And perched on the post that held the sign was her raven.
“This is the place,” she said.
The sound of hammering filled the workshop—tink, tink, tink—as busy hands worked to form the shape of bowls or cups against the curved necks of little anvils. One man was pressing designs into a silver tray, carefully placing his punch, then striking it smartly with a hammer: thunk! Over by the forge, a journeyman and an apprentice did double-duty with the bellows.
Molly closed her eyes and tried to recall her grandfather’s workshop as she’d seen it in her visions. There’d been shelves to display his fine silver pieces against the right-hand wall, and the central worktable had been smaller. But the forge was in the same place, and she remembered the graceful arched window that filled the end wall of the long, narrow room. Yes, she was sure. This had once been the workshop of William Harrows, the place where Molly had watched him die.
“My lady?” Stephen said, gently touching her arm. “Will you please step this way?”
He guided her back toward the front of the room where a stocky man waited, looking very grand in saffron-colored silk. Pinned to his wine-red velvet cap was a handsome brooch: four pearls set in a diamond shape with a single ruby drop hanging from its lowest point.
“Lady Marguerite,” Stephen said in his best courtly manner, “may I present Master Frears, the owner of this shop.”
The man bowed and his ruby danced.
“Master Frears purchased this shop from another goldsmith, who had bought it years before from the crown. But he’s certainly heard of William Harrows, who is something of a legend in Goldsmith’s Lane, and assures me that this used to be his workshop.”
“Did you ask about the Loving Cups?” she said in Westrian.
“Not yet. I’ll do it now.”
While Stephen asked the question in flawless Austlinder, Molly scanned the countertops and shelves. There were any number of goblets on display, but all of them were in the new style, slender and tall. So unless Master Frears had some old pieces locked away somewhere . . .
Suddenly she realized how unlikely that was. The workshop and all of its contents had been seized by the crown. Besides the building, that would have included the tools and furnishings; William’s stock of silver and gold, jewels, ivory, pearls, coral, and onyx; and any finished pieces that had not been sold. It would have been the same with the family’s home. The king’s men would have come and carried everything away, from Greta’s cradle and Martha’s gowns to the pots and andirons in the kitchen. If there’d been a Loving Cup in either place, King Reynard had it now.
Disheartened, she turned back to Master Frears just as Stephen was rounding off his question. She saw the goldsmith cast a quick glance around the room, trying to decide which of several goblets he could pass off as a Loving Cup.
Was it even worth the effort of going through the motions, looking at what he had to offer, shaking her head, watching as he grew ever more desperate and offered her still more expensive cups her grandfather hadn’t made? Yet they’d come so far to find the cup. And what if Master Frears should suddenly remember: “Oh, you must mean that old thing—excuse me, I meant that classically beautiful piece up there on the top shelf hidden behind the silver-gilt bowl?”
It wasn’t likely, but it might happen.
She was staring at the floor, trying to decide what to do, when she had the distinct impression that she was being watched.
I see you! said a voice in her head.
Molly looked up and saw a stooped old man sitting in a corner at the back of the shop. He was polishing a small bowl with a white cloth and gazing fixedly in her direction. She tugged gently at Stephen’s sleeve to get his attention. “There are no Loving Cups in this shop,” she whispered, “but keep him busy, will you? There’s something I need to find out.”
Stephen nodded and returned to the goldsmith while Molly wandered away.
The old man’s face didn’t change as she came closer. He just continued to stare straight ahead. And then she understood. He hadn’t been looking at her at all—the man was stone-blind.
Yet he spoke to her again in that strange way. His lips weren’t moving and she wasn’t hearing a voice, yet she knew exactly what he was saying.
You’re one of them, ain’t you?
She squatted down so they were face to face. “What did you mean, ‘You’re one of them’? One of who?”
He rocked back and forth on his stool.
One of them magical folk from Harrowsgode.
“No. I’ve never heard of Harrowsgode. But my grandfather was called William Harrows, and he wasn’t born here; he came from somewhere else. Is that the place, then? Harrowsgode?”
Aye. He was magical, too. He’s dead now.
She caught her breath, trying to stay calm. “Did you know him—William Harrows?”
I was his shop boy, till he were murdered. I saw him lyin’ right there. He pointed to a spot by the forge. Right there he was. Strangled.
Molly shivered, picturing this man, just a young boy then, coming in to sweep up the shop and finding his master’s body. No, she suddenly realized—more likely he was there all along. He watched the murder through a keyhole. Then when it was safe, he came creeping out and rifled through her grandfather’s pockets, looking for coins. Or slipped the rings off his fingers.
He didn’t need it anymore.
She started. “What? What didn’t he need?”
The old man wouldn’t say.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Molly promised.
You’ll take it.
“No, I won’t!”
But he seemed unconvinced, his face suddenly that of a sullen child.
“Why would I want it?” she said. “I’m magical, remember? I can make anything, any old time: money, rings. . . .”
The old man shook his head, a knowing expression on his face. Then with fumbling fingers he reached into the leather bag he wore strapped to his belt. Finding what he was searching for, he grinned, displaying three brown teeth, one of them broken.
“You’re wasting my time, you know. Either show it to me or don’t. It’s of no concern to me.”
He pulled his hand out of the bag, but he still kept his fingers curled around whatever it was he held. Then slowly he loosened his grip. Molly leaned in and stared.
At first she took it for a giant opal and was calculating what it must be worth—a stone like that could be the centerpiece of a great king’s crown. She could see right into its heart, as you can see the pebbles on the bottom of a clear, deep spring. Only this wasn’t the pale transparency of water; it was alive with color—deep blues and brilliant greens, with tiny flashes of red. And it didn’t just capture the light as even the finest jewels do—this stone had its own light. It glowed like a candle.
The old man closed his fingers around it again. Molly thought hard.
“Did William make that?”
Aye. He were magical, like I said.
“What’s it for? What does it do?”
William talked to it. Muttering all the time, he was. Having conversations.
“He had conversations with a stone?”
No. He squinted, trying to remember. More like talking to people who was far away. Old friends, it sounded like.
“And they answered back? Could you hear them?”
No, but he could.
“That’s very magical indeed.”
Yeh. I just thought it was pretty.
“It is. It’s beautiful.”
But now . . . His face brightened. He took his balled fist, still clutching the opal, and pressed it to his lips and then to his eyes. I can see you and speak to you.
“Yes.”
Ain’t never happened afore. That’s how come I know you be one of ’em.
“This place,” she said. “Harrowsgode. Do you know where it is?”
Up north.
“Where, up north?”
By the sea.
“Due north? How far?
”
He seemed distracted now, troubled. I shouldn’t of took it. I shouldn’t of. He rocked slowly back and forth, humming a tuneless melody, not looking at her anymore.
Finally Molly left him and returned to the front of the shop, where Master Frears was making a drawing for Stephen on fine vellum. The picture showed a lidded cup with rubies around the base. He’d gone to the trouble of painting the stones in red, which is how she knew what they were. It was a handsome piece, and the drawing was fine. But it wasn’t a Loving Cup.
Stephen gave her a questioning glance.
“We’re leaving,” she said. “Say something polite.”
“That’s it, then? Back to Westria?”
“On the contrary. We’re going to Harrowsgode, where my grandfather was born. That’s where we’ll find a real Loving Cup.”
“Ah,” said Stephen. “And where exactly is that?”
“North.”
And when Stephen raised his eyebrows, hoping for more, “By the sea,” she added.
5
North, by the Sea
THE LANDLORD AT THE INN had never heard of Harrowsgode. He hadn’t thought there were any cities in the northlands at all. The region was said to be barren and wild, with just the occasional village, maybe a few sheep and goats on the hillsides. They might come across an inn or tavern along the way, but probably not. He advised them to take along plenty of provisions.
The north of Austlind proved to be everything the landlord had described, and more. Before the first day’s ride was ended, the terrain had grown desolate and rocky, with nothing but the occasional decrepit cottage and a rutted path for a road. And with so little grass for sheep and goats to graze upon, the hillsides were bare.
Lord Mayhew rode ahead of them, keeping a sizable distance between himself and the others. If he could so much as hear the sound of their voices, he’d give his horse a nudge with his spurs. He’d been cold and aloof from the start. But since Faers-Wigan, he’d progressed from aloof to sullen, brooding, and hostile.
It was Molly’s proposal—that they should head off into the wastelands of the north, with no real directions, in search of a city that might not exist, to buy a fancy cup for the king—that had done it. He’d refused to go, firmly and absolutely, till Molly finally called his bluff.
“All right,” she’d said with a shrug, “then we’ll just have to go on our own. But good luck explaining to the king why you came back to Westria without us, the people he’d sent you to protect.”
It had been heavy-handed, Molly knew; no doubt she’d made an enemy for life. But she didn’t really see that she’d had a choice. Alaric wanted an alliance with Cortova, and to get it he needed the cup. It would have been so much easier if Mayhew had known the importance of their mission. But he didn’t. Mayhew couldn’t be trusted.
She asked Stephen about it later, and he’d agreed she’d done the right thing. “Though for a while there I was afraid he’d break with us entirely, go home, and do God knows what—start an insurrection or something. He felt so strongly about it; and he’s accustomed to giving orders, not taking them.”
“Especially from a trumped-up—”
“From anyone, Molly. Even the king. But Mayhew, for his many faults, is a man of honor. He’s a knight, and a great one, trained since childhood to give everything he has to the task he’s been assigned. Usually that means risking great bodily harm, but in this case it was harder: he had to lay down his pride and go against his firm convictions. Few men of his stature would have done it, but Mayhew did. I’m still thinking about that, but it gives me hope.
“But you’ve stirred him up. You know how it is when our horses cross a stream: they kick up mud and silt from the bottom, and the water turns cloudy? Then after a while it settles, and the water is clear again? That’s how it is with Mayhew. Let’s leave him alone for a while and let the anger subside.”
“I’ll do my best not to annoy him in any way.”
“I think that would be very wise.”
On their fifth day of wandering in the wilderness, they left the barren plain and started to climb. The air grew crisp and clear again, the dull brown landscape giving way to green. And straight ahead of them loomed a seemingly endless range of mountains.
For the first time Molly began to wonder if she’d imagined all that business about the blind man, and the magical stone, and the city to the north, by the sea. If so, then she had failed Alaric utterly and absolutely, while making Mayhew even more resentful than before and embarrassing herself past bearing.
Then, late in the day, they came quite unexpectedly upon a tidy village. It even had an inn of sorts—small, but remarkably clean. After nights of sleeping on the ground wrapped in their cloaks for warmth and using their saddlebags for pillows, they would sleep indoors on real beds.
The landlord sent a lad up to their rooms with towels and bowls of steaming water so they could wash before coming down to dinner. And as summer nights were cool in the highlands, he’d built a roaring fire in the hall and brought a pitcher of warm, spiced ale to their table. They began to hope that the food might even be good.
“One travels,” Stephen said, “and one comes to expect certain things. Occasionally one is surprised.”
“Yes,” agreed Mayhew with something approaching a smile, “it’s a pleasant change. Did you ask the landlord about Harrowsgode?”
“I did. It’s in a valley on the other side of those mountains.”
“He’s heard of it, then? Good. How do we get there? I’ve been staring at that blasted range for days, and for the life of me I can’t see a pass or a road of any kind.”
“The landlord couldn’t tell me. Apparently no one ever goes there.”
“And why is that?” There was an edge to his voice that said he was sure he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“Because . . .” Stephen paused and sighed, his face wiped clean of expression. “It is an evil place, and all who enter the valley are turned to stone.”
Silence followed, each of them trying to digest this curious morsel of information.
“How does he know that,” asked the logical Tobias, “if he’s never been there?”
“It’s common knowledge, part of the local folklore for hundreds of years. There are actual stone people, right there at the entrance to the valley, for anyone to see.”
“Oh, pish,” said Winifred.
“I’m just telling you what the fellow said.”
“And this entrance to the valley, the way in—that isn’t part of the folklore?”
“Unfortunately not. But it stands to reason that if the people here know about the city and fear it as they do, then someone from this village must have gone there once, however many years ago, and come back with fanciful tales. It has to be close. And I doubt he climbed over the mountains. There must be a way in.”
“Well if there is, it’s bloody impossible to see. And unless there’s a road leading to it—which there won’t be, since no one ever goes there—we’ll be traveling blind.”
Tobias cleared his throat and said, “Um.”
“Um, what?” said Mayhew.
“The raven. I think he knows. I think he’s been leading us there this whole time.”
Nobody moved then; nobody spoke. All eyes turned toward Mayhew, waiting for him to object—strongly and with curses. But he just stared into the fire, nodding slightly.
“Yes,” he finally said, laughing darkly. “We do still have that bloody raven.”
As they feared, no road led north from the village, not even the trace of an overgrown path. They had nothing to guide them now but the large black bird that continued to fly toward the mountains, never very far ahead. Then, after hours of riding in anxious silence, when the sun was well up in the sky and the dew was gone from the grass, the raven banked sharply to the left. As they followed, the land sloped down into a narrow gully, rather like a dry riverbed; then suddenly the path veered off again to the right and entered a narrow canyon.<
br />
No one could have seen it, even at close range, because it ran at an angle, looking like nothing more than another ridge of rock. Yet there it was: two massive walls of honey-gold stone rising so high they had to crane their necks to see a slender strip of sky and so close together they could spread their arms and almost touch both sides. It was as though an angel had sliced through that mountain with his heavenly sword.
In single file they entered the dark, narrow space, the horses treading carefully on the rocky canyon floor.
“I’ll bet this runs like a torrent when it rains,” Tobias said.
“I’m sure it does,” Stephen agreed. “It’s a good thing the sky is clear.”
“Weather changes sometimes,” muttered Winifred.
Now the gorge grew narrower still; their knees and the toes of their boots brushed against the walls. Molly hated close spaces and began to feel uneasy, imagining dead ends and freak thunderstorms, a great wall of water rushing toward them. . . .
“We’re almost there,” Tobias called from behind her. “Notice the light.”
“What about the light?”
“There’s more of it than there was before, especially on the right-hand wall. That means it’s shining in from the left. Soon we’ll turn and you’ll see the opening.”
And so it was. The space between the walls did grow wider. Then they made a slight turn to the left and saw straight ahead of them an opening onto a broad, rocky shelf. Mayhew dismounted and handed his reins to Stephen. Then he walked to the rim and looked down. He stood there for a while, unmoving—and then he laughed.
“What?” they all cried as one.
“People,” he said. “Turned to stone.”
Molly slid down from her horse and joined him on the rim. A switchback trail led down from the ledge to the valley below; it passed through a strange cluster of rock formations, humanlike and as tall as giants, with rounded heads and curved shoulders dropping down on all sides like flowing robes. From the top of one of those enormous heads there sprouted a delicate pine like a feather in a gentleman’s cap.
The Cup and the Crown Page 3