The First Stone tlr-6

by Mark Anthony

  Master Larad held the baby out at arm’s length, a distasteful expression on his face. “I think it wants something.”

  “Perhaps to be held like a child rather than a sack of grain,” Lirith said, hurrying over to the Runelord.

  “I do not believe giving it to me was a wise idea,” Larad said. “I have no talent for comforting children.”

  “It doesn’t take talent, Master Larad,” Lirith said. “Only knowledge. Surely a scholar such as you is not afraid to learn something new.”

  The Runelord glowered at her, but he did not disagree.

  “Here, place your arm under him for support, and let his head rest in the crook of your elbow. And keep him close against you. Babies want to feel they are safe and loved. There now.”

  Taneth had stopped fussing, and his eyes drifted shut. The corners of Larad’s mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, then he looked up and glared at the others. They all studiously turned their attention elsewhere. However, when Grace stole a glance a few minutes later, she saw Larad in the corner rocking Taneth with awkward but gentle motions.

  All the next day, they spoke not of the rift and the weakening of magic, but of mundane things–babies, and weaving blankets, and the day‑to‑day drudgery of running a kingdom– which, with the help of much wine come evening, soon led to mirth.

  However, they were all sober the next morning when Grace and Larad set out from Calavere–along with Lirith and Taneth. Aryn’s cheeks were dry, but by the redness of her eyes Grace knew she had been weeping.

  I want to go with you, sisters, Aryn’s voice quavered across the threads of the Weirding.

  And we want you to come, Lirith spun back, but you know you must stay. They both need you.

  Aryn sighed, touching her belly with her left hand, and leaned her head against Teravian’s shoulder.

  “Do you have everything you need for the journey?” the young king asked.

  “We do,” Grace said. Glumly was once again laden with supplies, and looking forlorn as usual. “Thank you.”

  Master Larad and the knights already sat astride their mounts. Lirith climbed into the saddle of her horse, and Grace handed Taneth up to her. She nestled the baby in a linen sling, so that he was held securely against her breast. It was time for Lirith and Taneth to return to their people; Sareth was waiting.

  Grace embraced Aryn and Teravian, kissing them both and climbing onto Shandis before she could begin weeping herself.

  Teravian’s face was grave, and tears shone in Aryn’s blue eyes. But all she said was, “Give Travis our love.”

  The journey south was strangely pleasant. Grace was glad to no longer be the only woman in the party; Lirith’s company was a rare gift, and it was wonderful to finally meet little Taneth. The weather was fine and sunny, and as they rode through familiar lands they eschewed inns, instead camping in copses or dells, or more than once in the shaded enclosure of a talathrin, an old Tarrasian Way Circle.

  The Way Circles were always built around a spring next to which grew alasai, or green scepter–an herb good for removing the taint from meat, and whose clean, sharp scent was a balm to the lungs. When she drank from the spring in a talathrin, Grace always remembered to sprinkle a few drops for Naimi, goddess of travelers, as Melia had taught her to do. Nor did she worry about the shadow that had been following them when she laid down to sleep. There was no magic in the Way Circles, but a goodness abided in them; nothing would harm them there.

  Although they traveled from sunrise until late afternoon each day, it took a fortnight to reach Tarras. Grace let out a breath of wonder when she glimpsed the ancient city rising up from the azure waters of the Summer Sea in seven circles of white stone. People went about their business as they had for a thousand years. But why shouldn’t they? Magic was practiced by northern barbarians, not the civilized people of Tarras. And the rift was not visible there, so far south in the world. It had been many days since Grace had seen it last, low in the northern sky.

  As they rode close to Tarras, Grace thought it would be good to go into the city, to ascend to the First Circle, and pay a visit to Emperor Ephesian–her cousin many times removed. However, there was no time for catching up with old acquaintances. They rode past without stopping.

  Now, each day they journeyed, the air grew a little warmer, becoming gold and honey‑sweet with the perfume of unfamiliar flowers. They followed the coastline, riding along a road lined with a green‑gold colonnade of ithaya, or sunleaf, trees. Below, the ocean crashed against white cliffs while gulls wheeled above.

  At last they could go no farther; they had reached the southernmost tip of Falengarth. As twilight fell–nearly a full month since they had set out from Gravenfist Keep–they ascended a bluff above the sea, passed through a grove of ithayatrees, and rode into a circle of painted wagons shaped like animals both ordinary and fantastic.

  Before they even dismounted, Sareth was there. He caught Lirith and Taneth in his arms, pulling them down to him, and embracing them with ferocious strength. Nor was Grace forgotten, for after he finally released Lirith, Grace found herself hugging the Mournish man. She breathed in his spicy, familiar scent, and only then realized how much she had missed him and his deep, bell‑like laugh.

  The Mournish gathered around the travelers, leading them into the circle of light while music and the rich scents of cooking wafted on the air. Women in colorful garb approached Brael and the other knights, placing circlets of flowers around their necks, and even Master Larad was treated to a warm welcome. Perhaps warmer than the Runelord might have cared for. He was obviously flustered as three young women slipped necklaces of flowers over his head, and he looked as if he was about to speak stern words of reproach, only then a fit of sneezing took him, and he sat down hard on a stump. The women laughed and clapped their hands.

  For a time, Grace let herself forget why she had journeyed there. She sat on a log on the edge of the firelight, eating nuts and drinking smoky wine, and swaying in time to wild music as many of the Mournish men and women whirled about the bonfire in a dance, scarves, jewelry, and smiles all flashing. Sparks rose up to the sky, and as Grace followed them upward she saw a point of crimson light. Tira’s star was not low to the southern horizon as it was in the north, but instead high in the sky.

  “I love you,” Grace murmured like a prayer. Maybe it was at that, for the little red‑haired girl was a goddess now, and the center of the world’s newest Mystery Cult.

  And perhaps its last as well. Grace’s gaze moved northward. She could not see it, but she knew the rift was still there, and still growing.

  The wind rustled through the leaves of the ithayatrees, and only then did Grace realize that the music had stopped. She lowered her gaze and was startled to see that the bonfire had burned low, and that the Mournish were gone. How long had she been gazing at the sky?

  “Come, Grace,” Sareth said, kneeling before her. “My al‑Mama is waiting for you.”

  She looked around. There was no one in view save Sareth and Larad. “Where did everyone go?”

  “Lirith has taken Taneth to his bed, and your knights have been shown to theirs. Come.”

  Grace and Larad followed Sareth to a wagon on the edge of the circle. It was shaped like a dragon, its sinuous outline blending with the night. Sareth opened the door and indicated they should climb the steps and enter.

  The cramped interior of the wagon was lit by a single candle. In the dim light it took a moment to pick the woman out from the various bundles of cloth and dried herbs. She look like a bundle of rags and sticks herself. Sareth’s al‑Mama was far thinner than the last time they had met; her bones were prominent beneath skin as translucent and yellow as parchment. Grace didn’t need to probe along the Weirding to make her diagnosis. Jaundice. Liver failure.

  “Yes, yes,” the old woman said testily. “I’m dying. And it’s about time. These old bones are long overdue for a rest. But that does not matter now. Come closer so these old eyes can see you.”


  The old woman leaned forward as they approached. Though clouded with cataracts, her gold eyes were still bright. At last she nodded and sighed, leaning back on her pallet.

  “So you have come, as has been fated. I am satisfied. You will find him, and you will help him reach it.”

  Grace swallowed. “You mean Morindu.”

  “Of course I mean Morindu!” the old woman snapped. “But who is this with you? I see a cloak of power about him, though its cloth is unraveling. A great wizard of the north, he is. Yet he is not the one. What role is his to play?”

  “Can you not see in your cards?” Larad said, gesturing to a deck of worn T’hotcards scattered on a table.

  “Bah!” the old woman spat. “The cards are useless now. The threads of Fate are all tangled. Nothing is clear. A darkness looms before us, and I know not what lies on the other side, if anything lies there at all. But this I do know.” She pointed a thin finger at Grace. “You will find him, and you will lead him to his destiny. I have summoned ones to help you on the journey. That is all I can do. As for the rest . . .” She lowered her hand and heaved a rattling sigh. “It is up to Sai’el Travis.”

  Grace wanted to ask her more–how she was supposed to find Travis, what she should tell him when she did, and what they needed to do.

  “Go,” the old woman said, her voice a sullen croak. “I wished only to look upon you, and now it is done. I will not see the end of this, but now I know that an end indeed draws nigh. Go, and leave me to my own end.”

  Grace met Larad’s eyes, and the two of them stepped from the wagon. They found Sareth standing near the remains of the bonfire.

  “She’s dying,” Grace said.

  Sareth nodded, his coppery eyes reflecting the glow of the embers. “So she has told us many times. Only this time it is true.”

  Grace touched his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, don’t be.” Despite the sadness in his voice, he smiled. “Hers has been a long and wondrous life. And perhaps it is better this way. Perhaps it is better if she does not see . . .”

  Grace tightened her grip on his shoulder. “We’ll find him, Sareth. We’ll find Travis.”

  “I know you will. But there is one thing you do not know. At this time, my sister Vani is on Travis Wilder’s world, on Earth. Even now she searches for him.”

  Hope surged in Grace’s chest. She started to ask Sareth how this could be, but Larad sucked in a breath.

  “We are not alone.”

  Even as he spoke, three dark forms parted from the darkness beneath the ithayatrees. Grace went cold. Had the shadow followed them there, bringing others like it?

  No, these shadows moved not with strange fluidity, but rather with feline stealth. Even as they stepped into the starlight, Grace knew what they were. Two of them were men, one a woman. Intricate tattoos coiled up their necks, and each one’s left ear bore thirteen gold rings. All wore sleek black leather.

  “ T’gol,” Grace whispered.

  Larad gave her a startled look. “You mean assassins?”

  “No that’s not what the word means,” Sareth said. “In our tongue, T’golmeans to protect. My al‑Mama summoned them from the Silent Fortress of Golgoru. They will accompany you on your journey.”

  “Why?” Grace said.

  One of the T’golmoved forward. He was tall and slender, his eyes the color of aged bronze. “It is for this that our kind has trained for a thousand years, Sai’ana Grace. Three of us were chosen for this highest honor. We will accompany you on your journey to the dervish, as well as to the ancient city of our people. We are yours to command.”

  Three T’gol–three warriors all trained like Vani–following her orders? The thought stunned Grace, even as it renewed her will.

  “We leave at dawn,” she said.

  “We will be ready.” The T’golmade a sharp gesture with his hand, then he and the others melted away into the shadows.

  18.

  Grace, Master Larad, and the three T’golleft the circle of the Mournish caravan before dawn. Only Sareth and Lirith rose in the gray light to see them off; the other wagons were dark, their doors and windows shut.

  The Mournish man was clearly torn. Last night, he had started to speak as if he was going to accompany Grace on the journey. However, a stern look from Lirith had silenced those words.

  “You have already done the work of the T’golonce, when you sought out the dervish,” Lirith murmured, bending over Taneth’s head. “This time the T’golhave come to do what is their rightful task. It is their duty to seek out Morindu the Dark.”

  “And what of my duty?” Sareth had said in a low voice, his face bathed in the glow of the fire’s last coals. “I am descended of the royal line of Morindu. Should I not be there when the city comes to light once more?”

  Her voice was hard. “If the royal line is truly so precious as you say it is, then it is your duty to protect it and stay with your son.”

  Sareth had pressed his lips into a tight line, holding back any other words he might have said. And though his eyes were troubled, they were full of love as well. The Mournish man had won this argument once; now it was Lirith’s turn.

  Sareth was not the only one who was upset at not continuing south with Grace. Earlier that morning, after they rose in the dark before first light, she had commanded Brael to ride back to Gravenfist Keep with the other knights. The gray‑bearded man was clearly upset.

  “The southern continent is a queer and dangerous place, Your Majesty,” he had said, sputtering. “You cannot possibly think to go there alone. We are coming with you.”

  “I won’t be alone. And you’re not coming with us. That’s an order, Sir Knight. I need you to tell Melia and Falken that we made it this far safely. And tell them we’ve learned Vani has already gone to find what we seek, to bring it back to us. They’ll know what the message means.”

  The anger faded from Brael’s eyes, replaced by anguish. However, a knight could not disobey a direct order from his queen, and he gave a stiff nod. “May Vathris walk with you, Your Majesty.”

  Grace hoped he did; she was going to need all the help she could get.

  “It is nearly dawn,” spoke one of the T’gol–the tall man who moved like a dancer. His name was Avhir, Grace had learned. “We must leave now, Sai’ana Grace, if we are to reach the city of Kalos before nightfall.”

  Already the eastern horizon was brightening, and below the cliffs the Summer Sea shone like a mirror of beaten copper.

  Sareth touched Grace’s cheek with a warm, rough hand. “May Fasus, God of Winds, speed you on your journey, and back to us.”

  Lirith handed Taneth to him, then moved forward to throw her arms around Grace. I cannot see the future, sister, she said, her voice humming along the threads of the Weirding. I cannot see if you will return to us.

  Grace embraced the witch, concentrating on this moment so she would never forget it. Good‑bye, sister.

  Lirith turned away, brushing her cheeks with her fingers, and took Taneth back, holding the baby tight against her.

  Grace mounted Shandis, and as the knights were to take all of the horses with them back to Gravenfist, Larad awkwardly climbed into Glumly’s saddle. The T’golwould go on foot; they did not need mounts to move swiftly.

  “Do not trust the dervish,” Sareth said. “You believe you know him, but you do not. The desert changes a man, as do the secrets one might discover there. He has called the morndarito him, he has worked blood sorcery, and he cannot possibly be the same as you knew him.”

  Avhir gave Shandis a slap on the rump, and the mare started into a trot down the path that led from the Mournish circle, Larad’s mule following. Grace gazed back over her shoulder, and she thought she saw two dim figures beneath the ithayatrees waving farewell. Then the path began to descend the side of the bluff, and the figures were lost to sight.

  “I want to thank you,” she said to Avhir, who walked beside Shandis. “For coming with me.”

  He did not
look at her. “There is no point in thanking me, Sai’ana Grace. We come because it is our fate.”

  Grace smiled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it all the same.”

  Either these words annoyed Avhir, or he did not know what to make of them, for he stalked away without replying and approached the other two T’gol. With some effort Grace had been able to learn their names. Kylees was a fine‑boned woman whose lovely face was marred by a persistent scowl, while Rafid was a compact man, as short and muscular as Avhir was tall and lithe.

  Avhir spoke something in a low voice to the other T’gol. All three wore grim expressions. Grace sighed. Something told her she was going to have to rely on Master Larad for lively conversation on this trip.

  All that day they traveled along the road that followed the sinuous line of the cliffs above the sea. Once the sun rose into the sky, the outlines of the T’golblurred, and they seemed to vanish. However, Grace knew they were still there. From time to time she could see a shimmering on the air, like that of a heat mirage, and if she looked at the ground, she would detect a faint shadow.

  Despite her hope for a little conversation to pass the time, she spoke little to Master Larad as they rode. The Runelord seemed intent on studying the landscape, the trees, and the plants. All would be exotic to a man born and raised in the far north, and were no doubt intriguing to his inquisitive mind. Grace decided not to lament the silence. After all, she had other matters to mull over.

  Do not trust the dervish . . . the desert changes a man . . .

  What had Sareth meant by those words? Did he believe Hadrian Farr to be dangerous in some way?

  All dervishes are dangerous, Grace. By definition. They’re people who’ve shunned the laws and ethics of their society in order to learn ancient secrets of sorcery. There’s no way you can trust someone like that. They’ve already shown they’re not beholden to anything. Anything except the quest for knowledge, for power.

  Only Farr hadn’t given up the laws of his society. He wasn’t one of the Mournish; he was from Earth. And while she supposed it was possible Farr did crave power, she thought it more likely his thirst for knowledge had compelled him to become a dervish. Farr was a Seeker through and through; more than anything he wanted to learn, to comprehend mysteries no other person before him had. That wouldn’t change just because he somehow found a way to Eldh.