The Singing Stones of Rendor
The Singing Stones of Rendor
Neils Knudsen
Copyright © 2014, Neils Knudsen
Smashwords edition
Published by Eidolon Media LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.
Cover Art by Mikey Brooks, www.insidemikeysworld.com.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Paperback Edition
ISBN-10: 978-1496129727
ISBN-10: 1496129725
Dedication
To:
My son, Ryan who inspired the story and challenged me to write it.
Austin, Jordan, Nathan and Neils
who have provided so much unwitting material.
Acknowledgements
If not for Judith, my wife and muse, who has endured the crucible of endless rewrites this and future volumes would not be possible.
A special thanks to C.W. Johnson for his encouragement and enthusiasm.
My alpha and beta readers cannot be overlooked for their invaluable critiques and ideas to improve not only the story, but my writing. The prepublishing reviews and discussion with an informal, mostly sober, wine and book club of about 15 members also deserves a grateful tip of the hat for their candid feedback.
For their help with the minutiae my thanks and gratitude go out to Patti Principe, Jared Hammerstrom, Jeremy Beard and the folks at www.critiquecircle.com.
Last and certainly not least, this work would not pass muster and receive highly placed awards at the League of Utah Writers if not for the editing skills of Teresa Edgerton (teresaedgerton.com) and Tristi Pinkston (www.tristipinkstonediting.blogspot.com).
Table of Contents
Chapter One: Haegatess.
Chapter Two: Rat Hole.
Chapter Three: Birthday Cakes and Turnovers.
Chapter Four: Inquisitors.
Chapter Five: The Box.
Chapter Six: A Song
Chapter Seven: Jack
Chapter Eight: The Attendant
Chapter Nine: Betrayal
Chapter Ten: The Twins
Chapter Eleven: Wood Talc
Chapter Twelve: Lightning
Chapter Thirteen: Boulders and Peas
Chapter Fourteen: Wave a Needle
Chapter Fifteen: Grindall
Chapter Sixteen: Becka
Chapter Seventeen: Maynard
Chapter Eighteen: Typical
Chapter Nineteen: Just Like EveRyone Else
Chapter Twenty: Thaddeus Stonebreaker
Chapter Twenty-One: Bustle Berry Pie
Chapter Twenty-Two: Get out, Tinker
Chapter Twenty-Three: Choices
Chapter Twenty-Four: Spun up in a Snarl
Chapter Twenty-Five: One Jug or Two?
Chapter Twenty-Six: Conspiracies and Lies
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Something Snapped
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Spools
Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Wizard’s Mesh
Chapter Thirty: The Song of Stones
Chapter Thirty-One: We Need to Talk
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Promise
About the Author:
Chapter one
Haegatess
Her old, bent back ached. She steadied herself against the sill of an open pub window and peered inside. She grunted her disdain into the din of the tavern as a chantey man finished a bawdy seafaring song. The pub erupted into a rousing cheer while mugs clacked and beer sloshed. The rotund singer bowed to the sailors and wenches before he stepped to a table, raised a beer to himself, and drank.
Voices rose for more singing. “Sing another verse of ‘Pauline’s Whistle’.”
The singer wiped froth from his gray-flecked whiskers. “Nah, me throats near done for.” He slapped the rump of a woman who had wrapped herself around his neck. “Besides, me wench needs a bit of wooin’.”
An ovation of boots stomped on the floor as fists and mugs pounded the tables, encouraging the chantey man to continue. The old man pushed back his black woolen cap, picked up his mandolin, and led the wench away. Cheers, jeers, and whistles followed him.
A sailor stumbled out of the pub. He saw the old woman, tipped his cap with a grin, then staggered to the edge of the wharf and retched into the black harbor waters of Charlestone City.
The man continued to heave while Haegatess shifted her long gray shawl up over her narrow shoulders. She continued to the next pub, her never-ending search for a true-singer still unfulfilled. The arrival of foreign ships and their crews usually brought fresh voices, but not tonight. With another night of searching finished, she began her walk home. The ache in her stiff spine and arthritic joints slowed her pace and darkened her mood.
“Excuse me, dear lady. May we ask you a few questions?” A man’s mellow baritone gave some warmth to the cool harbor breeze.
She turned and looked up into a man’s bulging eyes, then focused on his aggressive, hooked nose. “What do you want?”
The light from a tavern window emphasized the man’s flaring nostrils. “My name is Percival Morehouse.” He gave her a gracious bow and swept his black cloak aside. He rose and gestured to a man beside him, face hidden under the cowl of his cloak. Except for a white sash, they were both dressed in black. “This is Conrad Butler. We watched you peer into the windows of the local pubs and listen to the singers.”
“What’s your question?” She scowled at them, expecting an admonishment and an order to move on.
“We noticed your long braid and how it was fashioned. Also, you’re dressed in different shades of gray, and your shawl has a unique weave. We wondered how you came by it.”
“You fella’s need to get around more.” Haegatess waved them off and continued her walk home. “Go pester someone else.”
“No, please.” The bug-eyed man moved in front of her. “You don’t understand. We’re scholars interested in the bygone traditions of the Rendor Empire. Your garb and braid are similar to those mentioned in ancient scrolls of the Cherished Weavers. We want to know about you and how your tradition was passed down.” His voice had become oily, almost wheedling.
“Get out of my way, young man.” Haegatess tried to push by him. Those old wounds haven’t healed yet.
He grabbed her arm. “I’m serious, old girl. Tell us how you came by this attire.” He tugged on her shawl. “Who wove this?”
She laid her free hand on his to push him away, but she then sensed the tones in his skin, unencumbered by Priory dictates. “Well, this is a surprise.”
He yanked his hand away, sensing something in her touch. “Who are you?” He backed away from her, massaged his hand, and looked nervous.
She tilted her gaze at him. “Can you sing?”
Startled and confused, he bristled. “I’m asking the questions, woman.” He nodded to his partner, removed a slender white rod from his sleeve, and took a defensive stance.
A white pirn, eh? Someone seems to think you deserve such an honor. A thin smile edged her lips.
The other man, suddenly aware of his partner’s alarm, responded in kind and moved directly behind her.
She wanted them to strike—and they did. She felt the touch of the rods on her shoulder
s. The sudden sensation of well-tuned harmonic weaves flowed over her body. They thrilled her. Two masters. How wonderful! The men hadn’t wasted any time. Somehow they recognized her for what she was, or thought she was. Cherished Weavers once had long braids, woven loosely at the top and tight at the end. Her garb was similar only in its homespun simplicity, not its color or lack thereof. However, the ancient weavers were long gone. None were supposed to have endured the great war, and their private symbols of power and status were kept secret. No scroll ever listed those private codes. Wherever these two men got their information, they must believe they’d captured a Cherished Weaver.
Haegatess let the weaves encase her. She savored the ancient, nearly forgotten caress while the rich tones swept the ache and pain from her body. Her body moved with the rhythmic motions of the supple, sensual dance held deep in her memory. She felt the vigor of youth return. Her spine straightened, though her gray hair remained the same.
She clamped on to the weaves, traced the strand of each thread back to its owner, and bound him to her. In an instant, the two men were snared. “You’re mine.”
They howled in terror when they realized they could not release themselves. They ran in opposite directions, but like dogs on a tether, the rope ran out and the iron spike won. The men reeled. An arm snapped. The threads whined as they drew taut. Both men struggled against the rejuvenated old woman.
She drank in their life-sustaining tones until they sated her hunger. From the two master weavers, she drew out twelve semitones, a full scale, and filled her spools with the harmonic threads of life. She couldn’t be happier.
The bug-eyed man lay in an alley and gasped for breath. One hand clutched at his chest, the other lay limp and broken. She stood over him for a long moment and considered what to do with him. Wish I could keep you. You’ll recover your tones in a week or two. It sure would be nice to feed off you again—mighty nice. But there’s no room for you, or your friend. I suppose I could just leave you here to die. Most folk would call me merciful if I did, but those folks are nothing but a bunch of gobsmacked, superstitious sheep.
She made her way back to the other man and found him uncloaked, fuzzy-faced and very young—maybe sixteen. You’re nothing but a boy. What are you, an apprentice? You’re good, if you are. Who trained you, your partner? Who trained him? Haegatess pondered where they came from, why they were here and how to handle them. All five Priories strictly forbade anyone from being a multi-toned weaver—a wilder. If the priory forbade it, then so did the five Trade Houses and every king, prince, and duke. Yet a few dared challenge the old ways, and one in particular . . .
“It’s to the blasted priory, then.”
~~~
As the sun rose, Haegatess led her two disheveled and splinted captives to a large country estate outside the city. The sentinels and footmen let her pass without challenge. They knew her on sight and kept their distance. One raced ahead to announce the arrival of the master’s aunt.
Few people in the eastern realms held as much power as Sir Tomas Campanill. People in his position, a brooding, paranoid group who normally concealed themselves, preferred a reclusive, though comfortable, lifestyle. Sir Tomas shared few of the traits associated with the glum members of the Merchant Trade house and the secretive Dewy Knoll Priory—other than to simultaneously succeed at business, curry favor with royalty, and destroy his enemies.
Two attendants heaved open the heavy double doors to Tomas’ study.
“My dear Aunt Haega.” The corpulent businessman and Priory Minister bellowed and slapped the top of his huge desk as he lifted himself to his feet. He dismissed his attendants with a gesture. Sir Tomas, in a white silk shirt with golden embroidery from shoulder to cuff, spread his thick arms wide and buried his chin in his jowls while he grinned between his ermine lapels. “Seeing you again is such a welcome pleasure. Simply wonderful.”
“Shut up, you old windbag.” Haegatess let her shawl slip down her back and led the two men into the study. “Why do you bother with that twaddle? You’re no happier to see me than I am to be here.” She shook a cloud of dust from her smoke-gray kirtle.
Tomas waved the cloud from his face and did his best to maintain a smile that threatened to sag. “And who are your young gentlemen friends? You didn’t break that fellow’s arm, did you?”
“They aren’t gentlemen—they’re master weavers. And no, he broke his own arm, but I splinted it.” She sat in an armchair in front of his desk, not bothering to wait for an invitation. The two men stood behind her and remained silent, their expressions blank and lifeless.
“Really? Master weavers, eh, but not gentlemen?” He leaned his bulk over the desk toward Haegatess. “And am I supposed to be impressed? They may be younger than usual, but I already have more than I need. What do you want? In trouble, are you? Have you been sucking the life out of children and travelers again?”
“Just a few innkeepers and a drunken sailor, or two—until I found these.” She thumbed at the hapless men behind her, scanned his desk, and evaluated his usual banquet of treats. “I thought we might come to some beneficial compromise in regards to my . . . um, inconvenient tastes.” She picked a cluster of grapes from a bowl and leaned back in her chair.
“You seem especially plucky today, Auntie. Did you feed well last night?” Tomas pushed himself off the desk, pulled his winged, high-back red leather chair close, and sat down. No smile now. “You know how I love to haggle, Haega, but I’m busy. What do you want?”
Haegatess ate a few more grapes while she regarded him. “These two master weavers have six tones each and they’re trained to kill. Together they’re a full chromatic scale.” She popped another grape in her mouth and fixed a steely gaze on her nephew.
Tomas’ eyes glazed over in the time it took for the news to sink in. His ruddy face paled. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. His elbows pressed heavily on the desk. “Did you say six tones each?”
“Yes.”
He lowered his brow, closed his fat laden eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Are you sure of this?”
“Yes.” She stood and held her hands out for him to touch. “Let me show you—oh, I’m sorry, I forgot.” She raised her hands in mock surrender. “You can’t sense your tones, can you? Is that little old imbuement getting in your way?” She leaned toward him and sneered. “Well, blast and double blast it all, you’ll just have to round up twelve trusty weavers to test my boyfriends, won’t you.”
“You don’t need to lecture or belittle me on the imbuements, Haegatess.” Tomas reached for a bell rope and tugged. “You know how I feel about them. If I could remove mine, I would, and anyone else who wanted to be free of them.”
Haegatess planted her fists on her hips. “You need a living henge for that. Have you heard of any? No, because they’re all tombs—dark and silent. Unless you find a well-trained Cherished Weaver, or better yet, a Cherished Pair who can revive one.”
“Well, you’re certainly melodic this morning. You must have drawn every sentient tone out of those two. It’s a wonder they’re still alive.” He shook his head and glared at her. “You know very well I’ve been searching for a Cherished since taking a seat on the Priory Council. Forty-three years I’ve been searching. It’s not an easy task when others are just waiting for me to break the law.” He held up his hand to silence her usual reply, but failed.
“You arrogant, overstuffed, churlish prat.” She pulled off her shawl and whipped one end over the huge desk to touch him, but missed. He had moved away. “I’ve been searching for most of my life. Those bastards killed my husband, then stole my daughters and killed them too.” Candies, fruits, berries, and papers scattered as she gathered her shawl and recast it, trying to reach the retreating grandee. “I’ll silence every one of your ungrateful, greedy senses—if I ever get ahold of you.”
He pushed his chair back and walked away to keep out of her reach. “Now, be fair, Auntie. You can’t blame these poor fellows.” He swept a hand toward
the two ill-fated men. “They weren’t even around back then. What happened to your family was tragic, and you were not the only one to suffer during the Great War.” He moved with deceptive grace to the two men and studied them for a moment. “We can’t screen every child for those tones before their imbuement ceremony. There are many more Temple Priests and Priory Enforcers than there are of us. And now we have men like these two. They should be able to tell us . . .”
A polite knock on the study doors drew their attention. Tomas’ manservant pushed open one door and entered. “You called, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, Arnold. Please send couriers to my paladins. Summon them back. I want all twelve of them here, now.”
“Very well, sir.” Arnold gave a polite bow and left, pulling the heavy door closed.