The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

Francisco stiffened.

  Sancho held up his hands, palms out. “No. Do not even think about it. Oy, it has to be only the second hour of the morning. I cannot believe I’m arguing with you about this.”

  Already Francisco was planning. Tomorrow night is Tuesday, that means Uncle Bernat will be at the Wayside Tavern, which is next to Olivar’s bakery. They have the same roof. The crawlspace above the rafters is open and shared by both shops. If I can hear what Uncle Bernat is saying—His thoughts trailed off. He convinced himself he would only check to see if his uncle was still chasing him. He didn’t allow himself to think about how it could end: how it could end for his uncle like it did for the Key’ari recruiter.

  “Oy,” Sancho said, “you are doing it, aren’t you?”

  “Doing What?”

  “Scheming.”

  “I don’t even know what that word means.”

  “Meshugeh! Francisco, if you are going to do anything foolish, you will have to do it without me.” He lay down and pulled his blanket over his head.

  It’s better to do it alone anyway. This is personal. Francisco lay back with is hands under his head and schemed.

  520 Days on the Streets

  When Francisco slipped into the closed bakery the next day, he knew he was on his own. Not only was he without Sancho, but he knew he entered without God’s protection because of his trespassing. He felt exposed, but he didn’t care. The feeling added to the excitement. He wanted to end the running from Uncle Bernat. The healing stone had healed when he protected other people, but would it protect him if he struck out in revenge? No, he wouldn’t take it that far. He wasn’t going to attack his uncle, just listen and watch him to find out if his Uncle Bernat was still chasing him.

  Olivar, the baker, had left the bakery an hour earlier after closing. He did not live on the second floor like La Grande, but lived with his large family on the south side of the city.

  As soon as Francisco stepped into the bakery from the alley behind it, he realized his plan to use the rafters was doomed. The wall did not stop at the first level like he thought but went all the way up to the roof. He forgot the tavern next door had lodging on the second floor. The sun was about to set and the bakery with its door closed and windows shuttered was already too dark for him to see clearly. His stomach growled. The scent of fresh baked bread lingered.

  This is stupid. He thought. Sancho was right.

  Francisco hesitated, unsure what to do next, but still felt the rush of this clandestine act. He could hear the chatter well enough next door. In fact, the longer he stood there the more clearly he could understand their speech. He stepped up to the wall adjoining the tavern. Streams of light came through in several places. He looked through three of them; each one gave a clear view of the tavern.

  Then he heard Uncle Bernat’s voice, and he felt like he was a little boy again. He wanted to hide under a table. His palms started sweating. He had to steady his breathing. Calmer, he walked along the wall listening for his uncle’s voice to be loudest. Having found it, he bent down and peered through a hole about waist high. He stopped breathing. Francisco looked out along the table where Uncle Bernat and his drinking buddy Galindo sat. If the wall hadn’t separated them, Francisco could have reached out and touched him.

  Francisco forced himself to breathe evenly and listen.

  Uncle Bernat was speaking. “The Wayside has its own distinct scent of fermented barley, that inviting aroma that stirs the thirst. Monday’s tavern is darker and more private. Wednesday’s is raucous. Thursday’s has that barmaid.” He winked.

  Galindo laughed.

  “Friday’s has the best wine. Don’t get me wrong, now. I’ve not given up on beer, but I like a smooth wine as much as the next man. And Saturday’s … we’ll have to change Saturday’s after the fight.”

  They both laughed.

  “Of all of them,” Galindo said, “Tuesday’s Wayside Tavern has just the right blend: a new minstrel every week, cheap beer, clean tables, and patrons that can carry a tune.”

  “Aye. Medicine for the soul. And I need it too, for the thought of that thief, that son of a self-righteous prig, boils my blood.”

  Galindo slammed down his empty mug and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Bernat, you can’t convince me the boy’s still alive after a year on the streets. He’s either moved on or dead. Let it go.”

  “Not this boy, I tell you. I’ve not only seen him with my own eyes just this last month, but he’s got something—”

  “You see lots of things when you drink.”

  Bernat leaned forward. “Listen. He’s got something that will keep him alive.” He sat back satisfied.

  “What thing?” Galindo asked.

  “Huh?”

  “What thing that keeps him alive? For the love of the saints, man, are you drunk already? It’s not even sundown.”

  “I’m not drunk. I’ve had as many as you.”

  “After I got here. So, what’s the thing that keeps him alive?”

  “I can’t tell you, but I can say that it has healing powers.”

  “Are we talking some kind of ointment?”

  Bernat smiled. “Better. It cures everything, but you have to say this daft prayer when you use it.”

  Galindo waved him off. “Ah, it’s the beer talking.”

  “Listen. That stone is the key to my success. I need more coin to establish the brewer’s guild.”

  “Oh, that dream.”

  “Laugh all you want. You’ll be begging me for work come this time next year.”

  Domingo, the innkeeper, walked up, drying a cup with his apron. Francisco recognized him. He would visit Olivar in the early morning when Francisco came to visit Sancho. Domingo would often boast he had the most civil tavern this side of the Tagus. If it was indeed civil, it was because of Domingo’s size. The man was a giant. He never laid a fist on anyone; he never had to. If someone got loud or drew a weapon, Domingo would be there beside them, a tower of stone. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” Domingo said. “Healing powers?”

  Francisco’s heart raced. This is getting worse. Bad enough I make mistakes that get noticed. Now Uncle Bernat is acting like the town crier. Francisco wanted to reach through the wall and punch his uncle, knock him out, do something to shut him up.

  Domingo held the cup up to the light to inspect it. “There be strange goings on around here of late. Strange.” He returned to wiping the cup, his eyes eager to tell a story.

  “Like What?” Galindo asked.

  “Like people disappearing.” The innkeeper leaned in and lowered his voice. “Like things happening that ain’t natural. Saracen magic, be my guess.”

  “They don’t use magic,” Galindo quipped.

  “Hush now.” Domingo waved his hand. “Ever hear of genies? No? Just ask any Saracen, he’ll tell you. They can appear or disappear at will.”

  “The Saracens?” Bernat asked.

  “No, you fool, the genies.” Domingo continued, “They can appear as man or beast, and can travel across entire kingdoms in one night.”

  Galindo slapped Bernat on the shoulder, laughing. “Now who’s drunk? Domingo, my friend, you have been sampling too much of your own brew.”

  Domingo pounded the table with his meaty fist. “Listen!” His eyes gave no quarter for humor. “This is no tale of fools. Take the couple at the table near the door. Not the minstrel, the older ones.” He nodded behind him.

  Francisco had to shift to another hole to see them. An unremarkable older couple sat talking with the minstrel and his wife. Francisco couldn’t see them well because of the light from the sunset streaming through the door next to them.

  “They don’t look like Saracens,” Bernat said. “Are they genies?”

  “Ah, that be the question,” Domingo said. “They’re a strange lot, to be sure. Been hanging around all the taverns for over a week I’ve been told. Don’t take to the wine or beer, but full of too many questions, if you ask me. They claim to be pilgrims headed for t
he Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, but that’s in Galtia, see? It don’t add up. The route’s through Burgos, not here. What’s more, if they’re pilgrims, then why don’t they move on? So, that’s why I’m prying into your business. I wouldn’t be doing that regular, but times being what they are—”

  Galindo erupted. “Piss off, Domingo, you live on other people’s business.”

  Bernat scooted in closer and dropped his voice. “Alright. Let’s say there’s someone—

  “A boy.” Domingo nodded.

  “A boy,” Bernat agreed, “a man, a woman for that matter, and they’ve got a ... a way to heal the sick, see?”

  “Like Jesus?” Domingo asked.

  “Yeah, but they got something that helps them when they pray, something that ain’t theirs. Now, I am not saying this is true, but if it were, such a person might be in danger if they were alone on the streets.”

  “So, you’re saying,” Domingo asked, “there’s a street boy who’s got something that heals people?”

  Galindo jumped in. “Bernat had too much of your beer, Domingo. He should have stopped two mugs ago.”

  “Shut up, idiot,” Bernat snapped. “You’re drunker than I am.”

  “What does the boy look like?” Domingo asked.

  Bernat scoffed. “As daft as his lazy father and as raving mad as his dead, fat mother.”

  Domingo threw up his hands and spoke to the oak rafters. “How is that supposed to help me find him?” He turned to Bernat and spoke each word slowly and distinctly. “What-does-he-look-like?”

  Bernat didn’t answer. The strange woman who was sitting next to the door was walking up behind Domingo. She had seemed intent on asking the innkeeper a question, but her eyes narrowed when Domingo asked about the boy. Bernat looked down at his empty mug and cleared his throat.

  The woman wore a well-traveled, brown, and dusty dress. She was older than Francisco first thought. Lines of worry and care ran deep on her face, a face that seemed accustomed to smiles and warm greetings. She asked in a clear, strong voice that belied her age, “Did you say some one here has mystical powers?”

  Francisco almost cursed.

  Domingo turned to her. He squared his shoulders and planted his feet apart. “What’s it to you?” he asked. “Better be keeping to your own business if you know what’s good for you.”

  The woman, a good head and a half shorter than Domingo, looked to the floor and replied in a sheepish voice, “I am sorry to offend, but my husband is ill and if there is a healing stone available, I would like to ask—”

  “No one said nothing about a stone,” Domingo snapped.

  “My husband—”

  “Your husband?” Domingo raised his voice. “He’s been drawing trouble like flies on pig filth. He needs to be tossed out with the chamber pot!”

  Quicker than Francisco would have thought possible, she slapped him with the back of her hand. Except it wasn’t her hand—was there a sword? Domingo’s head came off. It just rolled off and fell to the floor. His body stood there, shoulders still square with his hand in his apron. Blood gushing.

  Francisco yelped as he jumped back from the hole. He stumbled over a box, and landed on his rump. A heartbeat later, the silence next door was broken by chaos. A scream, and two more. A curse, and a tray of dishes dropped. Francisco scrambled up and peered through the hole again. The woman’s husband jumped to his feet and said something foreign. She disappeared. Not left-his-sight-by-running-out-the-door disappear; she vanished like a vapor. Francisco was looking around her to see her husband. Francisco blinked and then he didn’t see her or her husband. He crossed himself. Domingo’s body crumpled to the floor.

  “Galindo,” Bernat said, shaking, “for the love of God, tell me you saw that.”

  Galindo stared at the head and the blood. He looked like he was going to vomit.

  Uncle Bernat crossed himself. “I think we’ll have to find another Tuesday night tavern, my friend.” Someone grabbed Bernat’s upper arm. It was the one-eyed veteran, Gombal, the hero of Alarcos.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” Gombal said with his good eye bloodshot and wild. “It was you that killed him.”

  Bernat shook him off. “It was the genie woman and her husband.”

  Francisco withdrew from the wall and slipped out the bakery’s back door as quickly as he could. This is getting out of hand. First Uncle Bernat, then the Matóns and the Key’ari. Now I have genies after me. Oh, God, forgive me for thoughts of revenge. I vow to fight only when you tell me to. As he took all the shortcuts he knew back to La Grande’s, he thought he saw someone following him, but every time he turned to look, they were gone. A shiver ran up his spine, and the hair on the back of his neck stood. His neck. He rubbed his neck with both hands and imagined the genie woman slapping him. It was not the first time he considered that the healing stone may not be able to heal him if his head was chopped off. He ran.

  Chapter 11

  Miyuki

  Toledo

  Local Date: 11 October 1211

  ANGELO AND MIYUKI HAD GIVEN UP on Burgos and had been in Toledo for almost a week, spending every afternoon and evening in dusty taverns and inns, searching for a clue that matched their assigned prophecy. So far, they dredged up references that could match a line or two with only the broadest interpretation. A stonecutter looking for work might be “the stone holder, the rock hider.” There was a rumor that the physician up the river was himself taken ill. Was he “of a line that heals as it hurts?” All the while Miyuki was trying to get used to the local food and beverages: fresh game topped with exotic spices for the nobility, and coarse barley bread with beans and occasional salt pork for the commoners. For everyone, wine and maybe beer was a better choice over brackish water, but at first, she found it odd drinking alcohol cold.

  Now, on the eleventh day of the search, Miyuki found herself back in Wayside Tavern. When they walked through the doors, the odor of fermented barley hit her full force. It was pungent enough to taste. The minstrel sounded off key to her, but her ears were not yet used to this foreign music. She stood blinking for a minute, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the darkness. It was early in the evening just after supper with the sun heading for the horizon, and the tables were empty except for half a dozen regulars and a group of four who were warily surveying the establishment with furtive glances. Were they pilgrims? The young barmaid stood arms folded, listening with a half smirk to a pilgrim’s question. She shot Angelo a glance, smiled and nodded. Angelo had always paid well. He and Miyuki had visited this tavern twice before, but having exhausted other locations, Angelo wanted to return. As was their pattern, he and Miyuki parted once inside. He walked towards the barmaid and pilgrims; Miyuki inhaled deeply before she headed for the ones in the shadows. Stay focused. The Voice will guide me and I have Angelo at my side. Watch for enemy attack and look for signs of the prophecy. She scanned for Avar-Tek. None.

  She made her way towards a lone figure in the corner. A few minutes later she cast Angelo a thought, barely containing her excitement. One of the regulars claimed he fought in six battles against an enemy called the “Saracens.”

  How does this fit the prophecy?

  She answered, In the prophecy, could he be ‘the hero who falls in battle?’ He was wounded and fell in battle.

  Angelo looked at her blankly across the room. That’s thin.

  She thrust her hand towards the veteran’s crumpled form, which was now unconscious and hunched over the table. In frustration, she spoke aloud in Castilian, “He does nothing but drink wine all day and fall down.”

  Angelo walked up to the table, grabbed the man by the hair, and pulled up his head. The man blinked with his one good eye and scolded Angelo with a thick tongue, “Have a care, brother. You disturb none other than Gombal, hero of Alarcos. I single handedly—”

  Angelo dropped his head and cast, You’re getting desperate. He’s too old to recruit. Apparently seeing her disappointment, he added, The prophecy’s applicat
ion will be exceedingly clear when you find it.

  Angelo returned to the pilgrims and Miyuki sat at an empty table. She tried mentally reciting the prophecy from memory, but stumbled over the fourth line. Instead, she thought of the scroll and blinked. As if printed on a banner made of transparent silk, the words in Castilian floated above the tavern table:

  One of Six is Sweet Sadness,

  of a line that heals as it hurts,

  that aids as it dies,

  the stone holder, the rock hider,

  the street runner, and the way maker,

  the soldier who weeps for the enemy,

  the Christian who defends the Jew,

  the hero who falls in battle,

  and the student who trains in slavery.

  He shall bear no device

  but the stone inside.

  She let the tension release from her shoulders as she calmed herself and absorbed the environment. The words of the prophecy rolled around in her mind like smooth pebbles in a brook. Shall bear no device. The warm, amber sunlight streaming in. That aids as it dies. The sudden laughter from the table by the fire pit. The student who trains in slavery. The conflicting aroma of fresh bread and stench of stale ale. It was then that she caught the words in the minstrel’s song: “Lo dous cossire que.m don'Amors soven, dona.” The words weren’t in the local Castilian tongue, but a language from the east: Occitan. It took her a minute to instruct her linguistic implant to scan for a matching language, and when it returned a meaningful phrase, she knew she had it. Just as Angelo said, it was exceedingly clear. Miyuki cast to Angelo, The song. Do you hear it? She practically screamed it with unbridled emotion—her father would have been shamed.

  Angelo, who had been talking with the pilgrims, stopped in mid-sentence. He turned to her, his brows furrowed. After listening to the song for only a moment, he shook his head and returned to the pilgrims.

  No, wait, she insisted. Listen to the refrain. He will sing it here again in ... there.

  Recognition brightened Angelo’s eyes. Good work, he cast. Lo dous cossire—Occitan for the Sweet Sadness.

  Yes. It fits the prophecy’s first line: “One of Six is Sweet Sadness.”