Chapter 1 -  Stone

 

The most surprising thing about waking up with no memory was how long it took him to realize it. At least ten seconds—maybe fifteen—passed between opening his eyes and the sudden realization that he didn’t know who he was. In those seconds, as he lay on his back on a carpet of cool grass, something like a fever dream scuttled through his half-awake, half-asleep mind, but when he wakened fully, the visions were gone.

He scrambled to his feet and looked around, peering at his surroundings—rolling green grassland sprinkled with red and white wildflowers, a range of low hills looming in the distance, a nearby forest to his right, a road between the forest and himself. None of it looked familiar, and he felt the cold, sharp edge of panic begin to bite. He spoke aloud, if only to hear his own voice—“This is not possible”—but even his own voice was unfamiliar.

“This is madness,” he murmured, frowning and shaking his head. He turned all the way around, peering at the forest, the road, the distant hills. “Hello,” he called out. There was no answer.

A clear blue sky above gave him some slight comfort, and the sun felt warm on his face, but panic tugged at him again. He shook it off, closed his eyes, and searched his memories. A fleeting image from his dream tried to surface, but it slipped away before he could grasp it.

“This is madness,” he muttered again, still straining to find a memory.

A sudden thought seized him, and he felt his heart freeze in his chest. Perhaps a sorcerer had robbed him of his memory, a sorcerer who might be lurking nearby to observe the results of his dark magic. But no, he was quite alone. He considered what to do. He looked at the wide meadow, wondering which way he had come, but the grassland gave away none of the secrets of his passage through it. It occurred to him that his manner of dress or something on his person might provide a clue to his identity. He glanced down at a pair of finely worked black leather boots, which came nearly to his knees, and the plain gray trousers tucked into them. His dark blue tunic was unadorned and equally devoid of clues. His felt his chin and discovered a close-cropped beard. Then he saw the sword, a fine one-handed weapon hanging from his waist in a plain leather scabbard.

He drew the sword and gripped it tightly, savoring the feel of it in his hand. He hefted the weapon and felt its perfectly balanced weight, listened to it whip the air as he flicked the point with snaps of his wrist. When he sheathed the sword, he noticed a small quatrefoil insignia etched on it just above the hilt, with a small faceted blue gemstone in the center of the insignia. At the same moment, he saw a ring on the third finger of his right hand. The ring bore the same quatrefoil emblem and also had a faceted blue gemstone in the center. He stared at the jewel and the symbol, searching his mind for scraps of memory. Once again, he found none. He slipped off the ring and peered closely at the inside of the band, but it was smooth and unmarked. He put the ring back on and headed for the road. When he reached it, he stopped and looked one way and then the other, but he saw nothing to suggest which way he should go. After a moment, he turned north and began walking.

He had been walking for nearly an hour when he heard the sound of cantering hoofbeats behind him. He turned around and saw in the distance a horseman heading his way. For some reason that he couldn’t have explained even to himself, he fled the road and ran toward the forest, running in a low crouch, hoping he might conceal himself in the tall grass between the road and the woods. As the sound of hoofbeats became louder, he dropped down and lay as still possible. The hoofbeats stopped.

“You there, skulking in the grass.” The voice was gruff and unpleasant.

He stood up, brushed himself off with as much dignity as he could muster, and faced the horseman. “Good day to you, sir,” he said as evenly as he could.

“Identify yourself,” the man growled. He was massive, with a torso the size and shape of a cask of ale and a dark red beard that fanned out from his jaw like an old straw broom. He wore a black mantle over a chainmail tunic, along with black leggings, black boots, and a plumed black helmet. The front of the mantle bore an insignia, a triangle inside a circle. The triangle was subdivided into four smaller triangles of equal size, and another triangle, smaller yet, was set in the middle. The man was clearly a soldier or a knight of some kind. “I said identify yourself,” he repeated.

“I’m only a poor traveler.”

“Do you have a name, traveler?”

“Who is it asks for it?”

“I don’t want your impudence, I want your name.”

He glanced up and saw in the distance a pair of falcons spiraling against the blue sky. “Falconer,” he said without hesitation. “My name is Falconer. Who is it wants to know?”

“And your given name?”

“Stone,” he replied quickly.

The knight frowned. “Stone Falconer, is it? The name has a whiff of guile about it.”

“With whom am I speaking, if you please?” the newly named Stone Falconer asked.

“You are speaking with Sir Borus Renovar, special courier of His Excellency the Ordseer.”

Stone Falconer wanted only to be gone, but he stood his ground, waiting and watching.

“Where are you bound?” Sir Borus asked.

“The next village.”

“Tallindin?”

“Aye, Tallindin.”

“What’s your business there?”

“To collect on a small debt. A man there owes me a few silver coins. For some work I did.”

“What work?”

“I’m a … a stone mason.”

“Stone the stone mason, is it?” Sir Borus said, shaking his head as if he doubted it.

“Aye,” Stone replied.

“Have you come from Klell, then?” Sir Borus asked, nodding in the direction from which he’d ridden.

“That’s right, from Klell.”

“And why do you find it necessary to hide from an honest knight?”

Stone allowed himself a crooked smile. “Ah, well, sir, in truth I was daydreaming as I walked, and when I realized a horseman was approaching, I foolishly imagined you might be a brigand.”

Sir Borus frowned. “Is that why a stone mason carries a sword? To defend against brigands?”

“Indeed. Even a poor stone mason must be ready to protect himself.”

“You’ll find no brigands on this road,” Sir Borus said. “You won’t need your weapon.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I’ll just be on my way then.”

“Not so fast. I’d like to have a look at your fine sword.”

Stone unsheathed his sword and held it up for the man to view.

“Give it to me. I would have a closer look.”

Stone put the sword back in its scabbard. “I think not.”

Sir Borus frowned. “Do you not trust me?”

“I don’t know you.”

Sir Borus’s frown deepened. “I’ve told you who I am. Have you signed the Ordseer’s fastle pledge?”

“Fastle pledge?”

“Yes, you lackwit fool, have you signed?”

Stone shook his head.

“I’ll have your sword now, and I won’t tell you again. Hand it over.”

Sir Borus spurred his horse forward. Just then, a slight rustling sound in the tall grass caught Stone’s attention, and he peered into the meadow and spotted its source.

“Perhaps you’ll let me keep the scabbard,” Stone said as Sir Borus stopped barely a yard away from him.

“Perhaps I’ll let you keep your head. Now draw the blade out slowly and hand it to me hilt first.”

As Stone slowly drew the sword, he saw movement in the tall grass. He dropped the point of the sword to the ground and flipped it back up, flinging the snake he had spotted toward the horse’s head. The beast bellowed and reared, and Stone took off toward the forest, Sir Borus’s curses following him as he ran.

The horse had failed to throw its rider, however, and within seconds the ground was shaking beneath the charger’s pounding hoofbeats. Stone looked back just in time to duck a savage swipe of Sir Borus’s blade as the knight thundered past him.

Sir Borus wheeled around and dismounted and strode toward Stone, holding his sword out in front of him as he approached. He snarled and unleashed a barbaric yell and hurled himself forward, swinging his blade with two hands. Lighter and more agile than the massive knight, Stone sidestepped the blow, the force of which spun Sir Borus halfway around. The big knight charged again, and again Stone leaped away from his whirling blade. Sir Borus’s failure to separate Stone’s head from his body had enraged him, and he redoubled his attack, slashing and swinging as Stone danced madly out of the way, jumping back, darting sideways, spinning and whirling as the soldier’s frenzied blade flashed in the sunlight.

The knight’s ragged breaths were coming faster. His relentless attack slackened and soon deteriorated into a flailing, half-stumbling parody of single combat. He bent over, leaning on his sword as if it were a cane as Stone looked on, staying just out of his range.

“Stop dancing and fight, you craven wretch,” Sir Borus bellowed between ragged breaths.

Stone felt his blood rise at the challenge. He knew he should flee while he had the chance, but he knew just as surely that he would not. He circled Sir Borus and made two or three feints with his sword, feeling sudden confidence in his ability to use the weapon. It was as if the sinews in his arms and legs remembered what his mind did not. Sir Borus raised his sword and stepped forward. Stone held his ground, and their weapons clashed. The knight lunged, and Stone parried and took the offensive, thrusting and slashing and surging forward with a lightning thrust of his blade. As he did, a small whirlwind began to spin nearby, picking up dust and leaves and bits of grass.

Sir Borus sneered. “Stone mason, eh? A mummer’s apprentice is more like it, but your paltry illusions fool no one. Fight or yield, but don’t try your petty tricks on me.” He swung his sword violently but clumsily and Stone easily dodged it. He made ready to counter Sir Borus’s next blow, but it never came. The exhausted knight was walking backward, away from Stone and toward his horse.

Stone whipped the air in front of him with his blade, as if he were testing it. As he did, a sharp breeze began to blow, and another little whirlwind rose up.

“Petty illusions,” Sir Borus muttered, still backing away. “When I return with a company of my men, we’ll see how your tricks fare then.”

Then he was gone, riding back the way he had come.

Stone knew Sir Borus would report the encounter to his superiors, perhaps even to the Ordseer, whoever that was. The knight would come looking for him with a squadron of armed men, which meant that the road and whatever towns and villages lay upon it were now lost to him. His only choice was the forest. He entered it and began to pick his way through the trees.

After a half hour of slow progress, Stone discovered a narrow path. He followed the trail’s winding course through the forest in what he guessed was a northerly direction, and after what seemed like a couple of hours of steady hiking he thought he heard the soft murmur of flowing water. He quickened his pace and followed the path to the banks of a gently flowing stream. He walked to the edge, knelt down, and drank. When he had drunk his fill, he peered down at his reflection.

Dark eyes stared back at him from a face that had seen perhaps thirty summers. It was a lean sort of face, with a strong chin and wide-set blue eyes. A thatch of short dark hair and a trimmed black beard completed the picture. He stood up, and the reflection revealed a tall, spare figure with long legs, a fit-looking man who might be a soldier or a miner or a shipwright. He wasn’t entirely displeased with what he saw, but the reflection revealed nothing about who he might be. He drew his sword and peered at the quatrefoil insignia, searching his mind again for a memory. No memory surfaced.

 

Chapter 2 - Brook

 

She woke up in a forest. She heard a stream gurgling, a sound pleasant to her ears. She was lying on a grassy bank, on her side, her knees drawn partway up. She was comfortable and enjoyed listening to the sound of the flowing water. She smiled. She didn’t want to open her eyes. A shaft of sunlight beaming through the trees felt warm on her face, and she felt happy and contented.

Something was wrong. She opened her eyes and saw the tops of trees looming overhead. She sprang to her feet and looked around. She didn’t know where she was or how had she had come to be there.

Panic threatened to take hold of her. She heard the babbling stream and turned to it, gazing at the flowing water until the feeling of dread subsided. She calmed herself and cleared her thoughts. Her gaze followed the course of the stream, which meandered through a dense wood. Sunlight filtered through the trees, and when she looked up she could see ragged patches of blue sky. That’s when she realized she didn’t know who she was.

She squeezed her eyes shut and sought her memories. She found none. “What?” she said aloud, simply to hear the sound of her own voice, but even that was strange to her ears. “Think,” she ordered herself. So she thought. She thought of the words for “tree” and “sky” and “river” and “stream,” relieved that she knew the names of things, that her mind still functioned. She closed her eyes again and tried once more to find a memory, but none came. She wondered what could have happened to her. She felt her head, but there was no blood, no bumps, no pain anywhere. Had she gone mad? Or …?

“Sorcery?” she said aloud, making it a question. She frowned. “But why?”

She began walking along the stream. She had taken only a few steps when she saw something lying in the grass, glinting in the sunlight. It was a dagger, sticking halfway out of its sheath. She stopped and picked it up, examining it before tucking it through her belt. Having the knife made her feel better, despite her lack of memory.

She followed the stream, crossing it from time to time on large rocks, drinking from it, soothing her brow with its cool water. Just past midday, she heard voices. The voices were coming from somewhere ahead of her, around the next bend of the stream. She hesitated a moment and then continued until she came within sight of two scruffy men holding fishing poles over a part of the stream that had widened into a pond.

“Gentlemen,” she said as she approached them. She wasn’t afraid, but she was glad they were on the opposite side of the stream. She spotted a large earthenware jug on the ground between the two men and detected a faint scent of strong spirits.

The older-looking of the two men grinned at her. He was lean and not as tall as his companion, with small dark eyes and a sneering sort of smile. “Well, well, well,” he said in a loud voice. “What have we here?” He pulled his line out of the stream and dropped his fishing pole.

“I seem to have become lost,” she said. “Would you be so kind as to direct me to the nearest village?”

“Lost are we?” the older man said, leering and looking at her the way one might examine a side of mutton.

The younger man giggled. He had a round head and bulging eyes that made him look like a toad. He was soft-looking, with a bulging stomach, sloping shoulders and a pudgy neck that jiggled when he laughed.

“If you’ll just point me in the right direction, I’ll be on my way,” she said.

The older man pointed at his chest. “Right here. Here is the right direction.” His toady companion snorted and licked his lips.

“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll find my own way.”

“What’s your hurry, mistress?” the lean one said. “What’s your name, anyway?”

She wasn’t about to tell them she didn’t know her name, so she said nothing.

“I’m Foskit, and this here’s my brother, Little Demmie,” the older man said.

She ignored him and walked on, glad to have the dagger she had found, but the two men picked up their gear and walked in the same direction on the other side of the stream.

 Little Demmie finally spoke. “What did you say your name was, Mistress Pretty?”

“You can call me Brook,” she said without looking at them and without stopping.

“Forsook by Brook,” Demmie said, and he began snorting like a pig.

“Me brother’s a poet,” Foskit said, and the two men laughed. Then Foskit ran ahead and disappeared around a bend.

The woods were thicker there, and not as much sunlight filtered through the trees. She picked up her pace and looked around. There was no trail to be seen, no clear path by which she might escape, so she kept walking along the stream. When she rounded the bend, Foskit was on her side of the river, smiling and holding a large knife. She spied a couple of large rocks in the middle of the stream, which he had apparently used to cross. He was twenty feet away, still grinning.

She drew her dagger and Foskit made to look surprised. “What’s this then, Mistress Brook?” he said. “Are you a warrior woman?”

She said nothing, but she kept her eyes on him, wondering where his brother had gone.

“You must be more friendly to Foskit,” he said. “Why don’t you put down that knife and come here?”

“Put down your own knife and stand aside,” she said. “I have no intention of being friendly.”

“A pity,” he said and moved toward her. Just then she heard a sound behind her. She spun around to see Demmie nearly upon her, about to swing a heavy tree branch at her head. She ducked and sidestepped, but he grabbed at her shoulder with his other hand. She twisted away, and Demmie dropped the branch, but now Foskit was on her, grabbing her hair and laying the flat of his knife against her neck while Demmie tried to wrest her dagger away from her. She kicked as hard as she could and caught Foskit in the groin.

He howled and swore and backed off. He went down on one knee and gave Brook a look of such hatred that she nearly dropped the dagger. Demmie had one arm around her waist, trying to topple her, and he was still grabbing for the dagger with his other hand. She went down, but as she fell, she twisted her body toward the stream. She hit the ground and rolled, but Demmie had hung on and was rolling with her, trying to stop her momentum. She could smell his foul breath, and she used all her strength to keep rolling. They rolled into the water together, their momentum carrying them away from the bank.

The stream was deeper than she had expected and perfectly clear, clearer, it seemed to her, than the air. They touched bottom, still entwined, and she kicked off from it, finally dislodging herself from Demmie’s grasp. She was still holding the dagger.

Pushing off from the bottom stirred up some silt, but she could see through it. Demmie was flailing and trying to swim to the surface, and she thrust the knife at him, stabbing him in the leg. He kicked violently and made for the surface, his blood clouding the water. Yet she could still see. She dived and touched bottom again.

She looked up and saw the sun shining down. She saw ripples where the commotion had been. It occurred to her that she had been without air long enough to need another breath, but for some reason she didn’t. She sheathed her blade and swam underwater with the current, only a foot above the river bottom. She swam quickly, not stopping, not going up for air, for what seemed like an hour, until she figured she was far away from the two brutes. Then she swam to the surface and breathed in the cool air. She looked around to make sure her two attackers weren’t nearby and spotted a lone man on the riverbank staring at her and holding a sword.

 

Stone was still contemplating the insignia on his sword when he heard what sounded like a splash from the stream. He looked toward the sound and saw a woman in the middle of the stream staring at him. She turned and quickly swam to the other side of the stream and got out. She had long dark hair, bright green eyes, and a dagger in her right hand.

They stood there for a moment, each considering the other, until Stone finally broke the silence. “You need not fear me.”

“I don’t,” the woman replied in a voice pitched lower than he expected but not unpleasantly so.

“You can put away your weapon then,” he said, sheathing his sword. “Unless you mean to skewer me.”

She sheathed her blade without taking her eyes off him. He glanced around, wondering if there was anyone else nearby.

“Did you fall in, milady?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” she replied.

“I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “It’s a nice day for a swim, I suppose.”

She gave a brief laugh and looked down at her dripping white dress.

“It should dry quickly under this warm sun,” he said. “Do you live near here?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Stone Falconer.”

She nodded but remained silent.

“And you are …?”

“You can call me Brook.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Brook. Did you say you lived near here?”

She remained silent.

“I ask only because I seem to have lost my way. Perhaps you could direct me to the nearest village.”

She laughed again and shook her head slowly.

“You find that amusing?”

“No,” she said.

“This is a most frustrating conversation,” Stone said.

“It’s been a frustrating day,” she replied.

“Perhaps we should begin anew,” he said. “As for me, I’m lost in these woods, hoping to find my way out, when suddenly I espy a young woman emerging from this stream like a river nymph.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re not a river nymph, are you?”

“Perhaps I am,” she said.

“I’ll be quite happy to leave you to your river if you could just direct me to the nearest village.”

“What would a river nymph know about villages?”

They stared in silence at one another for a long moment.

“I have a feeling you’re lost, too,” Stone said, breaking the silence.

She nodded.

“Perhaps we should ally ourselves, temporarily, and attempt to become unlost.”

She nodded again.

They set out, following the stream, until they reached a section spanned by a narrow wooden footbridge. Stone crossed to the other side and they continued on their way. As they walked, a troubling thought occurred to him. If some dark sorcery had stolen his memory, it might be that Brook was the very sorceress responsible. He gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you know anything of sorcery?” he asked, watching her face closely, hoping to detect any change in her demeanor.

She stopped and stared at him. “Why do you ask?”

He hesitated a moment before replying. “I have reason to believe I may have been a victim of dark magic.”

She frowned at him. “What reason?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say.”

“I sense another frustrating conversation coming.”

He shrugged but said nothing, and they started walking again.

After a few minutes, she said, “I may also have been the victim of dark magic.”

“How so?” he asked.

“If I tell you my tale, will you tell me yours?”

He thought for a moment and then nodded. “Fair enough.”

She told him her story.

“Extraordinary,” he murmured when she was finished. That she also had suffered the loss of her memory convinced him that some sorcery was indeed at work. Unless, of course, she was lying and merely toying with him.

“It’s your turn,” she said.

Despite his misgivings, Stone nodded and began. “I was making my way north along a road that runs near this forest when I was accosted by an armed soldier on horseback, a man who called himself Sir Borus Renovar. He claimed to be a special courier of the Ordseer.”

Brook frowned. “Who is the Ordseer?”

“I don’t know,” Stone admitted. “But Sir Borus tried to disarm me. I refused, and we dueled.”

She looked surprised. “You engaged an armed knight in a sword fight?”

“I did.”

 She frowned and squinted at him, as if sizing up his potential prowess as a fighting man. “Why did he want to disarm you?”

“I don’t know. He mentioned something about signing some kind of pledge to this Ordseer fellow. He called it a fastle pledge. We fought to a draw, and he rode off. I headed for the forest.”

“He’ll try to find you again,” Brook said.

“I know. That’s why I headed for the forest.”

“He’ll bring more knights with him. And if they find you, they’ll find me. They won’t take kindly to someone found in the company of a criminal.”

“I’m no criminal,” he protested, hoping it was so.

“In Sir Borus’s eyes you are.”

“True enough,” he said.

“You should have killed him.”

He felt a slight shiver at her bloodthirsty reproach, but he had to admit that she had a fair point. “Perhaps I should have,” he said. Just then, an idea occurred to him. “Your dagger, perhaps it has some identifying mark that might provide a clue to your identity.”

“I thought of that, and, indeed, it does bear an emblem, but it means nothing to me.”

“What sort of emblem?”

Brook drew her dagger and handed it to Stone. He took it and stared. The handle bore the same quatrefoil insignia that was etched on his sword.