The Singing Stones of Rendor Read online

  “What are you planning?” Haegatess settled her shawl over her shoulders and lifted her braid from under it.

  Tomas finished his study of the two men before he turned to his aunt. “Why, you’re going to help us tune up one of those old henge looms and see what these two have to tell us.”

  Haegatess barked a humorless laugh. “You want me to teach twelve one-note ninnies you call master weavers to thread a loom. Ha! You might as well throw cats at a harp.”

  Tomas calmly made his way to his desk and sat down. “How are your healing skills, Auntie? I assume you still have your precious heirloom.”

  “Why?” She yanked hard on her shawl and sat.

  “Well, you see, I’ve been expecting something like this to happen.” He began to gather the scattered treats and return them to their bowls. “There are verified reports of turmoil in the central realms, specifically in the Endless Realm Priory. I expect a new Peer will lead it within the next few years. Maybe sooner.” He pointed to the two silent men. “These fellows are probably from that confused priory. If so, they confirm rumors of trained multi-toned weavers. They call themselves Inquisitors, and perform much the same duties as our Enforcers. The fact they have come here is disturbing.”

  “What has that to do with healing?” She didn’t trust her nephew’s motives, especially if he wanted to involve her.

  “What happens if you use your trusty heirloom on an unborn child?” He leaned toward her. “What if we found our Cherished Weaver before it was born? What if we found a Cherished Pair? What if you trained them? What if they—”

  “Conquered the world?” Haegatess didn’t realize she had held her breath. And I could finally reap my vengeance.

  “Well, maybe not conquer the world, but at least we could keep it at bay until we convince others to join us.” Sir Tomas selected a fig and popped it in his mouth. “We may not have long—only a few years if things don’t go our way.”

  They sat and examined each other for a long moment. Haegatess searched her memory of possible candidates. A name came to her mind, one with family ties. “Do you remember a young nephew of yours by the name of Willim K’Las Campanill?”

  “Yes. He’s a contender for priory membership, and an excellent businessman. The boy has a lot of potential. In fact, he’s a master—”

  “What matters is his wife. She’s pregnant.” Haegatess stood and leaned over the big desk. “I’ve heard she can sing, too. I want you to send her to me.”

  “How do you know this?” He squinted suspiciously at her.

  “They’re tinkers. The Tinker Converse is being held near the Great Eastern Henge.” She straightened, turned, and walked to the study doors. “I visit the converse . . . at night . . . and gather a few, uh . . . staples. I hear things, too.” She rapped on the door, and an attendant pushed it open. She walked through.

  The door closed behind her.

  ~~~

  SIX MONTHS LATER

  A gentle rap on the door made Haegatess sit up. She knew that rhythm.

  “Haegatess, are you home?” The contralto voice confirmed the woman’s arrival. “Yes, of course I’m home. Come in, girl.” Haegatess’ persistent frown and the indelible scorn in her voice belied the affection she had for the young woman. Not only did the girl have a keen interest in the healing arts, but she was the true-singer Haegatess had sought for so many years. No visit from the young woman over the past six months had gone without a song and a welcome smile.

  The latch clattered as it lifted. Haegatess pushed herself up from her rocking chair and shuffled toward the door. She met B’Tris at the doorway. Haegatess’ grand-nephew, Willim, followed her in.

  “Ah, I see you brought your husband. Why?” Haegatess eyed her grand-nephew up and down. “You haven’t been around in a while, have you? You’re still too skinny, and too tall and too nervous. Stop that.” She slapped at his arms as they hovered around his wife’s shoulders. However, he persisted and lifted her thick auburn hair from her sweating neck.

  B’Tris held her swollen belly with both hands. “It’s time, Haega.”

  Willim steadied her while she wobbled into the cottage.

  “Very well, Bee. Don’t get your skirt in a twist.” Haegatess closed the door behind them. “Get over there to the bed. I’m ready if you are.”

  B’Tris clutched at her husband’s green tunic when he raised her swollen feet onto the bed. She groaned in pain while a contraction gripped her.

  Willim sat beside her and dabbed sweat from her brow. “Aunt Haega seems to have done you a world of good. I’m glad she . . .”

  “Get out of my way, boy.” Haegatess thrust a gnarled finger into Willim’s shoulder. “I need to listen to the child.”

  Willim pulled himself up, one shoulder at a time, to his full height and loomed over her. Haegatess lowered her finger and stepped back. She never liked his even-tempered demeanor, but sometimes she could prod a reaction from him. Like now. Taking charge and granting me permission, eh? He regarded her for a stern moment then stepped aside and gestured for her to assist B’Tris. She nodded, acknowledging his right to be there.

  Haegatess took Willim’s place by B’Tris’ side and prepared her to give birth. She placed a hand on each side of B’Tris, pressed an ear to her belly, and listened to the baby inside. Her ear knew the sounds of a normal pregnancy, and she heard them. But this time, she searched by touch for the tones she had instilled in the mother and child. Her heirloom had worked well. She gently pulled on each tone to distinguish child from mother. Only B’Tris’ strength made the task possible.

  With each tug, a thread formed. Her mind plucked it. B’Tris smiled. Haegatess pulled a second tone to form a chord, then a third, and a fourth, until all the tones sang and pushed against B’Tris’ deep-set imbuement. She strummed every note and chord, to B’Tris’ contentment. Haegatess continued until she held no doubt that B’Tris might have been a Cherished if not for her imbuement. She cursed under her breath.

  Willim heard her. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing a living henge couldn’t fix.” She lifted her head from B’Tris’ round belly. “Your wife is doing well, but I have to consider the child now.”

  Haegatess placed both hands near the baby’s head and found its tones. Each thread she pulled from the child resounded with booming notes and chords in her mind, but they drifted, undisciplined. With each strum, B’Tris’ single, unimbued resonant tone worked to pull the child into perfect pitch. The child leaped and B’Tris laughed.

  B’Tris raised her head to see Haegatess. “Are the tones still there? Are they still strong?”

  “Yes. With every treatment they’ve gotten stronger, and so has the baby.” Haegatess looked from B’Tris to Willim and back again.

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” B’Tris said, and Willim nodded.

  Haegatess stood and pressed one hand to B’Tris’ temple and the other on her belly near the baby’s head. She drew out their shared note, middle C, and strummed.

  The sudden, intense contraction lifted B’Tris’ shoulders from the bed. She heaved a teeth-grinding groan as Willim moved to support her.

  “Push.”

  ~~~

  “Will he live?” Willim sat beside B’Tris and stroked her sweat-soaked auburn hair. “We’ve lost four already. Will this one live?”

  “Yes, of course the boy will live.” Haegatess washed her hands and toweled them dry. She stepped to a storage chest, took a wooden box from deep within, and returned to B’Tris’ side. “I want you to have this.” Haegatess caressed the soft sheen of the box while she embraced it. “It’s been in our family for . . . well, a very long time.”

  “But isn’t that your family heirloom?” B’Tris lifted her gaze from the baby boy nestled beside her. “Shouldn’t it go to Sir Tomas?”

  “No, and for good reason.” Haegatess lay the box next to the baby. “Perhaps your uncle Tomas will tell you the story of . . . our inheritance. He won’t want to, mind you,
but you make him. He’s not a bad sort, for a fat, greedy old man.”

  Her voice softened. “But no time for stories.” She tapped Willim on the shoulder to get him to move. When he stood, she sat in his place by B’Tris and the baby. “The child must have his tones sealed. I don’t want them to fade away too soon. In a few years, when he’s ready, we must begin his training.” She shook a bony finger at the new parents. “You are his mother and father. You teach him right

  from wrong, and I will train him in the Weaving Arts.”

  Willim glanced to his wife before he met his aunt’s gaze. “But I thought you were tone deaf and couldn’t weave.”

  “I am.” Haegatess caressed the boy’s tiny brow, lost in thought. She then spoke in a whisper without realizing it. “I’m deaf as a post. Couldn’t spin a thread if my life . . . heh, no. Oh no, no spinning wheel for me. But spools? Now, spools I have.”

  B’Tris and Willim gave each other a confused glance.

  Willim knelt beside the bed and took his aunt’s hand. “What do you mean, spools?”

  “What?” Haegatess looked up from the boy, startled. “Spools? Who said anything about spools? Pah!” She shoved Willim’s hand away, stood, and glared at him for daring to question her. However, her immediate concern still lay next to B’Tris. She huffed and sat back down. “I have to seal his tones.”

  Her hand trembled as it came to her chin and began stroking. She had never done this with an infant. He’ll be a Cherished Weaver someday, I’m sure of it. Do I even need to do this? I’ve done this with initiates for the Cherished—why not with infants? Surely this has been done before. Why can’t I remember? His tones are all there, ready to be sealed, but they’re immature.

  But what happens if it works? She closed her eyes to relish the thought. The world will regret what it has done to me. The Five Great Realms of Rendor will quake, the henges will break, and my revenge will be fulfilled.

  “Aunt Haega, are you ill?” Willim gently shook her arm.

  Haegatess flailed and slapped at his hand. “Leave me be. I was just planning how to do this.”

  “How many times have you sealed someone’s tones?” Willim caught one of her hands and held it firm. “Uncle Tomas said you knew what you were doing and to trust you, but if there’s any danger to my son—”

  “There’s no . . .” She grunted and tried to pull away from Willim, but failed. “No danger to the boy.” She pulled again. Willim matched her glare for a moment, then let her go. She examined her wrist as she rubbed it. “I’m more concerned about . . . I need to be here for the boy.”

  She bent over the infant and placed her face near his. “Are you ready for this, little one?” She lifted one of the tiny hands from his chest and pressed it gently to her brow. Willim leaned in to watch.

  She released the spools that lay deep within her mind. This would likely be her last chance—and a very good chance, indeed. The lad’s tones had a nearly complete scale of twelve semitones. A little tuning and they would be whole and comprehensive. She would give him everything he could handle.

  The spools in her mind spun up slowly, giving the child time to adjust while they unwound. Each spool surged like a sensory ocean, filled with sound, color, texture, flavor, and aroma—these were the essence of her ‘tones’. The very thing every Weaver needed.

  A tiny thread formed at the boy’s temple and reached for her touch. She took it, and slowly spilled her tones into his hungry little mind on threads as thin and persistent as life itself. The ability of the boy to absorb so much surprised her. The spools gained speed, unwinding faster, challenging her ability to control them. Her grip on the spools began to fail. The flow doubled. Tripled. Slow down, slow down. A dull, throbbing pain began to build in her brain. She tried to release the thread, but couldn’t. Panic set in. Slow . . . down. I can’t . . . I can’t . . . The spools spun too fast. A blinding pain knifed behind her eyes. I . . . said . . . slo—

  She sagged and fell to the floor.

  ~~~

  Pain woke her. It grated at her joints. Her back curled and twisted like a tattered rag in a tempest. The pounding agony in her brain would crack a blacksmith’s anvil. She felt depleted. She forced her eyes open and found Willim sitting beside her, caressing her brow.

  She rasped through a dry throat, “How’s the boy?”

  “Ah, Aunt Haega.” Willim gently pressed his hand to her temple. He leaned closer. “K’Las is doing very well. How are you?”

  “He took everything,” she whispered.

  Willim lifted a water-skin from his belt, removed the stopper, and offered her a drink. “What did he take?”

  She sipped and swallowed through the pain. “Everything. I have nothing left.” Her eyes closed. “My anger. I’m sorry. Beware of my anger.”

  “Of what?” Willim set his ear near her mouth.

  “When he is of age, he will learn quickly.” She licked her lips and spoke slowly. “His senses will come alive. Beware. His senses . . . beware, beware of . . . my . . . anger.” Her mind began to slip into darkness, but she fought back. “He’s a good boy. A peculiar boy. I didn’t mean for him to take it all. I’m . . . sorry. Beware.”

  The fine weave of a soft, black veil enveloped her. Her mind reached and embraced it. A voice, perhaps her own, said, “You’re mine.”

  She heard a familiar voice from somewhere far behind. “Good-bye, Haegatess. Good-bye.”

  Chapter Two

  Rat Hole

  Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . The pondering cadence of the big floor clock seduced the library patrons into a silent reverence. K’Las closed a clothbound book, signed his name to a folded piece of paper, and slipped the pencil into his day kit. He had finished his last exam. His feet dangled nervously from the too-tall chair his father had set him in two hours earlier. He waited for the clock to tick away the last few minutes of their allotted time. Before long, his feet began to swing.

  His proctor, a brawny woman one might mistake for a constable, carried a well-used measuring stick. She patrolled three long, narrow examination tables with ten pensive students taking the same exam. All but two were children of tinkers, schooled on the roads of the eastern realms. The Merchant’s Trade House set the standards for children not attending formal schools in those client kingdoms.

  The head librarian, a scarecrow of a man, and his assistants roamed the floor, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of books and patrons. They carefully managed the books lent out on a long-term basis—especially to tinkers on the last day of the Tinker’s Converse.

  The clock finally struck a single muted tone for the noon hour. All the students looked up expectantly.

  K’Las knew they couldn’t leave until the doughty proctor released them. She slapped the stick on a table to gain her students’ attention. In a brusque, though library-friendly tone, she said, “Close your books, children.”

  She tapped the measuring stick on the palm of her hand in five measured beats while she paced. By the fifth beat, all books, save one, slapped closed. She moved swiftly to the offending book and smacked her stick across it. “I said close your book, Miss Wheeler.”

  “Yes, Momma.” The proctor’s daughter obeyed, then clasped her hands in her lap and bowed her head.

  That’s just mean. I don’t like that witch. K’Las swung his feet out and kicked an empty chair across from him. The chair screeched against the tile floor. He slumped down in his chair, folded his arms, and scowled.

  The proctor whirled around. “Who did that?” She prowled the tables and examined each face for a hint of guilt. “You. Tinker trash. Did I give you permission to leave?”

  “No, ma’am.” K’Las stared at the floor, avoiding the woman’s glare.

  “Then why did you move?” She loomed over him with a scornful smile, tapping the stick on the tabletop in front of him.

  K’Las pointed to the chair and said as loudly as he dared, “I didn’t. It did. I kicked it—on accident.”

  “You’re ly
ing.” She grabbed him by the collar of his homespun shirt.

  “Let me go, you wicked witch.” K’Las flailed and kicked as she sat in a child’s chair. He managed to land one good punch to her stomach.

  She didn’t even flinch. They struggled and grunted, but she still managed to haul him over her knee. “Liars will be punished.” She raised the stick to swat his rump, but a hand grabbed her wrist.

  The head librarian’s high, syrupy voice intervened. “You seem to be in a foul mood today, my dear.”

  K’Las scrambled off her knee and backed away. The librarian released his hold on the proctor. She got to her feet and scowled at him.

  A dowdy young library assistant began gathering the test papers and books. “Your parents can see me about your scores within the hour.” When she came to K’Las’ paper, she read his name and went pale. She brought the paper to the head librarian.

  He read it and clapped his hands. “Listen up, children. You are now dismissed.”

  The scurry and clamor of escaping children echoed throughout the Charlestone City Library. The proctor gasped. “What? You can’t just dimiss . . .”

  The librarian raised his age-spotted hand and silenced the woman. He whispered something in her ear.

  “Bosh. Are you mad?” Her scowl twisted into disdain. “They don’t send their children to a commoner’s library. And they are certainly not tinkers.”

  The rope-thin librarian handed her K’Las’ paper. “Does the name sound familiar?”

  The proctor pondered the block letters on the page. A moment later, the name rang her bell. “Campanill?” She stepped back, quivering. “I didn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .” She slapped the paper against the librarian’s beige vest and hurried from the library. Her daughter, still waiting for her mother to dismiss her, cautiously rose from her seat. With shy, downcast eyes, she quietly pushed her chair to the table, clasped her hands at her waist, and left.