The Dragonstone

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Well if I know this thing, but just don’t know that I know it,” said Ferret, “isn’t that the same as not knowing it in the first place?”

  “Ha!” barked Alos. “She’s got you there.”

  “Not at all, Alos,” said Delon. “We simply need a way to reveal it.”

  “As my rede was revealed,” said Arin. “Yet in my case I had vague notions that my vision held more than I could recall, though what it was remained concealed until Lysanne unveiled it.”

  Aiko shook her head. “She was Mage trained, Dara, and we have no Mage here.”

  “Then how are we going to discover this knowledge you say I have?” said Ferret.

  All eyes turned to Delon. He shrugged, then said, “Perhaps we can jog your memory.”

  “How?”

  “Well, for instance, luv, tell us something of yourself.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, say, tell us of your mother.”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Then your father.”

  “He’s dead, too.”

  Delon reached out and took her head. “Then tell us of your life.”

  “There’s not that much to tell. I spent a rather uneventful childhood, and then came to Pendwyr.”

  Delon dropped her hand in exasperation. “Then tell us how you came to be in prison and about to be hanged.”

  “I was innocent!” declared Ferret.

  “Ha!” barked Delon. “They called you Queen of All Thieves.”

  “Leave me alone,” Ferret cried out, and, turning away, she scrambled toward the bow of the ship.

  Delon started to follow, but Arin plucked at his sleeve and shook her head. “Let be, Delon. I sense old wounds lying deep. She will talk to us at her need, not ours.”

  Delon looked toward the place Ferret had gotten to. Then he glanced at Arin and nodded and settled back. And on the pitching bow of the Brise, Ferret watched the waves roll by….

  * * *

  When Ferai was six, her mother and father began training her for the act—Janine teaching her the trapeze and acrobatics and how to walk the rope, Ardure showing her the tricks of locks and knots and contortions and such—for Janine was an amazing acrobat and Ardure could escape from anything, or so the broadsheets and criers claimed. Oh, not that they had always been so, for when they first were married, he was a locksmith, and she his lissome young bride. A year passed and a babe was born; Ferai they named her, and she was well loved, and they sang to her every night and told her marvelous tales. Yet she was another mouth to feed and times were hard and business bad, and so they took to the road. By happenstance they came across a young man in need of a worthy locksmith; he was Lemond, new owner of a traveling circus. It seemed his father had died of a sudden and painful stomach ailment without revealing to his estranged son where he kept the keys to the weighty iron money box. And though Lemond had virtually dismantled the entire circus, no keys were to be found. Ardure solved his problem in a trice, and Lemond offered him a position in Le Cirque de Merveille—that of an escape artist, could he master the tricks.

  Ardure accepted, for this was steady work, and he and Janine and little Ferai traveled throughout Mithgar. When Ferai was but three, lithe Janine began taking lessons from the acrobat Arielle, then Janine, too, joined the show.

  Lemond was a heavy drinker with an eye for the women, and often the circus would hastily pull up stakes and leave town ere the scheduled run was complete—all because of Lemond’s drinking and whoring, said some. And Lemond spent long candlemarks watching Janine practice—gauging her talent, he said, though others thought differently. But nothing came of Lemond’s interest, for Ardure was never far away, and neither was wee Ferai.

  As to Ferai’s own lessons, they went swiftly enough, and soon she was astage with her sire or dam, where she became a darling of the patrons though she was not quite seven. Throughout the next few years not only did Ardure and Janine teach Ferai the tricks of the trade, but they taught her to read and write as well—skills uncommon among many of her professional colleagues. Even so, they, too, took her to their bosoms and showed her many things—including the riding of animals and the throwing of knives and even the art of buffoonery, consisting of garish makeup and baggy clothes and acting the fool in the main. And then there was the old fortune-teller, Nom, examining palms and gazing into crystals and casting her bones and reading her special deck of cards. For the most part she taught Ferai how to dupe customers, to beguile and mislead them altogether and send them away feeling as if someone had seen their life’s secrets and had given sound advice.

  And her parents continued to sing to her every night as they tucked her in bed.

  But then, when she was but twelve, a terrible thing occurred: in a tragic fire of unknown origin, Ferai’s parents died. Why they had not simply escaped will perhaps never be known; for some unknown reason it was as if they were unable to grab Ferai and flee. Miraculously, it seems, Lemond was passing by and managed to rescue the child. And comforting her, he took her to his wagon.

  It is not told what happened that night, but the next morning Lemond was found slain in his very own bed, a dagger through his heart. And in the other bed, where Ferai had slept, there was blood as well, in the center of the sheet. Some said ‘twas virgin’s blood and decided that she had been raped and borne off by the fiend that had slain Lemond, while others claimed that Ferai, too, had been murdered and it was her corpse that had been carried away. But raped or murdered, the twelve-year-old was nowhere to be found.

  She made her way to Pellar and lived as a street urchin in the city of Pendwyr, cadging for food or coin. That she did not practice her trade is understandable, for she believed, unlikely as it might seem, that news of a child performing feats of escape and acrobatics might perk up the ears of the authorities and she would be arrested for a killing that occurred in a nearby land. After all, in Pendwyr, the capital of the realm, news often came from lands both near and far, as did notices of murders and rewards.

  Through another street urchin, a lad she liked, she fell in among a band of thieves, and soon her skills proved invaluable, for locks did not stop her, nor did gates nor walls nor dogs nor the city watch nor private guards…she never failed to find a way to get ’round each and every one.

  And they taught her the art of picking a pocket and of cutting loose a purse without the victim discovering it until it was too late, and she quickly acquired the skill. Too, they showed her how to swindle a gull by first winning his or her confidence and then duping them in the end. In this, too, Ferai was a fast learner, for it was little different from what Old Nom had taught her in days past, though here the risk was much, much greater, yet so were the rewards.

  It was this band of thieves that took to calling her Ferret, for as one said, “We’re simply undoing what that awful Gothonian accent has done to your name.” And in spite of the fact that she protested, saying that the word for ferret in Gothonian was furet, still she had to agree that in her native tongue it sounded quite a bit like Ferai, and so the name stuck.

  She stayed with this band for four years, but in the end she tired of the incessant bickering and squabbling among them and so struck out on her own.

  Some of her thefts were spectacular, for they involved silently crossing on a slender rope from one building to another above a patrolling watch, or slipping through a ring of alert guardians, or opening an unopenable lock, and other such sensational feats.

  For nearly ten years she lived by her wits in Pendwyr, and the killing of that pig Lemond faded into the past. But her parents were in her thoughts each and every day, and she often wept for the remembrance of them, in particular when anyone sang.

  Aye, she lived by her wits for nearly ten years—much of that in relative comfort—ere the city watch came for her, and that just three weeks past. They burst through her door and into her room and arrested her before she could escape, and they discovered under her mattress a single golden earring. How it had gotten t
here, Ferret did not know, but it proved to be one of many items taken in a theft. As to why the watchmen had come for her, it seems that someone had named her the miscreant in a case where Lady Brum had been wounded when she had come across a thief burgling her house in the night.

  It was later rumored that an old compatriot of hers from her erstwhile days had collected the reward for her capture.

  In spite of her protests of innocence, she was quickly convicted and sentenced to death for stealing a Lady’s jewels and attempting to murder her.

  They threw her in a cell next to those housing the Rover captains, though some called for her to be thrown in with the pirates instead: they’d visit a right proper punishment on her before she went to the gallows, wouldn’t they now?

  She languished in her cell awaiting death. And the warders were careful to keep anything from her which might be used as a pick, for whoever had turned her in had reported that she was a wonder with locks. As proof, the city watch noted that the complex lock on Lady Brum’s jewel box had been opened without the thief leaving a single mark; either that or the jewel box had inadvertently been left open, which Lady Brum angrily denied.

  And so, Ferret was trapped in a cell with no way to open the door.

  The day of the hanging finally arrived….

  And then Arin and Egil and Aiko and Delon the bard had come along….

  * * *

  And now Ferret sat on the bow of the Brise and watched the waves go by. And Delon at the stern lifted his Elven-sweet voice in song.

  Ferai began to cry.

  CHAPTER 48

  Why do you weep, luv?” Delon sat at the bow and held Ferai’s hand.

  “Because you sang.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  She cast him a glimmer of a smile and wiped her cheeks with the fingers of her free hand. “No, Delon. You sing beautifully. It’s just that…”

  Her speech faltered, but Delon remained silent. After a moment she said, “It’s just that I was remembering.”

  Fresh tears welled and ran down her cheeks. Gently Delon pulled her to him. “Cry all you need, luv.” And he cradled her against his shoulder as she wept.

  And the Brise cut through the translucent waves of the deep blue indigo sea.

  * * *

  A long while later, Ferret said, “Would you sing more another time?”

  Delon looked down at her. “For you, luv, indeed.”

  Onward sailed the Brise, Delon yet holding Ferai next to him. In the distance, skimming low over the waves, glided a white bird with long, long wings. Delon pointed it out to Ferai.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “An albatross, I think. They say it spends its entire life on the wing.”

  Ferret sighed. “As sometimes I think do I.”

  Delon looked again at her. “Me, too, luv. Me, too.”

  They watched the bird for a while, until they could see it no more down among the waves, and Ferret said, “Do you really think I know something that will tell us where to go?”

  Delon shrugged. “It’s been that way so far: each new person the key to finding the next. All but Alos, that is, though Arin thinks he yet may have a part to play.

  “And as for you, luv, I truly do believe you hold a key as well. As to what it might be, I cannot say. Perhaps something from your past: something your father or mother said; a picture you saw; a rumor you heard; a song, a story, a poem, a saying; or something altogether different.”

  “From what you say, Delon, it could be anything,” protested Ferret.

  “No, luv, it can only be one thing: a keeper of faith in a maze.”

  “But I don’t know any keepers of faith.”

  “Well, then, perhaps you know of a maze.”

  * * *

  They continued sailing south-southeastward and two more days passed, days and nights filled with discussions and debates as to where they should go next:

  Aiko argued that they should go back to Jute and take Gudrun captive, for she had the only cursed maze that they knew of. And when someone pointed out that the rede called for a keeper who was cursed and not the maze, Aiko replied that given her appetites, surely Gudrun was cursed as well.

  Delon recommended that they head for Black Mountain, so that Lysanne could work her magic on Ferret.

  Egil suggested that since they were in the Brise, they could sail to Rwn and do the very same thing: have one of the Mages there reveal whatever knowledge might be hidden deep within Ferai’s mind. Too, they could perhaps lift his own curse—for his nightly ill dreams continued unabated—and perhaps the Mages could recover his lost memories as well.

  Ferret herself objected to anyone, much less a Mage, rummaging about in her thoughts, her memories, her very essence.

  Alos argued that wherever they went, he was quitting this mad quest.

  Arin calmly listened to all, weighing the choices before them.

  During this time the only thing they settled was the makeup and shifts of the crews: Egil, Arin, and Aiko sailed the Brise throughout the night; Alos, Delon, and Ferret handled her by day. Of course there was a goodly overlap from midafternoon till mideve, and this was when the debate as to what to do and where to go became most heated.

  But during the quieter moments, Ferai racked her memories for some clue that Delon was certain she knew. Many of her memories were painful, others sad, but she was surprised to find that many brought joy to mind—especially those of her dam and sire singing and telling her tales.

  These songs and stories she tried to remember in their fullness, for Delon had mentioned that perhaps something of the sort was where a hidden memory lay. But try as she would, nothing came to mind, and she was convinced she’d have more success at finding a rainbow’s gold.

  It was in the depths of the second of these nights that she awoke with a start. “Delon,” she hissed, swinging her feet over the edge of the bunk. She reached across the tiny cabin and shook him by the shoulder. “Delon.”

  He came groggily awake. “Unh?”

  “Wake up. I just remembered.”

  Delon sat up, rubbing his fists into his eyes. “Umh,” he yawned. “Remembered what?”

  “Something Old Nom used.”

  “Old Nom?”

  “She was a fortune teller.”

  “And she used…?”

  “In her readings she had a card she called the Door to the Temple of the Labyrinth.”

  “Temple of the Labyrinth?”

  “Yes. Its door.”

  “This temple, this door: what else do you know of it?”

  Ferai paused a moment, then said, “Old Nom told me that if you are ever dealt this card it means a dangerous and confusing passage in your life, but that if you can reach the door, you will reach safety. When the card is dealt out upright, it means that you will likely succeed; inverted means you will most likely fail.”

  “Huah,” grunted Delon. “Do you know aught else about this temple?”

  Ferret shook her head. “No, though as to the card, I can draw its picture, even the words above the door. Adon knows, I saw it enough when she taught me the trade.”

  Delon took up a striker and lit a lantern. “Do so, luv. This sounds promising.”

  “Do you really think so?” Ferai reached for the ship’s log as well as for quill and inkpot.

  “Indeed.”

  Alos groaned and turned over and glared at them. “I’m trying to sleep here.”

  “Ferret may have a clue as to where we should be bound,” said Delon as he watched her carefully sketch an elaborate doorway.

  Alos sat up and rubbed his face and scratched his belly and then watched as well.

  Studiously she drew symbols upon the vellum. Then she sketched what seemed to be an entryway into a building. Finally she turned the logbook so that all could see and said, “This is what was on the card: a door carved in a wall of stone. Above the door were these symbols, words, I think, engraved in the lintel, in a language I do not know.


  “Can any read this?”

  Delon leaned over and peered at the lettering, then said, “I can’t read it, but it looks like Hurnian characters to me…or Sarainese.”

  In that moment the door to the cabin slid open and Egil stuck his head in. “Is something amiss?” Delon turned and smiled. “No, no, Egil. Ferret has remembered something. Come look at this. —No wait. We’ll bring it adeck so that all can see.”

  * * *

  Arin looked up from the sketch and asked Ferret, “Dost thou know of a doorway of this likeness?”

  “Only on Nom’s card.”

  Arin turned to the others. “Do any of ye know aught of such?”

  Each peered closely at the drawing, each shrugging No.

  Now Arin gazed at Delon. “Thou sayest these letters are Hurnian?”

  “Or Sarainese. They’re much alike, but I am no linguist…or calligrapher, for that matter. It’s just that I’ve seen writing like this in my travels.”

  “And thou hast seen no such door?”

  Delon shook his head. “I’ve never been in Sarain, and I saw no such door in Hurn. But it is a wide land and I was only in the city of Chara, along the coast…. I was stranded there for a couple of months three years back. I’d not care to go there again, for not only does a particular lonely woman seek my heart, so does her angry husband.”

  “Where is this land?” asked Aiko.

  “East. On the Avagon. Past the Islands of Stone,” Delon replied.

  “And Sarain?”

  “South of there, I think.”

  Alos cleared his throat. “Aye, Sarain is south of Hurn, and full of warring tribes fighting over water and land and theology, or so my old captain used to say.”

  They fell silent for a moment, and finally Delon said, “Listen, whether it is in Hurn or Sarain, what more promising place than in something called the Temple of the Labyrinth are we likely to find a cursed keeper of faith in a maze, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Aiko, “but if these lands of Hurn and Sarain are wide, we may be a long while searching.”

  Egil nodded, then said, “If we could only read the inscription, perhaps it would let us at least narrow our choices down from two to one.”