Amid Wind and Stone

by Nicole Luiken

  Dorotea rummaged in the pockets of her Artisan robes for the collar and bracelets that had belonged to her father. She’d spent hours examining them when she was little and wanted to feel close to her father. She drew forth the golden band. Yes! There were nine letters scratched on the inside of one bracelet: SHKUIJEJT. She’d always wondered what they meant, but maybe they had no meaning and were meant to be random so that no one could guess the password.

  She tapped them in. The panel flashed, and the door clicked. This time when she pulled the knob, it opened.

  It felt like a gift from her father, as if he were watching over her and telling her that she was right to do this.

  Relief and renewed determination flowed through her. Her mother would be appalled if she knew what her daughter was doing, but maybe her father would understand.

  Dorotea passed through the door. She descended fifteen steps, counting automatically as her father had taught her, then proceeded thirty feet across a dry gorge before ascending another carved stone staircase. At the top, darkness yawned: the Cavern of Traitors.

  She took a step forward and gasped when a single light snapped on, casting a halo of illumination. How—? Why—? Her heart thudded, and she flinched away from the figures that loomed out of the darkness. She tensed to run, then noticed they were all still. Silent stone statues.

  Gargoyles.

  Rebels. Traitors.

  Limbs trembling, she forced herself to cross the borderline of plastic sheeting and step onto the stone plinth where the gargoyles stood.

  The first light winked off, but a second, nearer one blazed to life as if the lights were chasing her. It made her skin creep, but she forced herself to keep breathing, keep going.

  The nearest stone figure was pale yellow, shading into beige, speckled with black. It held a large stone knife, upraised, as if the spell had caught it mid-attack. It stood seven feet tall, with a neck so thick, she doubted her father’s collar would even fit around it.

  How could she possibly control something so large and elemental?

  Yet she had Stone Heart blood.

  According to clan lore, the collars and bracelets had been gifts given to the Stone Hearts by the gargoyles. The gargoyles had claimed they were a way to communicate, so that the Stone Hearts might call for help when in need. But it had been an evil trick. The gargoyles had declared themselves Masters and used the bracelets and collars to enslave their former friends. Fortunately, the Stone Hearts had found a way to cleverly reverse the collars’ magic and made the gargoyles slaves instead.

  For decades, the gargoyles had labored for the Stone Hearts, mining metal and carving out more caverns and connecting tunnels, until the gargoyles had slipped their bonds and rebelled. The gargoyles had been defeated, but Dorotea’s father and many other Stone Hearts had lost their lives.

  After that, the gargoyles were deemed too dangerous to be controlled with the collars. The Elect and Stone Heart Clans working together had devised the spell that now held them here, frozen in stasis.

  And now Dorotea meant to wake one. Uneasiness crawled through her, making her shiver. She still had faith in her purpose, but she had misgivings about her own ability to control the beasts. She was only half Stone Heart.

  Maybe she should speak to the Stone Heart Clan leader and beg him to intervene on Marta’s behalf? Her shoulders slumped. She was unknown to them, the daughter, not son, of a Stone Heart who’d died twelve years before. They wouldn’t listen to a girl from Artisan Clan and might even have her arrested for treason.

  And it was treason; she knew that. Even if she was doing this to save Marta. Even if she meant to put the gargoyle back afterward. With luck, no one would ever know.

  Dorotea approached a white marble gargoyle. A mining pick was embedded in its marble side. She studied the wound dubiously. An injury might weaken the gargoyle and make it easier to control, but it might also die on her as soon as it came out of stasis.

  The next one was a female gargoyle. All the gargoyles were roughly humanoid in form, with bald heads, beast-like pointed ears, fangs, and sharp talons, but somehow, the fact that this one had jade breasts along with fangs and claws made it look even scarier than the others. Dorotea hurried past.

  The light clicked off, and the next came on, spotlighting a seven-foot-tall gargoyle. Its bestial face was contorted in a snarl, claws extended as if about to rip someone’s throat out. The dark gray flint making up his body was streaked with white, giving the gargoyle a look of ancient evil.

  Shock stopped her breath. She stumbled back, away, as recognition slammed into her.

  It was Flint, her father’s gargoyle. Her father’s murderer.

  A stone arm closing around her father’s neck. Jerking backward. A crack as his neck broke—

  Bile rose in her throat. Dorotea whimpered. Stop it. The images weren’t true memories—she hadn’t been present for her father’s murder—but rather flashes of nightmares she’d had after the event. The dreams had persisted for years before finally fading.

  Her memories of the other gargoyles were wispy wraiths, but she did remember Flint. As a child, he’d given her piggyback rides. He’d practically been part of their family—until he’d turned on them. Suddenly. Savagely. Filthy, murderous beast.

  She hurried on, her vision blinded by tears. Another light switched on and illuminated a gargoyle who stood off in the corner. He appeared to be smaller.

  Well—she swallowed—smaller in comparison, at least. The red jasper gargoyle might have stood only six feet tall, but he still towered over her. Black stripes on his red face gave him a menacing aspect.

  But, unlike the others, he didn’t seem to be armed. And his rough-hewn expression was one of stoicism instead of mindless rage.

  Dorotea circled the male gargoyle. He wore black shorts and seemed younger, less ancient, than the others. Was that good? Would it mean he was less evil? Or more volatile? Gargoyles were reputed to have raging tempers.

  She stepped into darkness and triggered the next light. She studied a few more gargoyles—a rose granite woman with a large stone bosom and a battle-axe, and a slate-blue giant with fangs as long as her fingers—but kept glancing back at the red jasper gargoyle. The more she studied him, the more he seemed like a mere youth.

  She’d intended to wake a female gargoyle, in the hopes that a female would be less aggressive. But they all repelled her. The red jasper youth attracted her. No, not attracted—she shied away from the word—but he seemed less vicious.

  Her belly rumbled, reminding her that she’d been too upset to eat breakfast. She had to make a decision. There were no good choices, just as there were no good gargoyles, so she might as well follow her instincts and wake the red jasper boy.

  She took out her father’s bracelets and put them on. Her hands slipped inside the gold bands made for a man’s wrists. She spread her fingers wide, dismayed. They would fall right off if she didn’t take care.

  She pushed the bracelets up her forearms, nearly to her elbow, until they were so tight, they threatened to cut off her circulation. Better.

  Next, she produced the golden collar and stood on tiptoe to fashion it around the gargoyle’s neck. It took her two tries to engage the catch, and she had to press against the gargoyle’s unyielding stone chest to do it. It felt uncomfortably like an embrace. Breathing ragged, she stepped back quickly, worried that he might suddenly come to life and crush her with his stone arms. She studied his gold eyes for any sign of life, but they remained opaque.

  She wiped the film of dust away, then cursed under her breath. She should’ve left the dust in place. Gargoyles were violent brutes. If the collar failed, a moment of blurry vision might give her time to run.

  But it wouldn’t fail. Among her father’s things, she’d found a scroll outlining how to bind a gargoyle. She’d already completed steps one and two: the bracelet and collar. The two were part of a linked set.

  All that remained was to activate them with the most precious liquid.r />
  Her chest tightened, but she was committed. “For Marta,” she rasped and pricked the tip of her finger with her stone knife. Reaching up, she smeared the blood over the gargoyle’s collar, then over her own bracelets, and waited, holding her breath.

  Nothing happened.

  She shifted her feet, puzzled. Had she not used enough blood? Should she have spoken?

  Dorotea reapplied the blood, then said firmly, “Wake.”

  The gargoyle didn’t budge, obdurate stone.

  She kept trying, varying her commands, hoping to hit on the lucky combination, until her finger throbbed from being constantly pricked. “Wake, you stupid hunk of stone!” Furious, she kicked the gargoyle’s knee—and hurt her toes.

  Tears of pain and frustration rose in her eyes. She wiped them away and touched the collar again. “I’m not going to give up. I won’t let Marta die,” she ranted. “Wake up!”

  The gargoyle blinked. He moved his arm. Joy transformed his face. He twisted his wrist and flexed his hand, displaying fingers tipped with pointed claws. “I can move. I’m free!” He turned in a circle, laughter rumbling up out of his throat. “Goddess be praised, I can move!” He had a deep, rich voice.

  Dorotea retreated a step, and he noticed her for the first time. “A human.” He tilted his head. “Did you free me? If so, I thank you.”

  Dorotea stared. Every thought in her head blanked out. She’d expected rage, and his happiness caught her off guard. Why, he was almost handsome when he smiled.

  “Go on,” he said. “Free the others, too.”

  “No.” The word emerged as a whisper.

  He frowned, brows lowering, and the illusion of humanity that his joy had lent him vanished. He bared his teeth. “Why not?” He moved toward her. Had she thought him small? He loomed a foot over her.

  Dorotea screamed, tripped, and fell on her bum. “Stay where you are!” She held up a shaking hand.

  He stopped.

  The collar worked! Her thudding heart settled down to a more regular, but still fast, rhythm.

  “Who are you?” he snarled. The flash of his fangs sent a ripple of fear up her spine.

  Slowly, Dorotea stood. She must not cringe; he must not know how much she feared him. “I am your Master. Mistress,” she corrected herself. The word sounded wrong.

  “What have you done to me?” The gargoyle touched his neck. When he found the collar there, he roared loud enough to shake the cavern.

  His reaction puzzled her as well as terrified her. Had he never been collared before? Surely, that was impossible.

  “Quiet!” Dorotea snapped. She glanced nervously over her shoulder at the tunnel entrance. No one ought to be close enough to hear, but sound carried oddly in the caverns sometimes.

  The gargoyle clawed at his neck with cruel black talons, leaving white streaks on the red stone. If he got the collar off, he’d kill her.

  “Leave that alone!” Dorotea commanded.

  The gargoyle stopped, but his yellow eyes promised death if he ever got the chance. “You’ll pay for this,” he snarled.

  She must take precautions. Shaking, Dorotea recited the list of commands she’d devised last night when she’d made the decision to break a taboo. “You must never hurt me or any other human.”

  He cocked his head. “Even if you command me to?”

  Dorotea blinked, taken aback. She couldn’t imagine ordering him to hurt someone. She opened her mouth to agree, then stopped, wary of a trap. What if she said yes, and he later refused to flee through a crowd of people because he’d step on someone’s toes?

  “You must not kill someone,” she said, trying to get back on track. “You will obey my commands promptly or suffer pain.”

  A grinding noise attracted her gaze to his clenched fists. Fists almost as big as her head, which could break her neck with one blow… Dorotea swallowed.

  “And what is your command?” he asked, voice hostile.

  “I want you to wake the Goddess and speak to Her.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t object.

  “Now,” she said sharply.

  “I can’t—”

  At his words, disappointment choked her. She hadn’t realized how many hopes she had pinned on this fragile plan. “You have to!”

  “I can’t wake Her from here. I need to stand before Her face in the Cathedral.”

  Oh. She took a deep breath. That made things much more difficult. How was she going to smuggle a six-foot-tall gargoyle to the Cathedral?

  She pushed back her dismay with single-minded determination. It didn’t matter, as long as he could do as he said. She’d figure it out along the way. “Follow me,” she said shortly.

  Taking what felt like a horrid risk, she turned her back on him and moved toward the stairs. She tried to keep her shoulders back and project confidence, while straining to hear if he’d obeyed her. She relaxed at the sound of heavy footsteps following in her wake.

  A surge of optimism bubbled inside her as she reached the tunnel. Maybe her crazy plan would actually work.

  She turned and watched the gargoyle step off the large stone plinth on which all the gargoyles stood. His foot came down on the plastic border—

  A siren rang in harsh warning.

  Chapter Four

  Listen to the Wind—

  In Which Audrey Plays Host to a Bad-Mannered Guest and an Uninvited One

  Air World

  Audrey had been in disgrace for three weeks now, and she was thoroughly sick of it.

  Her father’s cold anger and Grady’s avoidance of her had made the ten-day upwind journey back to Donlon wretched. Upon arrival, her mother had been regaled with the story of Audrey playing courier and reacted with horror—though she was appalled for wildly different reasons. Lady Bethany cared nothing for lost messages. She was upset that Audrey had cut her hair and behaved in a “hoydenish” manner. In punishment, she’d severely curtailed Audrey’s freedom.

  Her mother’s worries about her reputation seemed frivolous compared to Grady’s fate. Without Grady’s midshipman’s salary, his family would have trouble making ends meet. Audrey had sent messages to his family to find out if he was all right, but they’d either been intercepted, or Grady was too furious at Audrey to reply.

  This morning, Audrey came down to breakfast determined to broach the subject with her father. With luck, his temper would have calmed enough that he would be willing to find Grady an apprenticeship or at least an allowance. “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  He grunted in answer and shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth, eyes on his morning newspaper.

  Knowing he hated to be disturbed while reading, Audrey dawdled over some honey biscuits. Finally, he folded the paper and stood. “Father, may I—”

  “Ask your mother.”

  His coldness hurt. Always before when she’d been in disgrace with one parent, the other would take her part. This time they were united against her—not that they didn’t still bicker with each other. The Admiral passed Lady Bethany in the hallway, and Audrey could practically hear the frost coating their greetings.

  Her mother sailed into the breakfast room, elegant even at this early hour of the morning. Her glossy brown hair was drawn into a twist, and her striped day dress was crisp and unwrinkled. The only concession to being at home were the spectacles dangling on a ribbon around her neck. Lady Bethany never wore them in public.

  “Don’t slump, Audrey.”

  Audrey straightened in her chair. She wet her lips. “Mother, may I visit the lending library today?” Since arriving in Donlon, she’d been on her best behavior through a tedious round of balls, parties, garden parties, shopping trips, and theater attendance. Surely, her mother would relent soon?

  “Not today,” Lady Bethany said absently. “I’ll need your help preparing for the garden party this afternoon.”

  Audrey blinked. “Today? I thought the garden party was next Wednesday.”

  Her mother grimaced. “It was next
Wednesday, but I had to change it because it conflicted with Lady Sharpe’s tea, remember? Really, Audrey, I told you all this yesterday,” she said, annoyed.

  Rebellion brewed in Audrey’s heart. She didn’t want to play host at a garden party; she wanted to talk to Grady.

  “…I’ve invited the Hendersons and the Konigs, so you’ll have some young people to entertain.”

  Audrey made a face. She liked the Henderson sisters, but she and Frederica Konig had never gotten along.

  “Franklin asked if they might bring a friend of theirs, a Mr. Piers Tennyson. Do you know him?” Her mother looked up from her tea.

  Audrey shook her head.

  “A Mister, not a Lord. He’s probably a second or third son,” her mother said dismissively.

  By which she meant someone with few prospects, though still of respectable birth. Someone unsuitable for Audrey to marry.

  Just thinking about marrying any of the insufferable prigs who usually populated garden parties, fetching lemonade for the ladies and squiring them around the perils of the hydroponic gardens, gave Audrey hives. She made no comment, but a sigh escaped her, which was enough to bring her mother down on her neck.

  “Honestly, Audrey, I don’t understand you. When I was your age, I lived for parties and meeting new gentlemen.”

  Yes, and look how happy you are now.

  Her parents did not have a warm marriage. Audrey couldn’t remember a time when they were on good terms: Grady, after all, had been born when Audrey was only three.

  Maybe it would have been different if Audrey had been born a boy. If her mother had birthed an heir to the Harding title, maybe her mother wouldn’t have felt so threatened by her husband’s bastard, or maybe her father wouldn’t have strayed in the first place.

  Regardless, Grady was the only brother she had, and she wasn’t going to let him starve. Resolve filled her. The garden party would make it next to impossible to sneak out today, but she would go see him tomorrow.

  “Audrey, how daring of you to cut your hair.” Frederica Konig handed her wrap to the butler without taking her eyes off Audrey. “I’d be afraid of being mistaken for a boy.” She tittered. As if anyone could ever mistake Frederica’s voluptuous figure for a male’s.