Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  Harlin stared down at the stone. He had never touched it and, for a moment, he drew back in fear. Although he was young and, like his mother, impetuous, he knew that there was no returning from such a moment and hesitated.

  Sitting within the splintered drawer, candlelight reflecting from its shiny surface, the Firestone began to whisper. In the years to come, Harlin repeatedly asked himself whether all that he truly heard was the voice of his imagination, or the cry of his sin. Whatever the truth may have been, the boy was beguiled by the invitation and seduced. He reached into the drawer and drew the Firestone out of its hiding place.

  At first, he savoured the warmth within his palm and the power trickling through his senses, until the dribble burst forth into a flood that swept his mind with pulsating colour and a cacophony of sound – as though the moment of universal creation was taking place inside his unprotected brain. When the chaos receded, a naïve, young boy had transformed into something altogether less appealing and far more calculating.

  Excitement overcame nervousness as Harlin clutched the Firestone, his thoughts whirling with the desire to conjure that had, until now, been so repressed. Bringing to mind an incantation that he had heard his mother use, he whispered, “Sartos medica venomia.”

  No sooner had the words left his lips, when a blue flash brought forth a small black and red serpent, no more than a hand’s length, slithering on the table between the relic parts. A fascinated Harlin leaned closer to observe the hissing creation.

  The snake struck with phenomenal speed, sinking its tiny fangs into the boy’s eyelid and coiling around his ear. As he cried out in terror, Harlin’s fingers dropped the Firestone onto the table and fumbled for the slithering assailant, throwing it from him. The serpent landed directly on top of a key part and coiled, rocking the molten metal. This movement was enough to begin the inexorable slide towards its mate. At the optimum moment, the parts shot towards the exposed Firestone, engulfing it. A loud crack echoed through the room and the snake vanished.

  The door flew open with a bang. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Leila stormed into the room, her eyes ablaze with rage. Somehow, the Firestone, sensing imminent danger, had found a way to call to her in her dreams. As she saw what her son was doing, she delivered a ferocious backhanded slap, knocking him from his perch and depositing him on the floor. Tearful, his face stinging from the blow, Harlin watched as she tore his precious artefact apart from the Firestone and flung the pieces to the far corner of the room. They spun into the shadows with a gentle tinkle.

  Even in the weak candlelight, both mother and son could clearly see the cause of the earlier, piercing crack: the Firestone now sported a severe fault line, the flaw following the edge of the red spiral. Had the relic been left any longer, it might have resulted in the stone’s destruction. Leila caressed the wounded stone which was leaking a dark liquid from the fault line. She moved her hand into range of candlelight and realised that the Firestone was bleeding.

  With homicidal rage overcoming her fear of being heard, Leila uttered a scream and lashed out at the culprit. In a state of madness, she grasped her own son by his throat and throttled him. The boy’s fingers frantically clawed at her bloody grip, his eyes bulging with terror as the lack of oxygen began to strip his senses. He had almost passed into unconsciousness when her grip suddenly relaxed, dropping him to the cold floor.

  Lying on his side, wheezing and gasping for breath, Harlin saw her run from the room in shock, leaving him alone. With tears pouring down his face, the traumatised boy dragged himself to his feet, tremors shaking every part of his body. Staggering back to his bedroom, he locked the door behind him and hid beneath the covers of his bed, trembling in misery.

  As the sun rose over simple folk, their heir-apparent was tossing and turning in fitful sleep, his mind filled with violence, death, snakes and the fatally flawed Firestone.

  * * *

  Bert rose early that morning. He rose early every morning, but this morning was a particularly fine one and he had students to train. The success of the tournament had resulted in many more boys besieging him for the right to learn his skills. Even Morden envied him his new found popularity with the youngsters.

  Making his way down the stone staircase, Bert passed an exhausted and miserable Harlin. The boy looked as though he had barely slept. Harlin offered up a weak smile in greeting, his fingers pulling his collar tight about his neck, so that his mentor could not see the bruises from his throttling.

  “Ye greening?” Bert asked.

  “Little,” Harlin told him, embellishing the lie with a weak cough. It was the lie that proved his undoing. Harlin was a good enough liar, except where Bert was concerned.

  “Ye be lying to me,” Bert stated, turning the boy’s face towards him. “Now, talk to me, what be matterly?”

  “Nightmare,” Harlin stated, truthfully.

  “What of?”

  “Killing, monsters, beasts…blood.” The boy’s voice was almost a whisper.

  “Bert!”

  Morden’s voice echoed up the stairwell, followed, moments later, by his face.

  “Be coming, Bert, for heaven’s sake. Be hundreds boys, all waiting for ye!”

  Bert peered out of a loophole into the courtyard, below. There was a shuffling troop of boys waiting there, but, thankfully, not numbering in the hundreds.

  “I be there!” Bert shouted down to his friend and turned back to Harlin. “Come with me and helping youngly ones learn. We talking of this, lately.”

  Harlin reluctantly followed his mentor to the bottom of the steps, where he suddenly found the impetus to rush past him into the courtyard. Surprised, Bert smiled at his enthusiasm until he noticed that the boy was actually trembling with fear. Brow furrowed, Bert scanned the area, but the only person in their immediate vicinity was Leila, who was coming down the steps behind them. Bert looked back at Harlin, but the boy had fled the courtyard, leaving a confused Morden and a pack of boys staring after him.

  * * *

  Harlin hid in the garden for the entire morning, trying to decide what to do. In the early afternoon, he came to a decision. He would tell his father what had transpired and face the consequences. He didn’t care what would happen to his mother once the truth was known. She had hurt him and he hated her.

  Creeping out of the garden, he found his father in the far corner of the courtyard, busily teaching Myrrdinus a new parry and thrust counter movement. Bert and Asher were leaning against the wall, interested and vocal spectators.

  “Whoa, carely boy,” Bert laughed, when Gawain feinted another lunge at his young charge. “He be sneakly one.”

  Despite his distressed state, Harlin noticed that his young rival was using a different sword, one that had belonged to Gawain when he was a boy. Months of accumulated proximity to the Firestone fed Harlin’s jealousy.

  Me father gived his sword to Morden’s son, not me. Both me parents be glad if I died.

  With insecurity feeding off trauma and fatigue, Harlin approached his father. “Be needing tell ye something,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

  “Talk up, boy,” Gawain bellowed, his eyes fixed on Myrrdinus. “Not hearing ye.”

  “Needing to talk,” Harlin repeated, a little louder.

  “Lately,” Gawain replied. “When I finished.”

  On any other day, Harlin would have replied, “Aye, Father,” and walked away with dignity intact, even though he knew that his father would forget to honour his word. Gawain was simply too busy to remember every word spoken to his son. This day, however, Harlin had reached breaking point.

  “Now!” he practically screamed, at the top of his voice. Ripping the offending sword from Myrrdinus’s grasp, he shoved the younger boy, shouting into his face, “Be going to yer own father!”

  Although he could probably have held his own in a straight fist fight with Harlin, Myrrdinus chose to back away. The look in the older boy’s eyes told him that this was not the mom
ent to stand his ground.

  “What matterly with ye?” Gawain growled, angrily yanking Harlin towards him. “That be rudely.”

  “Ye gived him yer sword! Get off me!” Harlin spat, trying to fight his way free of his father’s grasp.

  “I lended to him,” Gawain told him, astonished by his son’s behaviour. “Though not be yer business.” When Harlin kicked out at him, Gawain loosened his grip on his frantic son. “Be calmly, boy. What getted in to ye?”

  As Harlin fled the scene, Morden was returning to the courtyard, escorting a heavily pregnant Melith and young Gwyneth, each keen to see Myrrdinus in action. By nature of his haste and rage, Harlin bumped into Gwyneth, knocking her down. The girl’s cry of pain enraged a normally placid Myrrdinus. Racing after the brute, he barrelled into Harlin. The two boys were busy exchanging punches when Melith unwisely tried to separate them.

  “Melith, no!” Asher yelled, running towards her, but he was too late to prevent her receiving a painful kick in the leg from Harlin.

  Gawain’s patience finally gave out and he landed a hefty slap on his son’s right leg. Being struck by his father was the bitter, final blow to the boy’s dignity. Shocking them all, he crumpled to the ground and proceeded to wail in anguish. Adults and children stared at the grief-stricken youngster, not quite knowing how to proceed. It was a bruised Melith who tentatively placed an arm around his shoulders, whereupon he clung to her, continuing to howl.

  One man stood back, his observations leading him down a path he had hoped never to tread again.

  * * *

  Harlin lay tucked up in bed, fitfully sleeping off his tantrum. Seeing that his son was beyond reasoning, Gawain had insisted on rest before attempting to unravel the cause of such strange behaviour. Leila was duly sent for, but Harlin pretended to be asleep when she arrived, neatly avoiding an uncomfortable exchange in front of his father. Once she left the room, he felt able to truly close his eyes.

  He awoke in the early evening, to find a fire burning in the grate and Morden sitting in a rocking chair beside his bed, watching him closely. Morden leaned forward as soon as Harlin’s eyes opened and gently laid his hand on the boy’s forehead.

  “Bert telled me of nightmares. Now this,” he said, softly. “Be talking to me truly.”

  The tone of voice and caress were so comforting that Harlin’s eyes filled with tears. He wanted to tell Morden everything, but there was his mother to consider.

  “Not talking,” he murmured, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

  “Why not?” Morden prompted, gently brushing away the tear.

  “Be secret. Promised.”

  Had he not been a survivor of his own addiction, Morden might not have made the vital connection - erratic behaviour, nightmares, secrets...

  “Who ye promised? Yer mother?” he asked, his eyes boring into Harlin’s.

  The expression on the boy’s face gave the affirmative without a word needing to be said. Morden quickly rose. “Stay here,” was all he said, before the door closed behind him. Harlin lay on the bed and drew his knees tightly to his chest.

  * * *

  Telling no-one about his fears, Morden searched every room in the castle, looking for Leila. With everyone preparing for dinner, she must soon surface, but he wanted to speak to her first. Harlin’s ordeal pointed to an involvement with magiking, with his mother as the source, but Morden had no proof with which to condemn her. He knew that, this time, she must face the wrath of the domain, no matter what that would do to Gawain, for she would, by now, be a danger to them all. He knew her anguish and could not bring himself to expose her without first confronting her. When his search proved fruitless, Morden leaned against a wall to think.

  Where would she go? Where I goed when I been magiking?...Outside castle? No, I would have noticed. So, she be here…but where? Somewhere dark, lonely, not used…old storerooms?

  Quickly, but quietly, Morden headed down to the storage rooms. His step was light, but his heart heavy. He carefully tried each door, slowly turning every handle until he found the one that was locked. He stood at the door and strained his ears for the least sound. There it was; the scuffle of movement within. Closing his eyes, he leant his forehead against the cold wood of the door. Of all the things he had been called on to do, apart from burying his Anne, this would be the hardest. Taking a deep breath, he took a step back and aimed a hefty kick at the door.

  Being a storeroom, the door had not been made of as strong or thick wood as the living quarters, above. It splintered under the barrage of a strong man’s assault.

  * * *

  As soon as Leila was told of Harlin’s tantrum, the fear of discovery gripped her heart. Knowing that she had made a serious mistake in involving her son with magiking, she racked her brain for a way out of the situation. No doubt either Morden or Gawain would draw the secret from the boy and, this time, she knew that Morden would not shield her. There was only one course of action open to her. She must flee the domain or stand trial as a magiker.

  Although self-interest was the undoubted motivator behind her decision, a tiny part of her still loved her family and was afraid for their welfare. If she left now, they would be spared a public shaming and perhaps Harlin’s involvement could remain secret.

  Alone in her quarters, Leila began to pack clothing, jewellery and valuables; anything to help her survive, wherever she fled. Dressed as a villager and dragging the heavy bag behind her, Leila slowly moved through the castle, avoiding all eyes. It was not yet evening and the drawbridge would still be down, allowing villagers to come and go with their goods for sale. She would wait for them to leave at twilight, joining on the end of their group. A deep hood and gathering darkness would hide her features.

  She had fully intended to leave magiking behind, but the passage of hours, as she waited for sunset, and the lure of the Firestone, proved too great. Leaving her baggage in a dark corner, she swiftly made her way down to the storeroom and locked the door behind her. By the light of the candle, she gathered all the potions that she could carry, along with the few manuscripts in her possession. Caressing the Firestone, she gently placed it in the pocket next to her heart and headed for the door. Remembering Harlin’s strange relic, she turned to search for the two parts, jnowing that she had flung them into the far corner of the room.

  The door splintered and fell open, revealing Morden, his eyes ablaze with accusation. Surrounded by the remains of her conjuring, including bottles of potion that she was leaving behind, Leila knew that there was no pleading for mercy, only means of escape.

  “Yer own son,” her accuser snarled. “Ye have used yer own son.”

  “Morden,” she pleaded, one hand stretched out to him. “Let me go. You’ll never see me again. I promise.”

  When he didn’t reply, Leila grabbed her bag of potions and tried to push past him. He ripped the bag from her grasp, shouting, “Ye not taking these!”

  With the Firestone beating in time with her heart, a flash of homicidal rage swept through Leila, destroying all reason for one fatal moment. Fighting to retrieve her property, she grasped the material and pulled. The bag ripped, tipping the potions onto the floor and jolting the stopper loose on a clay bottle. The red liquid leaked onto the ground, causing a fine mist to rise. Knowing the potion’s identity and effect, Leila swiftly backed away, leaving Morden to inhale the rising mist. He saw her smile with delight as his vision began to blur.

  “It’s only a sedative,” Leila laughed. “It’ll put you to sleep, that’s all.” Her smile faded. “Goodbye Morden. Take care of Gawain and Harlin for me.”

  She was gathering the remaining potions, when Morden staggered under the effects of the mist and fell backwards, straight into a shelf. There were only three bottles left on that shelf, but all tipped over, rolled off the edge and fell. Two smashed onto the ground, leaking harmlessly away, but the one remaining bottle fell directly onto Morden’s head, depositing the terrible green contents onto his face and hair.

&nb
sp; “No!” Leila screamed. “God, no!”

  Foetid gunge slipped down Morden’s hair, burning it away in a cloud of black smoke. As the skin peeled from his face, Morden’s screams of agony echoed throughout the castle.

  * * *

  In the courtyard, the cries were faint, but Myrrdinus heard them, nonetheless. Sprinting through the castle, the boy bumped from wall to wall in his haste to reach his father’s side, until he collided with dozens of people, seemingly heading down to the storerooms. He was pushing his way through the crowds, straining to enter that fateful room, when the terrible cries suddenly ceased.

  “Morden. No. Oh, please no.”

  It was the voice of Gawain and the tone of it terrified the boy. He shoved his way to the door, catching a glimpse of Asher standing next to Bert. He couldn’t see it, but they were staring in horror at the bloodstained remnants of magiking, pervading the room. Bobbing down and peering through accumulated knees, Myrrdinus saw the crouching Gawain throw his outer tunic over something that was slumped against the wall. His gathering terror cast all patience to the wind. Myrrdinus popped up and cried, “Dad!”

  Gawain’s head snapped round. Spotting the boy, he yelled, “Keep him outside!”

  Hands grasped him, pulling him away from the room. “Dad? Dad! Dad!” he kept repeating, as he was dragged back through the crowd, punching and kicking against their kindness.

  Lurking on the steps, Harlin watched the distressed boy pass by. Trembling, he approached his old haunt and peeped through the sea of legs. Not knowing what had transpired, his attention was drawn to the far corner of the room. Sure enough, the faintest glimmer of metal proved that the pieces of his relic lay there, still.

  “Asher!” a voice shouted in the distance, growing closer as the messenger pushed through the crowd. “Asher! Where be Asher?”

  “Here,” Asher returned.

  “Asher, come now,” Drevel panted, shouting over the heads of those wedged into the doorway. “Be Melith!”

  In the chaos that followed, Harlin’s eyes remained locked on the relic. His mother would have taken the Firestone, but this belonged to him and he must have it. As he slowly edged his way into the darkness, creeping towards his prize, he believed himself unnoticed. He was wrong.