Firestone Key

by Caroline Noe

  * * *

  With Morden’s screams piercing her brain, Leila had fled the scene. She raced back up the steps, retrieved the rest of her baggage and headed for the drawbridge.

  “Where ye going?”

  The question was not delivered aggressively, for the asker was simply curious, but Leila was frantic and riven with guilt.

  “Get out of my way!” she shrieked, shocking Melith.

  A stronger sense of self-preservation might have saved Melith from what would follow, but she had a warm heart and was concerned for her friend.

  “Leila, what matterly? Talk to me,” she said, placing her pregnant bulk between Leila and the doorway to freedom.

  In the short silence that followed, Morden’s screams of agony floated up to their ears, along with the sound of running feet. Leila could wait no longer. Compounding the death of one friend with violence against another, she shoved Melith backwards. Off balance with the weight of her unborn child, Melith was unable to save herself. She fell, rolling down the slope and bouncing onto the iron drawbridge. Gasping in pain, she watched as Leila’s feet ran past her and disappeared in the direction of the forest. She was trying to rise to her knees when the first contraction tore through her body and the blood began to flow.

  * * *

  When a desperate Leila staggered up to his door, Gergan gave her his entire wealth in a bid to get rid of her. She was dangerous and a liability to all that knew her.

  When the sun rose on the morning following the tragedy, as Gawain began the search for his murderous wife, Leila stood on the deck of a boat and watched the coastline recede.

  Chapter 14

  Morden’s excruciating and very public demise plunged Gawain’s peaceful realm into a state of vengeful turmoil. Leila’s desire to avoid bringing shame to her husband and son had been thwarted in the worst manner possible, leaving her open to the charge of magiking (of which she was guilty) and murder (of which she, technically, was not - though not a living soul would have believed her). Having fled justice, Leila was no longer present to refute the escalating rumours regarding the heinous nature of her conduct, nor could she relate the magnitude of her sorrow at the death of a man who had been her true friend.

  With the shock of his wife’s deviancy weighing heavily upon him, Gawain gathered his men and launched a search for the fugitive. In truth, he would rather have let her escape, but the vocal opinion of his people could not, in all conscience, be ignored. He also knew that, once caught, Leila’s trial would constitute a mere formality. Public opinion had already convicted her of magiking, Morden’s murder and the tragedy that had befallen Melith.

  With their unborn child lost and his wife hovering at the point of death, Asher sat in silent vigil at her bedside, leaving his blazingly angry and vengeful friend to lead Gawain’s troops. Thus, Bert rode out, directly behind Gawain, a seething reminder of the sacrificial nature of duty.

  Whilst a secretly relieved Gawain was discovering that his wife had fled, not just the domain, but the country too, his son was engaged in hiding the pieces of a relic. By the time horses’ hooves again clattered across the drawbridge, signalling the return of his father, he had secreted it behind a loose brick in his room. He then sat before a mirror, practising his shocked facial expression. With the naivety of youth, Harlin assumed that no-one knew of his involvement with magiking and no-one need learn of it.

  Gawain was no fool. Even weighed down by the trauma of his personal loss, he retained the presence of mind to sift through facts and come to a logical, if unpalatable, conclusion. With Leila’s guilt irrefutable and Harlin’s recent behaviour strangely erratic, it was highly likely that their son had also been dabbling in the foul art.

  When his father entered his room, Harlin knew that concealment and pretence were no longer an option. Gawain’s expression spoke volumes, before the painful words even emerged.

  “Be not lying to me, boy,” he said, his voice low and laden with disappointment. “Have ye magiked with yer mother?”

  Harlin simply nodded. He could not trust himself to speak without triggering a fit of weeping.

  “Why? Why? When ye be knowing that sin. Ye have shamed yeself. How I trusting ye, now? How be ye leading after me?”

  Throughout his short life, all Harlin had ever really wanted was for his father to be proud of him. To be a source of shame was an unendurable torment that broke his young heart. Being unable to hold them back any longer, hot tears began to flow down his face, accompanied by wails and groans that would have cracked stone.

  Gawain was not made of stone. Having lost his wife, he could not face losing his son as well. Wrapping one strong arm around the boy’s shoulders, he drew Harlin tightly to his chest and whispered, “Promise me. Promise me that ye never doing magik again.”

  “I promise,” Harlin said, between gulps. It was one promise that he fully intended to keep…then.

  * * *

  With Morden dead and Leila fled, Gawain reasoned that there was no necessity to expose his son. Hoping that all guilt would fall on the absent mother, he told Harlin to never so much as mention magiking, ever again. The people need never know of his degradation.

  Unfortunately, Harlin’s last tantrum had been far from private and although those intimately involved never breathed an accusation, for the sake of their grieving leader, rumours as to the son’s guilt began to circulate almost immediately. As there was no proof with which to bring a charge and with the boy’s youth a mitigating factor, nothing was ever said in public, but, when Morden was buried, three days after his terrible death, a cold draft of disapproval was already chilling Harlin’s neck.

  Gawain was experiencing the full blast of icy wind. The tribal leaders, dutifully attending Morden’s burial, made it abundantly clear that Leila’s disgrace and subsequent escape had severely weakened Gawain’s hold over the alliance, throwing it into disrepute. Only Styrx stayed for the evening’s wake. The others retreated to their own lands before the stain of magiking could transfer itself to their spotless persons.

  Ever dutiful, one other remained at her father’s side throughout the gloomy proceedings. At sixteen, the voluptuous Serena, her lovely face hidden behind a black veil, still managed to draw the attention of the mourners...all except the grief-stricken, yet tearless, Myrrdinus.

  At seven years old he was a true orphan, without even his surrogate parents on whom to cling - for Asher remained at Melith’s side as she continued to bleed. Although little Gwyneth repeatedly tried to comfort Myrrdinus, he refused all attempts to console him.

  When a delicate hand gently fell on his shoulder, he looked up. Serena drew back her veil and gazed down at him with those radiant sapphire eyes. Perhaps it was the pity he saw there that soothed his heart but, from this moment on, Myrrdinus fell in love with his angel and forgot the fat little girl who already adored him.

  * * *

  When the publicly grieving masses had taken themselves off to their beds, Gawain returned to the castle and sat by the fire, his mind in turmoil. He missed Morden’s friendship and advice, and this was only the third day without him. There was a resounding rap on the door, which opened to reveal Styrx, sporting a serious expression. He wasted no time in getting to the point.

  “I be father too. Understand why ye shielding yer son,” he rasped, his gruff voice adding weight to the accusation. “But ye knowing he be dangerly. Once magiking, it never let go.”

  “Ye have no proof that…” Gawain began.

  Styrx cut him off with an impatient wave of his fist. “Be not treating me like yer people,” he growled. “I no fool.” Styrx grasped Gawain’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Not expecting ye to purge yer own son. All I be talking is watch him and watch him well… and watch tothers too.”

  With that cryptic warning, Styrx left Gawain to his private deliberations. The alliance’s leader never slept well again.

  * * *

  It was weeks before Asher dared tell Melith the truth. At first,
the healers had not believed that she would survive the bloody miscarriage, but Melith proved to be made of stronger stuff than most. Ten days after the tragedy, those same healers pronounced that she would indeed live.

  With her life out of danger, the loving husband then steered his traumatised wife through a minefield of raw emotion surrounding the loss of their baby son and the horrible demise of their friend - both at the hands of Leila. This betrayal cut so deeply into Melith’s soul that, from this time on, she could never bring herself to speak the woman’s name. Logical hatred deepened into utter loathing on the day that Asher completed the story of their personal tragedy.

  He had been dreading this moment throughout Melith’s slow and tortuous recovery, fearing the effect of the news on her weakened condition. The increasing difficulty of avoiding awkward questions eventually forced him to assume his terrible duty. Gently holding her hand and gazing deeply into her eyes, Asher told his wife the awful truth: they would never have another child. Her cries of anguish were heard, even beyond the castle walls.

  * * *

  Bert stood on the castle battlements, breathing in the cold, damp air and staring out across the moat and the forest beyond. He didn’t mind the light rain drizzling on him, being grateful for the solitude and peace it brought. Autumn was rapidly giving way to the icy blast of winter, as though a meteorological metaphor for the realm and his own hopes.

  He still couldn’t quite believe that Morden was truly dead, and in such a manner. They had grown up together, side by side, and Bert felt the absence most keenly. He had never particularly cared for Leila, mistrusting the hold that her beauty had over Gawain, but he had not believed her capable of such perversion and evil. It was bad enough that her magiking had killed Morden and plunged the realm into uncertainty, but to involve his Harlin was unforgivable.

  Knowing that his time, by necessity, would be consumed with shoring up the alliance, Gawain had confided the boy’s guilt to Bert and Grain - both of whom already knew - trusting them to attend to his needs throughout the ordeal of withdrawal, and to keep that process secret. The realisation that Harlin had taken part in such horrors with his mother, keeping that fact from him by the use of lies, broke Bert’s heart. He would not admit it, even to himself, but Harlin was a son to him, the only one he would ever have. Whilst continuing to train the youthful candidates and fulfil his warrior duties, he spent every spare minute nursing the boy, but, once in a while, even he needed to escape the suffering.

  The rain strengthened, splashing off the stonework and pooling around his feet, signalling that it was time to return to his duty. Bert quietly made his way down the staircase, his footfall almost silent in its reluctance. Unfortunately, castle workers didn’t hear his stealthy approach, being too busy carrying foodstuffs through to the kitchens.

  “I telling ye, he be in his room, greening,” one worker gossiped, whilst straining under the carcass of a full size hog.

  “Ye not knowing,” the other pointed out, his voice low. “Could be missing his mother or just sickly with cold.”

  “Jessie heared him screaming,” the first insisted, “when she doing beds. Beside, everybone know he spend time with his mother. Magiker being kept in his room…”

  “What ye call him?” Bert snarled, looming up at the shocked worker and utilising his most fearsome warrior stance. “Mind yer business and keep mouths shut. I hear Harlin called that again, I come looking for ye. He be boy and son of Gawain. Be talking with respect.”

  Both workers bobbed their heads and mumbled, “Aye,” but they knew that the Magiker name tag had been firmly attached and would not be easily removed.

  Bert was a great warrior; he knew when he was fighting a losing battle. Heavy hearted, he made his way back to Harlin’s room, where he had left Grain standing nursing duty. He heard the boy shrieking, long before he opened the door.

  “I hate ye! Let me go. Get off me! Pilt! I want me father! Father! Father!”

  Bert entered to a scene of vomit stained chaos. Harlin’s plate lay upturned, half way across the room, its gravy laden contents spread across the bed, floor and walls. What little he had been forced to ingest had been promptly regurgitated on Grain, who was currently wearing it. Not that the older man had time to care, being that he was engaged in trying to prevent Harlin’s limbs and nails from causing damage to both the boy and himself. Driving himself into hysteria, Harlin ceased screaming profanity and just screamed.

  “Harlin. Harlin, stop. Harlin!” Bert yelled, taking over restraint duties from a tiring and bruised Grain, who duly collapsed in a chair.

  When the tantrum showed no sign of abating, Bert was left with little choice. In order to prevent the child seriously injuring himself, he slapped the back of his legs, hard. The sting brought Harlin to his senses and tears to his eyes. His body went limp in Bert’s grasp and his chest heaved as the sobs arrived in force. Bert picked up Harlin and cradled him in his arms, gently rocking him back and forth.

  “Has he eated anything?” Bert enquired.

  From his chair, Grain simply waved at the mess as an answer.

  “Has he sleeped?”

  “No,” was Grain’s succinct response. He wasn’t unkind, just driven to exhaustion by a child who had little respect for him at the best of times. This wasn’t the best of times.

  Harlin’s head shot up from Bert’s chest as he whimpered, “Not make me sleep. Please, Bert. Not make me sleep.”

  Bert racked his brain for what to do. The child must sleep in order to heal, but he knew that the boy’s dreams were filled with horrors that terrorised him and showed no sign of abating.

  “Be fine, boy,” he told his charge, “I here with ye. I always be with ye. Nought get to ye now, not with me here.

  “Sorry, Bert. Be so sorry,” Harlin sobbed. “Never magik again. Never. Promise.”

  Bert’s grip on his surrogate son tightened. “I know, son. I know.”

  * * *

  Had the people witnessed Harlin’s actual fate, the disapproving rumours that followed him, wherever he went, might have subsided under the gentle balm of pity. Beset by aches, pains, shivers, sweats and terrible nightmares, the boy suffered more than any eight-year-old should be called upon to endure, but, as the months went by without the Firestone’s malevolent influence, the tremors gradually subsided, leaving him subdued, but stable.

  Gawain, not having been present through the worst of his son’s suffering, assumed that Harlin’s quietness and introspective tendencies would change over time and he therefore left him alone. That he could no longer stand to look into his son’s eyes, for fear of seeing the mother there was, of course, not a factor in his decision.

  Harlin kept his promise. He refrained from any attempt to practice magic, shying from even the vaguest mention of it. Internally, however, the hunger, whilst deeply buried under a ton of duty, had not gone away. The relic, safely hidden in his room, though never looked at, was not delivered up to either his natural father or his surrogate one.

  Thus, Harlin grew, straining towards manhood, carrying a festering burden that none understood. He was addressed with politeness and included in all domain business, yet the cold wind of unspoken judgement never ceased to blow through his life. Only Morden could have understood, might have helped him, but his mother had murdered the man and then abandoned her son to this unendurable existence.

  * * *

  Melith, as was true to her character, discarded self-pity and strove to regain her feet as soon as was humanly possible, despite Asher’s concerned protestations. Without a formal word on the subject ever being spoken, it was soon understood that the grieving couple would effectively ‘adopt’ Myrrdinus as their own.

  As the boy grew older, taller and wider, he was eminently grateful for this state of parental affairs, even though it brought him into insufferable contact with the embarrassingly smitten Gwyneth, who was daily growing more like her mother, both in looks and temperament. The more his burgeoning hormones slavered after the g
orgeous Serena, the more his plump shadow insisted on trailing in his wake reciting, “Ye NOT me brother,” repeatedly.

  Matters reached an even more excruciating level when young Gwyneth discovered that her excellent mind functioned far in excess of Myrrdinus’s. Athletic he may be, but his thinking was not capable of the same callisthenics. Nor did he seem to have any discernible sense of direction; a fact which she found eternally entertaining.

  Asher and Melith said nothing. They simply smiled, watching as the inevitable unfolded.

  * * *

  Almost a decade had passed since Leila’s departure, when rumour reached Gawain’s ears that Adam, the outlawed tribal head, had returned, bringing an army strengthened by fighters from the infamous Darklands. Gawain’s troops went into training and security measures were rigidly adhered to, but the danger didn’t materialise. As time wore on, with no sign of imminent conflict, the domain settled back into its normal dealings, breathing a hefty sigh of relief.

  The political climate didn’t recover its equilibrium so readily. With the rumour continuing to make the alliance extremely nervous, Styrx proposed that Gawain and he should strengthen their position within the alliance by marriage - to wit, his daughter, Serena, to Gawain, the leader.

  Although the twenty-five-year-old Serena was staggeringly beautiful, Gawain, at sixty, had lost his desire to be a husband. He would never admit it, even to himself, but a small, tender part of his heart was still connected to Leila, wherever she was. His counter-suggestion to Styrx was that Harlin, now a lusty eighteen, would make a fine husband for the illustrious beauty. Styrx’s reaction left Gawain in no doubt that the taint of magiking would forever cling to his son, no matter how many years rolled by.

  Unknown to both men, the subject of their disagreement was eavesdropping on the conversation and heard his character cruelly maligned. Harlin had, in silence, suffered the torment of his addiction for ten years, never once wavering from his promise. Having believed that his redemption was sure, the negation of that assumption hit the young man hard. Insulted and wounded by his father’s ready acceptance of Styrx’s objection, he allowed anger to poison his soul, wrecking all the good work that had taken place there. With a decade of sacrifice and duty seemingly counting for nothing, Harlin returned to his room and retrieved the relic from its dusty hiding place.