Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “Did he say who his employer was? Or why they wanted the statue?”

  “He rather carefully did not. Made a point of it, in fact, dodging every question I asked.”

  Morvash considered for a moment, then said, “I haven’t made a secret of what I’m doing. I didn’t think I needed to.”

  “Which means he can probably find you. He wouldn’t even need magic; he could talk to the neighbors, and the workmen we hired to move the statues, and someone will talk.”

  “Are we sure that would be a bad thing, if he found me?”

  “Morvash, he wouldn’t say who hired him, or why. That’s never a good sign.”

  “I know, but…what does he want with the statue? Do you think he knows who it really is? What’s he going to do with it?

  “I have no idea.”

  “I mean, if he’s going to turn them back, that would be fine—it would save me the trouble.”

  “Unless he’s doing that so he can kill one or both of them.”

  “Um.”

  “You said he’s a prince, right? I mean the young man who is…on top?”

  “Prince Marek of Melitha,” Morvash said thoughtfully. “Petrified about forty years ago by person or persons unknown, for reasons unknown.”

  “Well, that could be it right there! Maybe he has a better claim to the throne than whoever has it now, and the usurper has decided to remove a threat by smashing a statue.”

  “That could be,” Morvash admitted.

  “And the girl—she’s a witch?”

  “An apprentice witch. Almost a journeyman.”

  “Maybe she angered someone who’s been nursing a grudge all these years and finally found out what happened to her.”

  “Witches don’t usually do anything that’s going anger anyone that much,” Morvash objected. “Most of them can sense people’s emotions, so they don’t like hurting people.”

  “Maybe it was an accident.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You said you don’t know who transformed them—maybe whoever it was has decided it’s time to finish the job.”

  “He could have done that forty years ago! Or she—Darissa thinks she saw a female wizard who may have cast the spell. But whoever it was, it’s much harder to turn people to stone than to kill them.”

  “Well, you would know better than I,” Gror admitted. “Maybe she wanted to keep them as prisoners in case she ever needed them alive again, and now she’s decided she never will.”

  “Or maybe she does need them alive now!” Morvash suggested. “We don’t know her intentions are bad. Or his, or whoever’s.”

  Gror grimaced. “Honestly, Morvash, if someone offered you a wager on that, which way would you bet it?”

  “All right, fine, Uncle—I admit there’s probably ill intent here somewhere.” He sighed.

  “Well, I guess I know who I’ll try to restore first. Though I’d have been happier doing a single person as my first. I know the spell I need, and I’ve done it successfully, but I’m not very comfortable with it yet.”

  “Do you have time? Because it probably won’t take him more than a day or two to find you.”

  “I don’t…well, it depends. This house has some powerful protective spells on it, but I don’t know how they all work. If he just comes here by himself, I’m pretty sure I can keep him out as long as I need to. If he comes here with a good wizard, though, or some other powerful magician, I can’t be certain.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  Morvash considered that for a moment, then said, “I don’t think so. But thank you for the warning, Uncle; I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re family, Morvash; it’s the least I could do.” He rose, and Morvash followed suit.

  A moment later he closed the front door behind Gror, and immediately turned to Pender. “Do you know how to find Ariella’s place?” he asked. “Because I think we need to talk to Prince Marek again.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Morvash of the Shadows

  25th of Leafcolor, YS 5238

  Ariella joined Morvash and Pender for an informal late supper in Erdrik’s kitchen, where the situation was explained to her—as much as anything needed to be, given her abilities. When the three had eaten their fill they climbed the stairs to the gallery, and made their way to the alcove at the north end.

  “Prince Marek?” Morvash said. “Someone is looking for you.”

  “He wasn’t listening,” Ariella said. “Say it again.”

  Morvash repeated, “Someone is looking for you. Someone who knows you were turned to stone. My uncle had a visitor who wanted to buy this statue—the two of you.”

  “He’s confused,” Ariella said. “It’s been years, hasn’t it? Many years?”

  “Almost forty years,” Morvash agreed. “It’s very odd.”

  “Are you sure that he’s the one they were looking for?”

  “Well, no,” Morvash said, “but a prince seems more likely than an apprentice witch, especially after so long, and he was definitely looking for the pair of you. We thought it might have something to do with the line of succession.”

  “He’s still confused. He wants to know who’s on the throne now. Is his father still alive?”

  Morvash and Pender exchanged glances. “I have no idea,” Morvash admitted. “I thought you might know.” It occurred to him that this was something he should have researched during the last few months, but he had never gotten around to it. Magical matters had always seemed more important.

  “He thinks you’re being stupid,” Ariella said. “He wouldn’t phrase it so bluntly if he could speak for himself, but that’s what it boils down to. How would he know? Until you started talking to him, no one had told him anything since he was petrified. He doesn’t know who enchanted him and Darissa, or why, or how they wound up in Ethshar of the Spices, or anything that’s happened in Melitha since. They’re blind, they can’t feel or taste or smell, the only sense they have is hearing, and no one has said anything interesting near them since the spell was cast.”

  “Does Darissa know anything?” Morvash asked.

  “No more than Marek. She’s been listening, of course, but she doesn’t have any more idea of what’s going on than he does. She lost almost all her magic when she was turned to stone—wizardry blocks witchcraft sometimes, and apparently this was one of those times—so she’s almost as blind and helpless as the prince. She can generally tell when someone is near them, but not who it is or what they want. It took her hours just to figure out they had been turned to stone.”

  “So they don’t have any suggestions.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  “What do they want me to do?”

  “Turn them back to people, of course. Prince Marek is trying not to think you’re an idiot, but right now you’re making it more difficult by asking that.”

  Morvash addressed the statue. “You don’t think you might be safer like this?”

  “No, they do not,” Ariella said, very emphatically. “Stone can’t defend itself against a sledgehammer.”

  “I’m not really ready,” Morvash said. “I know the spell that should turn you back, and I’ve tried it a few times, but it only worked properly once so far. I was planning to practice it for another few sixnights, work my way up, maybe start with some of the smaller statues—you two are the biggest in Lord Landessin’s entire collection, mostly because there are two of you. I can’t do you one at a time.”

  “Marek thinks you should go ahead anyway, but Darissa isn’t as sure. What’s another sixnight or two after forty years?”

  “Well, that’s the part I haven’t told you,” Morvash said. “The man looking for you will probably find out where you are in a day or two, at most. I haven’t been keeping my
plans secret, and there are the workmen who brought all the statues here, and that doesn’t even consider using magic. He should have no trouble finding out where you are. The house has some protective spells, so just knowing you’re here won’t mean he can get at you, but for all I know he’s a wizard himself and can walk right through them.”

  “Then do it. Turn them back. Marek is very insistent now, and Darissa thinks it’s more dangerous to wait than to try it.”

  “She’s never seen a wizard’s spell go wrong, has she?”

  “Not unless that was what turned them to stone in the first place.”

  “Huh,” Morvash said. “I wonder if it was? It’s possible.”

  “Marek wants to know what could happen if the spell goes wrong.”

  “Oh, just about anything. I could be turned to stone, or we could all become weightless and bump on the ceiling, or monsters could come out of the walls.”

  For a moment no one spoke; then Ariella asked, “What’s the most likely way it could go wrong? You said you had tried it before and it didn’t always work; what happened when it didn’t?”

  “Nothing,” Morvash said. “Nothing at all. That’s the most common way spells fail.”

  “Darissa is still uncertain. Marek thinks you should try the spell, but he admits that may be selfish of him, since there are plenty of things that could happen that could hurt you, but not a statue. The decision, he says, has to be yours.”

  Morvash looked at Pender. “It seems I won’t bother casting Lugwiler’s Dismal Itch on you after all,” he said. “I’ll be going straight to attempting depetrifaction.”

  “Now?” Pender asked.

  “Oh, no,” Morvash said. “My head still hurts, and attempting wizardry when I’m not sure I’m completely sober is never a good idea. In the morning is soon enough, when I’ve had a good night’s rest—when we’ve all had a good night’s rest.”

  Pender nodded.

  “Will you need me?” Ariella asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Morvash said. “In fact, it might be safer if you weren’t here—as Darissa told you, and I’m sure you already knew, different kinds of magic can interfere with each other. The less witchcraft we have around, the better.”

  “You won’t need to talk to them? To make sure they’re ready?”

  Morvash almost laughed. “Believe me, Ariella,” he said, “the spell doesn’t care whether they’re ready. Do they look as if they were ready when they were turned to stone in the first place?”

  Ariella glanced at the pair, at Darissa’s arched back and raised legs, and Marek’s straining limbs. “I suppose not,” she said.

  “I know witchcraft works better when everyone involved is calm and cooperative,” Morvash said, “but wizardry isn’t like that. Only the wizard casting the spell has to be ready.”

  “As you say,” she replied. “Then perhaps I should go on home now.”

  “Well, actually, as long as you’re here, perhaps you could spare a moment to listen to the others one more time? I’ve spoken to them often, but of course they couldn’t answer when you weren’t here.”

  “Oh, of course! How thoughtless of me.” She turned to the statue. “Best of luck to you two tomorrow,” she said. “I hope everything goes well, and this stranger, whoever he is, doesn’t find you until you’re ready.” Then she turned back to the main gallery. “Where shall we begin?”

  Opting for simplicity, Morvash pointed to the first statue outside the alcove and said, “There.”

  It was about an hour later that Ariella finally departed, having checked on every statue. There were no significant changes from her previous visits. Morvash saw her out the door, then turned to Pender.

  “I’ll have to perform the spell in that alcove,” he said. “It’s much easier to move all the magical paraphernalia than it would be to move that statue.”

  “Yes, wizard,” Pender agreed. He had never acquired the habit of calling Morvash “master.”

  “Give me a hand; we’ll get it all ready up there, and I can start right after breakfast.”

  Pender nodded, and the two of them headed for the workroom.

  Morvash debated whether to bring a table or workbench to the gallery, or to leave everything on the floor; he eventually decided to use the floor. There was no chimney to vent the charcoal, but he thought that opening the big gallery windows just beyond the archway should do; he would set the brazier right there, in the entrance to the alcove. He glanced around, to see if there was anything else he would want to attend to.

  The gallery itself was straightforward—windows on one side, painted walls and white pilasters on the other, statues arranged along its entire length. The three miniature soldiers and the soapstone cat were gathered in the corner where the west wall met the alcove’s entrance. The alcove itself was about twelve feet square, behind a white-painted arch; its ceiling was lower than the rest of the gallery, and all three sides were paneled in some rich-looking wood he could not identify, with ornate moulding on every seam and a small empty niche in the center of the back wall. The statue that was Marek and Darissa took up almost half the floor space.

  Morvash had not thought much about it until now, but as he looked around, trying to decide how to arrange the ingredients of his spell, he wondered what the alcove had been for. What was meant to go in the niche? Why was the ceiling lowered?

  Then he decided it was just one more of the mysteries surrounding Erdrik’s house. He would probably never know. He set the big jar of touch-me-not in the niche, where he would not accidentally kick it over; everything else, even his book of spells, was arranged on the floor along the walls, against the carved and polished baseboards.

  When everything was in place he looked it over, looked at the statue of Marek and Darissa, sighed, then turned and went to bed.

  He felt better in the morning, but he was still not entirely confident he could perform the spell successfully. His first attempt had failed completely. Arguably, his second had, as well, if he chose to count that abortive start when he fumbled the incantation. Yes, the third had gone well, but that did not exactly make him an expert. He generally did not consider himself to have mastered a spell until he had performed it successfully three times running.

  But this mystery man from the Small Kingdoms could arrive at any minute.

  Morvash ate a hearty breakfast that Pender had prepared—ham, cheese, small beer, and fried cauliflower—then walked slowly up to the gallery, mentally reviewing the procedure for Javan’s Restorative.

  When he got to the alcove he opened his book and read through the instructions he had gotten from Kardig, checking to see if he had remembered everything correctly; once he started the spell he wouldn’t be able to safely do anything that would divert his attention, such as looking at the directions.

  He fetched the container of touch-me-not from the niche and set out generous handfuls at the base of the alcove’s arched entry, much more than he had used before—the statue was so much larger than the broken jar! He filled the brazier with charcoal, along with a little oil and kindling to help light it, just as Pender arrived with a pot of clean water. Morvash set the pot on the tripod. Then he placed a porcelain bowl nearby, broke off a generous chunk of incense, and set it in the bowl. He arranged the peacock plumes as the spell initially required—later on they would be moved and would help shape the smoke around whatever the spell was being cast upon, but initially they needed to be set on either side of the incense, curling so that they touched at the tip but nowhere else.

  He laid his book nearby, then opened the nearest casement a crack so that fresh air could get in and charcoal fumes could get out. If he felt ill or light-headed it would be easy enough to shove or kick the window further open.

  “Here we go,” he said aloud, so that Darissa and Marek could hear him. Then he drew
his athame and jabbed his right index finger, drawing a drop of blood. A quick incantation turned the blood into a flame, which he used to light the incense and the kindling for the charcoal.

  Ordinarily one dowsed the Finger of Flame by curling the finger, but instead Morvash thrust it into the pan of water, to add a little more heat and make it boil more quickly. Then he sat and waited.

  It took longer than he had expected to bring the water to a rolling boil, and his concentration wandered slightly, but at last there was sufficient steaming and bubbling; he flexed his shoulders, focused his mind, and began the chant.

  This time the magic seemed to gather quickly, and the slow curls of smoke from the incense began to weave themselves together almost immediately. Morvash quickly grabbed up a handful of jewelweed and crushed it between his palms, rolling it, then tearing at it with his fingertips before tossing it into the boiling water.

  A cloud of scented steam billowed up, and the streamer of smoke from the incense wrapped around it, like a coil of rope around a windlass. Morvash dropped leaves onto the incense, where they flared up into ash and smoke, and the entangled smokes merged into a single growing cloud.

  The magic felt stronger, wilder, this time; Morvash was not sure whether this was because he had been more generous with the ingredients, or because he was more experienced with the spell, or both, or neither, but whatever the reason he felt simultaneously more powerful but less in control. The cloud of smoke seemed to be growing more than it should, and more quickly, but he attributed it to that additional magical power.

  The entire alcove around him seemed to shimmer with magic, and the possibility that his spell was interacting with some lingering remnant of one of Erdrik’s spells occurred to him, but it might already be too late to stop safely. He kept on.

  At some point, perhaps half an hour into the ritual, Morvash realized that he was no longer breathing, but that the lack of air did not bother him, and the words of the spell were still audible even though nothing was actually coming from his throat. This was both exhilarating and frightening; he had never experienced this effect before. He definitely could not stop now, though, even had he wanted to—he was firmly in the grip of the magic, and in any case, disrupting the spell at this point, when so much magical potential had built up, would be an invitation to disaster.