by M. J. Evans
The Stone of Mercy
Book One of the Centaur Chronicles
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The Stone of Mercy
Copyright © 2016 by M.J. Evans.
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The Stone of Mercy/ M.J. Evans. —1st ed.
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The Stone of Mercy is dedicated to all the fantasy-lovers who are willing to serve where and when they are called.
And to my Grandchildren that I love around the world and back!
“Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness.”
Eph. 6: 16 (KJV)
The Centaur Chronicles: The Stone of Mercy
CHAPTER 1
The Breastplate
The blacksmith’s foot expertly pumped the bellows as he turned the piece of iron first one way then the other in the bright orange coals. The glow emanating from the little forge provided the only light as the sun began its descent behind the western hogback. Intense heat caused bands of sweat to roll down the narrow patch of skin that separated the smithy’s thick black hair from his single bushy eyebrow. The long brow served as a miniature breakwater, sending the sweat to the right and left before releasing it to run down the sides of his round, puffy face in great droplets. None of this mattered to the Duende, who was accustomed to the discomfort imposed upon him by his chosen profession.
The strip of metal was now glowing brightly in the same shade of orange as the coals into which it had been thrust. Tightly clasping the iron with his fire tongs, the smithy pulled it from the forge and quickly turned around toward his anvil.
The shock of seeing the tall, thin, hooded figure looming over him caused him to drop the metal strip, sending it bouncing off his boot and leaving a burn mark on the leather toe. The metal clanged loudly on the ash-covered stone floor. His breath caught in his throat.
“I’m sorry that I startled you.” The deep, sinuous voice came from beneath the gray hood that covered the stranger’s head and concealed his face.
“I…I…I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone,” stammered Ashtic, the village’s only blacksmith. His heart pounding, he wiped his glistening forehead with the back of his sleeve, painting it with a streak of soot, then rubbed his hands on his scarred leather apron. “May I help you with something?”
“My name is Vidente and it is I who have come to help you and your race.” The stranger stood up even taller before continuing. “A queen is soon to be born who will bring peace to the land. She will be one of your kind. She will be a Duende.”
“A Duende?” echoed Ashtic in the squeaky voice typical of all the Duende, dubious that a queen could be chosen from his race.
The Duende were shy, quiet creatures, descendants of the fairies that once populated the land. Their features were fine, their ears pointed, remnants of their fairy heritage. They were known and respected as artisans who kept to themselves. They were also recognized for their intelligence coupled with wisdom, but had never been considered as the source for a monarch due to their small stature and peace-loving ways. Yet, no other race had been able to maintain the throne for longer than a decade, and now the land of Crystonia had been without a ruler for the past century and a half. For the same amount of time, there had been no peace in the land while the larger, stronger races battled for leadership. The Centaurs, Ogres, and Cyclops all wanted to conquer and maintain Mount Heilodius, the designated location of the empire’s seat of government.
The Duende had always sided with the Centaurs, hoping that the race of half human-half horse would ascend to the top. The Centaurs were wise and peace-loving creatures as well, with the strength and size to win a battle, if necessary. But now, even that race had splintered into two factions, one still motivated by justice and mercy; the other by power and control.
“Yes. One of your women is already with child. In four months’ time, she will be delivered of a daughter, the future queen.”
“Does this woman know the child she is carrying is destined to become a queen?” asked Ashtic, still skeptical.
“Not yet. I need to call upon your skills before I visit with her.”
“My skills? What skills do I have that could help a queen?” said Ashtic as he lit a lantern overhead. The yellow light did little to reveal the features of this stranger, making them even harder to discern as a dark shadow from the man’s cloak cut across his face.
“You are the best smithy in all of Crystonia, or so I am told,” said the stranger kindly. “I need you to make a silver breastplate for the future queen.”
“A breastplate?” Ashtic was both confused and intrigued. “What would you have it look like?”
The stranger reached into his cloak and withdrew a roll of parchment, then brushed aside the tools scattered haphazardly across a low wooden table that was so old the grain stood up in tiny ridges. Carefully, he unrolled and spread out the parchment, the ends of which fell over the sides of the table.
The stranger’s hands were long and narrow, their nails clean but untrimmed, the skin fair and unblemished. Ashtic noted the sizable rings that graced the center fingers on both hands. Each ring was made of silver and had beautiful engravings on the bands. One held a large red stone; the other, an equally large blue stone.
After smoothing out the document, the stranger traced its drawing. Ashtic followed the movement with his eyes. “What is it?” he asked.
“The queen’s breastplate.” The visitor spoke softly and slowly, articulating each word. “This is what I need you to make to enable the future queen to save all the races of Crystonia. The rightful wearer of this breastplate, when it is complete, will have the power and authority to rule the land in righteousness.”
The little smithy chewed on his bottom lip and twisted his untrimmed beard as he examined the drawing. The breastplate was carefully sketched, its dimensions clearly labeled. He marveled at the intricate and curious curving designs that covered the body of the shell. They resembled twisted vines adorned with blossoms. Most unusual were the four round holes on the plate, the largest in the center and three others forming an equilateral triangle around it. The Duende realized this was going to be a difficult task if he was to recreate the design just as it was drawn.
As if the stranger could read his thoughts, the tall, mysterious visitor said, “It is of utmost importance that you follow these directions with diligence. There can be no variation in the slightest.” He pointed to each of the circular holes. “These holes will hold the four stones of light. Each one endows the wearer with certain necessary powers. Powers that make for a great and noble leader. The one on the lower left is the power of mercy, the one on the right, the power of courage.”
He moved his finger and touched the circle at the top. “This one is for the stone of integrity.” Moving his long finger to the center a
nd largest circle, he said, “And this will hold the stone of wisdom.”
Ashtic shook his head slowly as he studied the plans. “I can create the silver breastplate. But where will I get the stones?”
The stranger chuckled kindly. “Oh, my friend, do not worry about the stones. That will not be your job. That will be the quest of your future queen.” Then the visitor paused. “Yes, it will be her quest, if she can do it.” He paused again before adding, “I don’t want to think about what would happen If she was to fail.”
The smithy looked up into the face of the stranger. Only his eyes were visible, but they were eyes filled with an intensity he had never seen before. Ashtic was overwhelmed by the realization that he was being asked to play a small part in a very important mission.
The blacksmith looked down at the parchment again. As he did so, his visitor slid the diagram off the table and rolled it up. In the blink of an eye, the stranger was gone.
Ashtic ran to the door of his shop and looked up and down the village street. The road was muddy from the recent rains, the smell of the rain and wet earth still heavy in the air. The shops all around him were quiet, and he watched as lanterns were turned on, their yellow glow shining through lead-paned windows as the sun settled in the west. But there was no sign of a hooded, caped stranger.
Chapter 2
Saleen
The lovely young Duende female rubbed her belly. She already loved the new life growing within her, even though its birth was still months away. She sighed with contentment and returned her attention to her weaving. The mother-in-waiting hummed a lullaby as she worked at her loom, sending the shuttle back and forth through the shed formed by the warp yarns and pressing the weft tight with the reed and batten. Of all the Duende, her family was the most accomplished in the art of weaving. Saleen had learned the art from her mother, who had been carefully taught by her grandmother and so forth back through the generations, farther back than anyone could now remember.
She paused to count her rows, calculating when she needed to put in a new color of yarn. Suddenly aware that she was not alone, she jerked her head up and looked through the loom. Standing just a few feet away, but well inside the room, was a tall, thin figure. Saleen could not tell if the creature was a man or a woman, nor what race it was. Her beautiful face with its fine features turned ashen. Her heart started pounding. Her breathing became shallow, and she could feel beads of sweat pop out on her forehead.
“May I…I…help you?” the young Duende stammered.
“I have come with important news,” the creature said without moving any closer.
Saleen squinted her eyes against the sun that was coming through the window and lighting the dancing specks of dust behind the stranger. She tried to get a clearer picture of what her visitor looked like, but without success. “Please, sir, tell me who you are.”
“I am called Vidente. I have been sent from afar with an important message for you,” said the visitor, his voice calm and soothing.
Saleen sensed no threat and felt herself relax. “What might this important message be?” she asked.
“The child you carry in your womb has a responsibility to fulfill. It is she who has been chosen to become the queen of Crystonia. But she must first fulfill many difficult and dangerous assignments in order to become qualified to rule.”
Saleen gasped. She could not believe what she was hearing. One part of her wanted to sing for joy that her child was to become a queen. But the words “difficult” and “dangerous” seemed to overshadow the good news. Fear enveloped her. Fear for her unborn child. She wrapped her arms around her swollen belly in an effort to protect her child. My baby is a girl. My baby is a queen, she thought to herself. But my child will be in danger.
She lifted her eyes and looked toward the bearer of such great and terrible news. “Why my baby? Why her?”
“She has been chosen. I do not know why. I am merely the messenger. There is much I need to tell you. I will leave you for now. But I will be back before she is born to tell you more.” The tall figure moved silently backward and then was gone.
Saleen dropped her shuttle, which rattled on the stone floor. She didn’t notice. The stunned young mother continued to stare into the empty space where the stranger who called himself Vidente had just stood. She was alone again. Alone with her thoughts and her unborn child.
The child, her child, was to become a queen. She pondered this information in her heart. Yet, all the while, the words “difficult” and “dangerous” filtered through her mind. Could she really allow her child to face anything so ominous? From the moment she’d known she was pregnant, Saleen had only dreamed of an ordinary life for this child growing within her…she wanted her to find the wonder and marvel of an ordinary life. No, this cannot be, she told herself. There must be some mistake.
Chapter 3
The Silver Breastplate
It had been nearly two months since the stranger’s visit to the village of Duenton, the home of the tiny and industrious Duende. On the Wizard’s previous visit, only two villagers had seen him: Ashtic, the blacksmith, and the pregnant weaver named Saleen. Both had much in common, however. Neither was a town leader. No, they were just two of the many common folk that populated the village. Both, however, were respected for their character and for the quality of the work they produced. And while both held the secret of the stranger’s visit in their hearts, they also doubted their own memories. Neither knew that the other had been visited as well.
Late one afternoon, as the winter sun cast its final light over the town square and shadows filled the blacksmith shop, Ashtic turned off his forge and began the daily and tedious task of cleaning up his workspace. He was sweeping the ashes out from under the legs of his heavy wooden worktable when his broom brushed the toe of a pointed boot. The surprise caused by seeing the boots on the far side of his table caused him to jerk upward and hit his head on the edge of the table. He let out a yelp and started rubbing his head as he stood erect. As his eyes moved up the gray cloak until they reached the hooded head, he lowered his hand. “It is you. So I didn’t imagine your visit after all.”
The stranger chuckled softly. “No, my dear Ashtic, you did not imagine my visit. It was real.”
The visitor pulled a scroll out of his cloak and spread it out on the table. Ashtic recognized it at once as the same diagram of a breastplate that he had seen before. He looked up into the shadows that covered the visitor’s face. “Is it time to begin?”
“It is.”
“Has the child been born?”
“Not yet. She will arrive in two months’ time. I need to have the breastplate complete before the babe arrives.”
“May I keep the diagram this time?” asked Ashtic, fearing that he might appear to be too presumptuous.
“You may keep it until I come for the queen’s breastplate. You must keep this a secret from all others, however. It is imperative that word not get out that the queen’s breastplate is being created. Your life, the life of the future queen, and the safety of the residents of this village would be at risk. There are those who would attempt to stop the breastplate from being created. They know its power and the power of the one who wears it. Can you do that? Can you keep it a secret and keep the breastplate and the future queen safe?”
Ashtic swallowed. He could feel his hands getting sweaty. He took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart before answering. “I will try, your honor.”
“You cannot merely try. If you take on this task, you must perform it perfectly. You must create the breastplate exactly as the plans specify, and you must keep it hidden from all others.”
A flood of confidence suddenly filled the little Duende. “I shall do as you say. It will be perfect. It will be hidden from all.”
“Excellent. I will be delivering the silver on the morrow.”
“Oh, but I have silver.”
“Not like this silver. This is the silver from the Northern Reaches. It is the purest silver ever
created. And it is the silver we must use to create the breastplate for the queen.”
—
True to his word, the stranger appeared at Ashtic’s shop just as the sun was setting the next day. Over his shoulder he carried a bag that he dropped with a loud thud on the worktable. Ashtic opened the bag and pulled out large chunks of silver. His eyes opened wide in amazement as he examined the pieces of metal. A true lover of all metals, Ashtic was well aware that this was beyond comparison in its purity and beauty. He looked up at the hooded stranger. “It will be an honor to work with this silver. When would you like to return to pick up the completed breastplate?”
“I will be back in six weeks’ time.” As suddenly as he appeared, the visitor disappeared, leaving Ashtic alone to caress the silver and begin planning the fulfillment of his assignment.
Chapter 4
Instructions
Once the sun began to go down, Saleen had a difficult time weaving. The fading light made it challenging to distinguish the subtle colors in her pattern. She pressed her hands to her aching lower back and stood, turning away from her loom. The baby was active in her womb and she loved feeling the constant companionship of this little child…a female, the stranger had told her…a queen. Perhaps that was all a dream, she told herself for the hundredth time.
The Duende turned her attention to fixing the evening meal. Her husband would be home soon and she had not yet started anything for supper. She began chopping some vegetables to mix into the rice that was left over from the previous night.
“Saleen.”
The little Duende woman jumped in surprise and turned, knife still in hand. Towering over her was the gray robed creature that had visited a few months before.
She dropped her knife, which clattered onto the floor. She didn’t know what to say so she stood silently, waiting for him to speak first.
