Mother Alder’s brother, Rom, sat at her right hand, tall, gaunt, and sullen. He was the younger sibling by some years, but looked at least twenty years her senior. Mother Alder’s youngest son, Bartholomew, overlarge and vacant, slouched at her left. Sundry other descendants and in-laws lined the lengthy board for the evening's repast. Two highchairs confined the youngest grandchildren in the brood to exile in the room’s back corner where their carrying on barely reached Mother Alder’s ears and hardly annoyed her at all.
At the table’s far end sat the Chancellor of the Kingdom of Lomion, Barusa, eldest son of Mother Alder, though he too looked some years her senior. Oblivious to the din that surrounded him, his attention focused on the pile of choice meat stacked high on his plate where no vegetables dared venture.
Mother Alder picked up the silver bell devoid of any trace of tarnish that resided beside her place setting and rang it in practiced fashion. Before she set it down, the room went silent, its occupants still, even the children. A wooden gavel sat by her other hand; the tabletop gouged from its use, though she spared it that night. An uneasy tension filled the air and grew by the moment as Mother Alder silently judged each face in the room.
Though the servants kept their eyes downcast, those of each family member shifted to Mother Alder as she spoke. “As we have each ten-day since their departure, tonight my dears we bow our heads in solemn prayer to the one true god,” she said, her voice haughty, sultry, and strong, though a bit gravely, better hinting at her years than did her youthful, comely face, “and beseech the safe return of Bartol, Blain, and our dear Little Eddy.”
“Lift now your flagons to drink their health,” she said, making a holy sign across her chest, “and may the good Lord forgive our transgressions in so doing.”
“Here, here,” said the family.
“Edith,” said Mother Alder, addressing one of the grandchildren, a slim girl no more than twelve. “Stand and recite the prayer.”
Edith bounced to her feet and pulled a small leaf of paper from her pocket, wrinkled and discolored from years of service. She held it before her. “Dear Lord,” she said, carefully enunciating each word, “bless House Alder and all those who dwell within. Bless Mother—”
— A sharp intake of breath and a startling groan of pain burst from Mother Alder. All eyes flicked to her. Edith fell silent. Mother Alder’s torso went rigid, and her hands crushed the arms of her chair, her knuckles white. She reached out to Bartholomew and met his gaze, her eyes wide, almost in a panic, a look wholly uncharacteristic. “Bring me the Alder Stone, now.”
Bartholomew froze. He didn’t seem to know what to do.
“Mother,” said Barusa as he rose to his feet. “What is it? Are you not well?”
Bartholomew reached out a hand and gripped her forearm, but she swatted him away. “Go, now!” she said, glaring at him.
Bartholomew hefted himself to his feet and waddled from the room with as much speed as he could muster, several servants following.
Barusa arrived at his mother’s side. “I sense contact,” she said to him.
“What do you mean?”
“Another Seer seeks me, you fool,” she said through grated teeth, wincing, her face white, sweat beading on cheeks and brow. “Someone of power and fueled by urgency. They’re attempting to contact me telepathically. I know not who they are, but they lack control for the contact is jarring and painful. They know not their own strengths. I can’t even tell for certain if this is meant to be a message or an attack.”
“What can we do?” said Barusa.
“Nothing until Bartholomew returns. The spell she’s using is too wild, I need the stone to help me focus and control it. Until then, I have to block it out.”
Some moments later, servants opened the dining hall’s door and Bartholomew gingerly stepped through carrying an ornate box — a cube, more than a foot across, plated in gold and studded with emeralds, citrine, and obsidian. That box had housed House Alder's Seer Stone for years beyond count, handed down from mother to daughter through the centuries. The Alder Stone, a priceless treasure, rare and powerful. Despite its import, the true account of its origin had long faded from family memory, and if ever recorded was lost in the great fire of ten generations back.
Bartholomew gripped the box in both hands and pressed it tightly to his chest. Servants hovered on each side, pillows cupped in their hands and held low, ready to cushion the precious box’s fall should it spill from Bartholomew’s grip. Other servants frantically cleared the place setting in front of Mother Alder. Bartholomew carefully placed the box before her.
She looked up and nodded to him, a signal to remove the box’s cover.
He fiddled with some concealed lever on one side and then the other, then carefully lifted the box. The top and sides detached from the base. As the box rose, the scent of red cedar wood, the box’s base material, filled the air.
Revealed within was a crystal sphere some nine inches in diameter, of emerald tint, transparent, yet cloudy and murky of depth, filled with swirling mists of green, yellow, and black. A Seer Stone. The Alder Stone. One of the rare few known, a survivor from the first age of Midgaard, the Age of Myth and Legend. An artifact possessed of powers deep and mysterious, its full potential rarely imagined even by its learned masters. Its surface, generally smooth and polished, though pitted and scratched here and there, but whether from age or careless use in times past, or marred by wild magics it had weathered, who could say? Something radiated from it — a strange thing. They couldn’t see it, hear it, or smell it, but bizarrely, they tasted it. Those within twenty steps of the stone suffered a heavy taste of iron in their mouths, tinged with something bitter, not easy to define. It dripped from the inside of their cheeks and clung to their tongues, relieved only by cleansing the palate with salty or sweet food or drink. Those closest to the stone tasted it the strongest, those farthest barely at all. From the stone also emanated a strange underlying vibration that afflicted all those that came too near — an eerie phenomenon that churned the stomach and oft set teeth to chattering.
Mother Alder breathed deep the pleasant scent of the red cedar and even welcomed the familiar bitter iron byproduct of the stone’s esoteric magics. She gazed deeply into the Alder Stone though she did not touch it. “A message,” she said, relief in her voice. “Not an attack. Someone seeks an audience.” She looked at the family, all standing about, concern on many faces, keen interest on all. “Best you get gone now, dearies.”
The family and most of the servants filed from the room without discussion or protest, some eager to leave, practically fleeing; others stepped out only reluctantly. Barusa, Rom, and Bartholomew remained, though each stepped back several feet, giving the Alder Stone wide berth. Two servants remained as well and hovered nearby, curious jars and white towels in hand. Mother Alder motioned to one of them. “Prepare the stone, carefully,” she said. “Miss not a single spot.”
The servant opened one of the jars that he clutched, dabbed the end of a special towel inside, coating it in a thick, green, but translucent gel, which he then used to vigorously polish the Alder Stone as Mother Alder looked on. Strangely, the stone somehow absorbed the green unguent as quickly as he applied it. It made the stone shine brighter and somehow its depths appeared the clearer. The servant grew paler by the moment and sweat beaded on his brow. The gel expended, the servant staggered a step or two and violently vomited, dousing a wide stretch of the floor with his stomach’s contents. Mother Alder shook her head in disgust and displeasure, though she didn’t look at all surprised. The second servant rushed up and began polishing the stone, this time with a yellow salve, thick and pungent, smelling of fruit and sugar.
Mother Alder noted a flutter in a nearby tapestry. When she looked over, she saw shoes jutting from beneath its bottom edge. Someone hid behind it, a child from the look of the shoes. “Get out from there, now,” she shouted.
The tapestry parted and Edith peeked out, terror on her face. “I’m sorry,
Mother Alder,” she said, her words barely audible. “I want to stay. Please let me; I’ll keep quiet. I want to watch.”
“Do you now?” she said, eyeing the girl. “That’s a brave lass, or a foolish one. Which is it then, I wonder?”
Bartholomew put a hand on Edith's shoulder.
Mother Alder glared at him, then looked back at Edith. “Have you seen me use the stone before?”
“No, Mother Alder. Father says I’m too young.”
“Perhaps you are, lass, but perhaps you’re not.”
“I’ve watched the soothsayers in the market use their stones plenty of times. I’m not afraid. Nothing to be afraid of, if you ask me.”
“Ah, foolish then,” said Mother Alder. “The market soothsayers are tricksters. They pronounce false predictions for money. Their stones are common glass or cheap crystal — they’ve no power at all.”
“How do you know this?” said the girl. “They seem real enough. They foretell things.”
“When you watch them, do the people crowd close to get a keen look into the stones?”
“Yes, always. People fight to get closest. I’m not usually able to get close at all. When I’m older, I’ll push through to the front, then I’ll see everything.”
“When the crowd gets close and stays there, that’s when you know for certain that the stone is a fake. The magic locked in a real Seer Stone repels common folk. People inch away from it. It makes them nauseous if they linger too long or stray too close. You’ve just seen that for yourself,” she said, gesturing toward the servant who still retched in the corner. “It makes one feel morbid. They feel as if their life, even their soul, is being drained away. People shrink from real Seer Stones.”
“That’s why you always send the family away.”
“Aye. This girl has promise,” she said looking to the others. “Must take after her mother.”
The yellow salve expended, the servant stepped away and staggered to a far corner of the room, obviously fighting to keep his nausea in check. The first servant was back now, a jar of black gel in hand. He set to polishing the stone with it, a fresh cloth employed for the duty.
“I promise you, you’ll never see a real Seer Stone on a street corner or in Lomion’s market, deary,” said Mother Alder. “There are very few true stones left in the world, if ever there were many. All are held by powerful Seers, great Houses, or Arch-Wizards. The Elves have a stone or two, legend says, as do the Svarts, if any of them even still exist. Some great kings are rumored to have one too, though I doubt the truth of that. No my dear, I’m afraid the Alder Stone is the only one you’ll ever see.”
“Have you ever seen another, Mother Alder?” said Edith.
“Not in all my years. That's why the Alder Stone is so precious. That's why we guard it so closely. It can never be replaced. It gives our House power that other Houses can only dream of. That’s why they hate us, you know. Jealousy, envy, it drives them mad, the scum.”
“So if the other stones aren’t real, does that mean all the other Seers are fakers?”
“Not all of them. A Seer Stone doesn’t make a woman a Seer; it merely enhances the powers she was born with. A true Seer catches glimpses of the future and can commune with others over a distance — no stone required. Some few can even use plain glass spheres or crystal balls, as the commoners call them, to aid their skills, though the objects have no magic of their own. Mayhaps a few of your market soothsayers are of that ilk. Lomion has its share of Seers of varied skills, though none of them can match an Arch-Seer equipped with a Seer Stone.”
The servant stepped back from the Alder Stone, his polishing completed. A sickly green pallor hung across his sweating face; his eyes watery and bloodshot. He bowed stiffly to Mother Alder, turned, and took but two steps before collapsing face first to the floor.
The stone pulsed with a brighter light and more shine than ever, its original emerald color fully intact.
“Enough lessons for today,” said Mother Alder. “The stone is ready, so it’s time to begin. You’ll feel sick for certain if you linger any longer. Are you sure that you want to stay, deary?”
“I’ll stay,” said Edith. “I’m not afraid.”
“Brave lass. That’s good. We’ll see if your courage holds.”
Mother Alder’s face drew into rigid concentration, and her brow furled as she reached out with both hands, fingers spread and crooked, toward the Alder Stone. Just before her fingers touched the stone, streaks of white light leapt from them to the stone's surface, and similar streaks erupted within the stone, in dazzling, undulating patterns interrupted by multicolored swirling mists. When her fingers grasped the stone, a shooting pain careened across Mother Alder’s head. She jerked back and winced as it shot in streaks from her temples to the nape of her neck. She groaned and gritted her teeth, but mercifully, the pain soon passed.
Of a sudden, the room went hot; the air turned muggy and thick and reeked of old mothballs. A grating, high-pitched buzzing began, but whether it came from the stone or elsewhere was impossible to determine.
Barusa winced and stepped farther back, as did Bartholomew and Edith, though Rom held his ground, seemingly immune to the stone’s affects. Edith went all green, doubled over, and vomit shot from her mouth, drenching her uncle's shoes, as well as her own. Mother Alder didn’t notice, all her attention focused on the Alder Stone.
VI
DEATH WATCH
Sir Paldor Cragsmere, a white cloth stained crimson tied about his forehead, his silver plate armor blood-splattered, his lip split and swollen, walked ahead of Theta and Dolan as they descended The Black Falcon's creaky stair to the Captain's Deck. The corridor at the stair’s base was wood paneled, lamp-lit, and well-appointed as far as ships' corridors go. It was hot and smelled of wood and lamp oil. Even here there was no escape from the moans and cries of the wounded strewn about the main deck where they called, begged, and whimpered for whatever meager care and comforts their fellows could offer.
“Hard on the ears, such sounds,” said Paldor.
“Harder on the spirit,” said Theta.
“We gave better than we got. Slaayde's crew fought like demons. Tough men, every one.”
“Good to hear,” said Theta. “Better still had it not come to a fight.”
“Aye, true enough,” said Paldor. “They put Claradon in a big stateroom next to the captain's quarters. More comfortable and private than the Captain's Den.”
A short ways down the hall, Little Tug and Guj stood guard at Slaayde's cabin door.
Paldor looked back at Theta. “Slaayde's hurt too,” he said quietly. “Not sure how bad.”
“What’s the word?” said Theta, halting when he reached the guards.
“Bertha can't stop the bleeding,” said Tug, his eyes and cheeks wet, a handkerchief in his hand. “Lost a good chunk out of his leg, he did.”
“Ravel learned up healing over Ferd way,” said Guj. “He's trying some things.”
“Yeah, some things,” said Tug nodding. “The Captain is the toughest bloke I've known; he'll lick this,” he said, though his eyes and expression displayed less conviction than his words. Both seamen stared at Theta hopefully, as if they expected him to whip out some magic something-or-other and fix Slaayde straight away.
Theta nodded. “A hard day,” he said.
“Aye,” said Guj.
“A hard day,” muttered Tug.
Theta patted both men on the arm and moved on. Sergeant Vid and an Eotrus trooper stood guard outside Claradon's cabin. Vid nodded and opened the door as the three approached. Paldor stepped in.
Theta scanned the room before entering. It was dominated by a large, four-poster bed in which Claradon lay unconscious. His face was ghostly white. His chest heavily bandaged, blood already soaking through. A heap of blood-soaked linens lay discarded on the floor.
Ob and Kayla fussed over Claradon's bed and argued back and forth. They paid no heed to the new arrivals. Tanch trembled in a chair beside the bed,
wringing his hands, his head down as he mumbled to himself. Claradon's knights were there: Glimador, Kelbor, the Bull, and Trelman. They huddled to one side of the room and perked up at Theta's appearance — each stood a bit taller, a bit straighter.
“A death watch,” whispered Theta. He turned to Dolan and spoke quietly. “Since everyone's here, no one's minding the ship. Go to the bridge and keep an eye on things. If the First Mate has any bullyboys with him, get the other Eotrus sergeant and a trooper or two to stand the watch with you. Let me know if anything worth knowing happens, and watch your back.”
“Right,” said Dolan, and he was off.
Theta stepped into the room. Kayla bathed Claradon's head with cold compresses and wiped dried blood from his face and arms. Ob stood on a chair and leaned over Claradon, examining him. He turned to Theta. “We cleaned the wound and rewrapped it tight as we could,” said Ob. “but it's still bleeding. A right bad wound.” A dark red stain was slowly growing on the wrappings.
“Why won’t the blood stop?” said Kayla, her voice quiet, her face pale.
“He needs a healer,” said Tanch. “The best we can find, and quickly.”
“Any healers hereabouts would be in Tragoss Mor,” said Ob. “Case you didn't notice, we're running from there right now, our tails between our legs. Can't rightly go back and make nice now can we?”
“What’s the next closest city?” said Theta.
“Too far,” said Ob. “Minoc's five days northeast, up the coast. There are towns and villages closer, but all we could count on there would be bleeders, snake oilers, and the like.”
“We should go back to Dover,” said Tanch. “No better care south of Lomion City.”
“It's too dang far,” said Ob. “He would be long dead afore we made port. Besides, we would have to slip past the Tragoss navy to get up the river. Wait!” Ob started and nearly leapt into the air. “Theta, give the boy some of that witch's brew of yours; the one what healed up me arm. That will fix him up straight away!”
Dwellers of the Deep (Harbinger of Doom Volume 4) Page 7
