Spinning the chunk of stone, Rawk smoothed the surface and it began to take shape. Once finished, he extended it toward her. Tentatively, she reached for it with both hands, accepting it while gaping in wonder.
It was a six-inch sphere, the stone’s surface now a polished gray with white striations, like a massive marble. There was a weight to the stone when she rotated it in her hands.
“How did you do that?” she breathed out as she looked at him, noticing him holding his bandaged upper arm, which was as muscular as Juliam’s.
“I was born a stone-shaper, as was my father and his father before him, and my uncle...” His voice trailed off, Rawk appearing upset.
Rhoa shook her head. “You don’t understand. Nobody can do this. At least nobody I have ever heard about.”
He shrugged. “It is common among my people. Some shape metal, some rock, some are diviners, some are farmers, some are craftsmen, some are warriors. We each have our roles.”
“Farmers, craftsmen, and warriors I understand. Those other things… Where did you say you come from?”
“Ghen Aeldor, the city in the mountain.”
Rhoa’s eyes widened. “A dwarf?” She had thought them to be myth. His stature seemed a bit tall compared to those stories, and he lacked the renowned beard one might expect.
He nodded. “Some use that term.”
“Is there another one you’d prefer?”
“Well, if you must label us, we were once known as Makers.”
Rhoa gasped, her mind racing.
A Maker – a legend come to life, she thought. What would people do if they knew? She was not sure, but she feared what might happen.
Her gaze returned to the glossy ball of rock, the moon reflecting off its surface.
“You must make me a promise…a promise to Vandasal.” She said the name hesitantly but wished him to understand the importance of her request. He seemed to place value in the name of the old god. “Promise you will tell nobody you are a Maker.”
His forehead furrowed, reminding Rhoa that he had no eyebrows. “Why? Are Makers unwelcome?”
She set the stone ball down and grabbed his hand, holding it in hers. The width of his hand was twice her own, his fingers thick and strong. “People will not understand. You must trust me in this. Promise you will tell no one.”
Rawk’s purple eyes stared at her, and she saw an innocence in them. In his innocence, she saw reluctance and fear.
Rhoa’s tone softened. “I am your friend, Rawk. Please, you must trust me.”
He blinked, visibly taken aback. Glancing down at his hand held in hers, he said, “Very well. I swear to Vandasal, I will tell nobody I am a Maker until you give me leave.” He looked back up, his eyes meeting hers. “Friend.”
Rhoa then asked the other question burning in her mind. “Why did you leave your home?”
He turned away. “I was…forced to leave,” he croaked.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “What about your family?”
“They remain in Ghen Aeldor. I will never see them again.”
She knew how he felt. “I am sorry.” When he turned toward her, she saw the pain in his eyes. She gave him a sad smile. “Where do you live now?”
Rawk shook his head. “I do not know. My path is unclear, my future clouded. I know nothing of this world or how I might fit in it.”
His situation struck a chord with her, and she knew what she must do.
Picking up the ball of stone, she stood. “Come with me. We need to speak with Stanlin.”
Taking the easier route, Rhoa climbed down, leaping from boulder to boulder until finally leaping off the outcropping to land in the long grass eight feet below. With her leading, they walked into camp where a pot of beans was heating over the bonfire. Troupe members sat in clusters, having multiple quiet conversations. Rhoa approached Stanlin, who was in mid-sentence when she tapped his shoulder.
Stanlin turned, his gaze momentarily pausing on Rawk before settling on her. “What is it, Rhoa?”
“We need to show you something,” Rhoa said. “In your wagon. Now.”
The man grimaced, but she knew he would listen. They had been together a long time, and Rhoa rarely made demands. She spun around, walked to his red wagon, opened the door, and held it while she waited for Stanlin to grab a lantern. The stone ball in her hand was heavy, so waiting only irritated her.
“Get in. Both of you,” Rhoa growled.
“I don’t know why you are taking that tone with me,” Stanlin muttered as he climbed into the wagon.
Rawk paused before entering, and Rhoa gave him a friendly smile. “Don’t worry. This is for your own good. Friend.”
He nodded and climbed in.
The interior of the wagon was as packed as any other, but lacked the hammocks one found in many of the others. Instead, a high bed occupied the rear third of the wagon. Beside the bed was a bench and a small table. Stanlin sat on the bench and set his lantern onto the table, while Rhoa stood beside Rawk.
“What is this about, Rhoa?”
She held the polished rock out toward him. He frowned at it for a moment before accepting it.
“Nice rock,” he said, turning it over in his hands, “but hardly worth all the drama.”
She put her hand on Rawk’s shoulder. “He made it.”
Stanlin’s brow furrowed. “Made it? You mean he carved and polished it? To make something like this from stone takes skill, but I still don’t know why I am here.”
Rhoa sighed. “You don’t understand.”
She grabbed the stone ball from Stanlin and handed it to Rawk. Her tone softened as she stared into his eyes. “Do it again. Make something smaller, something more delicate.”
Rawk examined the rock, turning it over in his hands. He pressed his finger against a white striation and pressed inward. When his finger sank into the stone, Stanlin gasped. The Maker ignored him, breaking off pieces of rock and smoothing others. Shards fell onto the floor as he worked, pushing, rubbing, spinning the object in his hand, moving faster than Rhoa’s eyes could track. In the span of a few minutes, the stone became something else.
He placed the finished object onto the table. Stanlin’s eyes filled with wonder as he stared at a tiny replica of his boxy wagon. The man lifted the statue and ran his hand over it, caressing it.
Stanlin looked at Rawk. “How is this possible?”
Rawk shrugged. “It is something I have always been able to do.”
“Would you like a job?” The man’s voice was filled with excitement.
“A job?”
“Yes. I would pay you, feed you, give you shelter. All you need to do is…” Stanlin held up the statue, “this.”
Rhoa bit her lip and watched Rawk. She knew Stanlin would ask him to join the menagerie once he saw what he could do.
Rawk’s gaze locked with hers before he nodded. “I will do it.”
Stanlin whooped and gripped Rawk’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “Oh, sorry.” The man looked down at Rawk’s injured arm. “Once you heal, we will put you to work. In the meantime, eat, rest, and get to know the others. You, my friend, are going to be a star.” His grin faltered. “What was your name again?”
Before he could reply, Rhoa jumped in. “I shortened it.” She smiled at her new friend. “Call him Rawk.”
“Rock?” Stanlin laughed. “Seems appropriate.” His eyes glazed over. “We will call him the Rock Whisperer, the man who tames stone.”
Excitedly, Stanlin slipped past them and out the wagon door. “Of course, my wife will have to make him a costume. We will get some purple fabric, to match his eyes. And we will…” His voice faded as he walked away, leaving Rhoa and Rawk behind.
She turned to him and smiled. “You now have a home. Welcome to the family, Rawk.”
17
Escape
Jace huddled in his dark cell with a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His feet had grown cold since stripping down to his smallclothes an hour earli
er. A rumble from his stomach reminded him of his hunger. Again, he thought of the meal he had been deprived of right before his capture. The mere thought of food made his mouth water. Two days had passed since then, and he still had not eaten.
A noise outside his cell brought him alert. He stood and covered the pillow-stuffed form on the pallet, careful to leave his boots exposed. Moving close to the door, he put a foot against one wall of the narrow cell, his hands against the other side. Pressing hard against the walls, he walked up, hand over hand, foot over foot, until his back pressed against the ceiling.
A key slid into the lock and turned with a click. The door creaked open and torchlight seeped into the cell, wrapping around the long shadow cast by the jailor.
“Get up, Landish,” the jailor growled. “The high wizard has returned and wishes to welcome you.”
Silence.
Jace’s limbs shook, his muscles cramping with the effort to keep himself suspended. Come on, you big idiot.
The man growled and stepped into the cell, poking the boot of the blanket-covered form lying on the pallet. Jace released himself and fell, clasping his hands together while pounding downward with all his might. His fists struck the jailor at the base of his neck. The big man fell to one knee, and Jace drove him forward, smacking the jailor’s head into the brick wall. The jailor fell face-first onto the pallet, unconscious, his forehead torn open. Jace scooped up the man’s cudgel and dropped back into the dark corner beside the open doorway.
“Thungar?” A man’s voice came from the room outside. “Are you all right?”
Footsteps approached and a sword eased into the room. When the man’s hand reached the doorway, Jace swung the cudgel down, breaking bones as the man dropped the sword.
“Argh!” the guard shouted.
Jace darted out the doorway and thrust the cudgel into the man’s midriff. When the guard doubled over, he slammed the cudgel on the top of the man’s head. The clang from it striking his helmet rang loudly. The guard fell to the floor, but another came up behind him with his sword ready. The second guard stood a head taller than Jace and outweighed him by a fair margin.
Jace feinted toward the corridor, as if going to run. When the man moved to stop him, Jace threw the cudgel. It struck the man in the face, forcing him back a step as his hand went to his broken nose. Jace followed, leapt, and kicked. His bare foot struck the man’s hand, sending the sword flying. When Jace landed, a meaty fist hit him in the back and drove him into the wall. A grunt of pain burst out, along with his breath. The man swung again, and Jace dove out of the way, falling to his knees. The guard’s fist hit the wall and he cried out, backing away, holding his broken hand. Jace grabbed the fallen sword and swept it at the man’s legs. It struck the guard’s ankle, burying deep. The man cried out as he fell. Jace stumbled forward, the blade sinking into the guard’s chest. The man stilled, his eyes bulging, his face covered in blood from his broken nose.
Rising to his feet and panting, Jace hurried back to his cell and began to dress. With his breeches, tunic, and boots back on, he grabbed the keys from the unconscious jailor.
Stepping over the guards, he began testing keys on the cell door beside his – the only other occupied cell.
“It’s me, Grund,” Jace said loudly. “I’m setting you free.”
Grund was not a smart person, but he had been decent enough to talk to during Jace’s incarceration. Repeatedly, the man had expressed his desire to exact revenge on the guards who had captured him. As far as murderers went, Jace had met worse.
At the third key, the door unlocked and he opened it. The prisoner emerged and glared down at the guards. He was among the biggest men Jace had ever seen, standing well over six feet and weighing more than three hundred pounds. Perhaps four hundred.
“Huh,” Grund said. “For a little guy, you did well.”
“Thanks,” Jace replied. “As I promised, you are free. What you do now is up to you.”
Grund grinned. “I’m getting out of this place. If anyone tries to stop me, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
The big man bent and gripped a sword with one hand, the cudgel with the other, then headed toward the corridor.
Jace shook his head. The castle guards are in for a fight. He then noticed his knives and pack on a shelf at the back of the room. Hurrying, he grabbed his long dagger and strapped it to his waist, shoved the other blades into his pack, and swung it over his shoulder. He stepped over the guards and stuck his head out of the doorway.
A roar and the clash of swords came from one direction.
“To arms!” someone shouted.
Footsteps came from the other direction, and Jace ducked back in, waiting while guards ran past. As soon as their footsteps faded, he ran down the corridor in the opposite direction.
He snuck up the stairs and peeked into the room, finding it empty. Crossing it, he eased the door open. Outside was a courtyard filled with fruit trees, but nobody in sight. He ran into the trees and slowed, creeping until he could see beyond the foliage. The gate in front of the castle became visible. A cluster of guards stood beside it, in the middle of a conversation.
“Prisoner escape!” someone yelled from the castle. “To arms! He’s a madman!”
The guards ran toward the castle, and Jace saw his opening. He scurried along the wall and burst out of the gate at a sprint. Not slowing, he crossed the road and slid down the tree-covered hillside, toward the next switchback.
“Stop!” a man shouted from the top of the wall.
Arrows sailed past him, one burying into a tree just after he slid past it. He reached the road and darted across, into the next track of woods. The sounds of the castle soon faded.
He reached the last switchback and began running down the road outside the city wall. Without a horse, the journey to Starmuth would take much longer, but he didn’t dare reenter the city.
This is my last visit to Lionne, he thought. At least until Montague is dead.
18
Starmuth
Fourteen days after departing Marquithe, the troupe reached the Ghentella River. As the wagons rolled onto the long bridge, Rhoa drank in the view.
Starmuth waited on the far bank, the port city’s east wall hugging the river. To the north and east, the sea waited, the air above it hazy with salt spray. Through the haze, Rhoa spotted ships sailing toward the harbor, seabirds circling above them.
Minutes later, the wagon train reached the other end of the bridge and turned north, toward the city. A field lay before the two-story-tall city walls made from gray blocks, the sight a poor comparison to the daunting walls of Marquithe.
It was mid-afternoon, so the remainder of the daylight hours would be spent raising the tents and preparing camp. Less than a quarter mile from the city gate, Stanlin pulled his wagon off the road and settled in a flat, grassy area between the road and the river. Rhoa suspected the menagerie had used the exact same location years earlier, before she was part of the troupe. The man issued orders as the other wagons approached the campsite. Oxen-drawn wagons brought the massive tent poles to the middle of the field while the troupe gathered around their leader.
“We have three or four hours of daylight, and I intend to use them,” Stanlin announced. “I need all hands focused on raising the main tent. You can rotate breaks until everyone has had a chance to eat. I must go into the city and meet with city officials to ensure our welcome.” A sadness crossed his face. “Besides, we are in need of a new drummer and are short one person for the crew. I will stop by a few taverns and see if I can find someone suitable for either job. Don’t wait for me. It’ll be dark by the time I return.”
Stanlin turned and walked to his wagon as everyone watched in silence. When the man climbed on and his team towed the wagon back to the road, clapping hands drew everyone’s attention.
“You heard Stanlin!” Ervan, the crew foreman, shouted. “Let’s begin with the center posts!”
The man continued to shout orders, calling for
men to dig holes while others moved the oxen-drawn wagons into position. Rhoa had seen the tent poles raised many times and had little interest in watching again. Instead, she turned toward the city and stared at it. She wondered how long they would remain at Starmuth. Her gaze shifted north, toward Fastella…too distant to see, yet within just a few days’ travel.
Soon, she would return to the city of her birth.
Soon, she would have her revenge.
Rawk sat in the shade of the wagon he shared with the Bandego Brothers. The two men had been friendly enough, but Rawk remained lonely, isolated, lost. So much of the world outside his mountain home seemed foreign. The menagerie was a prime example.
He still had no idea what to expect from the performances. The thought that people would pay to watch others do tricks, play music, or shape rock… It was something he struggled to comprehend. Rhoa had attempted to describe it all to him, but he had difficulty imagining the scene. The mere thought of having hundreds of eyes staring at him made his stomach churn and left him in a cold sweat. By the way Rhoa’s eyes glazed over when describing the rush from the cheers and applause, he could tell she enjoyed the experience. He found himself drawn to the energy and passion she displayed.
Watching troupe members raise the tall poles and the tent they supported made Rawk think of the engineers among the Makers – the men and women who designed and crafted impossible structures powered by extravagant mechanisms. When a Maker-built door closed, one would be hard-pressed to ever find the seams. In such perfection he saw beauty.
As the day wore on, clouds drifted in and darkened the sky, allowing Rawk to remove his cloth. His eyes had gradually adjusted, but daylight still hurt far more than it helped. He pocketed the cloth, wincing. The arrow wound in his arm was gradually healing. A few more days and the pain would be gone, leaving only a scar as a reminder.
When the tent had been raised and the crew began staking the guy-lines, Rhoa walked over and settled on the grass beside him. She sat there in quiet for some time, her eyes narrowed as she squinted into the breeze. Rawk followed her gaze and saw her staring at the water. The sea was as frightening to him as the sky, both appearing endless. He had never imagined so much water might exist anywhere.
Wizardoms- Eye of Obscurance Page 13