Ritual of the Stones (Ballad of Frindoth) (18 page)

“A
room is two gold pieces a night, one silver,” a deep voice said from the
shadows.

Marybeth
started at the voice. A man stood in the doorway cleaning a glass with a dirty
dishcloth. A contradiction, Marybeth thought, if ever there was one.

“How
much to tell me what room the family with the young girl is staying in,” she
said.

“Three
gold pieces,” the man said, emerging from the shadows with a hideous grin on
his face.

Marybeth
contemplated maiming the greedy man. She was sure Mira and her parents would be
the only ones staying in the grotty excuse of an Inn and would not be hard to
find.

“That
is quite extortionate,” she said.

“Yeah,
well, someone has to pay for the upkeep of this place.”

“But
of course, you need the money to pay for the tremendous extravagance you afford
your guests.”

The
man frowned, unsure, it seemed, whether or not she was being sarcastic.

“I’ll
have a cider whilst I think about it,” she said.

The
man shrugged and fetched a glass that did not look any cleaner than the one he
had been rubbing down. He spat in it and wiped it around using the same dirty
dishcloth before pouring her drink. He offered it to her, a smug grin spreading
across his face.

Marybeth
took it without saying a word and then poured it on the floor. Before the man
could object, she smashed the glass over his head, sending him to the floor.

“Don’t
come after me,” she said as she walked towards the stairs.

She
found Mira and her parents all huddled together under a blanket in the corner
of the room. She had to suppress a smile as she looked upon the three pairs of
frightened eyes that peered above the blanket.

The
décor in the room made downstairs look like a palace. There was no bed, but
three piles of straw and three blankets. She was not sure how the Inn survived
on a daily basis.

“You
have nothing to worry about with us. W … w … w … we are on our way to Lilyon,”
Mira’s Father squeaked. “Y … y … y … you just be on your way now, and leave us
alone … please.” The “please” was added as an afterthought, as if he had
suddenly realised who he was talking to and had been too forward.

Marybeth
entered the room and kicked some of the straw together to form a large pile
before sitting on it.

“I
do not doubt your integrity. I am here to help you,” she said. Mira’s father
lowered the blanket to reveal his podgy face. He regarded her suspiciously.

“Help
us how?” he said.

“I’ve
come to take the stone off Mira,” Marybeth said, looking directly at the young
girl.

Mira
looked at her father hopefully. He went to speak but then stopped himself,
unsure what he actually wanted to say. His mouth paused in a perfect “o” shape
that portrayed his confusion. It was Mira’s mother that spoke.

“That’s
impossible.”

There
was an annoyance to her tone. Marybeth did not answer but instead picked up a
stalk of straw and began to clean the dirt out from under her fingernails.
Finally curiosity got the better of the mother.

“Help
us how?” she said.

“Let’s
just say I am conducting an experiment. I have reason to believe I can defeat
the Gloom,” Marybeth said without looking up, pretending her fingernails were
more important that the stone.

“An
experiment?” Mira’s mother scoffed. “You are willing to base the fate of
Frindoth on an experiment? If any of the twelve stoneholders fail to attend the
Ritual, the wrath of the Gloom will be devastating. Trees will—”

“DO
NOT QUOTE THE TEXT TO ME!” Marybeth said, jumping to her feet, her eyes
blazing.

The
three of them immediately pulled the blanket up over their heads. They looked
pathetic trembling underneath the thin material.
I don’t have time for this,
she thought. She whipped the blanket off of their heads, causing Mira to
scream and wrap her arms even tighter around her mother.

“Make
her go away, Father!” she sobbed.

The
father looked up at Marybeth, he was sweating and when he spoke there was a
tremble in his voice.

“Please
understand our position, good lady. If we give you the stone, you may save
Frindoth or you may not. If we take the stone to Lilyon, there is an eleven in
twelve chance our daughter will live. That is the better option for our Mira.
On one side we must rely on your say so, and on the other we are dealing with
definite facts. I’m sorry but I cannot give you the stone,” he said.

Marybeth
watched the man tremble. She noticed he focussed on the chances of living
rather than dying and admired him for protecting his daughter. Still, she could
not afford to be sentimental.

“Well
how about this for my say so. Your daughter will die if she does not give me
the stone.”

The
colour drained from all three of their faces.

“Your
daughter is experiencing her first blood right now. Did it not occur to you
that she is rather young for this to happen?” she said.

“There
is no set age for it to happen,” the mother said feebly. The weak response
indicated that she was worried where Marybeth was heading with this question.

“True,
but did it also not occur to you that it has been going on for slightly longer
than normal? She began bleeding six days ago, yes?” Marybeth said. Mira and her
mother nodded in unison. “Round about the time I learnt she possessed one of
the stones,” Marybeth pressed.

“You
had nothing to do with it!” the mother said, but Marybeth could detect the
doubt in her voice.

“Your
daughter will continue to bleed until there is nothing left of her, until she
is like a dried up prune.”

Mira’s
mother covered her daughter’s ears and begged Marybeth to stop talking.

“Her
skin will shrivel up, slowly at first. The colour will drain out of those rosy
cheeks of hers—”

“Stop
it, please, I beg you,” Mira’s mother screamed.

Marybeth
stopped and waited. She watched as both mother and daughter sobbed and tried to
comfort each other. Mira’s father had rammed his balled up fist into his mouth
and was biting down hard.

“I
can stop the bleeding. She can live a normal life. All I want is the stone.”

“Take
it! Take the damn thing,” Mira’s mother held out her hand and dropped the stone
into Marybeth’s outstretched palm.

“Thank
you. Your daughter will stop bleeding in three days,” Marybeth said, walking
towards the door. “One more thing, you will not mention this to anyone else.”

She
was not sure that they had even heard her until the mother whispered to herself
more than anyone else.

“Please,
just go.”

*
* *

As
Marybeth made her way back to tracking Rhact and his family, she began to doubt
whether she was doing the right thing. For years, centuries in fact, the Ritual
had been obeyed and followed religiously. Anyone that found a stone on them had
unquestionably obeyed their mandate. They had travelled to the city of Lilyon
and had fulfilled their duty. Frindoth had existed under this ruling and
structure and still thrived. Was she really doing the right thing by
interfering in the order of things?

She
reined her horse to a stop, it needed a rest anyway. She only had two of the
three stones she required, it was not too late to give them back. The path she
was travelling down could ultimately cause the destruction of Frindoth. It
would cause irrecoverable damage to the land she loved.

She
could go back to being a part of the Order, the only true family she felt like
she belonged to since the death of her father. Despite her hatred of Iskandar,
she begrudgingly admitted that she liked the company of Mondorlous, even Jaegal
was not so bad, in an annoying brother sort of way.

She
took out the two stones from her pouch and bounced them in her hand. She could
not say for certain why she had not taken the stone off Janna. Something about
it just did not feel right to her. A voice told her it was important the stone
stay with that family and she had learned to trust her instincts. She would follow
the Oberons for a while and see where that path took her.

Tall,
green stalks of grass reached up to her feet. A small breeze bent their tips to
one side, causing a light rustling sound. She closed her eyes and lifted her
chin into the wind as it brushed her cheeks, the cool sensation caused her to
smile.

Is Frindoth so bad now that I need to interfere?
she thought. Out here in the meadow, it was difficult to believe
it was. A new image appeared in her mind. It was of the despair the twelve stoneholders
were going through right now, the misery and helplessness of their families.

She
thought of her king. She did not know Jacquard that well, but what she had seen
of him had been enough to convince her that he was an honourable man who cared
for his people. It would have been easy for him to ignore his kingdom like his
predecessors, to let the warlords govern their own territories, whilst he
remained safe behind his solid walls.

Jacquard
had not been like that, however. He showed an active interest in his land, he
made an effort to unite his people and travel about his kingdom. She knew from
the other members of the Order that he took the business of the Ritual very
hard and for that she admired him. No king should be helpless in controlling
his land.

She
thought of Iskandar. A familiar flare of anger stirred within. He was the
reason she was doing this. What had started as a personal vendetta had now
materialised into something more important. There was another who shared her
belief that the Gloom could and should be stopped. The man who could alter his
appearance.

The
face changer frightened her. She had never encountered a man with that kind of
ability before. She was not sure of his true intentions or whether or not she
could trust him, but for now they shared a common goal.

She
must be doing the right thing. Why else after all these years had he found her?
Why had it worked out so conveniently that she was the one escorting the key stoneholders?
Why else after decades of men, women and children obeying the law and following
the edict of taking the stones to Lilyon, had she been able to easily persuade
three stoneholders to either give up their stones or stray from their destiny?
Why had the Custodians allowed her to leave the Marshes of Night with the scroll?
Why else?

Marybeth
opened
her eyes, the breeze had stopped. Everything around her seemed to
have come to a standstill. There was only silence. She looked around for any
sign of wildlife; there was none. Even her horse stood still patiently awaiting
instruction.

“I
am doing the right thing,” she shouted out to the meadow.

Silence
was her only response. She motioned her horse forward with a growing sense of
unease.

Jacquard
stabbed his fork into the steak and sawed at it with his dagger. He had a more
civilized knife next to his plate but he had never got out of the habit of
using his dagger after years of campaigns on the battlefield.

The
steak was tough but still tasted good, as did the eggs and mushrooms. Jacquard
relished his breakfast time. It was the only part of the day where he was truly
left alone. Not even Jefferson ate with him at his morning meals. It was here,
alone in his private chambers, he could spend some time alone with his son.

His
private quarters consisted of his bedroom, a study and the room where he could
entertain guests for private meetings. This particular room was fairly basic.
It contained the small round table that he now sat at, with chairs for three
other people.

Althalos
could come and go as he pleased in Jacquard’s quarters and he only summoned him
if he specifically fancied spending some quality time with his son. This
morning was such an occasion.

He
hadn’t turned up yet but Jacquard was not surprised. He had spied him
practicing in the yard at sunrise. Althalos had easily beat off five of his
friends, anticipating their moves well in advance of them actually attempting
to strike him. Each parry he made was carefully orchestrated to manoeuvre his
opponents into a position where he could defeat them a few swings later.

He
marvelled at his son’s skill with a sword; it already surpassed his own. The
prince wielded a blade as if it was an extension of his body and he possessed
lightning reflexes that he certainly didn’t inherit from his father. Still, it
was his fighting brain that pleased Jacquard the most. Being good with a blade
was only half the battle, the tactical nous in combat and a stroke of luck was
the thing that ensured you came out alive. Yesterday Fyfe had remarked how
impressed he was with the prince. The comment made Jacquard proud as the master-at-arms
was sparing with his compliments.

He
put the last slice of steak into his mouth as Althalos entered the room. He
wiped the grease from his lips and embraced his son.

“I
saw you in the practice yard this morning. You have become quite a swordsman,”
Jacquard said.

Althalos
dismissed the compliment with a shrug. He was immaculately dressed in a white
shirt and beige trousers. There was no sign of his exertions in the training
yard.

“It
means nothing unless I can replicate that form on the battlefield,” Althalos
replied.

Jacquard
scowled. “That time may come sooner than I had hoped.”

“Good,
he needs to be stopped.”

Jacquard
raised an eyebrow at his son’s response. Althalos had the grace to look
ashamed. He was raised better than to embrace war.

“Vashna
should not be taken lightly. I am certainly in no rush to meet his warriors.”

“Why
not, Father? I do not doubt the threat he poses, but we must move swiftly to
crush his rebellion. It will send a message to the rest of Frindoth that we are
still in control.”

There
was truth in his son’s words. He had been thinking the same thing himself.
Still, Althalos’s enthusiasm for war surprised him. Could he blame him, though?
He was a young man that had been trained to use a sword since he could walk,
and now was the first real chance he would have to prove himself.

A
knock on the door interrupted them. A young maid entered to remove the
breakfast. She was a pretty girl, with long brown hair, and slightly more
weight in the face than perhaps she should have, but this seemed to complement
her features. Upon seeing Althalos, she hesitated and then quickly looked down
on the floor blushing. She gathered the breakfast tray quickly and left the
room, glancing once more at Althalos as she did so and causing her cheeks to colour
even more.

Jacquard
looked at his son inquisitively, but Althalos merely dismissed the episode with
a wave of his hand, before the two laughed together.

“She
seems nice,” Jacquard said.

Althalos
nodded but did not say any more on the matter; clearly it was not something he
wanted to discuss with his father. Jacquard took the hint and changed the
subject back to Vashna.

“You
are right, Vashna is someone we cannot ignore. I was hoping we could at least
get this despicable Ritual out of the way first, but it seems clear Vashna
intends to use this distraction to his advantage. I’m proud of you, my son, you
will be a tremendous asset in the inevitable war.”

“That’s
if I make it past the Ritual,” Althalos said and looked away as he attempted to
mask the tears in his eyes.

His
son’s vulnerability moved him. They had not discussed Althalos receiving the
stone yet. Both of them had deliberately avoided the topic. Jacquard had not
been sure how to bring up the subject and his son had seemed to accept his fate
very quickly, seeing it as part of his duty. It seemed like so much time had
passed since they found out about the stone, that mentioning it seemed
pointless.

Now,
looking at his son trying to hold back tears, Jacquard regretted that decision.
He was reminded of how protective he felt towards him. A million memories
rushed over the king, from when Althalos was little and had looked at him the
same way: Althalos falling off his first horse, hitting his head on the bed
post after playing some silly game or when he had been afraid to jump into the
lake and swim by himself for the first time.

He
was suddenly reminded that his son, although a man in many ways, was still young.
Althalos still no doubt missed his mother as much as Jacquard did (another
subject that the two of them had always seemed to avoid). Jefferson had often
told Jacquard that Althalos asked lots of questions about his mother as he
could barely remember her.

Jacquard
enquired what Jefferson had replied and the old man would shrug, saying he had
told Althalos he should really talk to his father about her. Althalos never did,
though, and told Jefferson he did not want to open that wound. Jacquard had
never attempted to rectify the situation because in truth his son was right. He
found it too hard to talk about Mirinda.

“I’m
truly sorry I have not been able to find a way to stop the Ritual and defeat
the Gloom,” he said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder and looking him in
the eye. Althalos sniffed and furiously wiped the tears away.

“It’s
not your fault. I’m just being weak. I should accept my duty, I’m sorry.”

Jacquard
pulled his son towards him and hugged him.
The king could not
remember the last time he embraced his son.
That did
not seem to matter now. All he wanted to do was comfort his son. Althalos
seemed unsure how to react. His body felt rigid in Jacquard’s arms; however,
emotion overwhelmed the prince and he threw his arms around his father,
squeezing him as hard as he dared. Jacquard searched for the words to comfort
his son. He wanted nothing more than to make his pain go away.

“Don’t
ever think you are being weak. You are far stronger than I could ever hope to
be,” Jacquard whispered into his hair. “You are my son and already a man. I
couldn’t be more proud of you. We will get through this.”

“It’s
the not knowing. If I knew I was going to be selected, then at least I could
deal with it,” Althalos said.

“I know,”
he released his grip on his son and held him at arm’s length. “Remember this
feeling, because this is exactly what it feels like before a battle starts.
Except in a battle the odds of your surviving are a lot less.”

“In
a battle, you have more say in your own destiny, though,” Althalos said with a
twinkle in his eye. Jacquard smiled.

“Yes,
I suppose you do.”

They
were interrupted by another knock on door.

“Gloomsday!
You wouldn’t know this is my private quarters, would you?” Jacquard said.
“Enter!”

A
young steward opened the door, whom Jacquard only vaguely recognised. He was
scruffy looking, his clothes were slightly too big for him. His face was
covered in angry looking spots which seemed to complement his greasy hair.

Jacquard
was very fastidious over the appearance of his staff but something about the
boy’s conduct prevented him from saying anything. The boy was nervous, wringing
his hands over and over. He was also out of breath.

“I’m so sorry to
interrupt, my lord, but Kelstrom sent me to inform you Guynor has just
arrived,” the boy said.

Guynor
was the first man Jacquard had knighted when he became king, having fought
alongside him during the long campaigns against the Kronians. He was a tall, no
nonsense man and fiercely loyal to Jacquard. 

“Good
news about Vashna, hopefully. See to it that Guynor’s men are fed and his
horses are seen to immediately,” Jacquard said, turning to put a cloak on.

“That
will be difficult to do, my lord.” Jacquard turned back to the boy confused.
“Guynor arrived alone and on foot,” the boy said.

*
* *

Jacquard
arrived in the palace hall expecting the worst. His expectations were not far
off.

“He
is not in a good way, my king,” Jefferson said, walking briskly to match
Jacquard’s strides.

The
palace hall was the biggest room in the castle. It was generally used for
feasts or the monthly forum where citizens of Lilyon were welcome to come and
air their grievances. Jacquard’s footsteps echoed on the wooden floor. The
tables and chairs were stacked away behind the row of stone pillars on one side
of the room. Pillars cast ominous shadows from the sun shining through the
giant windows on the opposite wall.

At
the end of the hall, Jacquard could see a small crowd of people, huddled around
what must have been Guynor in the open doorway. As he drew closer, he could see
the crowd of people were mostly made up of his knights. All of them were
looking down with deep concern.
This is bad,
Jacquard thought.

As
he approached Guynor, Longshaw the Daring raised his head and acknowledged the king.
In contrast to his name, Longshaw the Daring was a short stocky man. Jacquard’s
attention fell to the man’s eyes, one blue and the other silver. The chief
knight maintained a well-trimmed beard in an attempt to take the attention away
from them but Jacquard thought the facial hair only magnified the oddity of his
eye colour.

Longshaw
cleared his throat, and immediately the other knights looked around to see
Jacquard. The twins Orwent and Orton cleared a space for him. The first thing
Jacquard saw was Paule Jacobs, the chief physician, kneeling down beside
Guynor. He was frantically applying some bandages to his body. Paule was biting
his tongue in concentration, his long hair falling across his face as he
worked. Beside him was a bowl of red stained water and a cloth.

Jacquard
looked at Guynor and stopped in mid-stride. Beside him he heard Althalos gasp.
Their friend was almost unrecognisable. Paule had covered one side of Guynor’s
face with bandages but the side that was visible was sickening. Every bit of
skin was bruised a brown/purple colour. His eye was swollen shut. The skin
around the socket was an even darker shade of purple. A nasty scratch stretched
from his ear to mouth.

His
armour was gone, and all he wore in its place was tattered rags soaked in blood
from wounds that had been inflicted all over his body. One in particular on his
leg was very deep. The cloth that Guynor had used to attempt to close the wound
had come undone. Jacquard could see the white of the bone in the gash. The
surrounding tissue was a worrying jade colour. A wave of nausea swept over the
king as pus oozed from the abrasion.

 “You
look terrible, my lord,” Guynor said and attempted a smile, which immediately
turned into a wince.

“What
happened?” Jacquard said through clenched teeth.

Guynor
tried to prop himself up to speak but immediately fell onto his back. He lay
like that for a few minutes and Jacquard was unsure whether or not to repeat
the question. Finally, Guynor began to talk, grimacing every now and again as
Paule cleaned and sewed up a lesion.

“We
followed Vashna for days, always staying just out of sight, but occasionally
infiltrating his men. At first he merely travelled from village to village
asserting his authority and demanding the people swear allegiance to him. Those
that refused saw their homes burned and their families put to the sword.

“After
the first couple of villages, the folk became aware of what was happening. Most
of them swore allegiance out of fear for their families. Some, I’m ashamed to
say, readily supported Vashna and were only too happy to join his forces.

“His
army grew with every village and town he visited. There were a few skirmishes
but Vashna rarely involved himself in the battle. He has a new champion now, a
young man with a painted face, called Stasiak. He is a formidable warrior.

“I
have never seen a man with such a thirst for blood or so consumed with hatred.
When Vashna orders his men into battle, quite often it is Stasiak that leads the
charge and is the last one to emerge from the field with a mountain of corpses
surrounding him.