Legend of the Ravenstone (25 page)

William pointed at it. “You cannot doubt it, for these are cirrus clouds, and if we were to look out the window—”

“I mean I can’t take this from you,” Kariayla said, blushing. “Hawkwing wanted you to have it.”

“That is not what his note told me,” the wizard mused, scratching his head. “I did not read it in front of you, as it would have been rude, but he instructed me to give this to you. That was why I asked you here.”

“But you didn’t—”

“Now, now, you must take it. If he was here, he would be most insistent.” William ushered her toward the door. “He does tend to give rather interesting gifts, and between you and me, he has always been a bit strange.”

Before she knew it, Kariayla was standing in the corridor again, wondering if she was still asleep and dreaming. The skystone, however, was solid in her hand. Had Hawkwing truly wanted her to have it, or did William lie so that she would take it? If the latter was the case, then why? More confused than when she had arrived, she wandered back the way she had come.

~*~

T
he bowl was tossed to the floor, half of its gloppy contents splattering amongst the debris of splintered wood, stone, and rat feces. “Since you can see your meal, you can eat it yourself.”

The Demon looked up to meet the Jornoan’s dark eyes, as if its own feral stare could sear holes into its captor’s head. It had managed to, for what seemed the hundredth time, slip the blindfold from its face, and this had snapped the brittle stick that was its keeper’s temper. The Demon did not shrink away, did not move at all—not until the boot connected with its side. The creature crumpled soundlessly, and Asmat scowled.

“You will learn fear—if not from me, then from your master.” He crouched beside the Demon and wrapped his fingers around the creature’s scrawny arm. He watched what little he could see of the shadowed face. “When the Priagent returns, you will become his,” he said in a low voice. “When you open your eyes, he will see through them. If you rise, it will be at his command. You will not flinch unless he allows it. Every move you make—” his grip tightened “—will be by his will.” The corners of Asmat’s mouth lifted when the creature tried to pull away. “Terror has replaced your defiance. Better get used to it.”

The Demon suddenly snapped at him, its sharp teeth sinking into the Jornoan’s hand. Asmat gave a cry and then a curse as he withdrew, blood running down his arm. In one swift motion, he seized the creature’s head and smashed it against the ground, grinding the side of its face into the spilled contents of the bowl. “I would crush you right now,” he seethed, ready to bear all his weight atop the Demon’s skull. There was a moment when he leaned forward to follow through, but then he shoved the creature away. “You’ll find a fate worse than death.” Asmat stood and walked away, though the Demon did not move until it heard the door to the cellar slam shut and the last of the footfalls ascend the stairs.

Slowly, painfully, the Demon tried to sit upright. Its hands were bound in gloves of metal attached to a thin spike that had been driven into its palms. Until now, the Demon’s meager meals had been fed to it with no lack of resentment on behalf of either party. With the sludge from the bowl caked upon its face, its sensitive nose was overpowered by pungent slop, and the creature heaved what its barren stomach could not offer. It gasped and heaved again, then submitted to the floor. For a long while it lay there, staring at the walls of the cellar, watching the inevitable approach of roaches and flies to where its dinner stagnated.

Weeks ago, the Demon’s prison had been the bed of a wagon. In a cocoon of ropes, it had been bound, blinded, concealed, and cast amongst its captors’ supplies to endure the long, rough road to the damp, cold setting in which it now suffered. The journey had given the creature much to consider, listening to the strange tongue of its captors, feeling the air grow steadily warmer and catching the scent of the sea as the days passed. But now—now there was nothing but nameless anxiety and anticipation of what would come next. There were walls, and there was the dirt of the floor. There was silence until the one named Asmat came to torture him, and when Asmat was gone, the Demon was left to endure its wounds. For how long it had claimed the cellar as its living tomb, it did not know. Days and nights were the same; time was meaningless. But there was always the waiting, and it suspected that soon the waiting would come to an end.

A fly landed near its eye, and the Demon jerked in response. Without purposeful consideration, Asmat’s words returned to the creature’s thoughts. The Jornoan mined fear with his touch, and no matter how deeply the Demon had buried this feeling, Asmat would find a way for it to surface and swell. Even now, the Demon could taste Asmat’s blood upon its tongue, but it was with disgust and not satisfaction that it spat the vile taint across the floor.

Another voice replaced that of the Jornoan, and somehow these gentle, familiar words inspired more resentment than the Demon’s captors. “Y’ are destined for a greater path,” the old man had said with a smile. And the Demon had listened to those rich and promising words, not completely certain of what they meant, but believing them simply because they came from the mouth of the Prophet. “A greater path” was what had brought the Demon to Northern Secramore, or so the creature had hoped. Laying on the floor of a cellar, bloodied, bruised, and broken, amongst rats and roaches, the greater path was a greater joke.

The sound of the door ceased any wandering thoughts. There were multiple footsteps this time—two sets of steady feet and one pair that dragged. When they came into view, Asmat was not amongst those in the light of the lantern. Two Jornoans carried a blinded prisoner, but the Demon knew the face beneath the sack before it was lifted.

It was the old man. The Prophet. Duke Nikolon Omarand. Father. Betrayer. The knowing blue eyes did not sparkle now. They darted to the dark corners of the cellar, searching for some hidden horror but settling upon something worse: his follower. The Demon watched him from where it lay, also searching—searching for some clue that its leader might have some hidden opportunity or hope of escape. A wink, a nod, a slight smile—any gesture would suffice.

But the old man, pale and fragile in the light of the lantern, was no more than an old man. His noble attire was soiled and tattered, his white hair in disarray. And fear. The Demon could smell his fear as easily as it could see it on the taut skin drawn by the Prophet’s expression of despair. As the Jornoans took him into the opposite corner to be bound, Prophet and Demon kept their eyes locked.

At some point, the Jornoans left, and the two infamous thieves were left alone in darkness and in silence. The Demon could see in the darkness, and its leader searched blindly in the shadows. The weakened voice reached out to the Demon with the name the old man had given it, but the Demon said nothing, waiting.

The great and infamous Prophet waited too, but his lips had parted with nothing on them. For all the words of wisdom he had so readily imparted to his followers for so many years, he had not one sound to utter...except....

“I am sorry,” the Prophet whispered to the creature who had trusted him.

At last the Demon turned away.

“A
re you ready?” the wizard asked with a gleeful smile.

Arcturus looked at Kariayla, pointed to his eye, and shook his head. For all appearances, the glimmer had returned, and William had a spring in his step once more. This was jittery excitement, however, and it was coupled with bouts of anxious laughter or hasty chuckles. When William first announced that he wanted to show them something special, Arcturus had been instantly suspicious, and since that moment, the Markanturian’s expression was red stone.

“This is the finest work ever done by my students,” William bragged and pulled open the door. Before them was a giant framework of wooden planks and string. It was large enough they could all stand within its form, and Jinx and Ruby were the first to do so.

“What is it?” the thief asked, tugging lightly at one of the colorful strings above his head.

“Easy there, my boy,” William said, hurrying to hover beside the creation. “It is The Loom.”

“The loom that presumably exploded?” Arcturus asked, approaching the construct with his staff thumping beside him.

William ushered Ruby away before she could swing on a low beam. “Yes, yes, but it has since been repaired, of course.”

“Of course. I did not know you were so interested in textiles.” Arcturus was staring at William, not the loom.

“Ah, well, I dabble in many things.”

“In more ways than one.”

William met his gaze. “This loom is the first of its kind.”

“Why is there dirt under it?” Jinx interrupted, kicking at the substrate.

“I like earth tones,” William snapped. “Don’t mess. And try not to interrupt.”

“Sorry.”

“First of its kind,” Arcturus prompted the wizard.

“Yes. And the only of its kind. You see, the loom does not weave clothes, but rather time and distance.” William turned and gestured to the contraption. “I’m not entirely certain how it all works, but in theory, a body is connected to the loom by a special string, and that string is magically woven into a matrix—a shroud—that serves as a temporal gateway to a particular destination. One merely needs to be ‘enshrouded’ upon the temporal medium—the ‘dirt’—as Master Jinx indicated—and then you go!” He flung wide his arms, then turned back to see his audience gaping at him. “What?”

“Ya mean you get buried alive?” Jinx gasped. Ruby’s eyes consumed another third of her face.

“No! Not at all!” William held up a finger, then rubbed his chin. “Well, actually, I suppose that is sort of true. But you are not ‘buried’ long. You awaken in another place.”

“This theory of yours is incredible,” Arcturus said, his words slow and thoughtful. “I suppose it would be a convenient method of travel for one confined to a hidden city in the mountains. And to think I had to cross the continent to visit you. You might have saved me a journey.” He gave a wry smile. “To where do you intend to travel?”

“Well, you understand that I am rather limited in my mobility, being the headmaster of this fine school—”

“I was under no such impression,” Arcturus interjected politely.

“It is, in part, the reason for your arduous trek.”

Arcturus waited.

William elbowed Jinx. “I was thinking
you
might like to try my loom.”

“Me?”

“Whoever is willing, actually.”

Arcturus thumped his staff. “No.”

Everyone turned to him.

“I will not tolerate your antics, William. This is not a frivolity, and these young travelers are under my care. You may try to dazzle them, appeal to their sense of adventure, wonder, and perhaps even their innocent desire to be of service, but I
know
you, and I will be your obstacle if you do not at least have the decency to
thoroughly
explain all of your intentions.” He placed his free hand on his hip. “What is
this
,” he gestured to the loom, “about?”

William drew a deep breath. “Fair enough. All I have said regarding the loom is true. It is a device of transport, and with it I hope to transport a small party to Orecir, a city on the southern coast of Northern Secramore. That is where the party will rendezvous with my contact to gather details about Priagent Rashir Diemh and his group of followers. From there, the party will assume the identity of Merchant Guild representatives, approach the Priagent about his endeavors, earn his trust through a mutual arrangement, and then abscond with the Ravenstone when he is least suspecting an evasion.”

Arcturus had started to speak when William raised a hand. “I know—
all
the details... The party would be in disguise, of course. I have devised an illusion for each member that will be so convincing that—”

“Stop!” Arcturus cried. “You have gone completely mad. Have you considered the tale you are imparting?”

All eyes shifted to the wizard.

“At least three times, Arcturus, but I do confess that the plan has necessarily evolved.” William seemed undaunted by the Markanturian’s accusation. “It is a fair plan, and while there are a few variables involved, I am quite confident the Ravenstone will be recovered and—”

“A few variables?” Arcturus pressed, his voice rising with each word. “You ask us to travel on a whim through your magic loom, pretend to be an authority we are not, and risk our lives to steal a mythical cantalere from a Southern Secramorian ruler and his entourage.
Look
at us, William,” he demanded, gesturing to the others. “We are not spies, fighters, or powerful medori. We came here for a friendly visit, only to find you have concocted a grand operation to swindle a man in the midst of some diplomatic endeavor—merely because you believe he will destroy all of Secramore with an endowed rock from forgotten tales of a misconstrued historical event.

“I suspect that the one man with any inkling of your ludicrous ambitions acted accordingly and left before he could be thrown into such madness. You should know that I—along with my companions—will be soon to follow.” Arcturus rubbed his brow. “How could you even present such a notion? I am beyond words.”

The silence that followed was an itch begging to be scratched, but no one made a move, much less a sound. William opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated. His shoulders drooped, and Arcturus snorted. The Markanturian gestured for the others to follow him, but when their attention was directed to the door, they stopped.

“And to think I just paid him a compliment,” Arcturus grumbled, watching the tall man step inside the room.

“You came back,” William marveled, but Hawkwing held up a hand.

“What choice did I have—” the tracker asked, “—when thrown into desperation, you ask for help—poorly, I might add—from your unassuming guests?”

“Desperate?” William laughed.

Hawkwing did not smile. “
Priagent
—the Jornoan word for ‘emperor.’ Diemh claimed his title before he took his hold in Southern Secramore. His own people have rejected him; they are too immersed in civil war to give him any heed. But does one man and his band of loyal followers warrant such attention? He has earned
your
attention, Bill.”