Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth)

by Donovan, Rob

  Jacquard’s mouth opened in amazement. He knew full well what Jefferson was insinuating and was flabbergasted his advisor thought for one moment that he would even consider hiding the fact his son had received a stone. Jefferson spoke quickly.

  “No one has to know, my lord. I am not suggesting that we cover it up for personal reasons, you know I have more integrity than that. I am thinking of Frindoth, my king. Althalos is your only son, the only heir to the throne. If he is selected, then when you are gone Frindoth will be placed into chaos, everyone will lay claim to the throne. Frindoth will be placed in a worse situation than if we disobeyed the Ritual and let the Gloom devour the land.”

  Jacquard shook his head slowly, stunned at what Jefferson was saying.

  “Stop it,” he murmured, but Jefferson continued getting more and more animated.

  “We could put the stone under one of the servant’s pillows, just to avoid the controversy. There is a good chance that the stone will not even be selected, but if Frindoth gets wind that the prince could possibly be sacrificed, then they will be amassing their armies quicker than one of our prisoners scream in the Pit. They will be chomping at the bit to stake a claim on your throne. They might not even wait until you are dead. Raoul Seth will certainly invade.”

  “No, Jefferson,” Jacquard whispered.

  “I’m telling you, sire, once Frindoth learns that Althalos is part of the Ritual, the damage will be done. The seed will be planted in people’s minds at just how easy it would be for your reign and lineage to end. It will not even matter if the prince is not chosen, mark my words, they will plan to usurp you anyway.”

  “SILENCE!”

  Jefferson jumped and stopped talking, a flash of anger appeared in his eyes but quickly disappeared.

  “What you are saying goes against everything we have tried to implement since I have become king. I rule Frindoth in an open and just way, a way that I would expect to be treated by my king. I am not going to suddenly become some sneaky coward, using my position for personal gain.

  “You know this, Jefferson. I am insulted that you have even made this suggestion. Have you taken leave of your senses? Even if you switched the stone to someone else, the Order would know about it immediately. They would inform the public and there would be the revolt you talk of anyway. Only this time it would be because their king had cheated them.”

  “I’m sorry, my king. I never meant to offend you,” Jefferson said. “I was thinking what was best for the kingdom, but perhaps my personal feelings clouded my judgment.”

  “Yes, I think on this occasion they have. Now would you be so kind as to leave me to my thoughts. I appreciate your council as always.”

  Jefferson bowed and retreated down the steps slowly, wincing as he descended. Jacquard watched him disappear into the darkness. He could feel the start of a headache coming on. He rubbed his eyes and looked out over the battlements. The swallows still played their games in the sky, darting towards one another and then turning at the last minute. How could Jefferson have even contemplated hiding the fact that my son had received the stone? he thought. He must have known that Jacquard would never have gone along with it.

  He was right about one thing, though; Althalos receiving a stone was a no-win situation: if Jacquard went along with Jefferson’s plan and hid the fact from everyone, then the Order would know immediately; if they didn’t, then the Ritual would expose the deception anyway, for only the twelve selected stoneholders could cast their stones into the waterfalls. On the other hand, once the general public discovered that Althalos was one of the twelve, then certain factions would see this as an opportunity to attack the palace and seize Frindoth for themselves. They would know if Althalos was selected, then all that stood between them and the throne was an ageing king with no heir. As much as they loved him, Jacquard knew that even his own guards might turn against him in an effort to align themselves with a possible future king.

  Could he blame them? Jacquard reflected. What would be the point in defending him for a couple of years, only to be executed for treason when he eventually dies?

  Jacquard sighed, unconsciously twirling his wedding band around his finger. His thoughts turned to his dead wife. He recalled vividly the day, sixteen years ago, when he got the news that she had fatally fallen from her horse three years ago. He’d been on the very same tower when Jefferson informed him.

  Memories flashed through his mind: blood stained rocks, strands of golden hair spreading out from under a brown sheet, the crumbled outline of her head not quite how it should have been, one side seemed to have fallen in on itself.

  A solitary tear fell down his face which he wiped away in anger. He swore he would not remember her this way. Mirinda had been his life, his soul. No woman had ever made him feel so strong and so vulnerable at the same time. She bore him just one son and had been pregnant at the time of the accident with possibly another. Only Jacquard and she had known and he had never told anyone else. There seemed to be little point. Jacquard never entertained the thought of taking another wife; to him it just didn’t feel like the correct thing to do.

  “Mirinda, if only you were here. You would know what to do,” he said aloud.

  A swallow screeched overhead as if in answer.

  * * *

  Cody Ramsay sat poking the campfire. Satisfied that there was enough heat, he cracked two eggs into his frying pan and held it over the flames. He looked out from his viewpoint on the hillside at the rising sun. Its beauty never ceased to inspire him. He loved how the land changed colours in a matter of minutes.

  At this precise moment, only a fraction of the sun was visible, peaking through the mountains of Calipion. It was his favourite time of day; a few golden beams were clearly visible highlighting select sections of the terrain, singling them out to showcase their splendour. Rivers glistened, meadows shone an ever brighter shade of gold and areas of woodland did not seem so dark and mysterious.

  He set aside his frying pan and placed the cooked eggs on a wooden plate alongside the mushrooms he had already prepared. He put a few in his mouth and sat back closing his eyes, savouring the taste. Birds chattered their song to each other. Overhead he could make out the distinct screech of a hawk.

  His moment of peace was interrupted by the snorting of his horse Silverspeck. She was still tied to the tree but it was a loose knot. Cody knew there was little point in doing a proper knot because if she wanted to, Silverspeck could snap the rope easily. Silverspeck whinnied and looked directly at him.

  “All right, girl, you couldn’t let me enjoy the morning, could you?”

  Silverspeck snorted in response. Cody shovelled a mouthful of eggs into his mouth and put the plate down.

  “Okay, let’s see what we got here.”

  He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the brown stone he had found there when he had woke up. It felt smooth to touch but had a heaviness about it that did not seem to match its size. He tossed the stone in the air and watched as it glimmered in the sunlight. A brightness seemed to emanate from within. As he caught it, he contemplated what this meant for him. The hawk cried out overhead. He closed his fingers around the stone and looked one last time at the sun rising.

  “Looks like we are turning back, Silverspeck.”

  The horse nodded its grey mane, understanding perfectly.

  * * *

  Jonas Hodges may have been simple but he was no fool. He reached into the bucket and pulled out the purple stone for the fifth time that day.

  “No sir-ree, that just can’t be happenin’.”

  He was standing over the well drawing some water. Master Rankton told him to fetch four pails before breakfast—he was already very late. The first pail he had drawn, he emptied into his own bucket without any problem. He hastily loaded it into the wagon, his head filled with the possibility of finishing in plenty of time.

  He had never been trusted with the wagon before. Master Rankton was a good man to let him take both it and his favourit
e horse. Jonas was not about to disappoint him. Other masters insisted their slaves walk down to the well and only carry back one bucket at a time so they did not spill a drop of water. Master Rankton was never that strict. He let Jonas carry as many buckets as he could at once and did not punish him if he spilt some.

  Once, Jonas returned with only half a bucket of water, having tripped in his haste to return. He had been beside himself with worry and immediately offered to return to the well. Master Rankton had smiled and told him he only wanted to wash his feet in the tub that morning and to be more careful next time.

  This morning, Master Rankton told him to take the wagon on the conditions he didn’t get distracted (which Jonas was prone to do) and he was quick about it as Master Rankton was due to go to Medhurst early.

  The second pail caused Jonas to pause. Whilst emptying it into his own bucket, Jonas noticed the purple stone,

  “Would you lookee here at this,” he said. “Old Jonas has got himself a treasure rock.”

  Smiling he threw the stone back into the well. He knew better than to steal, Hector Roberts had his hand chopped off for stealing last spring. He lowered the bucket into the well. When the pail came up for the third time, Jonas frowned as the purple stone appeared at the bottom again.

  “Well how did that happen?” he said frowning.

  In the five years he had been drawing water from the well, he had never found anything but water in his bucket. Again, he tossed the stone in the well, this time he listened for the “plonk” the stone made when it hit the water.

  He shrugged and then without giving it a second thought, proceeded to turn the crank to bring the bucket up again, whilst humming to himself. This time when the purple stone appeared Jonas was mightily confused. He was certain it was the same stone, but how? He put the stone in the bucket and watched it sink.

  “If it sinks in the bucket, it must sink in the well. Yes-siree, Jonas knows that much. So how are you ending up in the bucket?” he said, holding the stone in his hand now.

  This time he placed the stone on the side of the well and lowered the bucket. When the bucket came up with just water in it, he was perplexed.

  “Tis the stone, that proves it. Yup, yup, yup. Frindoth wishes me to have it.”

  Over the next hour Jonas tried many different ways of ridding himself of the stone: he threw it down the well again and again; he hurled it as far as he could into the nearby fields; he even buried it in the ground. Each time when he drew water from the well it was in the bucket. Exasperated he sat down.

  “Jonas is not no thief.”

  He concluded that if he tossed the stone back into the well and didn’t draw any more water, then he couldn’t possibly steal the stone. So that is what he did.

  As he sat on the wagon back to Master Rankton’s, he was not surprised when glanced down and saw the purple stone sitting next to him.

  * * *

  Ulric von Coolidge rocked back and forth as he sat on his porch sharpening his sword. It was a routine he carried out every day since he could remember. Around him the busy sound of the forest filled his ears. Birds chirped in the trees and rodents scurried in the undergrowth. He was hundreds of leagues from anyone and that is how he wanted it.

  Next to him sat the gold stone he had found by his bed when he had woken up that morning. He lifted the sword and examined the blade, the metal shone in the morning sun. Whilst holding the hilt up to his face, he extended his right hand alongside the blade as if he was cocking an arrow. He lifted his thumb so that it was at a right angle to the rest of his fingers and then ran the blade slowly across the thumbnail. The blade bit into the nail instantly.

  Content that it was sharp enough, Ulric von Coolidge then focused his only good eye on one of the tin cans in front of him. He breathed deeply, letting his body calm. When the blade stopped trembling in his hand, he swung at the cans, slicing them neatly in the centre. He grunted in satisfaction. An itch under his eye patch began to irritate him. He lowered the sword and cried out, glaring at the gold stone next to the chair. Why me? he thought to himself. Haven’t I served Frindoth enough? Is my eye not good enough to appease the triple moons? Were not my family enough of a sacrifice?

  Ulric knew all too well what the gold stone meant. He knew he would have to travel once again to Lilyon where he would be forced to mix with other people, to wander among them, pretend to care as they talked of their petty lives (for they all did). Worst of all he knew he would have to face him.

  After all these years, after swearing never to go near him again, all he wanted was to live out the rest of his days alone and in peace. Alone with his grief and self-pity.

  A twig snapped causing him to assume a fighting stance. Ulric’s eye widened as he saw the imposing black figure standing no more than ten paces before him. He was bare-chested save for an intricate necklace made up of small animal bones and shells that hung from his neck. His bald head reflected the sun, causing it to look almost white. He held his hands slightly raised at his sides, palms outfacing.

  “Mondorlous,” Ulric said. “Only you could creep so near to me undetected.”

  “Your great skills are weakening, old man. For I was not trying to be quiet,” Mondorlous replied softly.

  Ulric snorted at this and lowered his sword. He had once tangled with the warlock and although he had held his own, leaving both a healthy respect for each other, he had no desire to do so again.

  “So Iskandar couldn’t trust me to fulfil my duty and go to Lilyon?”

  Mondorlous looked at the gold stone at Ulric’s feet.

  “Pack your things, I’ll come and get you in an hour,” he said before turning and walking back into the forest.

  * * *

  Jefferson transformed his features and hobbled through the city. He cursed as he was forced to meander through peasants offering him fruit that already showed signs of rot. He despised the feeling of claustrophobia as they crowded round him, their stench overwhelming.

  Unlike the clean air from the lofty position of the palace, the air at the base of Lilyon was consuming. When he was unable to move even two steps without stopping, he lost his temper completely by striking a man with his cane who had persistently thrust a bruised bunch of bananas in his face. The man’s head made a loud satisfying crack as he fell against the cobblestones.

  He looked up at Jefferson in disbelief as his hand felt the back of his head and was covered in blood. Jefferson grinned as the man’s toothless mouth remained open with shock as he stepped over his body. Shouldn’t sell at such an extortionate price, he thought.

  After that, the peasants gave him a bit more room. Jefferson’s mood lifted. He was enjoying the power he felt as he made his way through the streets. He approached the west gate and turned off from the main streets to travel down the side streets. The further he travelled into the maze of side turnings, the more the traffic thinned.

  Soon he found himself halfway down a dark alleyway, that contained nothing but an abandoned wagon and some scattered barrels. In front of him was a dead end as the solid outer wall of the city towered above him. He looked behind him, there was no one in sight. Either side of him were tall wooden dilapidated houses built on a foundation of stone. Despite the congestion in the city, no one purchased these buildings. Jefferson had seen to it that they were far too overpriced for what they were and the location they were in.

  Last year, a rich merchant attempted to purchase them, with grand designs of knocking them down and erecting a new tavern in their place. Jefferson recalled how the merchant had strode into his office, his rotund belly puffed out even further with arrogance and demanded that Jefferson name his price. The merchant had too much money and very little sense, and saw it as a hobby to try and rebuild the slums into something splendid. Jefferson had taken a great deal of pleasure in refusing the upstart, a man that was clearly used to getting his way. The man had cursed Jefferson and issued several threats before he stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. A week
later he was found on his chamber pot with his throat slit and five gold coins stuffed in his mouth.

  Jefferson ran his hand along the surface of one of the outer walls. He tapped each stone as he did so. When one of the stones sounded hollow, he paused and glanced back along the alleyway again. Content no one was around, he pulled the stone away from the wall to reveal a hidden lever. He pulled it and immediately a slab with some of the barrels in the cobblestone street slid to one side to reveal a stairway that descended into darkness. The wagon obscured the secret passageway to any casual walker who might appear at the end of the alley. He looked round a final time to be sure he was alone and then descended into the darkness, the trapdoor closing behind him.

  After a few moments, Jefferson’s eyes adjusted to the dark. Away from the public, he no longer needed to keep up the pretence of using the cane. Instead he lifted the end to his face and blew on it. A brilliant blue flame engulfed the tip and the passageway was illuminated before him. He strode purposefully down the stairs, all hint of his limp vanished. At the bottom of the stairs, a solid oak door blocked his path. He rapped impatiently on the surface and within seconds a small window slid open to reveal a cottar peering through.

  “Who goes there?” the guard said.

  “Jefferson, you fool, now stand aside and let me through.”

  “I … I … I … need the password, sir,” the guard said.

  “Helvasta, you impotent worm.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  With that Jefferson heard a bolt slide across and the door swung open.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you can never be—” Jefferson kicked the door into the guard, stopping his apology mid-sentence. The guard fell to the floor dazed, his nose a mass of blood.

  “Don’t mention it,” he said as he entered.

  Inside the corridor he could hear distant screams of pain and torture. Alongside him were rows upon rows of prison cells, each one interspersed with flaming torches. Jefferson proceeded to walk down the corridor. He could make out the silhouette of the prisoners in the darkness. Some were lying on their straw beds, whilst others merely stood watching him. One brave prisoner reached out to grab him. Jefferson grabbed his outstretched arm and yanked it against the steel bar. It snapped instantly and the prisoner howled in pain. Alerted by the distressed cries, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor.