Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  She thought she knew what love was, since she had seen it in so many other people’s hearts in the five years since her witchcraft began to blossom, and she recognized that this felt like love, but could she really be in love with the prince? It seemed so irrational. He was tall and handsome and gentle and thoughtful, but he knew nothing about witchcraft…

  But he had wanted to learn, and wasn’t there more to her life than her magic?

  She finally put the book aside and went to bed, still unsure what she felt, or what she wanted to feel.

  She was awakened by shouting outside; startled, she rolled out of bed and grabbed her apprentice robe, tugging it on. A moment later she found Nondel in the kitchen, staring out the window toward the castle.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “More fighting,” he said. “Real fighting, this time.”

  “The Eknerans attacked?”

  He smiled crookedly. “No,” he said. “Not the Eknerans, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re fighting too.”

  “What?”

  “Bhella. Bhella invaded from the south—presumably this was all arranged with the Eknerans, where they would lure our army north, and the Bhellans could then march in from the south.”

  Darissa felt suddenly cold. “So there’s a Bhellan army on the way?” She had heard stories about Bhellan soldiers; they were said to be far more than normally vicious, and prone to raping and pillaging.

  “No,” Nondel said, still smiling. “Because the moment they crossed our borders, just before dawn, a Talite army invaded Bhella behind them, and there’s a rumor that Trothluria is involved on our side, as well. I understand the Bhellan army turned back.”

  Darissa had to think for a moment to remember where Trothluria was—somewhere to the southeast, beyond Tal.

  “So this is the network of alliances you were talking about,” she said.

  “So it would appear, yes.” He turned away from the window.

  “How did you hear about it all?”

  “I talked to the neighbors,” Nondel said, nodding toward the door.

  “I’ll…” Darissa began, but Nondel cut her off.

  “We may be at war, but you are still an apprentice with chores to do,” he said.

  Darissa stopped and bowed her head. “Yes, master,” she said.

  Something over an hour later, after Nondel had gone out on an unspecified errand, Darissa returned the broom to the cupboard and went to the front door. She stepped out onto the path, and saw several people hurrying up and down the road.

  She recognized a neighbor’s son and called, “Heremin!”

  The boy, a lad of eleven, stopped and looked at her. She beckoned to him. “What’s happened?” she called.

  He glanced up the hill toward the castle, then turned and came up the path to meet her.

  “There’s a battle going on,” he said. “Our army’s fighting the Ekerans.”

  “Who’s winning?”

  “Don’t know yet,” he said.

  “What about the south?”

  “Oh, the Bhellans crossed the border first thing this morning, but word is that the Talites and Trothlurians went marching right up to Bhella Castle behind them, so they turned back.”

  “Is there fighting?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Have you heard anything about Prince Marek?”

  “Oh, they’re saying he’s the one who brought the Talites and Trothlurians in on our side! He’s supposed to be due back at the castle any time now.”

  That was wonderful news, and Darissa let out a sigh of relief. “What about Prince Evreth?”

  “Don’t know—haven’t heard about him. But Prince Terren’s leading the fight against the Eknerans.”

  “Yes, I knew that. Thank you.” She gave him a copper bit as a thank you for the news, then watched as he dashed off. Once the boy had rounded the corner, she went back inside.

  There was a battle under way—or more probably two of them—but Marek was safe, and it sounded as if the war was going well. She headed into the kitchen with a smile on her face.

  The rest of the morning and half the afternoon passed in a blur, with people running and shouting outside while Darissa stayed indoors, practicing her witchcraft and talking with Nondel. She kept listening for the shouts of joy that would follow a great victory, or the warning shouts if the enemy had defeated the army and was approaching the town, but neither one came.

  At last, though, when the sun was low in the west, a knock on the door came, and she hurried to answer it.

  It was a messenger in the king’s livery. “Darissa the Apprentice?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Your presence is required at the castle immediately.”

  “But…I’m a witch. We’re at war. Is that allowed?”

  “Your presence is required, Mistress, by royal command.” She could feel that he did not know anything beyond his orders, and that he had been made to understand they were urgent. Further argument would upset him without accomplishing anything.

  “All right; let me grab my shawl and tell my master.”

  “Be quick about it.”

  “Of course.” She ducked back into the house, found her shawl, and called into the kitchen, “I’ve been ordered to the castle. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “What? But…” Nondel emerged, wiping his hands on the dishrag.

  “Be safe, Master,” she said. Then she ran out, wrapping the shawl around her shoulders.

  The square below the castle was crowded, but much of the crowd seemed to be people milling around, unsure of what was happening; their massed uncertainty and worry washed over her. Many of them were strangers, people she had not seen in town before. “What’s going on?” she asked her escort.

  “They’ve come to get away from the fighting,” the messenger told her.

  “What’s been happening? Are we winning?”

  “I don’t know, Mistress. Stay close.” He pressed forward, trying to get through the throng to the castle.

  Darissa decided she could help with that—getting her into the castle could not really be considered part of the war, could it? She nudged the minds around her, and a path cleared ahead of the messenger just a little more quickly than would be natural.

  She crossed the market, and hurried up the steps and across the moat on the messenger’s heels, the guards and others moving out of their way. Beyond the tunnel and courtyard they entered the keep through an unfamiliar door, where the messenger led her through a series of rooms and passages until at last she found herself in a small room with a single door, a single window, a single table, three chairs, and a single occupant.

  She was not really surprised to see that it was Prince Marek. He rose at the sight of her, and for a moment she thought he was going to embrace her, but he caught himself just short of wrapping his arms around her.

  “Darissa!” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  “You didn’t really give me a choice,” she replied.

  “You’re a witch,” he said, smiling. “You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to.”

  “That isn’t always true, but…yes, I wanted to see you again. How are you? How is the war going? I understand you’re a hero of the southern front.”

  He waved the notion away. “I did what my father asked,” he said. “Evreth had laid the foundations years ago.”

  She could see that he meant it, and was not feigning humility—his brother Evreth had laid the groundwork for the alliance with Tal and Trothluria, and all he had done was implement the plans that had been prepared.

  There was a dark undertone to his thoughts that troubled her, though. “Where is Prince Evreth?” she asked.


  “Probably somewhere in Ressamor. We don’t know exactly.”

  “So he’s still cementing alliances?”

  “We certainly hope so!”

  “It sounded to me as if we had a clear edge in this conflict.”

  Marek’s expression turned somber. “We did,” he said, “but…Darissa, my brother is dead.”

  “What?” Her hand flew to her mouth. “You just said Evreth… You mean Prince Terren?”

  Marek nodded.

  “What happened?”

  “The battle, of course. Earlier today. The Eknerans launched their attack this morning, and our men fought back, but we were expecting them to try to break through our lines and move on the castle, or to attempt to flank our troops and…well, they didn’t do anything we expected. They went after my brother—all their best men went straight for him and his personal guard. They lost ground everywhere else, some of them broke and ran for the border, but they got through his guards. The officers who reported to us said they think the plan was to capture him and ransom him back, but he wouldn’t surrender, he just kept fighting, even when he had been separated from his company. They say he personally killed at least three men, and injured half a dozen more, that his sword was soaked in blood clear to the hilt, but he couldn’t hold out forever, and his men couldn’t get back to his side in sufficient numbers to help him in time. He bled to death—died as he was being carried off the field.”

  Darissa’s hands trembled. She could feel Marek’s grief, the horror and sense of loss he felt at his brother’s death.

  “We won the battle,” Marek said, his voice unsteady. “The Eknerans put everything into trying to take Terren, and we tore their lines to pieces everywhere else. They fled back across the border in complete disarray once they realized they didn’t have a captive prince to bargain with. But Terren is gone.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “General Tobul took command, and chased the enemy back to the border, and tried to parley, but the Eknerans wouldn’t talk to him. They won’t surrender. My father wanted to settle this quickly, so as to minimize long-term resentments, but…” He sighed, and did not finish the sentence.

  “I don’t understand,” Darissa said. “They’re defeated, aren’t they?”

  “Well, we thought so, but they aren’t admitting it,” Marek said. “Hinda and I think there are three possibilities—either they don’t realize yet how badly hurt they are and don’t know that the Bhellans turned back and won’t be coming to help them, or they have some other surprise in store that we don’t know about that’s going to save them, or they’re just desperate. Or crazy, which can sometimes come to the same thing. And I think that third one is the most likely.”

  “Why would they be desperate, though?” Darissa asked. “I hadn’t heard that things were so very dreadful in Eknera. I’ve been talking to the neighbors, and I heard that the old king died last year and his nephew took the throne, and not everyone was happy about it, but…is that connected somehow?”

  Marek glanced around, then closed the door to the corridor. “King Manrin didn’t just die,” he said quietly, leaning close to Darissa. “He was murdered. Assassinated. By his nephew, who is now reigning as King Abran III.” His voice was cold and flat.

  “You’re sure?” Darissa did not really need to ask; she could feel Marek’s certainty.

  “We’re sure.”

  “Do the Eknerans know that?”

  “Some do. For most of his people it’s just a nasty rumor, but there are some people in the castle, and in the royal family, who know what happened. It’s hard to keep secrets when people have enough money to pay magicians for the truth.”

  “So…I’m not sure I really understand yet. What does this have to do with the war?”

  “Abran needed to prove himself,” Marek said. “He needed to show that he would be a better king than his uncle was, that he would make Eknera stronger and richer and happier; if everyone agreed that he was doing a good job, nobody would ever act on those nasty rumors about the old king’s death. But if he isn’t a good king, there are plenty of people who want to see him pay for his crimes. He has a cousin who is next in line for the throne, or there are nobles who could set themselves up as an oligarchy.” He sighed. “We knew all about this, my family and I—you don’t stay in power if you don’t know what your neighbors are up to. But we didn’t interfere because it isn’t our business, and anything we did or said would just make his position stronger, because we’re Eknera’s natural enemy. We don’t have any alliances to invoke; no one from our family has married into theirs for a hundred years, my father has no personal friends in their court, and there aren’t any strong commercial bonds. So we let him take the throne, and left it to the Eknerans to sort it out among themselves.”

  “But then he invaded,” Darissa said.

  Marek nodded. “To strengthen his position at home. A quick victory over Melitha that would restore the territory they lost eighteen years ago, and maybe a little more, would make him look good—especially compared to his uncle, who lost that land in the first place.”

  “He murdered his own uncle—I still can’t quite grasp that.”

  Marek turned up an empty palm. “It happens,” he said. “But at any rate, he’s fighting for his life—if he doesn’t win this war, he’s done. At best he’ll be seriously weakened, his authority critically damaged, and at worst he’ll be hanged as a traitor and a regicide. So he won’t surrender.”

  “I understand,” Darissa said. “But I don’t see what this has to do with you, or me.”

  “It involves me because I am a prince of Melitha, and I am now second in line for the throne. My responsibilities have changed. I’m going to be helping my father to win this war and avenge my brother, even if it means completely destroying Eknera and probably bankrupting Melitha in the process. I’m not going to be able to wander freely about town any time soon. I can’t waste my time courting you properly.”

  Darissa was surprised by just how much those words hurt. “So you summoned me here to say goodbye?”

  “What?” The prince looked shocked. “Oh, no, beloved. Quite the opposite. I’ve summoned you here to stay with me. I love you, and I want you at my side always.”

  Now it was Darissa’s turn to be shocked. “But…we barely know each other!”

  “I know you well enough to know I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. Stay, please, Darissa. I won’t force you—I may be a prince, but you’re a witch, so I don’t know whether I could force you, and in any case I never would. If you don’t want me, then my heart will be broken, but I will accept it—but I hope you do want me.

  “Will you stay?”

  “You can’t marry me,” Darissa said. “I’m a witch.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. But I can’t let you go, either, not until you tell me I must. We can make the terms whatever you like, so long as you stay with me, here in the castle. And once the war is over and Abran III is gone, we can go wherever you like. Evreth is still ahead of me in line. Indamara may be carrying Terren’s child, if we’re very lucky. They won’t need me after the war. But they need me now, and I need you. What do you say?”

  Darissa hesitated, then said, “I’ll stay. For now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morvash of the Shadows

  26th of Greengrowth, YS 5238

  Morvash watched as the flying carpet drifted closer to the open gallery window, then beckoned it forward. The woman operating the carpet gestured, and it swung around, aligning with the casement, and surged into the gallery.

  Once inside, Morvash directed it to the spot where three large men were waiting, and the four of them carefully maneuvered the last statue off the carpet and into its assigned spot in the gallery.

  As soon as it was off, the wizard piloting the carpet swung her cra
ft around and sailed back out the window. When he was satisfied with the placement of the statue, Morvash walked across and closed the casement. Once the latch was secured he reached for his purse, and paid off his three hirelings, thanking each of them warmly and giving each a silver bit beyond what he had agreed. His uncle had, as promised, provided these men, a wagon, and other necessities for the move, and Gror had thought that would be sufficient, but Morvash had insisted on asking Ithinia to find him a flying carpet for moving the statues. The thought that if he relied on ordinary muscle someone might drop one of them down the stairs and break off pieces had made him shudder.

  Ithinia had sent this wizard, Zerra the Ageless, and her carpet had been extremely useful. She had said something about having been there before—apparently she had been involved in the partial clean-out when the Guild first claimed Erdrik’s home. She declined to give any details, though.

  Morvash had allowed three days for transferring everything to Erdrik’s house, but in fact, largely thanks to Zerra, they had completed the job in two—or rather, two days and a night, as he had thought it best to move the statue of the nude couple under cover of darkness. Now all thirty-two statues were arranged on the second floor of his rented quarters; thirty-one were lined up in the gallery and hallway, mostly elbow to elbow along the back wall, facing the windows, but a few along the front between the big casements, or in the hallway opposite the stars.

  The last statue, the young couple, was in the north alcove, where it could not be seen from the street.

  Morvash followed his workers down the stairs and out onto the street, where the carpet swooped down to shoulder height.

  “Is that everything?” its pilot asked.

  “Yes, it is,” Morvash answered. “My thanks to you, and to Ithinia.”

  Zerra turned up a palm. “Your uncle paid me. But you still owe me a favor,” she said. “I’ll probably collect it someday. For now, though, farewell.” She gestured, and the carpet rose swiftly to rooftop level, then turned southeastward and vanished into the gathering dusk.