The Language of Stones. Robert Goldthwaite Carter
over the stones. Will’s heart was bursting, his lungs gasping for air as he shouted his warning.
‘Master Gwydion! Master Gwydion!’ His hands grasped at the sorcerer’s much-patched cloak as he tried to get his words out. ‘A gi – a gi—! A giant coming!’
The sorcerer stopped, put a hand on Will’s head and smiled. ‘Alba will not harm you so long as you do nothing to harm that which he holds dear.’
‘He – he’s trying to kill me!’
‘Then stay close to me, for I am his friend. One day you will be glad that the flesh of this land is his flesh. But come now. The new day is brightening and we have yet to reach the Evenlode Bridge.’
Gwydion walked on, unconcerned. But the terror was still fresh in Will. He felt it rattling inside him as he plucked up the courage to look back again. There was nothing to see now, nothing except what might be the long shadow of an outcrop thrown across the track by the golden light of the newly-risen sun. As for the great boulder that had been hurled after him, it was there – a lone standing stone that looked as if it had been sitting by the side of the track for fifty generations.
It was a trick! Will told himself with sudden outrage. Just an evil sorcerer’s trick! And I believed it!
But a bigger part of him was not so easily persuaded that it had been a trick, and so he hurried to catch up.
CHAPTER THREE TO THE TOWER OF LORD STRANGE
By now it was late morning, yet they had seen no other person along their path. Folk must be dwelling close by, Will thought, for someone must work these fields, and once or twice I’ve seen the thatch of houses in the distance. Maybe we’re going the quiet way on purpose.
After walking down off the Tops and some way into the broad valley that lay ahead, Will halted. ‘I can’t take another step,’ he croaked.
The sorcerer seemed uncomfortable that they should stop here. He gave Will a hard look. ‘We will rest. But not in this place.’ Then he did a strange thing: he drew a little stick from his sleeve and twisted it over the ground, walking back and forth as if testing for something until they had gone a few hundred paces further on.
When he saw Will watching him, he said, ‘Do not be afraid, it is only scrying. Do you see how the hazel wand moves? It helps me feel out the power that flows in the land.’
Will stared back mutely, and the sorcerer carried on. The place he eventually chose for them to rest was an oblong enclosure of cropped grass about as big as Nether Norton’s green. It was surrounded by a grassy earth bank a little higher than a man’s head. Weathered standing stones guarded its four corners, sticking up like four grey teeth. Will had no idea who might have laboured to build such a place, or why, for as a sheep pen it would have been very poor. But as he let the feel of it seep into his bones he had the idea that this was ancient ground and very much to be respected. It did feel good to sit here as the swallows looped and swooped high overhead, but he also sensed an echo of distant doings – dark events – that seemed to run through the land.
Gwydion watched him closely. ‘Long ago, Willand, this was a famous stronghold. Here it was that, eighty generations ago, Memprax the Tyrant conspired with his brother, Malin, to gain the Realm. And when the Realm was won Memprax murdered Malin in his bed, and thereafter ruled as a despot. I remember it all as if it was yesteryear.’
Will looked at the sorcerer with astonishment, for who but an immortal could remember events that had taken place eighty generations ago? The thought made him uneasy. He took out and opened his bundle of sweetcakes, chose the smaller one for himself and offered the other.
‘That was kindly done,’ Gwydion said. ‘And in return you shall have this.’ He picked up a pebble, and offered it.
‘What is it?’
‘As you see, a pebble. But a very fine pebble. Or do you think otherwise?’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘Laughing? Why should you say that? This is your reward. You will find that you are able to spend it like a silver shilling, for those who value coins will see it as such.’
‘You are laughing at me. Or you’re mad.’
The sorcerer shrugged. ‘If you think so, then throw it away.’
But Will decided to put the pebble in his pouch.
The sun had begun to warm the day and Gwydion pulled back his hood, revealing a high-browed head set with a close-fitting cap of grey linen that covered long, unbraided hair. His face was also long and his dark eyes deeply set under thick brows. It was a kindly face. He wore the beard of an old man, but it still seemed impossible to place a certain age upon him.
After finishing his sweetcake, the sorcerer took out his hazel wand and went back to scrying the ground around the stones. Despite all that had happened, Will could not now think too badly of him. In the sunshine, he seemed to be no more than a pitiful old man – one weighed down with too many cares. Perhaps he had been telling the truth all along. And perhaps it might not be such a bad life to be apprenticed to a sorcerer for a while.
When Gwydion noticed he was being watched, he beckoned Will to him. ‘I’m reading the stone.’
‘You really are mad.’
‘And you really must be careful.’
‘Reading it how?’
‘With my fingers. I want to see if it is a battlestone.’ He walked carefully around the stone, touching its surface with his fingertips. ‘Are you any the wiser?’
‘What’s a battlestone?’
Gwydion straightened, then a wry smile broke out across his face. ‘Perhaps there is no harm in telling you. I want to know if this is one of the stones that are bringing war to the Realm.’
Will screwed up his face, but said nothing.
‘Oh, you are not alone in your disbelief! All standing stones are powerful and precious things. They were put in place long ago by the fae or else by wise men who knew something of the fae’s skills. Only fools have ever tried to move them since.’
Will looked at the stone critically. It was a large, weathered grey rock, much taller than it was broad, and quite unremarkable. He put his hands on it and found the surface nicely sun-warmed.
Gwydion smiled. ‘Most stones bring benefits to the land – like the Tarry Stone which keeps your village green so lush and makes the sheep who graze there very glad, but some stones are not so helpful. The worst of them were made long ago with the aim of inciting men to war. That is why they are called battlestones.’
‘Is this one?’
Gwydion sighed. ‘In truth, I cannot easily tell what is a battlestone and what is not. It has become my wearisome task to try to find them, but so far I have failed.’
‘Failed?’
‘I lack the particular skill for it. The fae knew well how to protect the lorc from prying.’ He patted the stone he had been examining. ‘But at least this one may be discounted, for it carries the sign that tells me its purpose is harmless.’
‘A sign? Where? Let me see.’
The sorcerer cast him an amused glance. ‘Do you think you would be able to see it?’
Will digested Gwydion’s words in silence, then he said, ‘What’s a lorc?’
‘The lorc? It is a web of earth power that runs through the land. The battlestones are fed by it, and—’
He stopped abruptly, and Will became aware that the skylarks high above had ceased their warbling song. A powerful sense of danger settled over him as Gwydion looked sharply around him.