Only ten minutes left, Su-Laras cast. I would have expected a Key’ari attack by now, at least from Lowanna.
I think we have the wrong one. He is not watching little ones.
But he is a soldier, an archer. He protects the little ones, does he not?
Miyuki looked over the wall towards the village and thought of a prowling tiger. She blinked. Her oc-lok implant made symbols appear over peoples’ heads. If a symbol showed a high number and glowed green, then the person was emitting radiation consistent with Avar technology. The scan showed clean: no Avar-Tek.
She looked out towards the hills and scanned them. Not surprising, there was no Avar-Tek. Then she noted the shepherd. She directed the recorder to him while pretending to study a scroll. As the recorder got close enough to him, she saw that he only had one eye. The shepherd! she cast. She was so excited, that she knew her emotions were practically screaming through the link.
What? Su-Laras asked. The shepherd’s a Key’ari?
No, he’s the recruit. Quick, follow me. She leapt off the battlements onto the back of a wagon and practically ran for the gate. He guards his flock by day and night on hills and valleys deep. With one eye, he watches all his little sheep even when they sleep. It must be him.
Slow down, Miyuki, you’re creating a rift. If the guards see their commander run for the gate, they’ll call an alarm.
With less than eight minutes left, they slowed down to a brisk walk through the gate. Miyuki bumped into a peasant. She turned to apologize to him, but he held his head low and didn’t respond.
Half-way up to the shepherd, something bothered her. After she bumped into that peasant, the rift indicator should have shown at least a fractional rise. It didn’t move. Miyuki turned to see that the peasant she bumped into and three others were following her. She cast to Su-Laras. Do not look behind you. Four Key’ari are following us.
What?
I bumped into Nitish. He is not wearing one of the verisuits, so keep your eye open for stealth.
We should turn and fight them before the other two show up.
No, I have another idea. Change back into the girl.
When they approached the shepherd appearing as two young women about his age, he stood up and asked, “Who are you?”
“We’re from up the river,” Miyuki said, with a female voice that sounded strange to her ears. “Help us, please. These people have been chasing us.”
Without asking for an explanation, the shepherd said, “Follow me.” As soon as he turned, the Key’ari started chasing them.
“Run!” Su-Laras yelled.
The shepherd, with legs used to chasing sheep up steep hills and with knowledge of the terrain, led them quickly up to a hut where two little boys sat outside playing in the dirt. “Raiders!” he yelled. “Get help.”
The boys ran off and just before the Key’ari came over the hill, the shepherd opened the hut for the girls to hide in.
Time remaining: five minutes.
Out from the hut walked Miyuki and the shepherd, clutching a pitchfork. Never before had a one-eyed shepherd with a pitchfork looked so menacing. A moment later, the Key’ari arrived: Nitish, Elizabeth, Regino, and Zhang.
The shepherd held a hand out to push Miyuki back. “Get back inside. I’m here to protect you.”
Miyuki pulled her stun-stick hilt from her belt. It came off with a snap, and the stick extended into a slightly curved shape that resembled a tachi, a sword from her homeland. She planted both feet in a fighting stance. “You don’t know these people. We are here to protect you.”
Zhang smiled. “You should listen to her.” He lunged at her, wielding a stun-stick in the shape of a wide-bladed dao. She could tell it wasn’t a normal blade, because she could see the form glowing in her oc-lok vision.
Miyuki blocked his move with his momentum to keep him off balance. As he stumbled past her, she tapped the back of his neck with her stun-tachi. He fell forward, unconscious.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the shepherd fend Regino off with the pitchfork. Before Elizabeth and Nitish could reach her, Miyuki whacked Regino hard with her stun-tachi. She felt guilty, not for hitting him too hard, but for hitting him from behind. He dropped like a sack of rice.
Now she was stuck. Distracted by Regino, she had lost time to prepare for Elizabeth’s and Nitish’s attack.
Elizabeth struck first. Miyuki had barely enough balance to parry Elizabeth’s stun-stick with her own, flip it over with a turn of her hands, and strike Elizabeth’s exposed arm. Elizabeth fell.
Nitish, probably knowing he was no match for Miyuki with a tachi, charged the shepherd. But Elizabeth had gone down so quickly, that Miyuki had time to block his path, first with her stun-tachi and then by stepping in front of him. He pressed his stun-stick hard against hers, grabbing his hilt with both hands. I’m stronger, he cast.
I am smarter, she replied.
He smiled and said aloud, looking over her shoulder, “You’ve already lost.”
She didn’t give into the attempted distraction, but with a sudden flick of her wrists, she snapped her stun-tachi forward enough so that it touched Nitish’s forehead. He dropped.
As soon as he did, Miyuki heard a scream behind her. She turned and saw the shepherd bleeding on the ground with two stealthy Key’ari standing over him with dripping knives.
Time remaining: zero.
Miyuki woke up on her plexus bed, sweating.
Professor MacAdam beamed. “Your performance was outstanding.”
The cadets acting as Key’ari sat up and congratulated themselves.
“Oh, not you,” Professor MacAdam said. “Your performance was terrible.”
“What?” Lowanna said. “We killed the recruit.”
The professor turned to the large display at the end of the room. He nodded, and it replayed the last minute of the test. It showed Nitish drop, as the two Key’ari wearing verisuits in stealth mode stab the shepherd. The image froze. “You mean this one?” The image panned into the hut. Another shepherd lied on the floor. “Or this one? The one in the hut is the real recruit. Granted, I’ve never had a cadet stun a recruit before, but he survived. The shepherd outside the hut was Su-Laras in her verisuit set to look like the shepherd. Miyuki and Su-Laras found and protected the recruit. Of course, they would have started a war, since the Key’ari killed a Sittiri, but they passed the requirements of the test beautifully.”
Miyuki looked at Su-Laras and smiled.
Chapter 7
Francisco
Toledo
Summer, Year of our Lord 1211
475 Days on the Streets
LA GRANDE’S SWORD SMITHY had rarely been so quiet during business hours. The source of the usual clamor—La Grande herself—stood with her feet planted firmly apart, her arms crossed, and eyes narrowed. “I pay you to clean up after Mateo and do his bidding,” she said to Francisco, “not to ask endless questions. Now, if you listen to ‘im, and by next week he gives you a good word, I’ll start you as a striker. Two hours a day only, though. I don’t want you falling over dead on me the first week.” She reached over, gripped his biceps with a firm squeeze, and corrected herself. “Three hours a day first week.” Her eyes softened and a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “If this works out well, I’ll be able to do my own hilts by late spring. That will teach that price-gouging bastard.” She thrust the broom handle into Francisco’s hand. “For now, your paws are made for this tool. No more questions.” She walked back to the forge.
Mateo looked at him and silently mouthed the words, “Welcome to hell.”
Francisco started sweeping behind the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur at the back door. He turned. It was Sancho rushing upstairs.
“What’s he doing here?” Mateo asked. “It’s only the ninth hour.”
Francisco shrugged. “Baker’s hours. They start early.”
“He never gets off before noon.”
“Uh huh. Did you see how he held his
hands?” Francisco said. “Something’s not right.” He leaned the broom against the wall and ran up the stairs to the living quarters, leaving Mateo behind whispering, “Better be quick.” In three steps, Francisco walked across the landing, passing the door to La Grande’s bedroom, and opened the door to the storage room that had become his and Sancho’s bedroom. The door creaked on its hinges and revealed the long, narrow room with stacks of boxes and odd tools pushed to the side and two cots with Sancho sitting on the edge of his cot. The lone window behind Sancho on the far side silhouetted him, but as soon as the door started creaking, he turned his back to Francisco.
“Why are you back so early?”
“Slow day.”
Francisco walked up to him and looked over Sancho’s shoulders at his hands. He held them tenderly in his lap. They were blistered white—large blisters slick with salve, and inflamed red around the edges. He held a burlap pouch between them, and gently pressed it against the blisters.
Francisco drew in a sharp breath. “Did you burn yourself?”
“Like a heifer drunk on ale, I slipped and fell against the oven.”
“Looks like you stayed there for a bit.”
“As soon as I fell, I tried pushing myself up, but I only pushed against the coals.” He chuckled weakly. “Not a wise move.”
Francisco had been burnt twice in his life, never this severely. It felt worse than when he broke his arm, but all those times his father or mother quickly healed him with the stone. He never had to bear the pain for long. He dropped to his knees and examined the burns. “What did the baker do?”
“Olivar took me to the scholar, Solomon ben Abraham. I kept my head low so he wouldn’t recognize me. He poured honey on it and gave me this pouch to kill the pain.”
Francisco took the pouch and held it up in the light. Two coarsely stitched burlap patches, sticky with the honey, held something inside that felt gritty between Francisco’s forefinger and thumb. “What’s it got in it?” he asked.
“Burnt barley seeds and boiled egg whites.” Sancho held his hands up to receive it back. They were stiff with his fingers curled. “It helps a little. The baker did his best, but I won’t be able to work for weeks ... if at all. The physician gave me thyme to balance my humors. My mother always used Saint John’s Wort.” His words, like his hands, were stiff. He must have been on the edge of crying. “You want some of the thyme?” Sancho asked. “It’s in that sack.” He pointed with his elbow to the sack beside him. “It’s also supposed to increase courage. I think you need it more than me.” He managed a weak smile.
Francisco almost cried for his friend. I will, of course, heal you, he thought, but I won’t be able to do it until you’re asleep, if you can ever sleep with this pain. Papa’s rules of secrecy. Stone silence. How can I let you suffer until you fall asleep? Papa didn’t wait. He prayed for people all the time, but he didn’t show the stone. How can I do any less for my friend, my only true friend? He deserves more. He deserves to know.
“Listen,” Francisco said, “I am going to show you something, and you cannot tell anyone else, understood?” Francisco slipped off his boot and fished the stone out of its slot. It didn’t have hungry marks. Francisco was in the habit of spreading the paste on it every Sunday after mass. He took the barley seed pouch off Sancho’s open palms and gently laid the stone on it. He cleared his throat and recited the Hebrew verse.
Three words into the verse, Sancho smirked. “You still have a bad accent.”
Francisco didn’t reply. They both stared at the blisters. With the incantation finished, they saw the first change: the honey soaked into the skin. The blisters flattened and appeared to harden. The inflamed red skin around the blisters lightened.
“Oy, meshugeh!” Sancho exclaimed. His hands were shaking and he took shallow breaths.
“How does it feel?” Francisco asked. “Is there pain?”
Sancho shook his head slowly. “No, but they itch like a leper on a hot summer day.”
“Go ahead. Scratch them.” Francisco took the stone.
Sancho scratched at the largest blister on his left palm. The blister fell apart like an old, parched leaf, revealing tender, pink skin beneath. He made a fist with his right hand and the blisters flaked off. He opened and closed his hands, examining them. He could barely contain his excitement and gratitude. “When did you get this thing?”
Francisco explained about how his third great-grandfather Juan found the stone and discovered its healing abilities. He told Sancho about the troubles it caused his family and how he ended up on the streets. “And this is what my uncle is after,” he said. “I’ve used it to heal you before.”
Sancho’s eyes widened. “You did?”
“The day we met. Ramon beat you up really bad, remember? You were barely breathing.”
Sancho didn’t say anything.
“So, what do you think?” Francisco asked.
“I think your Hebrew still has a terrible accent.”
Francisco smiled.
“And I think,” Sancho continued, “that I should keep my hands wrapped for a week, otherwise Solomon ben Abraham will get credit for a miracle.”
476 Days on the Streets
When Francisco opened their bedroom door the next day after work, he found Sancho sitting next to a wooden box shaking his head.
“It didn’t work,” Sancho said. “I tried everything. Is it broken?”
The mixing bowl with the gray paste next to little piles of the ingredients and a cup of water showed he had been working at it all afternoon. Next to the bowl was the stone, covered in paste. Francisco took it and dropped it into the cup of water. He rubbed the paste off and dried the stone on his pants. One hungry mark was still there.
“Oh. Something’s missing in the paste,” Francisco said. “You need granite dust. I know where to get it. The stone will still work since the symbol’s black and not red. If it’s red, it won’t work at all.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I only wanted you to make the paste. The stone might be hungry after healing you. But,” Francisco plopped himself down on his own cot and explained, “I should tell you more just in case something happens to me. My father said there’s four rules to never forget. The first one you know: the healing stone must be covered in the paste if a hungry mark appears. Two, the stone must touch the sick or hurt person for it to work. Three, I have to say the verse in Hebrew while touching the person with the stone.”
“Where did the verse come from?”
“The plate my great-great-great grandfather Juan found. And four, and this is the most important, do no harm lest you break the charm. That’s why I can’t fight. It’s better that I get beat up and heal myself than lose the stone’s powers. Now, get your hand wrappings and come with me. We need granite dust.” He slipped the stone into his boot, grabbed his jacket, and headed downstairs.
Francisco led Sancho to a large granite boulder at the river’s edge on the south side of Toledo. He explained that it had “lots of dust and little pieces that you don’t have to break down.” All he had to do was place the stone on the wet sandy bank next to the boulder, and within minutes, the hungry mark disappeared.
On their way back, Francisco pulled his jacket in tighter after a sudden gust of frigid wind caught him off guard. The sun had set and the temperature was dropping. Winter’s coming fast this year. Glad I’m not on the streets. They were on a main road of the city, crowded with the vendors closing shop. They jostled with those heading for taverns or evening mass, when they heard the scream. A young woman, or girl nearby—sounded like just over the buildings behind them, on the next street. No one else seemed to notice.
“That is not normal.” Sancho said.
“No.”
“We should help her, my friend.”
Francisco grabbed his shirt. “Wait.”
“For what? It sounds like they are killing her. What are you afraid of? There are no hungry marks.”
“Yea
h, but I don’t know if I can fight.”
“Why not?”
“I might break it.”
Sancho shrugged. “Don’t let them hit it.”
“Not break it like smashing it. I mean ruin it—ruin the magic. Can the hand of a fighter be the hand of a healer?”
Sancho looked at him and blinked.
“Do no harm lest you break the charm, remember?” Francisco repeated. “My father warned me to never cause another harm, or the stone might lose its powers. Or worse. What if God curses it, and reverses the healing? It could poison me or—”
The girl’s screams grew more intense.
“Señor,” Sancho said, “a saint you are not, yet it still works. And what is more holy than saving a young damsel?” With that, Sancho turned and ran down the alley towards the screams, yelling over his shoulder, “Stand there and debate, Aristotle. Then heal me when I have vanquished our foes.”
Francisco heard another scream, and it chilled his blood. It sounded like his mother’s agony as she died, not in pitch—this was a younger voice—but in anguish.
Against all prudence, he ran after Sancho, feet pounding the cobblestone, a cramp starting in his gut. Thinking the stone should get rid of that. Wondering if he would catch up to Sancho. Wondering if he would get to the woman first. Wondering what he would do then.
Out into a main street, Paseo del Tránsito, dodging merchants, courtiers, gossips, clergy, carts, and stalls. He fought and evil thought: the stone had already become a curse, judging his actions immoral and bringing upon him all the wounds and diseases it ever healed.
Back onto the adjacent side street winding downhill, ill-used except for dumping rubbish & excrement. The stone walls two stories high with their dark windows peered down their vacant accusations upon Francisco: Healer no more. You will have blood on your hands and the stone shall become a curse. Your fingers shall decay with leprosy, your legs seize up with palsy, and your mind be driven mad with demons. He suppressed the stone’s guilt, spurring forward, caught his toe on a high stone, stumbled, and ran.
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 6