PARADOX III
by
ROSEMARY LAUREY
AND
J. C. WILDER
ISBN 1-55316-130-0
Published by LTDBooks
www.ltdbooks.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Paradox III by Rosemary Laurey and J. C. Wilder
ISBN 1-55316-130-0
Published by LTDBooks
www.ltdbooks.com
The Shattered Stone copyright © 2004 Rosemary Laurey
After the Rain copyright © 2004 J. C. Wilder
Artwork copyright © 2004 Bryan C. Uren
Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 [www.ltdbooks.com]
All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Laurey, Rosemary
Paradox III [electronic resource] / Rosemary Laurey and J. C. Wilder.
Also available in print format.
ISBN 1-55316-130-0
I. Wilder, J. C., 1965- II. Title.
PS3612.A956P373 2004a813'.6C2004-902401-9
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FOREWORD
Fall, 2004
Dear Readers:
Once again it is early autumn...and that means it's time for a new Paradox. This year we've selected the theme of stone. In this volume you will meet Nikolaz, a cursed elf who was turned into a gargoyle, and Alys, a maiden who flees the only home she's ever known, carrying with her a secret of vital importance to the entire kingdom.
So sit back, relax, and enjoy a new Paradox...
~Rosemary Laurey and J.C. Wilder
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE SHATTERED STONE BY ROSEMARY LAUREY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AFTER THE RAIN BY J. C. WILDER
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Excerpt from Paradox I
Excerpt from Paradox II
About The Authors
Publisher info:
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THE SHATTERED STONE
BY ROSEMARY LAUREY
CHAPTER ONE
Alys watched the sexton's men load her parents' bodies onto the plague cart. Her only family was gone and she no longer had a place in Wenmere. While her father the stonemason had lived, she and her mother had been accepted grudgingly. But now that he was dead, Alys knew she must leave the only home she'd ever known.
But not yet.
"We must seal up the house, maidy," Wilf the sexton said, his voice gruff but his eyes kind. "Says the law."
"I know." Since the gray plague had first struck in midsummer, she'd seen many houses sealed, the occupants left to live or die behind barred doors. Fear left kind people uncaring, and the uncaring, cruel.
Wilf and his helpers stood a distance from her. "You'd best get back in the house then," he said. "Have ye kinsfolk in Wenmere need the news?" Alys shook her head. They both knew the answer. Her father had been recruited to work in the quarries and her mother had been an outlander from across the western mountains. "Aye, 'tis so," Wilf went on. "Best we be going then."
"One moment." Stepping inside the kitchen, Alys reached for the jar on the mantel where her mother stored her honey and cheese money, and took out four silver coins. "Here, for the burial and the prayers."
"'Tis more than needed," Wilf said.
"It is little enough," she replied, dropping them into the bucket of water that hung from the cart axle. "I would they at least get clean shrouds."
"We're out of good shrouds--" Wilf's squinty-eyed helper began, but Wilf elbowed him.
"We'll do what we can, maidy. You have my word."
"I thank you."
Alys watched from the window as the cart trundled down the rutted lane and out of sight. Tears coursed down her face as she turned into the cottage, her misty eyes barely noticing the plague warning on the door.
What matter? Either she would soon sicken and die or she would not. Few survived. She shut her eyes to block out the last memory of her parents atop the death cart: her mother wasted and her father a shadow of the man who'd hoisted her on his broad shoulders when she was a child. When they had carried him out, only the guild mark on his right arm gave any indication his body had once been strong from a lifetime of hewing and dressing rocks.
Alys sat at the kitchen table and cried until her eyes hurt and her throat was raw with sobbing. Resting her head and arms on the table, she lay there--worn, exhausted, and bereft. When she finally lifted her head, the sun was higher in the sky than she remembered. She must have slept. Small wonder, as she'd had no rest for days. Stiff, her eyes sore from weeping, she stood up. She had to think. If she did not die in the next three weeks, she would be homeless. Another stonemason would be allocated the house. Her choices were the parish house--where she'd be a drudge slaving not for pay but food most swineherds wouldn't feed their pigs--or employment as a servant, and who would hire her? With her bright copper hair, she was marked as an outsider.
No! She would take to the road. She'd cross the mountains to her mother's land. Perhaps she had kinsfolk there who would help her find honest employment. Her parents had seldom talked about their homes, only that they'd come to Wenmere for her father to work in the quarries. But every night, Alys had watched her mother turn to the west and watch the sunset. She'd hankered for her home. Alys would go there.
But first she had work to do.
She gathered up the soiled bedclothes from her parents' bed, using them to make a bonfire in the garden. She then stoked up the kitchen fire, and set two buckets of water to heat. Before she did anything else, she was going to wash off the sweat and despair of watching her parents gasp their last breaths. Once the water heated, Alys stripped off her clothes, added them to the bonfire, and washed herself from toes to teeth. After rubbing herself dry with a rough, clean towel, she washed her hair and pulled on a clean shift.
She made a supper of her mother's good cheese and some late pears, before falling asleep on her narrow box bed.
* * *
Alys woke to the gray light of early morning. She had slept the day around. Opening the window, she looked out. The dawn air was cool and morning dew lay on the fields and trees. In the distance she saw the thatched roof of Farmer Bram's house, and in the opposite direction, the church spire and a cluster of cottages. Soon the villagers would be stirring, but no one would come her way. Not with the plague mark on the door. What matter? Her world was now this cottage, and in three weeks it would be her home no longer.
She breakfasted on fresh cheese washed down with cider, and then hauled more water from the well. She rekindled the fire, set the water to heat, and dissolved cleansing crystals in the warm water,
releasing a sharp mist that stung her eyes. Alys blinked back the tears. She would cry no more. She had work to do.
She started scouring her parents' old room, washing the walls and scrubbing the floor. Their mattress she dragged outside and burned, before opening the heavy oak clothes chest. Among the clothes and spare blankets, Alys found a pair of stout leather boots that had to have been her mother's. Had she perhaps worn them on her journey here? They were a little loose on her but with two pairs of thick socks they fit. She rubbed them with lard to make them rainproof and set them aside. While she cleaned and scoured the house, she would see what else she could find for her journey.
She soon set into a routine: rising early to work all morning, cleaning and tidying the cottage room by room and chest by chest. She was thankful for her mother's storeroom, for the charity food left by the parish was poor and sparse. One day the loaf of old bread bore a footprint, and the broth, when there was any, was thin and greasy. Alys missed warm bread but thanked heaven for her mother's well-stocked pantry--she would not starve. She portioned out the stores of cheese, onions, and dried apples, putting some aside to take with her and allotting herself so much each day. She roasted roots on the hearthstones and added them to her traveling stores.
Remembering tales of other unfortunates who knew not the date or time when they were finally released, Alys marked the days by scratching marks on the inside of the pantry door, near the marks her father had made each year on her birthday.
In her isolation and fatigue, there were still bright moments. She found her parents' savings in a box in the oak chest: coin enough to buy a pony or donkey for her journey, Alys guessed, and still leave her enough for expenses on the road. Most of it she sewed into a band to wear around her waist, into the lining of her cloak, and into pockets in her petticoat. She did not trust the parish wardens, who might impound the lot as taxes if they learned of it.
She made other finds: a heavy woolen cape with a hood and soft lining--perhaps another relic of her mother's journey here--which was perfect to keep off the rain and protect her from the cold. Alys sorted her clothes, selecting the least worn to pack as spares in the leather saddlebags she'd found in the cellar, and choosing the sturdier, but well-worn ones for travel. It would be unwise to appear too prosperous.
A small wooden box, concealed under the slats of her parents' bed, yielded the strangest discovery: two small leather-bound books and a small pouch of tattered velvet containing a broken stone medallion. Alys turned the stiff pages, squinting at the strange drawings and faded writing, wishing she'd had the chance to learn to read. Perhaps these books held knowledge of her parents' past, a subject they seldom alluded to. Maybe one day she'd meet someone trustworthy who could read and translate them. The parish worthies could read, but Alys would not let them near her few treasures.
The medallion she took to the window to better examine. It was hard black stone, but when she held it in the light, the sun gleamed through, highlighting the strange markings. Odder still, hard as the stone was--she could not mark it with her nail, or the blade of a knife--the bottom edge was rough and jagged, as if part had been snapped off. Strange--no doubt her parents knew the how and why, but now she would never know. With a shrug, she slipped the medallion back into the worn velvet pouch and put it into one of her knapsack's outer pockets, packing it with her spare handkerchiefs and her comb. She then fetched her sewing basket and, with a length of strong canvas, made a secret bottom in the knapsack. Inside, she hid the two books and some of the money, concealing the secret pocket under her spare linen. Alys altered the straps so they sat comfortably on her shoulders. She had a water skin and the two worn saddlebags she'd found in the cellar. She would load them on the pony--when she had one. At night, she could make a bedroll from winter blankets folded in the chest. She washed the blankets and the clothes she planned on taking in cleansing solution, and dried them in the sun.
Time passed. The notches on the pantry door numbered twenty-one, and Alys readied herself in earnest for her departure. Her saddlebags and knapsack were packed. She wore her mother's boots, a sturdy skirt and petticoat, and a knitted jerkin. The old cloak was brushed and ready, and she was packing the last of the food when she heard the voices outside.
"Most like she's died."
"Nah! There's been smoke in the chimney each morning."
She opened the door and looked at the cluster of men. Wilf the sexton, his squinty-eyed assistant, and the chief warden she'd expected, but not Farmer Bram her neighbor, or Albet, the quarry agent. They stared at her, no doubt expecting a corpse.
"Good morrow," Alys said.
"For sure." It was Albet, the agent from the quarry. "This cottage is the property of the quarry, and since your father is dead and no longer works for the company, you must immediately--"
"Give the maid pause to settle things," Bram interrupted. "There's time enough to reclaim your property. How soon can a new stonemason arrive?"
"The custom must be followed," Albet insisted.
"'Tis no problem," Alys said, lifting her chin. "I am packed and ready to leave. The cottage is clean and prepared for the next tenant." She stepped back, hoisting her knapsack on her back as she picked up her cloak. She would need help with the saddlebags. "I'll give you a hand with those, maidy," Bram said, stepping forward.
"Wait!" The warden moved between them. "They may be infected, and must be burned."
Alys clutched the leather packs. They could not! Not after all her work! "All has been scoured with cleansing crystals as prescribed. The house is clean; my parents' bedding and the clothing burned. All I have packed is spare linen and food for my journey."
"Journey?" The warden seemed not to care for surprises.
"Be leaving, Alys?" Bram asked.
"Yes," she replied. "Since I no longer have parents or home here, I intend to return to my mother's people." No need to tell them that she had scant notion where her mother's people might live.
"We had planned employment for you in the parish house." The warden frowned.
"I thank you for your kind offer, but my place is with my kinsfolk." A fortunate choice of argument. No one could oppose a woman returning to her family.
"We must inspect the house."
Alys stepped aside. "Indeed."
The men trooped into the house, up the stairs, and then down to the cellar.
Bram remained with Alys. "I'd have given you a place by my fireside, Alys. My wife could have used a girl like you to help with the storeroom and the bairns, but the warden blocked my offer."
"I thank you for the kindness." A place with Bram and his wife would almost have been worth staying for. "I would have accepted, and gladly, but I will not stay to be a drudge. I have provisions for the journey, and I am ready to leave.
"Ye cannot carry all that yourself." He nodded at the stuffed saddlebags by the floor.
"I need to acquire a hill pony or donkey." She hesitated, lest the others hear. "I have money to pay. Money my father saved. Do you know of an available pack animal for sale?"
He nodded. "Have no fear, Alys. Ye'll have a good, sturdy pony. Come by the farm."
Minutes later, the inspectors reappeared. "Seems all is in order," the warden said. Albet and Wilf nodded in agreement. "But since you refuse parish employment, you must be gone by sundown."
Dismissed, just like that! Not a word of her loss, or thanks for her father's labor in the quarry all those years. "I will be gone."
"You cannot carry all that." The warden's avaricious eyes on her saddlebags seemed to gauge what the contents might be worth.
"No need!" Bram said, more to the warden than to Alys. "Before her father ailed, at the outbreak of the plague, he paid me surety for a pony." Without another word, he slung the bags over his broad shoulders. "Come maidy, all you need is the warden's certificate and you can be on your way."
The certificate was vital: towns and villages might be closed to her without the assurance she was free from illness.
"I can pay." Alys dipped into her pocket for the tiny purse where she kept the copper coins and a few silver.
"'Twill be three silver shillings."
A fee set, no doubt, after he saw four in her hand. She paused. Just long enough, she hoped, to give the impression of hesitation before handing over most of her visible money. She tipped three silver coins into the warden's outstretched hand. With much ado and a flourish, he wrote her name and signed his to a paper that certified her to be free of disease. She rolled it up, placed it in the pocket of her cloak, and followed Bram out into the sunshine.
"I thank you from my heart for the offer of a pony."
"'Twas little enough after your loss," he replied. "Ye are intent on leaving?"
"Given my other choice, yes." She smiled. "If the parish had permitted me to work for your goodwife..."
"Parish!" Bram snapped. "Once they spent energies in good work; now the effort goes to judgment and faultfinding!"
Alys glanced back at the cottage where she'd lived all her life. "Ways change." It was one of her father's sayings. Had he foreseen this?
"Too much at times, maidy. Come!" He turned down the bridle path that led to his land.
* * *
Bram's kindly goodwife would have Alys stay and dine, but Bram reminded them that Alys had to be gone by sunset. The goodwife satisfied herself, while her husband went out to fetch the pony, with packing freshly baked bread, ham, and part of a side of bacon for Alys.
The pony, Braniv, was a sturdy, rough-coated dun--not beautiful, but strong enough to carry Alys and her load with ease. Bram strapped on a wide saddle. "Ride as long as ye can," he said. "When the going gets steep, lead him."
Alys nodded, and when all was loaded, reached inside her cloak for the money hidden in the lining.
"'Twas indeed a good thought that hid that from the warden," Bram said.
"I was afraid they might claim unpaid back taxes, or invent unpaid fines."
"Shameful!" Goodwife Bram shook her head. "As if losing your parents and home were not enough! They want to make women beggars so they must toil in the parish house."
PARADOX III Page 1