Sky Lands: The Gift Stones

The Great Hall was bare in the morning. The place seemed chillier without the flame of the jugglers. Instead of banquet tables lining the walls, there was only a single table running down the middle. The curtains had been drawn back from a row of windows and I saw the valley spread below, the sun spilling into it like a pitcher of lemonade into a great bowl.

  “How’s my newest guest?” The king was seated at the head of the table, Vercinick to the right. Save for the two of them, the hall was empty and his voice resonated down the table.

  “Fine, Sire.” The old man made a small bow before he sat.

  “How are you finding the Krystalline Castle?”

  “Very well. His Majesty is too kind to offer his home to a beggar.”

  “There are enough empty rooms in this old castle. We could use an extra guest to fill a void.”

  “I am grateful for the king’s generosity.”

  “The king is too kind,” Vercinick spoke.

  “And my chief advisor here too wise,” the king returned.

  Vercinick folded his hands. He tapped his napkin when he said, “The heart can be unwise, Your Majesty.”

  “And the mind can be too cold.”

  The old man looked from one to the other. Finally, he spoke to break the silence, “Where is Her Majesty this morning?”

  “It’s much too early for her to rise,” the king said. “She breakfasts in bed besides.”

  “Stranger,” Vercinick interjected, “your speech is eloquent. Tell us where you are from.”

  “Indeed,” the king agreed, “how did you come to be in your situation? You don’t seem part of the common populace.”

  Before the old man could reply, a servant entered with a tray of round cakes. The cakes fluffed over the porcelain bowls like freshly baked bread, the crust dusted with sugar. The diners used a long spoon to break through the crust, releasing a sweet scent as they scooped out the custard within. The hall was silent as they ate.

  After a while, Vercinick addressed the old man. “Tell us, in all your years, which have you found to be wiser – the heart or the mind?”

  “Vercinick,” sighed the king, “your mind is tirelessly obsessive. Is that not true, do you find?” He turned to the old man, who looked up like a startled rabbit, his spoon hovering over his half-eaten cake, frozen on its way to his mouth. When he said nothing, the king continued, “My advisor never breaks from affairs of the state.”

  “They are important, Sire.” Vercinick leaned in to the king’s ear and whispered, “Without an heir and with your nephew at war, Alhallra’s future is at great uncertainty.”

  “For this country, I’ve already placed my nephew in danger.”

  “It was his choice, Sire.”

  “For this country, I will not remarry.”

  Vercinick stopped eating, holding his utensil motionless. The king stared at the cream in his cake, and the old man peered from behind his hovering spoon.

  In the utter stillness, I saw a small motion. The old man took out the stones from his pocket, but held them in his fist beneath the table.

  It was Vercinick who finally spoke. “Sire, do not let love compel you into a selfish act. The best deed of a man is to sacrifice what he loves for a greater cause.”

  “I’m not a great man, Vercinick. I am just an old man who happens to be king. What right did the Angels have to place the burden of a kingdom upon me? I do not have the strength to bear it properly. Let us speak of this no more.” He drew a long breath as he leaned back and said, “I apologize for having brought our troubles before our guest.” He smiled wanly at the old man, as though he were tired. “So tell us, where are you from?”

  “Sire, my land is far from here. I have family there waiting for me, but I’ve kept myself from them for the love of this land. Your friend is wise. Love is often selfish.” The old man stopped and I saw the muscles in his fist tighten around the stones he held. “So I cannot stay here, Your Majesty. Though your land is beautiful.”

  “As you wish,” the king said, puzzled.

  “Sire, let me give this land a gift.” The old man took out the stones from beneath the table, placing the white stone before the king. “This stone will give Alhallra great strength in battle.” He drew out the green stone. “And this stone blesses your nation with intellect.” The king and his advisor studied the colored pearls as the old man continued, “To balance these two strengths, I give you the weakness of compassion.” And he placed the blue stone beside the other two. “For the kindness you have shown me, Your Majesty, all the traits of these stones I give directly to you. And one trait to each of your three children – that from now on, every ruler of Alhallra shall bear three heirs, each with a trait of the stones.”

  “Who are you?” Vercinick asked.

  “I am the last of the mages of old. I belong to an era that has been forgotten. A long time ago, I taught your people the wisdom of magery.”

  “Mages? But they are myths.”

  “With enough time, all history becomes legend and all its truths bend to myth. Keep the Stones well and let your country prosper.”

  “You blessed my children?” the king asked. “But I am childless.”

  “There is no need for both of us to make the selfless sacrifice, Sire,” the old man replied; a smile creased the lines of his face. “Stay with your wife, have heirs, and be merry.”

  • • •

  Later that morning, I followed the old man out of the castle. Turning down the wooded path, a waterfall fell behind us, running into a river that flowed through the forest. As we walked, the roar of the waters faded into the call of morning birds, and soon, we saw the valley below us – the waking village with its threads of chimney smoke and herds of deer grazing beyond.

  In the village, the market was alive with the fresh scent of bakery. Warm breads hung from the stands, puffing steam into the chilly morning. Cakes sat on the counters, misting the faces of vendors with their warmth. Beyond the marketplace, the streets seemed silent after the hum of the market crowds. At the far end of the street, a man was putting out the streetlights. It wasn’t long before we left the sleepy village behind and made our way back across the plains, wind ruffling the flaxen fields like fingers through a maiden’s hair. Eventually, the fields rose into a hill before we reached the forest again. The leaves fell, golden through the white-branched trees.

  When we arrived at the crumbling temple, I ascended the stones with the old man, his gown fluttering at his ankles as he walked. Light lined the temple with hues that matched the leaves above.

  “Brother!” The old man opened the door and I saw the fire in the copper bowl. It burned blue this time, illuminating the circular chamber with an eerie radiance. Save for the curling smoke, the temple was utterly still. The syllables of the old man’s word lingered, an echo against the stones.

  He moved to the altar. The firelight washed over him, his skin dyed to blue. He opened his hand, revealing the nightingale’s tear on his palm. “Brother, you knew this would cause me to return to you. You knew I have not the strength to grieve you.”

  Only the echo of his voice answered him. There was a pause, a quiet waiting, before the silence was broken by speech, “I did not know, Brother. It was not knowledge but hope.” The white man stepped from the darkness, brushing aside the shadows. His pallid robe hung long and the shine of his pallor was startling in the dark. He took the tear from the old man. “Thank you for coming, Brother. Eternity would have been bare without you.”

  “Why choose Eternity?”

  “It is a fine reward, Brother.”

  “It is a difficult choice.”

  “Between death and forever, men would envy us this choice.”

  “Only the fools.”

  “Brother.” The white man said the word with nearly a sigh. Before he could continue, the old man interrupted:

  “Men are lucky they have this choice made for them.”

  “But we are more than men, so we must bear the more difficult choices.”
r />   “Would it not be better then, to be less.” A look of fear passed over the old man’s features. “Eternity is a long time, Brother.”

  The white man took the other’s hand. “Do not fear that its weight will crush you. There is no weight there for you to bear.”

  I saw the old man squeeze the hand he was holding. “Memories can be a heavy burden to carry. And they grow so with time.”

  “They become lighter there.”

  “I may not have the strength to bear them up.”

  “There will be no burdens for you to carry.”

  The blue flame flickered in its bowl, casting light quivering along the shadows. When the old man spoke again, it was a whisper that pushed a line of rising smoke with its breath, “I trust you, Brother.”

  “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

  The old man walked around the altar, supported on the white man’s arm. “You have lit the blue flames for farewell.”

  “Indeed,” the white man replied. “A farewell to you if you didn’t come. And a farewell for you, if you did.”

  The two turned their backs on the altar and faced the darkness beyond. “Where is your staff, Brother?” asked the white man.

  “If I cannot rest here, then may my staff rest here for me.”

  “I see. I am glad that you are coming home,” the white man said.

  They walked down the altar steps, away into the dark. The old man’s voice drifted back to me, “So you have seen Eternity.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Is it beautiful?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Their last words faded; the dark enveloped them, the hems of their cloaks disappearing into the shadow.

  And I heard nothing more.

  Chapter 10