Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Then they were topping the southern ridge, and Morvash could see the dragon taking to the air, far to the east, so distant it looked not so very much larger than an ordinary dragon.

  He hoped Tarker could hold on this time.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Darissa the Witch’s Apprentice

  8th of Newfrost, YS 5238

  The journey to Melitha took four days—as Zerra had promised, they were able to make much better speed when they didn’t need to follow any roads. The first day took them over the mountains to Aldagmor, where they eventually found an inn; the second brought them to a farmhouse near the River somewhere in the heartland of the Hegemony of the Three Ethshars, where they were relieved to once again have hosts who spoke Ethsharitic.

  The third day took them to the famous Inn at the Bridge, where Zerra greeted the innkeeper, a man called Valder, as if he was an old friend.

  And the fourth took them east into the Small Kingdoms, where Marek assisted with navigation, and they spotted the tower of Melitha Castle just as the sun was setting. It rose high above the surrounding countryside, on that odd lonely hill, catching the golden light of late afternoon.

  “At least it’s all still there,” Marek said. “After so long I wasn’t sure it would be.”

  “Of course it is,” Darissa said. “It’s been there for hundreds of years!”

  “Well…over a hundred, anyway,” Marek admitted. “But you know, it’s been a long time, and if Hinda is queen, rather than my father or Evreth or Evreth’s son, then there’s probably been trouble. I thought Melitha might have been conquered at some point, and the castle torn down.”

  “That’s the right one, then?” Zerra asked.

  Marek nodded.

  “But you didn’t expect this Hinda to be in charge?”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “You don’t know who she is?”

  “Oh, of course we do!” Marek replied. “She’s my sister. But she wasn’t the next in line; we had an older brother.”

  “You think there’s been trouble?”

  “I do.”

  “Then maybe we shouldn’t just fly right into the courtyard—it will be getting dark by the time we get there.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t,” Marek agreed. “But where else can we go?”

  “Aren’t there any inns?”

  “I would be recognized…” Marek stopped.

  “It’s been forty years.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t be.”

  “He might be, if there’s someone old enough,” Darissa said. “But instead of going to the castle, maybe we could see if my master is still alive.”

  “Your master?”

  “I was still an apprentice. His name was Nondel of the Oaks, and he would be… I’m not sure. Old, but not that old.”

  “I suppose it can’t hurt to look,” Zerra said. “Where did he live?”

  “In the capital, but down the western slope, at the edge of town, not right by the castle.”

  “Point the way.”

  “Excuse me,” Morvash said, “but won’t we draw attention flying in? I doubt they see many flying carpets around here.”

  “That’s true,” Marek said. “In fact, take a look—even when we’re all the way up here, people are pointing.”

  Morvash leaned over one side, Darissa over the other. “He’s right,” Morvash said.

  Zerra sighed. “So should we land, and walk?”

  “I’d say so, yes,” Marek replied.

  “There’s a little grove over there,” Darissa said, pointing.

  “Someone might see us land,” Hakin said. “I mean, if they see a flying carpet go into the grove, and a bunch of people walk out…”

  “I don’t actually see why anyone needs to stay here at all,” Zerra said. “I could just drop Marek and Darissa off, and then the rest of us could head home.”

  Hakin and Morvash exchanged glances.

  “You’re right,” Darissa said. “There’s no reason to keep you here. We can take care of ourselves.”

  She could sense that Marek was perhaps not as certain as she was, but he said, “Of course. We’ll be fine.”

  “But we haven’t paid you,” Darissa said.

  “And is the money right on hand?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Then I can come back for my pay later, when you’ve settled back in.”

  Darissa and Marek exchanged glances. “I would be fine with that,” Marek said.

  “I wouldn’t feel right about it,” Morvash said. “After all, someone was looking for you.”

  “And he’s probably back in Ethshar,” Darissa said. “Or on his way to Tazmor.”

  “Ithinia said he wasn’t an assassin,” Zerra remarked.

  “She did? When? Who is he, then?”

  “Oh, she didn’t tell me that. I don’t think she knew. But she used Fendel’s Divination, and it said the man wasn’t an assassin.”

  “You might have mentioned this sooner,” Darissa said.

  “I didn’t think of it,” Zerra replied.

  “Still, I’d feel better if I could be sure you’ll be all right,” Morvash insisted. Darissa could sense that he meant it—but his main reason for arguing was that he was intensely curious about what had happened to them, who was looking for them, and what would happen next.

  She did not blame him; she certainly wanted answers to all those questions.

  “I’ll check in on them with the Spell of Invaded Dreams once we’re safely back home,” Zerra said. “Will that satisfy you?”

  Reluctantly, Morvash said, “All right.” Darissa reached out to him with her witchcraft and tried to soothe his disappointment a little.

  Zerra had not waited until the matter was settled; they were already dropping down toward the grove Darissa had noticed. A moment later the carpet slid between two of the trees and came to a hovering stop about two feet off the ground. Darissa hopped off, then helped Marek down—she had long since healed his ankle, but sprains could be tricky, and she did not entirely trust it yet. She was also unsure whether there might still be lingering after-effects from the blow to his head, though she had not sensed any.

  They had scarcely straightened up when the carpet reversed direction. “Good luck!” Zerra called, as she turned the carpet around.

  “Be careful!” Morvash added.

  “Goodbye,” Karitha said.

  Hakin waved, but said nothing.

  And then the carpet was soaring upward and westward, back toward Ethshar, and they were on their own.

  “Come on,” Darissa said, and led the way out of the grove toward a nearby road.

  They had no possessions but the clothes on their backs, which were largely the same garments they had acquired in that first village on the way to Tazmor; anything else they had picked up, not that there had ever been much, had been lost in the ruins of Hindfoot Village. Darissa hoped they would not stand out too much; their coats and tunics were not styled like the Melithan garments she remembered, but she was unsure how much of that was because the clothes were foreign, and how much was because they were forty years in the future. They might well blend in perfectly, if the difference was due to time rather than distance.

  They had no money, and no one would recognize them, but she was still a witch, which had been enough to support her in Ethshar and Sardiron and Tazmor. When they had last been in Melitha Marek would have been recognized as a prince and given whatever he asked for, but after so long an absence, and wearing these strange clothes, Darissa doubted anyone would believe him if he claimed to be royalty. That left her magic as their only resource beyond simply being human.

  At least it was not difficult to find their way; the castle dominated the landsca
pe, and even as the sky darkened Darissa could see lights in the lower levels of the central tower, so that it would be easy to see even by night.

  She saw farmers working in the fields, or carrying their tools home for the night, but no one else was on the road this late. She considered the direction of the sun and the route to the castle, and concluded that they were on the road from Trafoa.

  She had been to Trafoa once, when she was a girl of twelve, and her family farm was in this general area, but she did not remember any grove along that highway like the one where Zerra had dropped them off. In fact, she did not remember such a grove anywhere. It must have grown up while she was a statue.

  That was a disturbing thought, reminding her how long she had been gone. Would anyone in Melitha remember her? Would she recognize anyone?

  The next farmhouse they passed looked vaguely familiar, though the roof was sagging more than she remembered and a shed had been added to one side. That was slightly comforting—like the castle, it showed her that some things from her time remained.

  “Do you recognize anything?” she asked Marek.

  “Just the castle,” he said.

  They reached the outskirts of town as the dusk was fading, but candles and lanterns shone in several windows, dimly illuminating the streets. And although there were many differences, shops and houses added or removed or enlarged, this was still the town she remembered, with the streets in the same places. She turned and headed for her master’s house, which had been her home for more than five years—years that seemed both recent and impossibly long ago. It was not on the Trafoa road, but on the next street to the north.

  There were a few people about, but none of them so much as glanced at the travelers—a behavior Darissa subtly and magically encouraged. The clothes she saw around them were not exactly like the sort that had been commonplace when Darissa was last in Melitha, but they were not like the ones she and Marek wore, either. Her pleasantly-warm sheepskin coat was seriously out of place.

  The tavern on the corner had been expanded, an upper story added, and the signboard—also an addition—said it was an inn now, called the Oaken Table. That might be convenient if any of those Ethsharites ever came to visit; she could hardly expect her master to accept guests on behalf of a wayward apprentice. Lanterns hung on either side of the front door, and on the street corner.

  “It is not quite as it was, is it?” Marek asked.

  “Not quite, no,” Darissa said.

  They rounded the corner and started back down the slope toward Nondel’s house.

  The big oak was still there, but different—it had lost several limbs and did not look healthy, but was even bigger, its topmost limbs lost in the darkening sky. Its roots had pressed up out of the ground, and the front walk of Nondel’s home—if it was still Nondel’s home—had been re-routed to avoid them.

  Darissa slowed as she approached the front door. It had been repainted, probably more than once. The shutters on the windows had been replaced, and of course the roof had been re-thatched, but it was the same house.

  Did it have the same owner? Would Nondel answer her knock, or some stranger? She hesitated.

  “We’ll need to know sooner or later,” Marek said, guessing her thoughts.

  Darissa took a deep breath, then nodded and stepped up to the door. She rapped firmly on the wood.

  For a brief moment there was no response, but then she sensed life and movement on the other side. “Someone’s coming,” she said, but her heart sank. It did not feel like Nondel.

  The door opened, and a young man looked out. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Darissa said, staring at him.

  Marek took charge. He stepped forward, hand out. “My name is Marek Terren’s son,” he said. “My friend here was looking for Nondel of the Oaks—does he still live here?”

  The stranger took the offered hand, then said, “Yes, he does, but I’m afraid he’s too ill to come to the door. May I ask why you wanted to see him?”

  Darissa felt a rush of conflicting emotions—her master was still alive, but seriously ill. She reached out with her magical perceptions, and sensed his presence in his own bedroom, where he had always slept.

  “I was his apprentice,” she said.

  The young man frowned. “I doubt that,” he said. “I was his last apprentice, and I remember the one before me—her name was Luralla—and you don’t look old enough…”

  Darissa looked him in the eye. “You’re a witch? Then you can see I’m telling the truth. I was his apprentice.”

  “I don’t…”

  “We’re older than we appear,” Marek said. “There were wizards involved.”

  The young man looked at Marek, then dropped his gaze to Darissa again. “Darissa?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “By the gods! I heard the stories, but I never thought… That was years before I was born! Come in! Come in!” He swung the door open. Then his eyes widened. “And…you’re Marek? Prince Marek?”

  “It would seem that we are not as forgotten as we thought we might be,” Marek said.

  “But your clothes—you look like Northerners!”

  “We have just come from Tazmor, in the Baronies of Sardiron,” Darissa said. “May I see him?” She gestured toward Nondel’s room.

  “Yes, of course!” He followed as Darissa headed across the main room. “I’m Lador. I’m a journeyman, but I’ve stayed on to take care of him.”

  Darissa opened the bedroom door and peered in.

  The frail old man in the bed did not look like the Nondel she remembered; he was lying on his back, eyes closed, breathing loudly. His hair and beard were as white and thin as seeding dandelion heads. She approached him, and at the sound of her footsteps his eyes opened.

  Behind her, she heard Marek ask Lador, “I’m told my sister Hinda is queen. Then my father is dead?”

  Startled, Lador said, “Old King Terren? He’s been gone for more than thirty years! You hadn’t heard? He died of a fever. Queen Hinda has reigned ever since.”

  Darissa’s mouth tightened at Lador’s insensitivity. That was no way to tell a man his father was dead! How had Lador ever made journeyman with no better feeling than that?

  She heard Marek start to ask what had happened to Evreth, but then the man on the bed said, “Darissa?” While the voice was thin and weak, it was Nondel’s, and she forgot about Lador and Marek.

  “Yes, master,” she said. “I’m back.”

  “It’s been so long. What happened?”

  “We were turned to stone. We don’t know who did it, or why; we’ve come to find that out.”

  “Stone?”

  “That’s right. A wizard named Morvash of the Shadows turned us back. But what happened to you?”

  “I’m old, that’s all.”

  “You aren’t that old, are you? You were a witch, able to heal yourself!”

  “I am probably older than you thought; I kept my appearance young. Vanity. And I only healed myself when I noticed that something needed healing, which was not enough.” He turned his head to look at her. “You still look young.”

  “I did not age while I was made of marble, master.”

  “I’m glad. And I’m glad you have returned; I always wondered what happened to you. I thought you must be dead.”

  “I’m alive and well, master. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  He managed to raise a hand and wave a gentle dismissal. “No, no. Take care of yourself.”

  Darissa bowed, and stepped back. She hated seeing Nondel like this, but there was nothing she could do; witchcraft could slow aging, but not reverse it. After a moment’s further hesitation, she turned and left the room.

  Lador and Marek had been speaking quietly; after their
first exchange Darissa had not listened, though she thought she had heard that the country was at peace at the moment. She had assumed that, from the lack of visible soldiers, guards, and fortifications, but it was reassuring to have it confirmed. Now Marek said, “We’ll stay here tonight, and go to the castle in the morning.”

  Darissa nodded. “All right,” she said.

  The only extra bed was the cot where sick visitors could rest while healing; Darissa remembered delivering poor Alasha’s dead baby there. It was small, but so was she; she and Marek were able to squeeze onto it in reasonable comfort.

  She half-expected to see Zerra in her dreams, but she did not; if she dreamt at all, she retained no memory of it.

  Darissa had not realized how tired she was, but the sun was well up the sky behind the castle when she finally awoke and looked out the kitchen window. Marek had managed to arise without waking her, and together he and Lador had cooked sausages for breakfast; Darissa thought the mouth-watering smell might have been what woke her.

  As they ate, she asked Marek, “Do we have a plan for how we want to approach this?”

  “No,” he said. “We will go to the castle, and if I am not recognized I will request an audience with the queen. Since she’s my own sister, I expect she will recognize me even after so long an absence, and we will see what develops.”

  Darissa nodded, and reached for another sausage.

  When they were done Darissa took the time to wash her face, brush her hair, and generally do everything she could for her appearance. Ordinarily she didn’t worry about such things, since witches were expected to be a little disheveled and unconcerned with their looks, but they were going to talk to a queen, and she wanted to make the best impression she could, especially since the conversation might well cover her relationship with the queen’s own brother.

  She could feel Marek getting impatient, but he did not say a word; he understood her concerns. When at last she deemed herself ready to go he started for the door, but she held up a hand. “One more thing,” she said.