The Stone of Mercy

by M. J. Evans

  “I have come to give you important instructions.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  The stranger produced a parcel wrapped in burlap and tied with twine. He set it on the small kitchen table, the wooden table her husband had made for her. The visitor’s long delicate fingers untied the twine and parted the burlap covering.

  Saleen gasped. There on the table, sparkling with a light of its own, was the most beautiful silver object she had ever seen. “What is it?” she said with awe.

  “This is the breastplate of the queen of Crystonia. It gives the wearer the power to rule the land in righteousness.”

  “It is so beautiful.”

  “Yes. It is indeed.”

  Saleen looked up to the stranger’s face. His face was still shaded by his hood, but she could see a sparkle of light coming from his eyes. One hand went to her stomach as she felt her child leap within her womb. “It has been made for her?”

  The stranger nodded.

  “Are you going to give it to her?”

  “No. I will leave it with you. You are to keep it safe until she reaches her sixteenth birthday. At that time, you are to give it to her and her journey will begin.”

  “What do you mean by ‘journey’?” asked Saleen, feeling a sharp stab of fear pierce her heart.

  The visitor extended his long arm, revealing his slender fingers once again. Saleen noticed the large blue and red stones set into the rings that adorned both of his center fingers. With one of those fingers, he touched four holes in the breastplate, one at a time. “Each of these will hold a stone of light. When complete, the breastplate will give her both power and protection—the power and protection she will need to rule the land.”

  Saleen tensed as she felt the first strong contraction flow through her body.

  Chapter 5

  Carling

  Saleen scurried around her house, preparing a special meal for her daughter’s birthday. As she worked, her thoughts reviewed the sixteen years since the birth of her child. Where has the time gone? How can it have been sixteen years since Carling’s birth? she asked herself.

  The lovely dress she’d made for Carling was draped over a chair in the corner. She stopped to admire her handiwork, which included fabric she’d woven herself and stitches that had been carefully placed by her own fingers. She glanced out the front window of their little cottage. The spring flowers, bulbs mostly, painted the countryside with bright colors. They seemed to appear each spring just to honor Carling’s birth.

  She smiled as she thought of her precious daughter. What joy she had brought to their home. Indeed, many in the village loved Carling. Her long auburn hair hung in curls down to her shoulders. Rosy cheeks and red lips colored her face. But most memorable were her violet eyes. They were eyes like no others. Saleen stopped her reminiscing, turned back to the stove, and bent down to remove a cake from the oven. As she turned, her foot caught on the little rug that covered the wooden floorboards in the center of the kitchen. Hooked on her shoe, the rug slid to one side, uncovering a door that had been built into the floor. Saleen hastily smoothed the rug back over the door, concealing it once again. A pang of guilt flowed through her. For sixteen years, she had kept the burlap package with its precious contents hidden beneath her feet. She knew full well that this was the day she was supposed to give it to her daughter, yet she knew she could not do it. She feared what dangers it would bring and wasn’t willing to let her daughter face them, even if doing so might allow her to one day become the queen of Crystonia.

  The past sixteen years had seen an escalation in the violence throughout the land as one would-be ruler after another fought for the throne. Saleen had watched in silence, secretly hoping one of them would succeed and the stranger’s prediction would prove false. Yet the throne remained empty, and Carling’s sixteen birthday had arrived with no ruler for the land.

  Not my daughter, Saleen said to herself. Let someone else do it.

  —

  “Carling, wait for me,” Higson shouted as the nimble body of his best friend dashed between the trees and ferns ahead. Carling was taller than he, taller than any of the Duende, in fact. She was slim and graceful and moved elegantly, a fact that Higson surely couldn’t help noticing. Seeing her run was like watching a symphony of motion. He was not the only one who had noticed her beauty. He often heard others in the village talk of it. The two, both born on the same day, had been friends their entire lives. Higson was born to a family of hunters, so whenever he could get Carling away from her lessons on the loom, he would school her in the bow and arrow.

  Carling loved being in the woods with her friend and, under his tutelage, had become quite adept at using a bow and arrow. Today, her sixteenth birthday, she had wanted nothing more than the chance to spend the day in the forest. Carling knew her mother would not approve of her learning to hunt, so Higson always stored her bow and arrows at his home. On this beautiful spring day, a birthday for both of them, the two friends had met at the edge of the village, where Higson handed over her bow and arrow. Now she was dashing toward the targets they had hung on trees in a beautiful grove, deep within the forest.

  As she ran, Carling giggled with delight. “Catch me if you can, slowpoke,” she shouted over her shoulder, knowing full well that Higson hadn’t a chance of keeping up. She glanced back at her friend and giggled again. Higson was not what one would call “handsome,” but his face was kind and gentle with a ready smile. He was smiling now. Even though he was shorter than Carling, his body was strong and toned from a life in the outdoors. As was typical, his clothing was well worn and a tad on the dirty side.

  To give her friend a chance to catch up, Carling decided to hide in the branches of a pine tree, intending to surprise Higson when he approached. She leaped up and grabbed a branch. With the agility that only she of all the Duende possessed, she swung her unusually long legs up and over the branch, then settled herself among the pine needles and waited, snickering with delight.

  Suddenly she was aware of the sound of laughter. She pivoted around on the branch and peeked between the pine boughs in the direction from which the sound was coming. A short distance away, in a meadow filled with sunshine and flowers, five young Centaur fillies were romping and dancing. They had made themselves necklaces of flowers and woven even more flowers into their long, flowing tails. As they played, they laughed and sang Centaur songs that were unfamiliar to Carling.

  Carling grasped the trunk of the tree and watched with delight as the young and beautiful Centaurs played. She pushed away a wave of envy as she watched their beautiful quadruped bodies rear and buck across the flowers. Their delicate legs carried them swiftly as they raced around the meadow, long hair and tails flowing out behind them. The fillies’ bodies were different colors; while one was chestnut, another was palomino, and the rest were white or bay. Each young filly’s human torso rose out of her horse body at the withers. Soft flowing tunics covered their upper bodies, mimicking the filly’s hair as they streamed out behind them.

  “Carling!” Higson called from just beneath the tree in which Carling had secreted herself. “Where are you?”

  “Shhhhh! I’m up here,” she whispered. Without saying another word, she motioned for her friend to climb up and join her.

  It wasn’t as easy for him to make it to the branch, so Carling reached down and pulled him up beside her. Higson’s face told him he didn’t really like heights. He clung tightly to the trunk of the tree, one leg draped on either side of the branch. “What are you doing up here?” he asked, his voice filled with irritation.

  Carling put a finger to her lips, then pushed aside the branches. “Look,” she whispered.

  The two friends sat in the tree, mesmerized by the scene in front of them. They had seen Centaurs on several occasions when the elders of the nearby herd of Centaurs came into the village of Duenton on market day. Even the Centaurs, skilled in so many ways, appreciated the artistry of Duende weaving, metalwork, pottery, and woodwor
king. The Duende, on the other hand, respected the gentle giants for their kindness and wisdom. Carling often watched them with admiration even as she felt intimidated by their size. She appreciated how they were always kind and friendly to her mother as they negotiated for cloth and rugs and other handwoven textiles.

  But Carling had never seen young Centaurs, and certainly never seen them at play. This was something of a surprise to her. She had assumed they were all the serious and stately creatures she had always seen in her village. She found herself giggling and laughing with them.

  Carling and Higson had been watching from their perch for nigh on a half hour when, suddenly, from the far side of the meadow, a group of dark and dirty Centaur stallions dashed into the center of the dancing fillies. With one or two of the intruders per young filly, they had no problem scooping them up in their hairy arms as easily as a child picks up a kitten. The fillies’ singing turned to screaming as they struggled to get away from their captors. Using their delicate fists, they beat on the chests of the attackers. Their long legs kicked and pushed. But, being much smaller and weaker and greatly outnumbered, the fillies had no chance of getting away.

  Carling gasped. Without any hesitation, she pulled her bow off her shoulder and reached behind her to retrieve an arrow from the leather quiver. Stiffening her left arm, she secured the nock on the bow string, pulled back, and released her grip on the arrow. The arrow zipped through the air and struck the furthest Centaur in the shoulder. With a yelp of pain, he dropped the young filly he was clutching to the ground. “What the…? Who shot me?” he yelled at the top of his oversized lungs.

  All of the other Centaurs stopped and turned. Carling, confident that she was well hidden in the branches of the tree, reached over her shoulder and pulled another arrow from her quiver. Before she had it notched, another arrow whizzed past her and landed in the chest of another Centaur.

  Carling turned toward Higson. “You don’t get all the fun,” her friend said, a big smile on his face.

  Soon, two more arrows emerged from the trees across the meadow and found their marks in the chests and arms of more of the would-be captors. More cries of pain and Centaur curse words filled the warm spring air of the field. Soon, all of the Centaur stallions were shouting and running for the far side of the meadow from which they had come. Two who’d tried to hold onto a filly during their escape soon let go of their captives as Duende arrows pierced their own shoulder blades. Soon, all the evil Centaurs had disappeared into the forest.

  The five fillies remained on the ground, weeping. Carling and Higson leaped from their hiding place in the pine tree and dashed into the meadow. Carling ran up to the nearest filly and knelt on the ground beside her. “Are you alright?” she said, trying to catch her breath.

  Sniffling loudly, the young chestnut Centaur turned her beautiful face toward Carling. “Are you the one who saved us?”

  “Yes. We saw the whole thing from the forest,” she said, motioning with her head in the direction from which they had come.

  The filly put her delicate arms around Carling and wept.

  Higson ran to check on the other fillies. One by one, they all gathered in a circle around Carling. One, a lovely palomino whose body shone like gold and whose white tresses and flowing tail reflected the sunlight like jewels, stepped forward. She spoke for all of her friends when she said, “Dear Duende, I am Tibbals, the daughter of the lead stallion of the Minsheen herd. What are your names?”

  “I am Carling, from the village of Duenton.”

  “And I am Higson, her friend, also from the village of Duenton.”

  All of the fillies acknowledged the introduction with a nod of their heads and a swish of their tails. Tibbals continued, still brushing tears from her cheeks. “We cannot thank you enough for saving us from those beasts. My father will hear about your heroism, and our entire herd will be at your service whenever you are in need, from this day forth.”

  “But who were those Centaurs?” asked Carling.

  “They must have been from the Heilodius herd. That group of Centaurs has separated itself from the others of our kind. They desire to rule the entire land of Crystonia and all races of the land. They are willing to do whatever it takes to secure the throne. I have no idea why they would try to abduct us, unless they planned to hold us for ransom.”

  At this, several of the other fillies burst into tears once again, their long hair draping over their pretty faces, their delicate shoulders shaking as they sobbed. Carling and Higson did their best to console them. Suddenly, the seriousness of the situation pierced Carling’s heart. She had never done anything heroic in her life, and yet she had done this without a thought for herself. The fear and tension she had been holding inside needed a release. She wrapped her arms around Tibbals and burst into tears as well.

  Higson looked from one crying female to another, as if unsure what to do. Finally, he just sat down on the grass and waited.

  All of this was observed by eight burly and injured Centaurs from the cover of the far trees. The largest of the beasts clenched his jaw and ground his teeth as he pulled an arrow from his shoulder and rubbed his wound. His chest heaved and his breathing was so loud, it almost sounded like angry snorting. An animal-like growl arose from his throat as the Centaur scratched his greasy hair with the bloody tip of the arrow. Snapping the arrow in two, he threw its pieces to the ground, turned, and galloped through the forest, followed by the others.

  Chapter 6

  Sixteen Years and One Day

  The day after Carling’s birthday, a contingent of Centaurs sent from the Minsheen herd, led by their lead stallion, Manti, walked majestically into the village square of Duenton. They wore elegant brocade vests on their chests and red capes that flowed from their shoulders down their backs to their croups. The hair of their heads was short, but their tails were long and glossy. The muscles on their arms bulged with strength, making them look like they had been sculpted from stone. Their shiny hooves clattered on the few cobblestone sections of the street. They stopped in front of the fountain that provided the villagers with their water supply.

  Carling, was supposed to spend the morning weaving. Instead she was secretly reading a book she had borrowed titled Heads and Tails: Why Centaurs Make the Best Leaders. She jerked her head up at the first sound of hoof beats, tucked her book under the pillow of her bed and dashed out the door of her family cottage. Duende all over the village emerged from their homes and shops.

  All eyes followed their every movement. Silence filled the square as though each Duende feared interrupting what felt to everyone to be a magical moment.

  In a booming voice laced with obvious affection, the largest of all the group of Centaurs addressed the quickly gathering crowd. “Dear villagers of Duenton,” he said, “I am Manti, the lead stallion of the Minsheen Herd. There are among you two heroes whom we have come to honor this day.”

  Whispers were exchanged between villagers as they looked back and forth at one another, wondering what this could possibly be about. Some leaned forward in anticipation. All except Carling and Higson, who stood together in the doorway of Carling’s home, tried to get as close to the magnificent Centaur as they dared.

  “Would the Duende by the names of Carling and Higson please step forward?” requested Manti.

  The two friends looked at each other, their mouths forming grimaces more than smiles. Neither of the teenagers had told their parents what took place the day before, not sure how such news would be received. Now the entire village would learn at the same time. Clutching one another’s hand, they made their way slowly through the crowd and stepped up to the Centaur. The stallion towered over them. Carling and Higson would have been a bit frightened if Manti hadn’t leaned down and extended his arms to them in welcome. His handsome face beamed with admiration as he looked at them and smiled.

  “So this is the lovely Carling. I was told to look for the violet eyes. You are as beautiful as my daughter said.”

  Carlin
g blushed and glanced away.

  “And this is the gallant Higson. It is such a pleasure to meet such a brave lad as you.”

  Now it was Higson’s turn to blush.

  Manti returned his attention to the crowd of Duende. “These two youngsters are heroes. I want all of you to know that you should be very proud of them.”

  Murmurs expressing curiosity rippled through the gathering of villagers.

  “Yesterday,” the stallion continued, “five of our fillies were frolicking in a meadow between our home on the sides of Mount Dashmoore and your village in this lovely valley. A band of evil Centaurs from the Heilodius herd attempted to abduct them. These two Duende, brave and skilled as they are, saved them from a horrible fate.”

  Cheers and shouts of congratulations mixed with questions arose from the villagers. Carling searched until she found her mother, Saleen, who stood silently at the edge of the crowd, her mouth agape. Their eyes met. Carling wasn’t sure how to read what was written there, but it didn’t look anything like joy. The young girl simply smiled weakly and looked downward, then pressed her fist to her lips as she felt the hurt well up inside of her. She had never kept anything from her mother. She barely heard Manti’s next statement.

  “Tomorrow,” he continued, “the Minsheen herd will hold a celebration, and we would like Carling and Higson to be our guests of honor.”

  A gasp went up from the crowd. Never in the history of the Duende had one of their kind been invited to a village inhabited by Centaurs. This was an unspeakable honor, one that would go down in the Duende history books.

  Eyes wide, Carling and Higson looked at each other, then lifted their faces to look up at Manti. Carling’s face wore an expression that fell somewhere between embarrassment and pride?neither of which was familiar to her.

  “We would be honored to come,” she whispered, speaking for both of them.

  Manti smiled. “Wonderful! We will send two Centaurs to fetch you tomorrow when the sun reaches its zenith.”