How had she wound up here?
“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said.
Marek, who was standing beside her, looked down at her and said, “What doesn’t?”
“All of this. Everything.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Everything. Who turned us to stone? Who would do that? Why? We weren’t bothering anyone.”
“Maybe King Abran arranged it. Maybe he had some idea he could use us as a hostage to force Dad to surrender—offer the counterspell in exchange for victory. After all, he wanted to capture Terren to use that way, and threw away any chance at a legitimate victory to do it.”
Darissa could hear a note of bitterness in Marek’s thoughts at that—that failed gambit had wound up killing his brother.
“But Abran was assassinated,” she said.
“Maybe the wizard he hired didn’t know that.”
“Using magic in a war like that is forbidden.”
“I don’t think Abran cared very much about rules by that point.”
That was true, but it still didn’t make sense. “But why didn’t anyone turn us back?” Darissa protested. “Abran was dead, Eknera surrendered—why didn’t someone find us and do something about it? Your father could have hired a wizard; he wouldn’t have left us as a statue for forty years!”
“Someone must have hidden us.”
“But who would do that, and why?”
“I don’t know,” Marek admitted. “Any wizard Abran hired—well, maybe the plan was for us to disappear, and then Abran would offer us back, but when he was killed the wizard decided it would be better to just get away and leave us.”
“But how did this Lord Landessin get us?”
“I don’t know.”
“You see? It doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t anyone find us sooner? Why didn’t your father hire a magician to find us? It obviously wasn’t impossible, or whoever it is that’s looking for us now wouldn’t have come to Morvash’s uncle.”
Marek had no answer.
“There was a woman hanging around the castle I thought was a wizard,” Darissa said. “I wonder whether she might have been involved. Tall, usually wore a blue robe. Do you know who I mean?”
“I saw her,” Marek said. “I don’t know who she is. Was.”
“Did your father invite her? Maybe he knew Abran was crazy enough to use magic, and wanted to have someone in reserve to counter him.”
“I don’t know,” Marek said again. “It seemed as if I saw her talking to Hinda more than to Dad, though. No one ever introduced her to me.”
“Maybe they wanted to keep you out of trouble if they did something to antagonize the Wizards’ Guild.”
“I don’t think the Guild would worry about such details.”
“Maybe not. But you did see her talking to the king and your sister?”
“I saw her in the room with Dad, I’m not sure I ever saw them speak to one another. I did see her talk to Hinda.”
“Do you think she’s involved?”
“I have no idea, Darissa. It’s all a mystery. Maybe when we get back to Melitha it will all be explained.”
Darissa looked across the gallery at the broad casement windows. “I wonder what’s happened in Melitha.”
“So do I,” Marek said. “Is my father still alive? Is Evreth king? Did he ever find a wife? Did Hinda ever marry? Do I have a dozen nieces and nephews I’ve never met?”
“Have there been any more wars?” Darissa suggested.
She could feel Marek’s annoyance at her pessimism. “I’m just being realistic,” she said. “You told me they came along every twenty years or so.”
“Historically, they do,” Marek admitted. “But if Evreth is king, he’s smart enough he might have avoided them.”
“Evreth would be what, sixty-two?”
“Almost sixty-three.”
“And if he’s still alive your father would be…eighty-five? Ninety?”
“Ninety-two. He married late. He’s probably gone.” Marek swallowed hard at the thought.
“He could have remarried,” Darissa mused. “You might have half a dozen half-siblings back home.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. He always said my mother was the only woman he wanted.”
Darissa had enough knowledge of male appetites and children’s fond delusions to doubt that, but kings who already had a few heirs often avoided remarriage just to keep lines of inheritance simple. A second marriage really might be unlikely.
It was hard to believe that forty years had passed. Yes, she had spent most of that time conscious, but consciousness as a statue was different. There was no pain, no sensation, no heartbeat, no flow of blood, no experiences to remember, no way to judge time; it did not feel entirely real. She had never felt tired, or hungry, or hot, or cold, or much of anything. Thinking back, she could not really remember anything about all those years, because she had not done anything. When she was herself she was constantly experiencing little things without noticing them—sights and sounds and smells, warmth and cold, the feel of air on her skin, of her hair on her neck. If she was angry she felt her skin grow warm and her pulse quicken; if she was sad she would feel her mouth turn down. As a statue she had felt none of that; she had existed in a timeless void. For most of the time the only thing she could sense was Marek’s presence, and he, too, had been in that dreamy half-alive state.
She had heard Morvash wondering how people had stayed sane after centuries of isolation, and that was the explanation—it didn’t feel like centuries. It didn’t feel real.
Now the world was real again, but she was in a bizarre foreign land and had missed forty years. She heard the people around her talking about warlocks, which were apparently a new variety of magician that had been around for more than three decades and then vanished again, and she had missed the entire phenomenon. When she had looked out the window earlier she had spotted little green creatures that someone said were called spriggans, which were now a common nuisance, and she had never heard of anything like them. Someone had referred to the Empress Tabaea, who had tried to use strange magic to conquer the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars—she and Marek had missed that, too.
Others here had it much worse, of course; some of them had lost centuries. That poor dancer, Thetta—she had spent two hundred years as a statue, and all of it out in public, where she could hear people talking. They had mostly ignored her, and the ones who did say anything about her had only discussed her beauty, and the amazing talent of the nonexistent sculptor who was supposed to have created her. The discussions had often been unspeakably vulgar. No wonder she was half mad. Darissa had been sensing her thoughts, and trying to use witchcraft to calm and soothe her, but she did not think she had been having much of an effect yet.
The Northerner—Darissa could not make sense of his thoughts at all. She was unsure whether it was the language difference or something more.
And Karitha. She had only lost seven years, but she had never understood that she had been turned to stone. She had thought she was dead, and doomed to an eternity in emptiness, and then had been flung back into life only to find herself hunted by her own Tarker the Unrelenting. Every time the demon pounded on the house, Karitha flinched. She was confused and guilt-ridden and terrified. She was trying to be hopeful, but not succeeding very well. Morvash appeared to mean her no harm, and was even trying to protect her, but Karitha did not understand why—shouldn’t he want her dead for killing one of his fellow wizards? Even he really did want to help her, how long could he protect her from the demon?
For most of these people, at least no one was actively trying to kill them. Karitha did not have that comfort—and neither did Marek or Darissa, if Morvash was to be trusted.
Morvash was out in the stre
et talking to the soldiers and whoever was in that coach, so Darissa could not sense his feelings, but earlier she had not found any indication that he was lying. Since he was a wizard she could not hear his thoughts the way she might with ordinary people, but he had seemed honest. Darissa did not think she would trust anything that other wizard, Erdrik, might say, but she gave Morvash the benefit of the doubt. If he said someone was looking for her and Marek, someone probably was.
But who? And why?
“Why would someone be looking for us now?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Marek said. “I really don’t know.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Morvash of the Shadows
26th of Leafcolor, YS 5238
Lamps had been lit and introductions had been made all around, insofar as was possible. Gror had chosen his first batch of guests—Thetta the dancing girl, Alder the Strong, the merchant Kelder Sammel’s son, and a woman who Ariella had never been able to reach while she was petrified, but who gave her name as Inririan the Hairdresser. Morvash guessed his uncle wanted Thetta and Inririan because Gror had always enjoyed looking at pretty women, and was taking Alder to keep an eye on Thetta, and Kelder so that they could talk shop. Morvash escorted the five of them to the front door and watched as they crossed the street and boarded the coach.
Then he returned to the gallery, where Karitha was staring out the window, watching Tarker work his way along the front of the house.
“Did anyone find my note?” she asked.
“Not that I know of,” Morvash said. “I wonder whether a witch might be able to enhance your memory, to help you remember the secret name.” He glanced at Darissa, who had used a cord from one of the drapes to tie her bedsheet in place. Morvash reminded himself he would want to find her and Marek some real clothes once daylight returned; Erdrik’s robe was definitely overstretched on the prince’s frame. Perhaps Gror could spare some, or Pender could do some shopping. Some of the others were not suitably attired, either.
Morvash assumed his uncle would find a better garment for Thetta than what she had been wearing; perhaps he would look after most of the others, as well.
“I don’t think that can be done,” the witch replied. “I tried to look into Karitha’s memory a little while you were out talking to the guards, and couldn’t find anything at all. Ariella might do better—she hears thoughts more clearly than I do. I still don’t think she could safely get all fifty syllables, though.”
Prince Marek interjected, “Have you heard anything more about the person who was looking for us?”
“I’m afraid not,” Morvash replied. “For all I know, he’s out there right now, watching Tarker.”
Marek glanced toward the windows. “I wish I knew what he wanted. Maybe it’s good news of some kind, and not an assassin at all.”
“Maybe,” Morvash said, obviously unconvinced.
“It’s going to get me, isn’t it?” Karitha asked, still peering out the window.
“I hope not,” Morvash said.
“Everyone else will go to your uncle’s palace as honored guests, but I’ll stay trapped here until Tarker finds a way in, and then I’ll die.”
“Not everyone!” Darissa said, taking the demonologist’s hand. “We’ll stay with you!”
“That’s because there’s someone after you, too!”
Darissa did not deny it, and Morvash decided a small distraction would be in order. “The wizards aren’t going to my uncle’s house,” he said. “Lorgol, Halder, Artalda, and Quirris are going to Guildmaster Ithinia’s house.”
“But they’re going,” Karitha said. “And I’m not.”
“I’m staying,” Morvash said. “So is Pender. So is Hakin. At least until we figure out what to do about your demon.”
“Thank you,” Karitha said. “But you won’t be able to stop Tarker.”
Once again, Morvash looked for a distraction. “Pender,” he said, “do you think you could get Ariella and bring her here?”
“You told your uncle of her, to help with his guests.”
“Oh. So I did.” Morvash had honestly forgotten that. A footman was probably already on the way to Witch Alley, or would be as soon as Gror had his guests inside. “Well, my uncle’s coach will be back in a few minutes—who will go in the next group?”
That kept everyone reasonably occupied for a few minutes, and when the coach did, in fact, return, it only took a moment to herd six more former statues out to the street.
More soldiers had arrived, with torches; they had formed lines blocking Old East Avenue in both directions, and were keeping a close watch on Tarker. Morvash was horrified to see that the demon was now working its way along the foundation, crouching down to pound at the stone footings; its inch-by-inch examination of the wards was almost complete. He hoped that when it finished it would start over, but feared that it would instead do as Hakin had suggested.
Or perhaps it would come up with something else to attempt.
As he stood on the steps, watching the coach roll away, Tarker spotted him. It stood upright.
“You! Wizard!” it demanded. “Let me in!”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to!” Morvash replied. “I didn’t set up these protections, and I don’t know how they work. I’m not sure there is a way to let a demon through.”
Tarker let out a deep growl at that. “Let us see if you can pull me inside,” it said, whereupon Morvash turned and ran up the steps and across the threshold, slamming the door behind him.
He caught his breath on the stairs, then trudged up to the gallery. This had become a very long and exhausting day.
As he approached the gallery door he saw that Darissa had opened a window and was leaning out. “Officer!” she called. “Has anyone found the note the demonologist wrote?”
Morvash suddenly found the energy to run the last few feet. “Keep your head inside!” he shouted. “We don’t know how far the wards extend!”
Startled, Darissa pulled her head back inside, and a fraction of a second later a leaping demon struck the window-frame, slashing at the air where that head had been.
Morvash pushed Darissa aside and slammed the casement shut. “What were you thinking?” he asked.
“I was thinking the demon has no reason to harm me,” Darissa replied angrily. “You said it wouldn’t hurt anyone but Karitha!”
“Or someone who gets in its way,” Marek said, putting his arms around Darissa’s shoulders. “It thinks that if it can grab a human who is partly in the house, he or she might be able to pull it through the wards. It might even be right—I don’t really know.”
“Oh,” Darissa said, her anger fading. “No one told me.”
“You’re a witch,” Morvash said. “Couldn’t you sense that it was a threat?”
“No, I couldn’t,” Darissa replied, visibly annoyed. “It doesn’t work like that. I can sense people’s intentions, but that thing isn’t ‘people.’ I can’t sense its spirit at all, any more than you can.”
Morvash thought that was interesting, and filed the information away, even as he struggled to find a response and failed. Instead he walked down the gallery, past most of his remaining guests, and opened a different window, where he carefully did not lean out.
“Lieutenant Fullan!” he called. “Is there any word on that note from the demonologist’s workshop?”
“All the demonologist’s papers were burned, years ago,” the soldier called back. “No one’s sure, but it probably went with the rest!”
Karitha had come up behind Morvash; now she let out a low moan. “I’m doomed,” she said.
“Not yet,” Morvash said, as he closed the window. “The wards might hold for years.” He glanced at Hakin.
“Or they might shatter any minute,” Lorgol said. “We don’t know. If I
had all my supplies and equipment I might be able to learn more, but I don’t.” Morvash noticed his hand falling to the hilt of the knife on his belt, and guessed that was Lorgol reassuring himself that at least he still had his athame. He was still a wizard; everything else could be replaced.
Morvash looked around the room. There were still about two dozen people, and they all looked tired and hungry—Gror’s promise of groceries had not yet been fulfilled. Many of them were wearing skimpy or outlandish clothes, with hair in styles decades obsolete. He wished he could do more for them, could find them refuge more quickly. So far as he knew they were all innocents, none of them guilty of anything worse than failing to pay a wizard’s bill…
Except Karitha, of course. She was, by her own admission, a murderer, whatever the provocation might have been. Was it really wise to risk all these others for her sake? What if the demon were somehow able to bring the entire house down? What if it undermined the foundations, and the whole structure collapsed?
And as he thought that, Morvash realized that he did not hear Tarker pounding on anything. The volume and frequency of the demon’s blows had varied, but it had thrashed away at the wards for hours, stopping only to climb or leap to a new position, or to shout at Hakin or others.
But now it was silent. Worried, he looked back out the windows, just as someone whose name Morvash did not remember called, “Look!”
A light was approaching the house—not down on the street, amid the streetlamps and the soldiers’ torches, but above the rooftops to the north. The gallery windows faced the wrong direction to look at it clearly. Ignoring his own warning, Morvash opened the window and prepared to stick his head out, but then the light came swooping over the street, where he could see what it was.
Zerra was sitting cross-legged on her flying carpet, one hand steadying an unnaturally-bright lantern that stood on the fabric beside her.
Morvash caught himself with his head still inside, and called, “Zerra! Over here!”
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 29