The Stone Wizard

by Wade Ebeling

  “From there, I … You must understand how hard this is to say to you. Please believe me when I say that I … mainly worked as a greeter … and a … facilitator for the other girls. Usually, I was just getting whatever food and drinks that were requested, or whatever else was desired, while the girls were … occupied. So, I met a high ranking official. A very serious man. Talked to him kindly a few times. You know how it is … Turns out he was the Vicar Forane within the Camaraderie. This was not just some local appointee, you understand? Sent over from England to oversee legal matters within the Church, or some such.”

  Marcus could not find the words to voice how troubling her admission was. He did not understand so much about what she had said. “What did ‘mainly’ and ‘usually’ mean? Why would Master Grenaldt send her to a brothel?” he wondered. Finding it easier to say nothing, he stared out across the swaying reeds instead of meeting her unflinching, almost unrepentant, gaze.

  “Things got easier from there. At least, they were more tolerable … You see, he kept me as his own. The man had no real friends, apparently everyone was afraid of him. Took an unhealthy interest in me. Started sending me to all sorts of etiquette classes and the like… He had no idea who I really was, right. Honestly, I didn’t even know what I was doing there sometimes. Acting like I had come from a low-born family … I was kept in the back rooms of the Bastion. You see? I was intentionally placed where I could never have overheard anything that might even come close to important. I … well, I figured … oh, whatever. Doesn’t matter now.”

  Catherine took several deep breaths, as if just the act of talking had winded her. After her pulse had slowed a bit and her bravado again bolstered, she resumed her confession of sorts. “So, here I am, drinking and … whoring around with this devil of a man. Tell it like it was, I suppose. I was a blower, Marcus. Never even told me he was married. Wife back in England. Had to find that out for myself, much later. Sure, he was kind to me at first, all sunshine and rainbows. But, as time went on, he expected me to become more of a personal … I don’t even know ... Concubine? Wanted to show me off to others, I expect. If I ever said anything that he considered wrong, acting in a fashion that he considered to be below his station, like picking up a glass wrong or laughing a bit too loud, he would … punish me … later. Whipped me sometimes, you saw that, if it was deemed a particularly egregious offence. Sometimes he would tie me to a bed, leave me there to starve … laying in my own filth …”

  Marcus found that none of this really mattered to him, other than wishing she had not had to endure it. Finding his voice, which sounded a bit angrier than intended, he interjected, “Why did you stay? Why would you let this man continue to commit these … atrocious acts to you? Had you told me earlier, I would have knocked Grenaldt’s teeth down his throat. That jackanapes had no right …”

  Catherine wagged her finger ‘no’. “It was not his fault. I was supposed to get messages to him, I just never did … for so long … He didn’t know where I was. I was embarrassed that I had not found out anything. I was there for … Well, my own stubbornness, really. But, it payed off. Don’t you see? How did Grenaldt know where to send you in Boston? Just how was it that you were able to find that room full of valuable supplies amongst a sea of buildings? How did you come to know their transport routes? How did you know what was being transported?” The pain Catherine felt was growing, the involuntary winces showed it plainly, as did the beads of sweat coalescing on her forehead.

  Somehow, she continued, insistent that he understand the truth. Marcus dared not interrupt again.

  “I never got a single bit of information from that … sicko. But, I was eventually welcomed into the fold amongst a few of the other society members. Well, at least some of the other wives and mistresses came to accept me. As it turns out, they knew more than any one member of the clergy did anyways. They were always bragging about how their man oversaw this project, or how they had just been moved to a new compound over here. From over there! You see? The best parts were the things they thought nothing of telling me. How they had rum snuck in on the weekly shipments, which just happened to be every Wednesday, or whenever. Or, how some underling would risk life and limb to sneak into their complex to ‘see’ them. They would tell you how they could make their way out through a back window at a certain time of night when the guards were changing. Everything! They told me everything!”

  “When I learned of the imminent arrival of what they called ‘a ship full of Deacons’, I knew something horrible was coming for our order. I was right, too. All the pomp and circumstance that was normally associated with being involved with the Church suddenly came to a halt. No more parties around the city. No more feasts at this person’s farm or formal dinners at that bishop’s fancy manor … Nothing … It was as if they were hiding from these new people. Ashamed of their decadence to some degree. Afraid, more like. They saw the punishments that were given out. Hell fire, some of ‘em were the ones giving the orders. At least, until that boat arrived. After that, no one dared step out of line. So, no one did anything.”

  Catherine’s breathing was becoming more haggard. While her energy waned, her will did not. Marcus squeezed her hand and leaned down to kiss her once again on the forehead. He began to stutter about how he did not care about her past and how astounding it was that she had survived at all. Simple platitudes that she, while on some level appreciated, ignored to finish her horrendous story.

  “I spent two days locked in a holding cage with nothing but a chamber pot before I decided to flee. For good, yes? … I managed to squeeze out near one of the corners, where the bars were spaced out just a bit larger. Built with men in mind, I imagine … Guess it was good that I hadn’t eaten for a while, or I might still be in there.” Catherine laughed nervously at the less than funny prospect. “Had to meld … through two other brick walls … before I got away …”

  Marcus tried without success to give Catherine more of the consumption tonics. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to properly swallow.

  “Papa? Oh, never mind … Marcus … we need to get … That’s what Master wants us to do … get to my father … He will … He …” With that, her head rolled back, clunking dully on the stone when it missed the pack.

  Marcus wanted to scream, to wake her up and tell her that she was loved, that she was safe. He wanted, desperately, to assure her that he would not let her die. If she wanted to go see her family, he would take her there. Marcus only needed to know where to go. Nevertheless, Catherine’s eyes remained closed in pain-filled slumber.

  Feeling quite alone standing next to the murky water, Marcus took off his clothing, piling them on top of Catherine so they would stay dry. Fortifying his nerves with brandy, he pushed the stone disk out into deeper water. Charging out of the reeds, where the water rose past his waist, he grabbed the back of the makeshift raft, pushed off from the faux-shore and began kicking with his feet. The current immediately pulled at him and the bobbing stone, forcing them downstream, further away from the town of Newburgh. It seemed a dreadful, improbable task to cross the hundred yards needed to get her to the far side.

  It was when the rage swelled, coming ever closer to consuming him, when Marcus remembered an obscure tale. Read while scouring the library in the Stone Sanctuary, it was an ancient Builder story about some wind-cursed fisherman, who were stranded in the middle of the Black Sea. One amongst them had the power, electing at an early age to hide it from his village because of the stigma associated with being different. This man decided that he could no longer watch his friends slowly die. By using his power upon the ballast stones in the bottom of the hull, this man, using just his determination to survive, forced the boat across the calm water. When they struck ground numerous hours later, the man collapsed from the great expenditure of energy. The reward he received for saving several childhood friends was a gaff to the heart. The moral of this fable was not what Marcus focused on, it was the principle of moving stone across a body of
water.

  The pain Marcus focused on to harness his gift did not come from the brand, it came from the heart. Due to the stone disk shuddering along uncontrollably at first, the technique took a bit of getting used to. It would move a small way forward then lurch when his weight got dragged along with it, losing all the ground gained. In short order, he learned to start slowly and add small amounts of energy each time the backlash passed, gaining him implicit control over speed and direction. The disk now sped across the surface of the river, his naked body skimming along behind it. After learning this new form of power restraint, Marcus had Catherine not just across the breadth of the Hudson but within sight of Newburgh.

  Previously only staining the western horizon, the ashen, moisture-laden clouds had advanced while Marcus was distracted. The storm front dropped low into the valley, the air temperature falling in accordance. The wind now rippled the water’s surface, marking the passage of stronger gusts. After getting out of the cold river, retaining the valuable lesson learnt about weight distribution, Marcus found that floating the slab along the solid ground seemed like nothing at all. Moderately safe surrounded by a copse of trees and brush, Marcus dried himself with a spare shirt and got dressed. The autumnal temperature of the water and the exertion given to cross it had tapped most of his reserves, save one.

  Catherine’s shallow breath was now visible as the temperature continued to plummet. Marcus used his power to heat the stone disk, which warmed him as well. He elongated the stone to make traversing the trees easier. Oversized flakes of snow began to fall before he began walking, a precursor to the gathering storm. They moved slowly through the woods, Marcus doing his best to avoid the outlying farmsteads. As Newburgh came into view, the storm further organized its campaign of wintery assault. The wind now blew dauntingly through the swaying, soon-to-be-leafless trees. Visibility then dropped significantly when the amount of snowfall suddenly increased.

  Staring at a wooden bridge on Mill Street, Marcus waited for several minutes. Despite it being the main thoroughfare into town from the south, no one passed across and none of the nearby houses showed any signs of activity. There were no choices left to him but bad ones. Marcus charged across the narrow bridge, trailed by Catherine and the accumulated snow on the stone litter. He held his hand out behind him as they moved through the streets, thinking that anyone catching a glimpse of them would, hopefully, believe he was pulling a sled. Most homes had their shutters closed to fight the driven snow, emboldening Marcus to angle back toward the river where the center of town lie.

  Cutting across the trampled yard of a school house to avoid the open intersection ahead found them behind a row of orange brick homes. Purposely staying well away from these, Marcus ran into a footpath that roughly parallel the cluttered roadway. A thick layer of slushy snow had covered the milkweed and trail, slickening the grass and making progress up even the slightest of gradients painfully slow. Moving along, vision severely limited by the storm, all that could be seen was the deathly brown of dormant wildflowers poking out here and there from underneath the pristine blanket of white. Odd shapes caught Marcus’ eye, all of which looked like small children spaced out across a rolling field. As he closed the distance, it became apparent that the unmoving shapes were tombstones. In his current state of exhaustion, moving around amongst the dead felt most appropriate.

  Finding shelter was the most immediate of concerns. Marcus needed to check on Catherine, who had hardly stirred since the river crossing, which he could not do while standing in the midst a whiteout. There was also the necessity for concealment. Anyone seeing him or his injured compatriot, was something that needed to be avoided at all cost. The answer to these problems came as they neared the center of the cemetery.

  At the base of a small mound, where three paths converged, sat an ornate mausoleum. It was made from uniform blocks of granite that had polished faces and chiseled edges to form recessed joints. A formidable wrought iron gate, backed by mortared limestone pieces, sealed the arched entrance between two unused benches. By grabbing the side of the archway, Marcus simply used his new-found power to separate the stone from the rest of the structure and slide it open. Once inside, he sank the sarcophagi into the marble floor, transforming the crypt into a useable space.

  After sliding Catherine through the unintended portal, Marcus transformed the floating disk into a cot. Spindly legs extended from the stone while it stretched to accommodate her full height. Extracting a small shelf from the granite along the back wall, he then placed a piece of cobalt down and lit it. Shutting the archway alleviated so many fears but left raw the ones still needing to be addressed. Catherine woke like a child in the middle of the night, conscious but without remembrance. She dutifully followed his orders, sipping at the consumption potions that he gave her and letting him apply more salve. Her wound now had the appearance of small red lightning bolts spreading away from it, denoting that an infection of the blood was taking hold.

  Despite wanting nothing more than to curl up and sleep for many hours, Marcus made himself a work station. A thin, narrow shelf was coaxed from the granite wall opposite Catherine and a stool pulled from the floor. Assembling the alchemy kit and spreading out several implements emptied some needed space within the backpack. After freeing several chunks of limestone from the sealed entrance, Marcus then smashed them into power. He molded a basic kiln from the wall and heated it with cobalt to begin the process of calcining the lime. It took a considerable amount of time to produce the necessary amount of quicklime. While waiting for the process to complete, Marcus managed to stay awake by writing in his journal and smoking numerous pipes. Pulverizing the quicklime and adding a small amount of purified water hydrated it to the proper level. All of this had taken a bit more time than first thought. Despite the angst it created, the respite had given him a chance to rest his aching muscles in addition to producing the first of many ingredients required to make Aqua Vitae.

  Marcus warmed Catherine’s cot, woeful that it was all he could do for her in that moment. He stood over her for a while, quietly promising that he would find a way to save her, if she could just give him more time. Her breathing was slow and thin, like she was getting less and less air with each successive attempt. Her time was growing slim. Marcus found himself hoping that she stayed asleep, just so she would not have to endure more pain. Not wanting to waste the wave of renewed energy that looking at her face gave him, he slid the archway open and stepped out into what was now a full-fledged blizzard.

  CHAPTER 7

  ~ An Animal Cornered ~

  Charles Thomlinson shot the howling Deacon in the ear as he crawled by. The man had been hobbled during the attack. One of the flying fieldstones smashed into his knee, the leg bending at an obscene angle. This made him useless. They were all useless. What should have been an easy assassination had turned into utter chaos. The idiots went charging into the building like a herd of frightened elephants, waking the whole damn place up. Before Charles knew what was happening, one of the Deacons was dead and the rest were firing their crossbows blindly into the darkness. Managing to get one good shot off, just before the whole place collapsed, Charles was certain that he had hit the woman. If he could have just gotten a little closer before all hell broke loose, the bolt would have gone through her heart.

  Things had gone so bad that, instead of receiving accolades, an enraged Charles now crawled through smoke-filled wreckage cursing his own bad luck. It was these hapless subordinates that were keeping him from his goal. If he had only gotten some well-trained men, this ludicrous chase would have been over by now. Instead, he had been burdened with dullards, ones that had nearly given themselves away on the road when they saw the Builder woman go relieve herself, thus spoiling any future prospect of getting close to the pair. In fact, Charles had to keep the buffoons so far away from the group that he never even got a chance to see the pair up close, since they scarcely left their carriage from then on. In addition to ruining their chances on the road, prolo
nging the whole enterprise by days, the Deacons had now failed for a second time. The fools couldn’t even manage to kill two sleeping targets.

  Charles squeezed out of the rubble between two roof rafters. The unnatural white smoke was finally dissipating, revealing just how lucky he was to be alive. The Dormitory looked like a powerful gale had leveled it. Stones from the walls and thatch from the roof were strewn about the corrals. Further away, several holes that looked like cannon shot gaped in the sides of the wooden red buildings. The power shown by the surrounded Builder was highly impressive and exactly why the man needed to die.

  The sudden screams of a small German boy, standing on the far side of the heap, startled Charles. The boy called out in desperation for his family members. No one called back. Charles and the boy shared a moment of silence, a hard realization striking them in the same instant. They were together in their aloneness. The boy cried. Charles laughed.

  Staff members started to poke their heads out of windows, then lights began to silhouette them. Hurried footfalls sounded in hollow stairwells. The German boy resumed his screaming once the first to respond emerged. No one knew quite what to make of what they saw. Some went to the boy, some picked up debris to properly understand what they were standing on. By the time they began searching through the pile of rubble, Charles had already reached the tree line.

  Stumbling through the darkness for a while, Charles stopped when he spotted a small red suitcase. Sitting cross-legged in pine needles, charged crossbow within reach and very suspicious of traps, he carefully opened it. The inside held all sorts of wonders. Tucked in amongst a strange set of leather work clothes was some pemmican and hardtack, neither of which would he ever ingest even if starvation was the only other option. A set of matched petticoats and other unmentionables made clear that the owner of the case was female. Underneath these odd but rather ordinary items were numerous wax-sealed vials.