“Enjoying the view?” he asked.
“Yes,” Darissa said, smiling back.
The gates stood open, and the two walked into the passage beyond, where half a dozen more guards snapped to attention at the sight of Prince Marek. The prince smiled. “Relax,” he said. “It’s just me.”
Then the inner doors swung open, and they emerged into the castle courtyard, where a couple of dozen people were going about their everyday business. Marek waved to a few, but led the way across the yard and up the steps to the keep entry without stopping.
Darissa took it all in with interest—soldiers drilling with their spears, a girl gathering eggs from a chicken coop, three young boys chasing each other across the sparse grass with much shrieking and giggling, an old woman hanging laundry out to dry. The clotheslines the old woman was using were longer and more numerous than Darissa had ever before seen in one place and held a wide variety of fabrics.
Marek noticed her interest. “You’ve never been here before?” he asked.
“No,” Darissa said. “I never had any business here.”
“So it’s all new? What would you like to see, then? The great hall? The armory? The tower?”
“I…don’t know. What would you suggest?”
“Well, probably not the armory,” Marek said, looking around the courtyard. “You don’t strike me as someone with a fondness for weaponry, though you might appreciate the workmanship that goes into some of it. But the best pieces are on display elsewhere, so if you’re only interested in the workmanship I don’t think the armory is our best choice.” He looked up. “The view from the top of the tower is spectacular, but it involves climbing a lot of stairs—unless you can fly up there?”
Darissa grimaced. “I can levitate a little, but it’s just as tiring as the stairs would be. Maybe even more so.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to tire you out, at least not when you’ve just arrived, so perhaps we should leave that for later. The great hall, then?”
“Won’t… Isn’t the king…”
“Oh, my father is probably holding court there, yes. Why should that stop us? We won’t bother him.”
“All right,” Darissa said, feeling slightly overwhelmed. Three days ago she had never spoken to a member of the royal family, or come within twenty feet of one, and here she was with a prince casually talking to her about intruding on the king’s court!
“Fine!” Marek smiled broadly. “This way.”
Darissa had expected him to lead her through the grand ornate portal at the top of the steps, but to her surprise he gestured to a small, black door on one side. “This way,” he repeated.
She followed him into a dim little room lit by a single arrow slit. “Let me take a look,” he said, leading her to a heavy wooden door on the opposite side. A small hinged panel was set in the door at about the level of Darissa’s face. Marek opened it, then had to stoop to peer through.
“Well,” he said, as he gazed at whatever lay beyond, “there are half a dozen petitioners, and some of my father’s officers, but I don’t see Dad, so we won’t be committing any terrible breach of protocol if we walk in unannounced. Come on.” He slid back a bolt and swung the door open—not wide, just enough for the two of them to slip through.
The room beyond was the largest enclosed space Darissa had ever seen, but she was well aware that she was not an experienced traveler. It might well be quite ordinary by royal standards. Still, it seemed huge to her—over a hundred feet long, she was sure, the barrel-vaulted ceiling easily twenty feet up. She could not readily judge the width because it was not a simple rectangle; there were pillars and galleries, nooks and niches, along every side. A cluster of people stood around a long wooden table midway down one side, beneath a dark balcony; a handful of others were seated at desks here and there.
And in an alcove at the far end sat a dais, and on the dais stood a big gilded chair, the seat upholstered in dark red velvet—the king’s throne, surely. It was unoccupied.
Light poured in through half a dozen high windows, but there were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of lit candles arrayed along either side, as well; dust and smoke danced in the sunlight above, and the air smelled of hot wax and polishing oil.
“Shall I introduce you to some of these people?” Marek asked quietly, gesturing toward the nearest desks.
Darissa shook her head. This was not somewhere either a peasant or a witch belonged. She felt terribly out of place.
Marek looked disappointed—or, rather, felt disappointed. Darissa realized she was sensing his disappointment with witchcraft, rather than through anything she saw on his face, as he had hidden his emotions very effectively. This was his home, after all, and he wanted her to like it.
“Maybe a few,” Darissa said, relenting. “But it’s all a little overwhelming.”
“Well,” Marek said, his disappointment dissipating, “there’s my sister—you don’t mind meeting her, do you?”
“Your sister?”
Marek grabbed her hand and tugged.
Darissa’s first instinct was to resist, but she did not want to cause a disturbance, and Marek was a prince, so resisting him would be…well, it might not be a good idea. He had been very pleasant to her so far, and everyone seemed to like him, but still, he was a prince, a member of the royal family. He wasn’t accustomed to being disobeyed, and he had the authority to have her thrown in a dungeon if he chose. She let herself be led along one side of the great hall.
“Hinda!” Marek called. He kept his voice low.
A tall woman in a flowing wine-colored velvet dress, who had been standing by a pillar and watching one of the desk-bound officials writing, turned. She said nothing, but watched as they approached. She watched Marek at first, then as they neared turned her attention to Darissa.
“Marek,” she said, her eyes firmly fixed on Darissa. “Who is this?”
“Hinda, may I present Darissa the Apprentice? And Darissa, this is my sister, her highness Princess Hinda of Melitha.”
Darissa did her best to curtsey in the proper fashion, but was not sure how well she had done it. Nondel had not taught her royal protocol.
Hinda nodded in return. “Apprentice,” she said.
“Yes, your Highness,” Darissa replied. She did not intend to admit to being a witch unless asked directly, so she did not answer any implied question—and in truth, she was not sure whether Princess Hinda cared what sort of apprentice she was.
“And what brings you to Melitha Castle?”
“Prince Marek,” Darissa answered.
“Well, yes.” She turned her attention to her brother.
“She was helping a sick woman in the market,” Marek said. “I was moved by her kindness.”
“Your brother is too modest,” Darissa added quickly. “He helped, as well—he and his men.”
The princess did not look impressed. “Who was this woman? Your mother?”
“No, your Highness. A stranger.”
Hinda gave a slight nod that ended with her nose in the air. “I see.”
“I doubt it,” Marek said. “I can’t imagine you troubling yourself about a sick woman.”
“If you mean I prefer not to interfere in other people’s business, you’re quite right. Let her own family attend to her. I take it she’s well now?”
“No,” Darissa said. “But she’ll live.”
Hinda looked startled. “Oh,” she said.
“She lost her baby, though.”
“She… Oh.” Hinda looked slightly abashed. “Apprentice…midwife, then?”
“No.”
Before Hinda could ask any further questions, Marek had one of his own. “Where’s Dad?”
Hinda glanced at the throne. “Taking a moment to refresh himself. He should be back any time no
w. So you brought your new friend to meet the king?”
“I brought her to see the castle.” He glanced down at Darissa. “Our father is one of the sights here, so I thought he should be included in her tour. Don’t worry, I’m not going to interrupt anything; I know that’s none of my business.”
“It could be your business,” Hinda said. “After all, if you marry the right princess you might eventually wind up on a throne somewhere.”
“Well, Dad has yet to find a suitable bride for me, and I think any princess who stands to inherit a throne can do better than a third son, in any case. No, I plan to let my elder brothers look after the kingdom’s affairs.”
“Leaving you free to chase after cute little apprentices.”
Marek’s expression hardened, and Darissa could feel that Hinda’s words had hurt him more than he wanted anyone, even himself, to know.
“Look,” Darissa said, pointing. “Is that the king?”
As she had hoped, her question distracted the royal offspring from their conversation as they both turned to see.
“That’s his herald,” Marek told her, as the new arrival in the fancy white and gold tunic took up a position at the foot of the throne and raised a banner.
“My lords and ladies, and citizens of Melitha!” the herald announced, his voice somehow filling the immense room. “His Majesty, King Terren of Melitha!”
Everyone who had been seated rose.
“Excuse me,” Hinda said. She turned and hurried away.
Marek stood where he was and told Darissa, “Well, that’s my sister. And there’s my father.”
Darissa did not dare reply. Instead, following the example of everyone else in the room except Hinda and Marek, she went down on one knee as the king, in his red and gold velvet robes, marched into the hall.
Chapter Five
Morvash of the Shadows
23rd of Greengrowth, YS 5238
Morvash settled back in the chair and smiled at the white-robed, strong-featured woman who sat across from him. This was Ithinia of the Isle, the city’s famous senior Guildmaster.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
She ignored the pleasantry. “Why are you here?”
“Well, partly just as a courtesy,” he said. “I have recently relocated to Ethshar of the Spices, and wanted to let the Guild know my whereabouts.”
“Fang said you gave your name as Morvash of the Shadows. Journeyman?”
“Yes.”
“Who was your master?”
“Avizar of the Blue Eyes.”
Ithinia nodded. “You said ‘partly.’ What else?”
Ithinia seemed to prefer directness, so Morvash did not waste time on background details. “I’m staying with my uncle, Gror the Merchant, who rents the late Lord Landessin’s mansion, and I’ve noticed that several of the statues in his possession are enchanted people, rather than carved stone. It seems to me that restoring them to life would be the right thing to do, but there are two serious obstacles to that.”
“Several of them? How many is that?”
“Thirty-three people. At least. I didn’t check any of the animals, and there may have been some cases where the petrifaction was so complete I couldn’t detect it.”
Ithinia stared at him silently for a few seconds, then said, “Thirty-three?”
Morvash nodded.
“You’re certain of that?”
“As certain as I can be.”
“How many statues does your uncle have?”
“Lord Landessin was a collector. There are hundreds.”
Ithinia considered that, then asked, “Is there any record of where these statues came from, or who they might have been?”
Morvash hesitated, then admitted, “I don’t know. Uncle Gror doesn’t know anything about them, but I haven’t talked to Lord Landessin’s family.”
“I would suggest finding out as much as you can before restoring them to life. Some of them may be dangerous.”
“But they were turned to stone! If they were criminals, the magistrates would have had them flogged or executed, not petrified.”
“The wizards who petrified them may have been acting in self-defense. Hadn’t you thought of that?”
“I…well, no, not really.” Morvash frowned. “I suppose I didn’t.”
Ithinia smiled indulgently. “You’re young and idealistic. I understand. You see an apparent injustice and you want to put it right, and for many of these people, that may be what they deserve. But perhaps not all of them.”
“Perhaps not,” Morvash admitted. He remembered the young couple, and added, “But for some, I don’t see how they could possibly have done anything to justify it.”
“You know, I’ve turned a few people to stone myself; I know more than one petrifaction spell.”
Morvash was startled, but recovered quickly. “But you didn’t just leave them like that, did you? You didn’t let them wind up in someone’s sculpture collection.”
“No, I didn’t. All right, then. We’ll come back to that in a moment. For now, though, you said there were obstacles to your plan. What obstacles?”
“Well, first, I don’t know how. I can’t afford to hire someone to restore them, so I need to learn a spell that will do it.”
“You may need more than one; not all petrifactions are alike.”
“Oh, I know that, Guildmaster. And I know I’ll need to earn every spell. I was hoping you could advise me as to who might be able to teach me.”
She nodded. “I think I can do that. I could do it myself, but I don’t have the time; I’ll find someone else who knows the relevant magic. Learning it may take years, though.” She sighed. “What’s the other obstacle?”
Morvash paused, caught off-guard by the suggestion his project might take years; he had been thinking in terms of a few sixnights. Then he recollected himself and said, “I need a place to work. My uncle doesn’t want me working magic in his home; he’s afraid a spell could go wrong.”
“Your uncle is a sensible man. I fail to see, however, what this has to do with me or the Guild.”
“I was hoping the Guild might have a place available where I could experiment.”
“And why do you not simply rent or buy your own shop?”
“Because I don’t… I need a workroom, not a shop. And I was hoping to avoid the delay finding my own place would entail. Leaving these innocents petrified…” He swallowed. “I mean, I suppose they’re unaware of their situation, but they may have friends and family who miss them.”
“They aren’t necessarily unaware,” Ithinia said. “It depends how they were petrified. Fendel’s Superior Petrifaction leaves its victims conscious, though they can then be put to sleep with other spells.”
“Oh,” Morvash said. “Oh. Then we really… I must…” He stopped in confusion, overwhelmed by the thought of all those people trapped in utter isolation for years, unable to move.
Ithinia seemed undisturbed. “I agree that it would be considerate to restore them to life. I would advise you to be careful in doing so, though—some of them may have been transformed for good reasons. And I am not yet convinced the Guild should supply a place for you to do this, instead of leaving it to you to obtain a place of your own.”
“All right,” Morvash said. “I’ll find a place. Ah…do you have any suggestions? Are you aware of any suitable vacancies?”
“As I’m sure you understand, shops in the Wizards’ Quarter are in high demand…”
“I don’t need a shop,” Morvash interrupted. “Just somewhere to practice my spells.”
“Oh?”
“I work for my uncle. I don’t need to sell spells. But he won’t let me experiment in his home, so I need a workroom. It doesn’t need to be in the Wizar
ds’ Quarter.”
“Ah. I did not understand the situation. Perhaps we can help you after all.” She frowned slightly, and tapped her mouth with a finger. “As it happens, the Guild has a house we would like to dispose of. Might you be interested in buying it?”
Morvash had not expected that. “Buy? I had only meant to rent.”
“I suppose we could rent it to you. That might be just as well, really. Giving up control completely could be rash.”
That did not sound very reassuring. “What sort of house? I don’t have a great deal of money.”
“Oh, I think we can come to some sort of agreement—and some of these people you intend to rescue may be both wealthy and grateful; we’ll have to see how that works out.”
“That would be wonderful,” Morvash said.
Ithinia nodded, then rose from her chair. “Be here tomorrow around mid-morning, but don’t knock—I’ll have our agent meet you out front.”
Morvash rose as well, following his host’s lead. “Thank you!” he said.
“I’ll give her a list of wizards who may have spells you can use to unpetrify these people.”
“Thank you!” Morvash repeated.
The Guildmaster escorted Morvash from the parlor to the front door, and as she opened it she said, “Be careful.”
“Yes, Guildmaster,” he said. Then he stepped out onto the street. He glanced up at the shadowy eaves, and saw the two gargoyles peering down at them. One of them, the one who had spoken to him, was apparently named Fang. That seemed appropriate, as it had four immense fangs; he wondered how it spoke as well as it did with those things in the way.
He also wondered whether those creatures had originally been human—had Ithinia transformed them? She said she had petrified people…
“Ellran’s Immortal Animation,” Ithinia’s voice said, startling him. His gaze fell back to its usual level, and he saw that the Guildmaster had not yet closed the door.
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 5