Riddle In Stone (Book 1)

by Robert Evert

  What is he talking about?

  Who cares? Eat as much as you can before he takes it away.

  Edmund drank some wine and swallowed hard. He reached for the hot mashed apples.

  “I have a question for you, Edmund. If you lie, well . . . I’m sure you can imagine the consequences.”

  Rats in a cage . . .

  Don’t lie. Tell him whatever he wants to know!

  Tilting the bowl, Edmund spooned the apples directly into his waiting mouth.

  “Why were you in Tol Helen?”

  Just tell him. Tell him everything!

  Edmund drank an entire glass of wine in one long swallow.

  “I, I . . . I wanted to be something that I wasn’t,” he said, having thought of the very same question many times over the past few months. “I wanted . . . I don’t know . . . to be well thought of, I wanted to be a hero, I suppose.”

  He took another bite from a buttery roll, then took two more.

  “Interesting. You realize, don’t you, that heroes rarely die of old age in the comfort of their own beds.”

  At least they do something with their lives.

  He’s going to kill you. Or worse. Don’t you understand? Sooner or later, you’re going to have a cage of rats over your head. You’re going to die . . .

  Edmund ripped a chunk of meat from the chicken’s side, bit into it, pushed the food into his cheeks, and shoved the rest into his mouth. He refilled his goblet.

  “So you wanted to have more power among your people. More influence. I understand completely. But why go to Tol Helen of all places? Were you . . . searching for something? Something . . . in particular?”

  He knows. You might as well tell him.

  Draining his wine glass again, Edmund rocked back in his chair with a contented sigh. He dabbed his lips with the formerly white napkin, now covered with a mixture of food and dirt.

  Don’t keep him waiting!

  “Our . . . our new king, King Lionel, he . . . he issued an edict. Whoever finds the Star of Iliandor will be given lordship over his former fiefdom.”

  “And you thought that the Star was in Tol Helen? Why?”

  “I have Iliandor’s diary. Or I did, back in my library.”

  Edmund pulled off one of the chicken’s wings, wondering whether he could somehow hide some of the food in the remains of his tattered clothing.

  “The diary hinted that the Star, his sword ‘Druil,’ and some . . . and some of his other belongings were hidden there,” Edmund went on, eating as fast as he could. “I got as far as the tower, but Kravel and Gurding captured me before I could search it.”

  “So you want to be a lord? ” the voice asked, amused. “To govern over others?

  Edmund nibbled nervously along the bone in the chicken wing, his teeth extracting every piece of meat they could.

  “I don’t know. I just . . . I just wanted something I didn’t have, I suppose.”

  He shoved several mushrooms in his mouth, hoping that having his mouth full would decrease the amount of talking he had to do.

  “Understandable,” the voice said. “I believe we are all like that to some degree. However, let me ask you this . . . when you were under Tol Helen, in the cavern, did you find anything?”

  Edmund blinked slowly, the wine making his vision go out of focus.

  “Anything at all?”

  There was something on the wall. What was it?

  “The salvation of humanity can be found in buildings of wise men, doubly so in optimism of the learned, and in knowledge that is written on a daily basis.”

  “You seem to be remembering something,” the voice prompted.

  Chewing, Edmund pushed himself straighter in the chair.

  “There, there was something on the wall . . . in the cave below,” he said, blinking more.

  “What was it? Do you recall?”

  “Some writing.”

  “Yes, yes. Could you read it? It was written in Dunael. Your people used to speak it once upon a time. I understand you can read many languages.”

  You might as well tell him. If you keep him happy, maybe he’ll give you more meals like this.

  “It said: ‘The salvation of humanity can be found in buildings of wise men, doubly so in optimism of the learned, and in knowledge that is written on a daily basis.’”

  More than a little excitement leapt into the voice. “Correct! Now, Edmund, do you have any idea what that means? It’s a riddle of some sort, perhaps referencing something of your people that I am not aware of. Do you know the answer?”

  Edmund tried to stifle a yawn, but failed, partly chewed food falling out of his open mouth. He looked at the half-empty bottle of wine, wondering again whether it was drugged, and then realized that he didn’t care. He’d sleep well either way.

  “Edmund, this is important. Do you know what it means?”

  Don’t tell him. Play stupid!

  But I don’t have the slightest idea what it means. I couldn’t tell him if I wanted to.

  “It’s just words,” he said through another yawn. “Poorly written, at that. The capitalization was all off.”

  The voice exhaled, disappointed.

  “Very well, Edmund. I can see you are fatigued. We’ll continue this later. But I want you to understand that if you can determine with what those lines mean, I’ll reward you with more than just a good meal. If you can solve the riddle—you can go free.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “All right, vermin!” a guard called into the pit.

  He was early, several hours early, if the Pit Dwellers could judge time correctly in the all-consuming darkness. Everybody but Edmund sprang to their feet. Edmund groaned, the sensations of a fading dream lingering in his mind.

  “Because of the benevolent love of His Majesty, I have a surprise for you worthless maggots.”

  Realizing where he was, Edmund slowly got in line behind Crazy Bastard.

  “Naughty, naughty,” Crazy Bastard whispered in Edmund’s ear, his pungent breath filling Edmund’s nose.

  Edmund shoved Crazy Bastard’s face away. Crazy Bastard shoved back.

  “Filth,” the guard bellowed, “stand at attention or I’ll . . . ” Then the goblin seemed to remember something. He stifled his growing anger. “Actually,” he said in a kinder tone that was clearly exaggerated, “it’s because of Master Filth that you all will not be working today.”

  Everybody looked at Edmund. Edmund yawned.

  “What did you do?” Turd snarled.

  “But, but,” Vomit called up to the guard, “but what about food? We’re willing to work for our meal, sir. We’ll work hard. Whatever Filth did, he should pay. Not us! Kill him!”

  “Oh,” the guard replied, bitterly, “I think your lots are now all going to be cast together. As goes Filth, so go you all.”

  Their heads turned toward Edmund again. Only Pond Scum didn’t have loathing in his eyes.

  “I’m going to snap your damn neck,” Turd whispered, his bandaged fingers flexing. “I don’t care if you are a mag—”

  “As for food,” the guard went on, lowering a large basket into the pit. “Enjoy the generosity of your King and Savior.”

  Limping over to the basket, Vomit peered inside and then looked back at Edmund. Unhooking it from the attached rope, he dragged it carefully to the others. But the smell already told them what it contained.

  “It’s chicken,” Vomit said in disbelief. “Cooked and, and seasoned and . . . everything!”

  Turd, Pond Scum, and Crazy Bastard pushed around the basket, trying to get a glimpse of what was inside.

  “There’re three chickens!” Pond Scum said. “What’s that?”

  Vomit stuck his finger into a bowl and tasted it. “Baked apples! With cinnamon.”

  There was some shoving. Three sets of hands reached in at once.

  “Hold on! Hold on!” Vomit shouted. “I’ll parcel it out. Just give me some room or some of it might get wasted. Give me some room. Give me
some room!”

  Turd hauled Crazy Bastard and Pond Scum back by their ears.

  “Oh, look at this,” Vomit said. “I can’t believe it!”

  “What?”

  “Plates,” Vomit said, in awe. “They gave us plates. Actual plates! And there’s a jug of clean water. And bread!”

  They all fell quiet, marveling at the basket’s glorious contents.

  “Magic,” muttered Crazy Bastard. “Magic!”

  * * * * *

  “It’s quite simple,” the voice said, as Edmund dried his wrinkled pink body with a white cotton towel. He hadn’t been clean since he bathed in the River Celerin before the troll chased him to Tol Helen. So when the guards led him to a small chamber with a long copper tub full of steaming water, he didn’t think twice about casting aside his rags and getting in. He lounged there until his calluses began to soften and tear from his prune-like hands.

  “I’ll give you and your colleagues certain liberties for ten days or so,” the disembodied voice went on. “During which time I want you to consider the lines that were written in the cavern under Tol Helen.”

  Edmund dried his long, clean hair. He wondered whether he could find a pair of scissors, or something to tie his hair back so that it’d be out of his face, maybe even a brush—but then remembered where he was and why he had been so filthy.

  “But, sir,” Edmund said. “They’re just words. They’re meaningless.”

  There was an oppressive silence.

  “Edmund,” the voice said with a hint of anger. “No lover of books would call any passage ‘just words.’ Especially something that was scratched into rock in a place where few individuals have ever tread. Those words mean something. And I need to know what.”

  Edmund dried his ears again simply to enjoy the mundane actions that he used to take for granted.

  “And, s-s-s-supp-supposing that you are correct, that the lines were some sort of riddle, and I’m able to bring meaning to it. What then? What do I get? I, I mean . . . sir. I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”

  “No. I want you to speak freely. You want to know why you should do as I ask. It’s a fair question. If you arrive at the answer to the riddle, I’ll give you what you want.”

  “You’ll let me go? Just like that?”

  “You have my oath.”

  He’s lying. Why would he just let you go? Once you give him what he wants, he won’t have a need for you anymore. There would be no more food. No more baths. No more special treatment. You’ll be sent back to the pits and forgotten.

  Edmund picked up the soiled remains of his pants and tattered shirt, reluctant to have them touch his pristine body.

  “I can imagine what you are thinking,” the voice said, gently, “what you might be feeling. The doubt. The torment. After all, why would I just let you go? What would stop me from reneging on my word?”

  “The thought had crossed m-m-my, my mind . . . sir.”

  “Perhaps you should consider the other side of the equation for a moment. What do you think will happen to you if you don’t solve the riddle?”

  Edmund felt his face, imagining the pain of rats ripping it apart, burrowing into his eye socket as he screamed—helpless and immobile, begging for somebody to end his life. He struggled to inhale.

  “Give me an answer to the riddle and you’ll fare much better than if you don’t. I think that is something you will believe. Does that make matters clearer for you?”

  “Wh-wh-what, what if I try and I fail? Or if I . . . I come up with the wrong answer?” he asked, images of rats and their sharp teeth still lingering in his mind.

  “Then you’ll work for me until your life comes to its end.”

  Air exited Edmund’s lungs in slow, fitful, spurts. “Sir . . . why, why me?”

  “Because something tells me you are the one I’ve been waiting for, Edmund. You have certain knowledge, a certain perspective, that all the others who serve me lack. You know the language, the culture from which the riddle sprang. And I’m quite sure that you know who wrote it and under what circumstances.”

  “Oh?” Edmund replied, feeling compelled to say something.

  “Yes, Edmund. You have read Iliandor’s diary. I have as well.”

  “You? You have read his diary?”

  He’s lying. He couldn’t possibly have—

  “Yes, my spies obtained it for me years ago . . . or at least a copy of it. As a text, it’s mundane, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But the last pages reveal a hint as to the whereabouts of something that I have been seeking for many ages. You followed that same hint and found what I did not. That makes you valuable to me. Knowledge is always more valuable than gold or swords, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I’d rather have a sword right now.

  Remember what he just said, you are valuable to him. He won’t hurt you as long as you have value.

  “What? Yes. Yes, it is. B-b-but . . . but tell me, what, what are you looking for? Perhaps you can tell me that and we could start there.”

  “No, my dear Edmund, I think we’ll have some secrets, you and I. After all, if you ever learned any of them, I would not allow you to live long enough to tell my enemies, nor would I consider letting you return to your precious Rood. So, for now, concern yourself with what I have asked—solve the riddle and I’ll be very happy with you. You have ten days. After that, I’ll start to get angry. Do you understand?”

  Edmund shivered. “Y-y-yes . . . yes, sir. I understand. I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Okay,” Pond Scum said from somewhere in the blackness, “say it again. How did it go exactly?”

  There was another moan.

  Turd grumbled. “It doesn’t matter. It’s pointless.”

  “I agree with Turd,” Vomit said, rolling onto his back. “Whether we solve it or not, it isn’t as if they’d let you or anybody else go. They’re just trying to torment us, give us false hope, like they always do. Pretend that there is an answer to something meaningless and make us worry about it. Just forget it. If we haven’t figured out the answer by now, obsessing about it for another day won’t matter.”

  “The salvation of humanity can be found in the buildings of wise men,” Pond Scum said to himself. “What’s found in buildings of really wise men?”

  “Chicken!” Crazy Bastard clucked from his area of the pit.

  “Shut up, Scum,” Turd said.

  “Chicken,” Crazy Bastard repeated softer.

  Off in the distance, in another pit, somebody was wailing, screaming that he couldn’t take it anymore and that he wanted to go home. It wouldn’t last long. It never did. Either the guards took care of it, or the offender’s pit mates did. A guard cursed. A whip snapped. The cries became muffled and then ended abruptly. An eerie silence lingered in the still subterranean air.

  “I think . . . ” Edmund began and stopped.

  You think what? You don’t have a clue what the answer to the riddle is. It’s meaningless like Turd said.

  I have to do something. I don’t want that voice to get angry.

  “What?” Vomit asked. “Do you have an answer?”

  “No,” Edmund said, scratching his beard. He had given up pondering the words on the cavern wall, dissecting every possible meaning and interpretation, a couple days earlier. “No. But I think it’s time to start planning our escape. Turd, how are you feeling?”

  “Stronger than I have since I got here,” the big man said, sitting up. “What do we do? What’s your plan?”

  What are you doing?

  “I don’t know,” Edmund admitted. “But I think now’s the time. We’ve had ten days of rest. We’ve been well fed. It isn’t going to get any better for us, answer or not. If we don’t act now, we’ll just go back to what we were before, half-starved and weak.”

  “Exactly!” Turd agreed. “Let’s make a go of it the next time they take us to the worksite!”

  “What about food and water?” Pond Scum asked. “What about
having something to carry the water in so we can hide where they won’t look for us?”

  Are you really going to do this? Are you really going to try to save them as well?

  No. It’s going to be every man for himself.

  “Let’s take the weapons you made, the ribs,” Edmund said. “I can take one, I think. I still have enough clothing left to hide it.”

  In the blackness, somebody was crawling across the pit.

  “Maybe put another in one of your boots,” suggested Vomit.

  “All right. So, how are we going to do this?” Turd whispered. “Should we come up with some sort of signal? Can you set the guards on fire?”

  Somebody tapped Edmund’s forehead.

  “Think! Think! Think!” Crazy Bastard giggled and then scurried back to his area.

  “I think,” Edmund said, ignoring Crazy Bastard, “I think we need . . . we need to try it before we get to the worksite. I’d much rather fight the two guards conveying us than the three who supervise our work. The guards at the site have their bows at the ready, the guards who escort us tend to walk with only clubs and whips in their hands, occasionally a sword. In the narrower tunnels, we can reduce their effectiveness. Maybe overpower them.”

  “Yes, exactly what I was thinking!” Turd exclaimed. “Good! So what do we do? What’s the plan?”

  “Yes,” Vomit said. “What’s the plan? Will you set them on fire? Can you shoot fireballs? That would make them think twice about getting near us!”

  Are you sure you want to go through with this? Is this how you want it all to end?

  I don’t want a cage of rats over my head. I’d rather kill myself than have that happen. I’d rather die trying to escape. I want to go home. I can’t take being here anymore.

  “Pond,” Edmund said to the darkness, “are you with us?”

  There was no answer.

  “Pond?”

  Reluctantly, Pond Scum spoke. “I’m with you. But—”

  “But nothing,” Turd interrupted. “Go on, Filth. What’s the plan?”

  Edmund sat up, inhaled through his nose, and let his lungs deflate.

  “Okay,” he said. “This is what I want to do. The next time they’re transporting us to a worksite, let’s line up like this, Vomit in front, then me, then Crazy, then Turd, then Scum. When I cough twice in a row like this—”