Bound in Stone 3

by K. M. Frontain

“Oh, I was purchasing shoes. He was suddenly there, a wild red-haired boy, dirty and smelly, hanging off the awning he’d just fallen on.”

  “What was he doing falling on an awning?”

  “He’d just climbed a roof to escape from a constable.”

  And the vision she’d had upon sighting him had been sufficiently overwhelming as to make her light headed. The boy with fire burning beneath his skin. She’d been compelled to save him from disaster despite orders from a master who had enslaved her spiritually, whose commands could not normally be disobeyed, but she’d done so for Kehfrey. Somehow, some way, his needs had taken precedence over dark magic and darker slavery.

  “He was being chased by a constable? Why?”

  “For smashing a pie on the constable’s tunic.” Her mouth dropped open. “Oh! The pie!” She jumped off his lap and rushed out to the oven. A moment later, Ugoth heard her cursing stridently.

  “Is it ruined?” he called.

  “No! That thief stole it!” she shouted. Then he heard her laugh.

  ***

  Later that week, on a night when Ugoth was forced to remain away, Herfod arrived in Nicky’s bedroom window. She didn’t perceive him until he was in the darkened room and on the bed, and she almost screamed in fright. He grabbed her and cut the cry off.

  “It’s me!” he whispered. He removed his hand from her mouth.

  She gasped in relief and sagged back onto the mattress. Within a second, they were kissing desperately, all thoughts of discussing their situation gone from their minds. Nicky’s better intentions fell apart in Herfod’s presence, but as she clutched him, she slid her hands up his arms and found weapons strapped thereon. She pulled her lips away.

  “Why are you decked out as an assassin?” she asked.

  “In case they make an attempt,” he said. He tried to kiss her again, only to have her head pull away.

  “They? What attempt?”

  “Marun sends bounty hunters regularly to try and get either Vik or me. He’s overdue for an attempt.”

  “Kehfrey! Then it’s too dangerous for you to be here!”

  He laughed. “Ugoth is more likely to kill me than Marun’s lot.”

  He cut off her next protest, trapping her lips with his own. She didn’t object again. He left two hours before the sun was due to rise, time enough to get back inside the monastery, to pretend he’d slept the night and to line up with the holy brothers for the customary communal bath. He slipped through the window, the thief with his stolen kisses, and fled the rising sun.

  Alone and working quietly, Nicky changed the bedding, threw this and her nightgown in a pile for laundering and meticulously washed the scent of her second lover from her body, hoping fervently Ugoth would not smell that his long-time friend had been in the chamber.

  “The man has the nose of a wolf,” she said. She set the washcloth down on the stand, went to her dressing table and reached for the bottle of expensive perfume Ugoth had gifted her. She sprayed herself and the room at large.

  “Even a wolf’s nose can get clogged,” she said, but she couldn’t ignore the niggling doubt that maybe she was wrong. Maybe a wolf’s nose could only be clogged if you poured something noxious directly into its nostrils …? “Damn it!” She had to hope that laundering the linens and nightclothes would be enough.

  Standing naked in the centre of the chamber, clutching the bottle of amber liquid tight, she contemplated her great stupidity. “Gods in the heavens?” she whispered. “What am I to do? I can no longer resist him.”

  Her skin prickling with trepidation, she returned the bottle to the dressing table. The perfume was making her feel ill, but not because of the overpowering smell. For the sake of Kehfrey’s love, Ugoth’s love gift had been used against him. Nicky felt sick to her very core.

  ***

  Herfod did more than send out monks to perform damage control on the rumours concerning the exiled white witches. He used his influence to have a nearby large farmhouse let out to the monastery for the summer months, where the witches would be housed and watched over. For the latter duty, he arranged for Virginal Sisters to act as chaperones, this to prevent the spread of distasteful rumours about witches and monks instead.

  The day the first of the fleeing women arrived, the farm was ready to receive them. Holy brothers had been sent into the streets of Durgven to watch for their arrival. The first witch was spotted and offered sanctuary within minutes of entering the city gates.

  “How did you know?” she cried in surprise. She was a middle-aged dumpling of a woman who looked like any other tired travelling peasant.

  “You glow a particular way. Brother Herfod showed us how to see it,” the young monk informed her.

  “He showed you the difference between a normal aura and a witchy one?” the woman said. “So this Brother Herfod has met a witch before, I take it?”

  “I’m … not really sure,” the young monk said, frowning faintly, and the witch observing him had the distinct impression he was perplexed over this Herfod fellow, not irritated that she asked questions. “I mean about whether he’s met a witch before,” the monk continued. “But he did show us how to see an aura and told us how a witchy one is different. And it is different, plain enough for me to spot you. Would you follow, then?”

  “Of course, I’ll follow!” she said. “I would like to meet this Brother Herfod. Imagine being able to show someone how to see an aura. Usually you either can or you can never.”

  “I can’t promise a meeting,” the monk said apologetically. “He has so many duties and there’s always more piling on.”

  “He sounds quite the busy fellow,” she remarked. She was convinced there must be something magical about him. What else would explain showing how to see an aura? “Is it like he opened up a window in your mind? For this aura seeing?”

  “Uh ….”

  “You don’t know? How can you not know? Did he touch you? Or perform a sacred service? Or—?”

  “Why don’t you ask him if you get a chance to see him,” the monk said.

  “I will,” she replied. “I most certainly will.” The monk smiled in a vague manner and led her down the hill and up the next to the farmhouse.

  Within days, the farmhouse received ten more guests. By the end of a week, twenty-five white witches were in residence, all of whom had fled the persecution of the Church of Heavenly Light in Omera. By then, all had asked to meet the famous, mysterious and hard to encounter Brother Herfod. Provoked by a series of refused requests for an appointment, a delegation of witches assailed the monastery gates to demand an audience.

  “Good luck!” a cheeky acolyte said through the small observation hatch in the door. “If you aren’t the king, the abbot or the gods, you’ll just have to take your chances trying to glimpse him like all the rest of us piddling mortals.”

  “That’s not fair!” one witch cried. “He’s in there with you.”

  “Not always,” the boy retorted. “He’s out as much as he’s in.”

  “Then give a message that we want to see him,” another witch shouted inward. “This time give it directly.”

  “He gets all his messages,” the acolyte objected hotly. “Just wait your turn like everyone.”

  The slat slammed shut. Grumbling, the women headed back to the farmhouse. As they were stomping down the road, a gang of young monks stomped up and showed no sign they would give way. The two groups halted and regarded each other from several yards off.

  The witches stared with misgiving. These monks were a rather odd set—all young, all tall and each wearing a pair of hefty short staves strapped on the back with a harness. The staves were tipped with iron. They could serve no other purpose than as weapons.

  “Aren’t those witches?” one monk whispered. His voice carried in the clear spring air.

  “Yes, we’re witches,” one of the younger-looking women shouted. “White witches. Get off the path and let us by.”

  “My! Isn’t she grumpy?” another fellow sai
d.

  “Be careful, Brother Henrel. She might punish you for your impudence,” the first replied.

  “That monastery is full of cretins, not monks!” the same woman snapped.

  “Ooh!” the first monk said. “Those are fighting words. Shall we have a go at them?”

  “They’re white witches, Brother Keth. Not dark ones,” a firm voice snapped from the centre of the gang. The witches saw a hand rise to smack Brother Keth a good one on the back of his head. Brother Keth took the blow, but continued to grin irreverently nevertheless.

  “If you ask me,” the dumpling witch said, “they just don’t act like monks at all. At least not like any I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh, just step off the road and let them by,” the impatient hidden leader barked.

  The group moved en masse to the side, but Brother Keth, a tall sandy-haired fellow, stayed to the fore and bowed them along, his manner teasing. Despite that he did this, the leader remained hidden in the centre; the others shifted to conceal him the moment Keth’s cover lapsed. The women began to edge past, eyeing the so-called holy men charily.

  “I would like to know why they look so downtrodden, though,” Keth said, rising just after the last had passed him.

  “Downtrodden?” the dumpling cried. She rounded her group and stopped in front of the gang. “We’ve asked to see Brother Herfod since the first of us arrived, which happened to be me, and he’s never been polite enough to show up once.”

  “What do you want to see him for?” Brother Keth asked.

  “To thank him,” another witch answered.

  “To see what he looks like,” a youngish one said. “I heard he was a dish.”

  Some of the men smirked. The others reddened. “That reason just won’t do,” Keth said firmly.

  “Well, I would like to discuss teaming up with him before Marun finishes up with the Stohar and turns south for Omera,” the dumpling informed them. “This year is it! The Shadow Master is so swollen with power, he’s coming south for certain. He’s got slaves that will turn your hairs white. The Stohar won’t distract him much longer.”

  “Team up with Brother Herfod?” one of the monks repeated.

  “Not just him,” the witch said. “All of you! We might do a lot of good as a team.”

  “Witches and monks?” Keth said in disbelief. “I don’t think so.”

  Keth was shoved aside rather abruptly after he finished speaking.

  “I’ll meet you in an hour at the farmhouse,” a short, rather young, exceptionally nice-looking red-haired man notified the dumpling. Then the handsome apparition continued up the hill toward the monastery.

  The dumpling stared after him as the gang quietly surrounded him until he was hidden from view again. After a few seconds, she faced the other women. “Was that him?” she asked, flabbergasted.

  “That couldn’t have been him. He was a boy.”

  “Was not. He’s just short,” said another. “For an Ulmeniran, I mean. He’d be average if he were Amek.”

  “He was a dish!” the dreamer uttered. “He was slender like a wand!”

  “Oh, leave off, Pell! You can’t do anything with a man! We’re all no better off than the Virginal Sisters who spy on us for those gods cussed monks,” the irritable one snapped. “And at least they could if they wanted to.”

  “I don’t care what you say. He’s what I’m thinking about the next time I sleep with you,” the dreamer retorted.

  “Women!” the dumpling shouted. “We have one hour to get back and be ready for our conference. Shut your traps and start walking.”

  With a few more grumbles and insults, they conducted a hasty trek back to their temporary headquarters. The dumpling was now more curious about Brother Herfod than before.

  ***

  “He’s coming!” the dreamer cried.

  “Are you certain? It could be just that awful gang coming to tell us off for asking after him,” the irritable one said.

  “No, I see him. It’s the dish. He’s in front this time. Oh, my gods! The hair on him. It’s impossible.”

  “Do you think he dyes it?” someone else said.

  “They aren’t allowed to be vain. He can’t be dying it.”

  “But the colour is impossible. For a human. Seen it on elves before.”

  The windows, already crowded with feminine faces, were suddenly filled to capacity.

  “Oh, he’s gorgeous!” one of the newcomers said. “Not elf, though. Look at the hazel eyes.”

  “Oh, that’s just pitiable,” the irritable one huffed. “He’s going to look in the windows and see a bunch of gawking, sex-starved women.”

  “Oh!” an elderly Virginal Sister cried in shock. “Young woman! For shame!”

  “I’m older than you!” the young woman said, flustering the Virginal Sister further. “I’ve had more time pretending to be virginal than you have, you clitoris kisser.”

  “Oh!” The sister fled the room in tears.

  “Way to go, Zini,” Pell said. “Now we’ll hear nothing but loud praying again, all night long.”

  While they were distracted, the expected knock at the door sounded.

  “He’s here!” Pell cried and rushed to let dishy Brother Herfod in.

  Zini threw up her hands in utter disgust while all the others craned to get a first look at him. The door opened and revealed the caller, a slight crimson-haired man who stood to the fore of the visiting party. His protective gang stretched to gaze inward much in the same manner as the women gazed out. Herfod surveyed all the eager faces and grinned.

  “Hi, now. You had better all stop staring before you pop some eyes.” He stomped in and smiled at them in general, looking more impish than monkish.

  “That just can’t be him,” the dumpling said in deep disappointment.

  “What?” the young man responded. “I can’t be me? I can’t be anyone else, can I?”

  She glowered. “Are you in fact the Brother Herfod?”

  “Well, truthfully, I’m one of them. There are three others up in the monastery, but you won’t want those ones. They’ve taken vows of silence; I suppose because they can never shut me up and I do enough talking for us all.”

  “We should have known they’d pawn an impostor on us,” Zini said. “I should just blast him out the door.”

  Herfod’s grin widened. This woman seemed as if she couldn’t be teased; so of course the act became a necessity. “Hi, now! You go ahead and try, love. I’ll just see what you’ve got, and if it doesn’t look useful, you can pack it up and go.”

  “Aaah!” she screeched.

  “No, Zini!” the dumpling shouted, but Zini was too fractious to listen. Her gaze grew thunderous. Her finger pointed. Herfod’s monk protectors, warned not interfere with the meeting beforehand, almost disobeyed their orders, but Herfod flung his arms back to keep them off. Zini shouted a curse.

  “Boils!” she cried, but the monk countered the malediction just as she erupted with it.

  “Reverse,” he said softly, if quickly.

  Zini gasped in shock. “Oh!”

  All eyes, from the aghast to the tremendously entertained, turned from Herfod to Zini. She had boils. She had many boils. She looked awful! The monk had reflected her spell, not with a chant, but a single word, a feat that seemed more sorcerous than holy.

  “Ooh!” Herfod said. “That’s wicked! Are you sure you aren’t an evil witch?”

  “She’s too pretty to be an evil witch!” Pell cried. “Or she used to be. Oh, Zini! You poor thing!” Pell was quite put out with the monk. He’d given her lover ugly festering spots.

  “Shut up!” Zini shouted furiously. She didn’t want sympathy.

  Herfod laughed. “Oh, come on! I won. Don’t be a poor loser.”

  She scowled, but quickly stopped doing it. The boils hurt worse when she scrunched her skin.

  Shaking his head, he walked forward. “Come on. Let me cure it for you, at least,” he offered, putting out a hand.

  “I
can cure it myself! It was my curse!”

  “Yes, but if you let me do it, the other thing will feel better too. Then you might find your sense of humour again.”

  Zini was suddenly very still.

  “What other thing?” Pell said.

  “Never mind!” Zini gritted through her teeth.

  Brother Herfod stepped closer, his hand still offered. Zini considered him with a mistrustful gleam to her eyes. His grin had vanished. He was perfectly solemn, perfectly calm. He seemed to exude tranquillity. Still suspicious, she set her hand on his palm. Herfod uttered the appropriate prayer. A blue aura shot over her, and the boils disappeared. The monk dropped his palm.

  “I don’t know about boils,” he said. “Unless you can cast it on more than one target at once?”

  Zini, regarding him with an astonished expression, blinked and asked what he meant. All of her spots were gone and so was the pain from the other thing.

  “For this war,” Brother Herfod explained. “Can you cast boils on more than one target?”

  She shook her head.

  “Zini! What else was the matter with you?” Pell said angrily. Zini had been holding something out on her. She’d wondered why her teacher and lover had been so irritable lately.

  “I had a cancer growing in my abdomen,” the woman said flatly. “I wasn’t able to get rid of it.”

  There was dead silence in response to that statement. Seconds went by; then the dumpling asked what they were all thinking. “Why couldn’t you get rid of it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  Herfod knew. “You were cursed,” he said.

  “What? By who?” the dumpling cried.

  “By another like me. A monk, a priest. Someone who prayed for it.” The silence deepened. “You were chased out of Omera some of you,” Herfod spoke into the ominous quiet. “I suspect the priests of the new sect wanted to be certain you weren’t able to go back.”

  “Those evil bastards!” a woman said, to which Herfod nodded agreement.

  “How did you know?” Zini asked.