Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  “Just a pebble,” she said, working hard at throwing away her remark. “It’s rather pretty. Think I’ll keep it.”

  Leila placed the stone in her pocket and wandered around the proposed site before making her way inside the castle. Her performance was measured and convincing, yet, Morden somehow had an inkling that something was wrong. He chose to ignore it, for now.

  * * *

  Leila had, unwittingly, lived within the shadow of the Firestone for decades, courtesy of her friendship with Elaine. She had not, however, experienced a sustained physical connection to its malignancy. She began by simply examining it, enjoying the sating of her need and the sense of power that it evoked. Using the rudimentary methods at her disposal, she searched for properties within the rock that could have favourably affected the Project. Months passed with no discernible progress until the day she lost patience and turned back to conjuring, hoping to relieve her frustration.

  Instantly sensing that her powers of magiking had somehow been magnified, Leila revelled in the sensations flooding her body, mind and spirit. At first, for fear of discovery, she kept the Firestone locked away, but, as her confidence and abilities grew, she started to carry it with her, nestled in a pocket near her heart. As before, she experienced vast fluctuations in her emotions; however, as the Firestone strengthened its hold, she suffered fewer periods of withdrawal and, thus, appeared to the outside world as stable. Yet, within her soul, a hunger for more and more magical power was gaining a stranglehold on her humanity.

  Then, during one horrible night of conjuring, she succeeded in changing a spider into a large bluebottle. Sordid elation drowned any remaining ethical qualms and didn’t soon fade, not even when the mutated insect writhed in agony and died, soon after its transformation.

  All I need is more power, she thought, in a curious echo of the Project, and proceeded to use every nefarious method she knew in an attempt to unlock the stone’s greater potential. Frustrated by her inability to proceed further, she secretly approached her former mentor.

  Gergan hadn’t seen his ex-lover in years and was none too pleased to find her on his doorstep. Though intrigued by her description of the Firestone, he strove to get rid of her as soon as possible. The price of success was agreement to search out any remaining ancient magiking documents, in order to assist her. Not that he expected there to be any left in this realm. The old manuscripts had been burnt at the time of the purge, generations before. It was likely that the ancient spells only persisted in the infamous Darklands, across the sea.

  Unwilling, as yet, to abandon her family and with her conscience beginning to trouble her, Leila didn’t visit Gergan again – much to his relief. Like a drowning woman’s final rise to the surface before succumbing to her fate, Leila’s principles bobbed up to snatch a last breath. After toying with the idea of confiding in Morden, she soon discarded it. She could not face his disappointed censure, nor risk him telling Gawain. He would, at the very least, confiscate the stone - something she could not countenance.

  Thus, determined to deal with matters herself, she endeavoured to limit her time with the Firestone, but its influence was already too marked. Having suffered through one night of appalling withdrawal, Leila went back to magiking the very next morning. It was not that she didn’t love her husband and son; it was just that she needed the rush of power more.

  Soon bored with everyone and everything, other than that festering stone, Leila wore a mask of interest in her family’s company and avoided Morden; the one man who might have guessed the truth.

  * * *

  Leila sat in her cushion-covered chair and twitched. Although used to concealing her extreme boredom with a veneer of smiling interest, it had begun to crack under the strain of interminable displays of masculine prowess. The tournament had begun shortly after noon, being staged within the newly cleared castle courtyard and watched by hundreds of appreciative spectators. Each display of fighting and riding skill was hotly contested by Gawain’s eager troops and roundly cheered by all. The strident clanging of adult swordsmanship had, late in the afternoon, given way to the more gentle ‘thump’ of wood on wood as the more youthful element had their moment in the spotlight.

  Sporting his smaller, lighter and less dangerous wooden sword, seven-year-old Harlin was busily despatching his latest opponent, to the barely concealed yawns of his mother. Morden might have noticed her disinterest, had he not been already engaged. Bert was their tutor and extremely proud of his pupils, particularly Harlin; therefore, in the interests of impartiality, it was left to Morden to referee the boys’ contests. Harlin had, so far, defeated all opposition, until a six-year-old prodigy entered the fray.

  Myrrdinus was tall for his years and exceptionally strong, bearing his father’s robust build and his mother’s delicate facial features. He was also a gifted fighter, if not academian. To the disappointment of his surrogate mother, Melith, he was exhibiting a marked distaste for books of any description or subject; a fact that seemed to bother Asher not at all. This was hardly a revelation to Melith. She had discovered, early in their marriage, that her love of writing poetry would go wholly unappreciated by her otherwise besotted husband. Their own five-year-old daughter, Gwyneth, had already shown signs of inheriting her mother’s gifts, with the additional talent for attaching herself to a certain older boy. Melith, a fond smile lighting her plump features, watched her daughter cling to a reluctant Myrrdinus. When her long awaited second child arrived - due in the winter - her happiness would be complete.

  When Myrrdinus arrived at the makeshift arena with Gwyneth clinging to his arm, the resulting laughter mortified the boy and made the blood rise to his face. As Morden gently jiggled the girl loose and handed her over to her apologetic father, Myrrdinus caught a glimpse of his opponent’s expression. Harlin was daring to laugh at him!

  This disrespect was Harlin’s undoing. Although both boys had been trained by Bert, Harlin was older and, accordingly, a more experienced fighter. Myrrdinus, however, had greater talent and anger on his side.

  The bout was a little too brutal for Morden’s liking. He was forced to step in on four occasions when matters seemed to be getting out of hand. With the contest locked at stalemate, he was about to declare a draw when a clever feint, followed by a spectacular three hundred and sixty degree spin, finally tipped the contest in Myrrdinus’s favour. To the thundering cheers of the spectators, Gawain was delighted to confer the title and trophy upon the triumphant, youngest ever, winner of the boys’ title.

  Harlin outwardly maintained his self-control, remaining gracious in defeat. Inwardly, he was seething. He hated to lose in front of his father and Bert, especially to a younger boy.

  “Betterly luck next time,” Bert said, slapping Harlin on the back on his way to congratulate his vanquisher.

  As everyone surrounded Myrrdinus, Harlin was left standing alone, his wooden sword hanging at his side. It was then that he noticed the empty chair; his mother had already left the courtyard. In need of comfort which, clearly, he would not receive from anyone else, he went in search of her. His departure went unnoticed.

  * * *

  With everyone, including her husband and the ever suspicious Morden, engaged in congratulating his precocious son and tucking into the feast that followed the tournament, Leila was granted a few minutes to herself. The day had felt much akin to a sojourn in purgatory. It was an utter relief to caress her beloved Firestone and let it magnify the power within her.

  Music soon began to emanate from the castle courtyard as the sun set over the revellers. Believing everyone to be engaged in eating, dancing or both, Leila neither expected, nor heard, her son’s approach. Harlin had, by some foul luck, succeeded in tracking her down and was almost at her shoulder by the time she detected his presence.

  “What are you doing?” she spat, rounding on him. “Are you spying on me?”

  One hand clamped down on his shoulder with a vice-like grip.

  “N...no, mother,” Harlin stuttere
d, pulling free of her grasp and swiftly backing away from the enraged woman. “I just...”

  His words cut off as he backed into a table and jumped in terror. Harlin had experienced his mother’s anger before, but he had never seen this look in her eyes. Her entire demeanour had altered, as though something evil was straining to escape. Suddenly, the mask of rage fell away, to be instantly replaced with one of sincerity.

  “I’m sorry, Harlin,” she said, holding out her hands in supplication. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but you scared me.”

  Harlin was unsure whether he should stay or run. Before he could come to a decision, Leila reached his side. Kneeling, she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him to her.

  “There now,” she soothed, rocking him in her arms. “Mummy isn’t angry with you.”

  Even a seven-year-old boy can sense when something isn’t right. His mother hadn’t embraced him in this fashion since he was a baby. He knew that her interest in him and his father had been waning for years. Yet he craved parental affection and was primed by circumstances to accept it, even if it was false.

  Returning the embrace, he glanced over her shoulder and saw the table at which she had been so engrossed. An array of wood and metal containers surrounded a copper basin in which lay a thick green liquid. An occasional burp of gas disturbed the foetid surface.

  Harlin was young, but no fool. He had heard whispered stories from older friends, depicting a dark, distant past, full of evil and ruin. The tales had been meant to scare him, but had had quite the opposite effect. Romanticising the idea of magical powers through which he could make everyone love and respect him, he had developed a fascination for the banned art. His tutors swiftly curtailed questions from their pupils on such matters and Harlin dared not ask his father. Even Bert, when approached, supplied only a curt, “We not talking bout it,” before walking away. When Harlin saw the bubbling liquid, he instantly knew what his mother was doing.

  “Ye be magiking!” he gleefully announced.

  Leila released the embrace, just in time to see his huge smile beginning to fade.

  “You can’t tell anyone about this,” she urged, grasping his arm so tightly that the flesh bruised into the outline of her fingers.

  “No, mother,” he agreed, his gaze slipping back to the table.

  Leila recognised that look. It was the one she wore when no-one was around to witness it. “Do you want to see?” she ventured.

  The question had passed her lips before she contemplated the consequences. She had not travelled so far down the road of evil that she considered it a small matter to involve her own son in magiking, but it was already too late. Harlin wriggled free from her grasp and was about to poke his fingers into the burping green toxin.

  “No!” Leila shouted, her voice loud, even to her own ears. The music continued in the courtyard, drowning out her exclamation, but she reduced the volume of her voice for safety’s sake. “Don’t touch it,” she urged, pulling the boy’s fingers away from the vicinity of the bowl. “It’ll burn you, badly.”

  She fished a severed bird’s foot from a metal container and carefully lowered it into the liquid. The surface began to bubble furiously, releasing thick, black smoke with every gelatinous burp. The pitiful bird’s foot floated back to the surface, its skin stripping away from red-hot welts, yet the liquid appeared stone cold. The demonstration had the desired effect: Harlin swiftly developed a respect for the foul art, along with a burgeoning addiction.

  “What be for?” he asked, his eyes glowing as red as the withering bird’s foot.

  Leila didn’t hesitate. His enthusiasm was infectious and she had practiced alone for so long. “It’s a potion,” she told him, holding a black rock before his eyes. “I’m trying to increase the power of this.”

  Harlin beheld the Firestone for the first time. He would live to wish that it had been the last.

  * * *

  Mother and son worked side by side, feeding each other’s obsession and growing closer than they had ever been before. Gawain was delighted with the flourishing relationship; it was what he had always desired to see. As a result, he closed his eyes to any warning signals that might have revealed the truth.

  Bert, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that he had somehow been abandoned and Asher’s tongue in cheek accusation of his being a closet nanny didn’t help matters. Harlin seemed happy and fulfilled, but had begun to suffer the nightmares associated with deepening addiction and, very occasionally, seemed a little over-emotional in his reactions.

  Although Leila had not explained the full extent of her past to her son, he had managed to glean enough to realise that his mother had travelled in time and that the Firestone was in some way responsible. With the proximity of the stone magnifying his craving, Harlin begged his mother to be allowed to hold it. She resolutely refused, sensing that tragedy might follow.

  Despite the machinations of both mother and son, the Firestone frustrated all attempts to make it yield the secret of its latent power. Dropping it into the toxic gunge brewed up by Leila had only resulted in the shattering of the bowl. Half of the table had been eaten away before they could throw water onto it, diluting the potion. Further concoctions yielded equally fruitless results. At the very least, the pair had discerned that the stone appeared, to all intents and purposes, indestructible.

  In a bid to win favour with his conjuring partner, Harlin decided to search for more magical artefacts, hoping that a new discovery might hold the answer to the riddle of the Firestone’s power. Late one night, he crept out of bed, down the stone steps and out into the castle courtyard.

  There were sentries pacing the battlements, but their attention was directed outwards, towards those who might attempt to attack the castle. In truth, they were rather relaxed these days. There had been little sign of trouble for some years and the moat provided ample warning of any approach. With the drawbridge raised, those inside the castle were adequately sheltered from catastrophe, at least from without.

  Harlin tiptoed across the courtyard, deep shadow hiding the boy’s hasty advance towards Leila’s garden. Slowly opening the gate, to prevent any telltale creak, he slipped inside and threw himself into the flora. He rather enjoyed crawling through the dirt and around the ornate flowerbeds, avoiding the gaze of the oblivious sentries; it appealed to his over-zealous imagination with regard to the battles and warfare that had been so scarce, of late.

  As the moon moved slowly across the night sky, the kneeling boy sifted sweet smelling earth with his bare hands, trying to avoid disturbing the roots of carefully positioned plants. Leila had told him that the Firestone had lain hidden amongst the mounds of earth that had been dug up from the moat and left in the courtyard. This earth had been used to create the garden, so, he reasoned, any other artefacts must be amongst the flowerbeds.

  It was almost dawn when the disappointed boy decided to give up on his improvised search. He had rummaged through every flowerbed, gaining nothing except dirt beneath his fingernails. Placing his hands in the earth, prior to levering himself to his feet, he suddenly felt the sharp edge of something, concealed by the mud. Shovelling the earth to one side, he freed the object and raised it up to weakening moonlight to examine it more closely.

  It felt warm to the touch, yet was obviously metal, molten and twisted into strange, nightmarish shapes. As he turned it in his fingers, he felt a section of the relic move in his grasp and, suddenly afraid, almost dropped it back where he had found it. After a moment, when curiosity steadied his grip, he placed it in his pocket and began his stealthy journey back to bed.

  Once inside, he had second thoughts about retiring to rest. The castle’s occupants were still slumbering peacefully, so it would be safe to enter his mother’s secret conjuring room and inspect his find.

  With the first rays of dawn shining through castle loopholes and lighting his way to ruin, Harlin crept up to the locked door and retrieved the key that his mother kept hidden behind a loose stone in the wall. T
heir secret lair was nothing more than an old storeroom with no windows or loopholes and it was, therefore, deathly dark within. Feeling his way into the blackness, he located the candle that they always left close to the door.

  Taking a deep breath, Harlin conjured, using a little of the magic that his mother allowed him to practise. Sweat stood out on his brow from the concentrated effort.

  “Ishmat firenian,” he whispered and breathed onto the candlewick. A tiny flame popped into life.

  The weak illumination cast shadows onto bare walls, making the room seem even more eerie and sordid. Seating himself at the potion-stained table, Harlin pulled the candle close to his face and held the muddy artefact within the corona.

  Weak though the light was, he could still see that the relic was comprised of two distinct, interlocking parts. He gently tried to pull them apart. They moved an inch and then shot back together with a clang. A second attempt, utilising more force, succeeded in separating the two parts. They lay before him on the table and quivered, gradually sliding back towards one another, gaining more momentum the closer they became. Splitting the artefact again, Harlin laid the two parts at opposite ends of the table. This time, they stayed where they had been placed.

  Suddenly curious as to what effect, if any, the relic would have on the Firestone, Harlin disregarded his mother’s express orders and tried to open the drawer containing the rock. It was firmly locked, but Harlin knew that it must be inside. She would not have it with her overnight, for fear of discovery while she slept.

  Harlin scanned the room for any handy instrument and his gaze fell on a dagger, stained with the blood of sacrificed animals. He was thankful that his mother had never called on him to carry out a kill, for the ceremony always made him feel queasy. Thrusting the feeling of distaste to one side, he grabbed the knife and slid it between the drawer and its lock. After a few moments of hearty jiggling, he heard the wood splinter and pulled the drawer free. His mother would, no doubt, be livid, but he would appease her with his new find.