Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “The king commands your presence,” the footman in the corridor repeated. “Immediately.”

  “Of course,” Darissa said—because what else could one say? She could see in the footman’s thoughts that this was a genuine royal command, not a trick or misunderstanding. She straightened her gray robe, brushed her hair back, and followed the footman, closing the door behind her.

  A moment later she was shown into the family dining room, where King Terren, Prince Evreth, Princess Hinda, Princess Indamara, and Prince Marek were eating breakfast.

  Prince Evreth rose at the sight of her, took her hand, and bowed. “So you are the woman who has captured my brother’s heart! At last we meet.”

  Darissa curtsied awkwardly in return, but could not think of anything to say.

  Evreth was about Marek’s height, but leaner, with piercing green eyes and a pointed beard. Darissa felt an intense curiosity in him, and a strong reserve—he was keeping his emotions in check.

  When he released her hand King Terren beckoned to her. “Come here,” he said.

  “Yes, your Majesty,” she replied, hurrying to his side. As the king, he did not rise to greet her.

  He stared up at her face as she stood by his chair, studying her features, and she could feel a deep sadness and weariness. Then he gestured toward the young woman on his right. “This is Indamara, my daughter-in-law.”

  Darissa curtsied again.

  Indamara did not say anything, so Darissa did not speak, either. She could feel a sort of wild despair from the princess, confusion and grief and anger.

  And she could sense Indamara’s body. She knew there was no child in her womb. Prince Terren would have no heir.

  “I had wanted to meet you before I left,” Evreth said. “I had heard so much about you!”

  “I’m flattered, your Highness,” Darissa said.

  “Thank you for coming, Darissa,” the king said. “But I’m afraid you must go now. We are grateful that you have provided comfort to Prince Marek, and Evreth did want to meet you, but it is not suitable for you to break bread with us. I hope you understand.”

  “Of course, your Majesty.” She curtsied a final time, looked around the room, and headed for the door.

  Evreth watched her go with sincere interest, Marek with love, the king with polite kindness, Indamara with confusion—and Hinda with hatred, which Darissa did not understand. Why would Hinda hate her?

  But then she was back in the corridor, and the footman escorted her back to Marek’s apartments.

  About an hour later Marek returned, and asked her, “Well?” He did not need to be more specific.

  “She isn’t pregnant,” Darissa replied. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I—though I’m not surprised. It was a long shot, at best. At least you got to meet her, and Evreth, and my father.”

  “And Princess Hinda,” Darissa said.

  “You met her before, though.”

  “Yes, I did, but I wanted to ask you if you know why she hates me.”

  Marek hesitated, then sighed.

  “Because she thinks you’re distracting me,” he said. “She wants me to marry a princess and start siring princes, and you’re obviously making that more difficult. And she assumes you deliberately seduced me so you could live in luxury here in the castle, and that you’re more interested in money and power than you are in me. If there’s more to it than that, which I think there may be, I don’t know what it is.”

  “Why isn’t she angry at Evreth for not being married?”

  “Oh, she is! And at least he’s been looking, while I’ve been here with you. She’s angry with me about many things, not just you. She doesn’t think I take my position seriously, and she’s angry that I’ve gotten involved in the war effort when I don’t know anything about governing or fighting. She’s angry about a lot of things.”

  “She isn’t married,” Darissa pointed out.

  “She hasn’t had any offers yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Because there is a surplus of princesses? Because she isn’t very appealing? Maybe that’s another reason she’s angry. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if a commoner took an interest in her—but she’d probably be more offended than pleased.”

  “Does she even know any commoners?”

  “A few. She likes talking to magicians.”

  “She doesn’t seem to want to talk to me.”

  “I… You’re only an apprentice, and you… That’s different.”

  Darissa realized she was upsetting Marek, and changed the subject. “Prince Evreth seems very pleasant.”

  “Oh, he’s definitely the charmer in the family,” Marek agreed. “That’s why he’s the one conducting most of our diplomacy.”

  “They’re all grieving the loss of your brother.”

  “Of course. So am…”

  “…So are you. I know that, Marek, and I apologize if I haven’t made it clear how sorry I am for your loss. I know you loved him.”

  “I did,” Marek agreed.

  A thought struck Darissa. “Could you marry Indamara now?”

  Marek started back, blinking. “No!” he said.

  “Why not? It’s not unheard of, marrying a brother’s widow, and it would reinforce the alliance with her family in Pethmor.”

  “I don’t want her, she doesn’t want me, her family in Pethmor might find her more useful elsewhere, and in four years of marriage she had one miscarriage and no live births. No.”

  “All right; it was just an idle speculation. If you must marry a princess, I thought she might be a candidate.”

  “No.”

  Darissa knew better than to pursue the subject. She gave Marek a quick embrace, and there was no further discussion of dynastic marriages or Marek’s family that morning.

  Two days later, as Darissa was making herself useful treating burns in the kitchen after a mishap at lunch, the news came. She was not sure just how it first arrived, but in mere moments it seemed to be everywhere.

  King Abran III of Eknera had been assassinated by his own guards, a man by the name of Lord Pallinus had been named as regent for the new king, whoever he was, and Eknera Castle had been surrendered to the besieging forces.

  Celebrations broke out on all sides; kitchen maids who had been bickering a moment before were hugging one another and dancing. Darissa heard shouting and singing in the corridors and courtyard.

  She finished soothing the burned forearm she was holding, then rose from her stool and hurried up to Marek’s apartment.

  She met him in the corridor just outside their door.

  “I was just looking for you!” he said, striding toward her. “You’ve heard?”

  “Of course I’ve heard!”

  “I think my father will want me to go oversee the treaty talks—we aren’t sure exactly where Evreth is right now, and one of the royal family should be there, though of course most of the actual negotiating will be done by General Tobul and Lord Kather.”

  Darissa’s only answer was to fling herself into his arms and kiss him vigorously.

  When at last they paused for breath, he said, “I shouldn’t be gone for very long. You can go back to your master’s place if you want, once the war is officially over, and finish your apprenticeship.”

  “I should probably do that,” Darissa agreed, though at the moment she really did not care at all whether she ever made journeyman.

  That evening, when the celebrations had subsided somewhat and those that continued had become more organized, Marek and Darissa met again in their sitting room.

  “The king is sending me to Eknera first thing in the morning,” Marek said. “The terms should mostly be settled by then, and I’ll just give them the royal nod of approval.�
��

  Darissa nodded. She actually wanted to go along, and see something more of the world outside Melitha, and watch history being made, but she knew that it wasn’t going to happen. She was Marek’s mistress, with no official standing, and her presence at any sort of formal event, such as signing a treaty, would be horribly inappropriate.

  “Right now, though,” Marek said, “my father and Hinda are holding a victory ball downstairs. Would you like to come?”

  So much for not being welcome at formal events—but there was another problem. “I don’t have a ball gown,” she said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that! On short notice, for an occasion like this, no one expects all the niceties to be observed. We’ll probably see laundresses in mobcaps dancing with courtiers in velvet and silk. Come along and dance with me!”

  She looked down at her apprentice’s robe. “Well, let me change into something a little nicer!”

  “If you must, then—I’ll wait.”

  Fifteen minutes later Prince Marek walked into the ballroom unannounced, with a girl most of the guests did not recognize on his arm, and the pair joined into the festivities with unbridled enthusiasm.

  Darissa did not see anyone in a mobcap, but Marek had been correct in saying the event would not be formal. There were soldiers in uniform, courtiers in velvet, and women in skirts and dresses of every sort. There was even that tall woman Darissa had seen on her way to the castle when the war first began, the one she thought was probably a wizard, though she did not join in the dancing, but simply watched, unsmiling, from the side of the room.

  To Darissa’s surprise the king left early; when she mentioned it to Marek he said he had seen a messenger speaking to his father, and the king had then hurried out. He guessed it was something to do with the surrender terms.

  Perhaps half an hour later Princess Hinda left as well, beckoning for the supposed wizard to follow her, but most of the other celebrants danced and drank well into the night. It was after midnight when Darissa and Marek finally stumbled back to the prince’s apartments. Once they were inside, with the door locked behind them, Marek said, “And now one last celebration before we sleep, and for this one you don’t need a gown. In fact, I don’t want to see a single stitch of clothing!”

  Darissa giggled; she had drunk more wine than ever before in her life, and was feeling its effects. “And I will be happy to oblige you, your Highness, if you will do me the same favor!”

  A few minutes later they were in the prince’s bed, and just beginning that final celebration, when everything went dark.

  Darissa, lying on her back with her knees drawn up to her chest, thought at first that the lamp had gone out, but almost instantly she realized it was more than that. She could not see anything at all, nor could she feel anything, where a moment before she could feel a very great deal. She could not move. She could not hear Marek’s breath, which had been loud in her ear a moment before. She could not smell anything, and did not feel her own breath.

  This was not a spilled lamp, nor anything else simple and natural. She tried to use her witchcraft to sense what had happened, where she was, whether Marek was still with her, but even that was deadened. She could just barely detect Marek’s thoughts—he, too, was baffled, uncomprehending, trying to understand what had happened. She could make out nothing of the room around them.

  But she knew what had happened. Someone had cast a spell on them.

  It took hours before she was able to establish exactly what sort of spell. She had hoped it was temporary, that the enchantment would wear off, but it did not, and at last, when she heard muffled voices, grunts, and the sound of something heavy being moved, she understood.

  They had been turned to stone. She did not know who had done it, or how, or why, but they had been turned to stone.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Morvash of the Shadows

  28th of Greengrowth, YS 5238

  The first statue Morvash chose for Ariella’s perusal appeared to be a soldier of some sort, though Morvash did not recognize the uniform, and the figure did not appear to be carrying any weapons. There was no spear or sword, but his marble tunic looked like light armor. Morvash set the candle beside the stony foot, then stepped back and gestured to the witch. “What do you hear?” he asked.

  Ariella stepped forward and stared into the statue’s blank white eyes. “He’s not thinking in Ethsharitic,” she said. “It’s not Trader’s Tongue, either, or anything else I recognize.”

  “Can you understand anything?” Morvash asked.

  “Give me a minute. Not all thoughts are in words, and…and I think he does know some Ethsharitic, and he can hear us…” She frowned. “Do you hear me? Can you tell me who you are?” Then she blinked and stepped back.

  “Oh, blood,” she said. “By all the varied gods!”

  “What is it?” Morvash demanded. Perhaps this man was exactly the sort of threat he had been warned about.

  “He’s…he’s a Northerner. His native language—he calls it Shaslan. He was a Northern spy during the Great War. He’s been petrified for…well, at least three hundred years, maybe more; I’m not sure how closely the Northern calendar matches ours.”

  Morvash stared. “A Northerner spy?” That was not anything he had anticipated.

  Ariella nodded. “He was caught by a patrol and taken to a General Korzad, and Korzad’s magicians questioned him, and then they turned him to stone to keep him out of the way and make certain he wouldn’t escape or be rescued. They didn’t just kill him because they weren’t sure whether he might have more information they could use, but then they never turned him back, either, and he’s been handed down from one owner to the next ever since. They long ago forgot he had ever been alive.”

  “A Northern spy?”

  “Well, he certainly believes it, and he does mostly think in the strangest language I’ve ever heard.”

  “The war’s been over for more than two hundred years; there aren’t any more Northerners.”

  “I know that,” Ariella said. “So does he.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Idmyethri? Something like that. I can’t be sure of the pronunciation just from his thoughts.”

  For a moment Morvash stared silently at the statue, while Ariella stared at the wizard and the statue stared blindly at the witch. A Northerner—but despite their status as traditional villains in old stories, Northerners were just people, and Morvash could not see how one could be a threat any more. He shook himself out of his daze and asked, “Does he know what happened to the wizard who enchanted him? Was it Fendel’s Superior Petrifaction?”

  “Oh, really, Morvash, how could he know? And even if he did, it’s been three hundred years.”

  “I know,” Morvash said. “I just…” He sighed. “Maybe we’ll do better with some of the others.” He picked up the candle. “What about this one?” he said, moving on to the next statue. This one was yellow alabaster, a tall, thin, middle-aged man in an elegant robe that swirled around his legs as he turned to glare at someone.

  Ariella followed. After a moment’s concentration, she said, “Oh, this one’s a wizard—Halder Kelder’s son, from Sardiron of the Waters.” She looked at the statue’s stone face and asked, “What happened?”

  Morvash waited, and after a moment Ariella said, “His apprentice betrayed him, turned him to stone, and stole his book of spells and all his other magic. She hid the statue so no one would realize what had happened, but it was found eventually and sold at auction.”

  “An apprentice was able to petrify someone?”

  “She was very talented, and she thought he was holding her back—which he admits he was, because he liked having her around. He really regrets that now.”

  “When…?”

  “In the year 5155.”

  “M
ore than eighty years ago.”

  “Yes.”

  A wizard who lost an argument with an apprentice, an apprentice who was probably dead of old age by now, did not seem particularly dangerous. “Next?”

  They moved on down the row of statues. Ariella stopped at the next, one of the women that had stood in the corners of Lord Landessin’s foyer, and asked, “Who are you?”

  Morvash heard nothing, of course, but Ariella answered her own question. “She’s a dancing girl named Thetta. A slave. Her master wanted to keep her beautiful forever.”

  “Well, she’s certainly beautiful,” Morvash acknowledged, looking at the gleaming white figure. She wore only a skimpy clinging thing that did nothing to hide her lush curves, and her face was strikingly lovely.

  “She has been for more than two hundred years. She’s from somewhere in what are now the Small Kingdoms. She’s…she hasn’t taken it well. She’s not completely mad, but she’s obsessed with maiming or killing herself if she’s ever restored to life.”

  Morvash felt ill at that, and stepped away. “Harming herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not others?”

  “Not unless her old master is still alive, which seems very unlikely—he was a merchant, not a magician, and hired the wizard who transformed her.”

  That did not sound dangerous, either, though she would need to be watched. “Next?”

  Ariella looked at the next, a middle-aged man in good clothing, and asked him several questions. After a moment she stepped back, shaking her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Might be asleep, or maybe the spell on this one didn’t leave him conscious.”

  “All right,” Morvash said. “What about that one?” He pointed to the black granite one that had been in his bedroom in Uncle Gror’s house. “Who is she?”

  Ariella called, “Who are you?” to the statue, then considered it silently for a long moment. At last she said, “She’s pretty confused, but I think she’s a demonologist named Karitha. She was feuding with a wizard named Wosten. She sent a demon after him, but then something turned her to stone, so she thinks he stopped her demon somehow and retaliated. That was only about seven years ago, here in Ethshar.”