniest pebble. The next one will be a rock. And the next one will split your swiving head like a melon. So if you like your face the way it is, you just keep backin’ up.”

  Kit was short, even among haffolk, standing about waist high to man or elf. But she was among the fiercest creatures Ellis had ever known. She’d never encountered a weapon she didn’t master, and Ellis was grateful that she counted him her friend.

  They were friends—close friends—but he wished they were more. The images from the dream floated back to him, and he could almost feel the brush of her lips again—a feeling he had never experienced in waking life, nor likely ever would. Kit’s affections tended toward tomboys like herself, leaving Ellis nursing a heart continually pummeled by unrequited affections but nevertheless grateful for her friendship.

  “Now you turn yourself around, Tubber Goodfoot, and you walk on back to the village. You try something like this again and you’ll be quarrying stone from your vacant head.”

  Ellis glanced back at Tubber, and saw his hands raised. He also saw him walking backward in retreat. Then he turned and began to walk briskly in the direction of West Farthingdale, throwing the occasional scowl over his shoulder.

  Kit waited until he had rejoined the road before lowering her slingshot.

  “That was close,” Ellis said. “Have you ever thought of becoming sheriff?”

  “I’d like that, I think. But you didn’t need me to save you,” Kit said, stowing her weapon in her shoulder bag. “One well-aimed kick in the groin would have solved your problems.”

  “I…didn’t think of that.”

  “Obviously not. You know what the problem with you is, Ellis?”

  “Uh…I don’t make my bed?”

  “You don’t make your bed?” She raised one eyebrow at him. “Your problem is that you are too nice. You got no fight in you.”

  “That’s not true!” Ellis feigned offense.

  “’Tis true. When are you going to stand up for yourself?”

  “Why should I?” He smiled. “I have you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. Then she rooted in her bag once more and pulled forth a wrapped bundle. “Mrs. Proudspindle’s cheese.” She tossed it to him. He caught it and unwrapped the rough cloth. I
nside was a sweaty white cheese with red flakes in it. He sniffed at it. His eyes widened.

  “It smells…wonderful.”

  “Wait ’til you taste it. Those specks are cranberries.”

  He tasted it, and instantly his mouth was awash in goodness. “That is the besht cheesh I ever ate,” he said with his mouth full.

  “Uh-huh. We’ve got the afternoon route to finish. So on your feet, unless you fancy delivering your packages in the dark.”

  Ellis stuffed the last bit of cheese into his cheek and stood. He slung his courier’s bag over his shoulder and adjusted it so it was balanced for the long walk ahead of them.

  Kit put her hand on the hilt of her longdagger and set out.

  Ellis loved being with Kit every day, but at times, it hurt to watch her. She didn’t dress like the other maids in the Dale. She wore the clothes of he-haffolk, but she avoided the gay colors favored by haffolk generally, preferring black, silver, and gray. This provided a striking look with her raven-black hair which hung just to her shoulders. Ellis sighed.

  Kit was heading to the road with steady strides, and Ellis scrambled to catch up to her. They were at the edge of the meadow now, following a line of trees. Ellis shifted the weight of the bag and estimated that they had about two hours of work left to do.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He turned his head to the left, and saw a small clearing. In the center of a circle of trees he saw a stag, standing stock still, staring straight at him. There was something strong, wise, and gentle about deer, and he loved to watch them. But there was something different about this stag.

  Ellis froze, and time seemed to slow down. Suddenly it seemed that there was no sunlight, no breeze, no job to do, not even any Kit. There was just Ellis and the stag. Ellis cocked his head, not able to tear his eyes away. There was an oddness—not just about the moment, but about the stag itself—that he did not immediately grasp. Then he realized that the shape of its head was wrong—the antlers were only whole on one side. On the other, it looked as if they had been cut, or perhaps broken off in battle. He had heard that stags sometimes fought over their mates, locking horns in their efforts to best their rivals.

  The stag seemed to be looking straight into Ellis’ soul. It seemed to want something from him, but Ellis could not guess what it might be. Ellis’ hands began to sweat. He wiped them on his trousers, but did not look away. Then, suddenly, the stag jerked back and bounded away into the dark shadows of the forest. Ellis’ heart leaped to see the beauty of his movement, and just as fast felt the loss of the animal’s absence and the magic of the moment.

  “Yo, Ellis!” Kit’s voice broke through his reverie. “Do I have to drag you to your swivin’ route?”

  Ealon Summerfield raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he surveyed the battlefield. For as far as his eye could see, men and dwarfs were locked in close fighting. Swords flashed, axes swung, horses reared and screamed, and the ground beneath their feet was black and slick with blood.

  “I should be down there,” he said aloud, his hand going reflexively to the hilt of his sword. “My place is down there.”

  Rear General Lord Sunhaven’s bushy eyebrows raised. “I am surprised to hear it, Lord. Better that you are here, though. You may find yourself commanding battles one day, and knowing how armies move and react to orders will be a boon to you. Besides,” he lowered his voice, “a man commands better if he is alive…if you take my meaning, sir.”

  Ealon turned his head away from the carnage to fix Sunhaven with a sour scowl. “You think I’m a coward.”

  “I think no such thing. I think you are a prince, and that your life is worth more than battle-fodder.”

  “And yet my brother—the king’s heir—is down there.”

  “Aye, Lord.” The old man turned his gaze to the battle. “Against my counsel.”

  “Yet you do not allow me to join the fray.”

  “I am charged—by your brother and by the king—to defend you.”

  “You are not a nursemaid. I don’t need you to mind me.”

  “No, Lord.”

  Ealon sneered at Sunhaven’s agreement, stated too quickly and with a hint of condescension. Ealon hated being patronized. In truth, he had no desire to be in the thick of battle. His skill with a sword was small, but his pride was a ravenous beast that needed constant feeding. What he truly hated was being told what to do, especially by his father or brother.

  He had been groomed to rule in the event something happened to his brother Cormoran, an opportunity he knew may never come. Although, he thought as his eyes scoured the battlefield looking for his brother, one can always hope. But he found him, near the Summerfield standard rippling defiantly in the wind—a brilliant, semi-circular sun brooding over a dark plain. Cormoran was on his feet, sword swinging, bringing down foemen on every side with confident dispatch.

  Ealon made a sour face and looked away. Their enemy today was Wybrook, residing to the northeast and sharing the coastline—and a petty kingdom which refused to bend the knee and pay tribute to the high king. They had bollocks, he had to give them that. But they did not have the numbers, nor the cannons, nor the dwarfs on their side—and there were no fiercer enemies than dwarfs in the grip of bloodlust.

  He was growing bored of watching the fighting, just as he was bored by one petty insurgency after another, and by politics altogether. He loved the idea of power, he loved to make men jump when he commanded them, but the minutia of ruling made him want to stab out his eyes. He thanked the oyarsu that such tedium fell to Cormoran and his father. It left him free to…

  He felt a moment of vertigo. What did he do with his time? There seemed so little of it, but if he were honest, he would have to admit that he spent most of it playing nice at court, stumbling in his cups, hilt-deep in a whore, and seething over his brother. But he hated being honest, and he pushed the thought away.

  He wished there was a way to best his brother. Cormoran had always been their father’s favorite. It was Cormoran who got the attention, Cormoran who had been trained first in battle, Cormoran who had been schooled first in his letters and in diplomacy. The reasonable part of his brain pointed out that this must be so, since Cormoran was four years his senior, but such protests mattered not at all to the petty worm of his heart. Cormoran was born first, and Ealon hated him for it.

  His eyes were drawn to color, and across the battlefield he noted the enemy general’s camp, much like their own, perched at the top of the hillock just on the other side of the shallow valley. The hillock gave the enemy high ground to command from, just as their own camp had done. The hills descended into an extended valley to the right, but to the left there was a rim, a ridge that led through several stands of trees right around to his own camp.

  Ealon cocked his head. He looked around at their own camp, counted the number of men. Not many…he thought. A plan began to form in his mind.

  “Cormoran and the lords are holding their own,” Sunhaven pointed out, “but we’re taking heavy losses along our flank.”

  “Um…pardon me a moment, Lord Sunhaven. I need to find a stand of trees. ‘Wine is only ever a visitor,’ as they say.”

  “Yes, of course, my lord. There is a latrine behind the camp.”

  “I hate the latrine.” His nostrils flared. “The smell offends me.”

  Sunhaven moved his head back and forth, accepting this answer. Ealon could tell he did not approve and probably thought the prince was being insufferably delicate, but he was wise enough not to say it.

  Ealon gave the battle one last glance before turning and heading for the trees.

  Cormoran jumped back to avoid the follow-through of a dwarfish ax. “Sorry, my lord,” Orfek Gravelhorn called over his shoulder.

  Cormoran could hardly hold it against him. The dwarf had felled even more of the enemy than Cormoran himself had. There were few soldiers Cormoran could trust at his back, few who could match him, but Gravelhorn was one—even if his swing did go a b
it wide at times.

  Cormoran took advantage of the moment to get his bearings. Looking around, mindful of any who might approach him, he pushed the visor of his helmet up and wiped the sweat from his chin on his silver gauntlet. He squinted at the sun’s brightness, now no longer dimmed by his visor, and it seemed to him incongruously bright and cheery given the tragedy and blood seeping into his greaves.

  He turned and chanced a glance at the general’s camp, hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother—his troublesome brother whom he had promised father to keep safe. Cormoran felt a moment of panic when he did not see him. Sunhaven was there, Cormoran would recognize the man’s large, stocky frame anywhere—but where was Ealon?

  Probably lying down in the general’s tent, taking a nap, he thought. It was a wicked thought, and even though he wouldn’t for a second put such a thing past his brother, he pushed it away. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement up on the ridge. He jerked his head to follow it and saw what was undeniably Ealon’s distinctive gait—the young man walked on his toes, strangely. His younger brother was just entering a copse of trees, making for the ridge that surrounded the valley like the lip of a giant bowl.

  “What is he up to?” Cormoran whispered aloud.

  Just then he felt the wind of a blade and swung, taking the arm of an attacker off at the shoulder. He leaped, nimble even in his heavy armor, retaking his place at Gravelhorn’s back. “Orfek, my friend, how do you fare?”

  “I wish you’d bring me a real challenge, your highness,” the dwarf called over his shoulder. “I’m starting to nod off.”

  Cormoran grinned. “Ealon’s up to something. I need us to fight to the left flank to catch him.”