As her tired body gradually relaxed, Nolar sensed a calming influence permeating Lormt. The peaceful quiet was restful, as if the very stones had absorbed and were now reflecting back the patience of generations of scholars. Just before she fell asleep, Nolar wondered why Derren had looked at her so strangely earlier in Morfew's cubicle. It had been in reaction to something she had said. … What was it? It had been her admission that she had received a Witch Sending. Why should that trouble Derren? He had seemed similarly perturbed on the trail when he first saw Elgaret's jewel and realized that she was a Witch. Nolar drowsily resolved that, when there was time, she really must think further about Derren. Despite his odd disquietude, he had been very kind.
Early the next morning, Nolar brought a bowl of gruel to Elgaret in their room. It was simpler than having to escort her all the way to the dining area. For the day's examination of old scrolls, Nolar decided that it would be wise to take Elgaret along to Morfew's study area so that the scholar could see the Witch, and at the same time, Nolar could keep watch over her. There were countless nooks where a person could sit undisturbed among the shelves, bins, and desks stacked with rolls of parchments. Derren soon appeared at their door having checked on the horses, which he said were being well cared for. With his help, Nolar guided Elgaret, and settled her quietly in a comfortable corner. Morfew didn't seem to have moved since they had left him the night before. Derren gave Nolar a look that clearly said, “I told you so,” but Morfew stood up spryly enough, bowed with courtesy to the unseeing Elgaret, and announced that he had located several promising scrolls with which they could begin their search. He distributed to Nolar and Derren a double handful of individual scrolls.
Nolar carefully unrolled the topmost of her bundle and began to read. After a short while, she noticed from the corner of her eye that Derren was fidgeting.
“Are you having difficulty with the old style script?” Nolar asked.
Derren looked down at his desk, evidently embarrassed. “I don't … that is … I cannot read, lady. I was never taught that skill.”
The words jarred Nolar's memory back to her own painful confession to Ostbor so long before. “Ah,” she said briskly, “then we are wasting your time keeping you here, Master Borderer. Do you think, Morfew, that Derren could help some of your folk outside?”
Morfew looked up from his scroll. “Outside? Yes, of course he can, if he will. I'm sure, young man, that Wessell can tell you where help is most needed. Pray do not tarry here with us if you feel of more use elsewhere.”
Derren was obviously relieved to be dismissed. “I shall come back later, to bring food to your aunt,” he promised, as he gladly transferred his bundle of scrolls to Nolar.
She and Morfew worked steadily all that morning and well into the afternoon. Most of the ancient material was cast as legend, and thus was often complicated and impenetrable since it referred to heroes and forces completely unknown to Nolar. There were frequent frustrating gaps in the narratives, and often physical damage to the scrolls would make the reading difficult or even impossible. Morfew did appear to doze occasionally, but Nolar found him to be as tenacious a scholar as Ostbor, always willing to examine a blot or tear or offer his opinion on how to interpret the crabbed, archaic script. That first day set the pattern for succeeding days. Derren cheerfully labored outside, rotating among the various repair projects. Twice a day, he would bring food and drink to the researchers and Elgaret, then withdraw again so quietly that they seldom noticed when he left.
It was late on the fourth day that Nolar made her discovery. She had stood up to stretch cramped muscles, and her knee bumped against a squat wooden chest wedged into a low space beside Morfew's desk. Nolar would have thought nothing of it except for the peculiar tingling sensation that pulsed along her leg when it touched the chest.
“Morfew,” she asked, “what is in that chest?”
The old scholar turned from trimming the wick on a flickering lamp. “That? Why, that was brought up from one of the newly opened cellars. Duratan fetched it for me. My feet swell in warm weather, you see, and he thought I might find this chest a good height to rest my legs upon while I work at my desk.”
“But what is inside it?” Nolar persisted. She had never before felt such peremptory curiosity.
Morfew blinked as he considered. “I have no idea. I do believe that Duratan said something about finding a key that might belong to this chest.” He fumbled at his belt and freed a cluster of keys, which he sorted through. “This one, I believe—let me see—yes, it does fit this lock. Quite an old lock, I would say, and the hinges have stiffened with rust. Rather like my knees … there!” With an effort, Morfew wrenched open the lid of the chest.
Eagerly, Nolar knelt to explore the interior contents. Even amid the slightly musty air of Lormt's archives, Nolar could distinguish the dry, unmistakable smell of very old documents. She lifted out the topmost scrolls with special care for their fragility. Beneath several layers of scrolls, Nolar found ornately carved boxes of mineral powders and dried herbs long since reduced to dust. Just as she was about to sneeze, her hand touched something that sent a warm tingle through her fingers. It was like the sensation she had earlier felt when her leg had first touched the chest. Nolar glanced at Morfew. He was happily absorbed in the ancient scrolls she had handed to him. Nolar debated with herself. Should she alert Morfew to whatever it was that had attracted her attention, or should she dissemble, try to hide her find and take it away to be examined in private? Her determination to be consistently truthful at Lormt once again asserted itself.
“Morfew,” she said. “Morfew!”
“Yes, yes, I wasn't asleep. Have you found something?”
“When I first touched this chest,” Nolar admitted, “I felt a strange sensation, and just now, I felt the same thing near the bottom of the chest, only more pronounced.” She reached inside as she spoke, easing her fingers around what felt like folds of soft, very old cloth. She withdrew a small bundle and carried it to be unwrapped on Morfew's desk where the light was brighter.
The fabric, its color grayed by age, fell away to disclose a shard of stone smoothed on one side and rough on the other, where it must have been chiseled away from a larger piece. It fit naturally in the palm of Nolar's hand, and was not cold to the touch as she expected a stone would be. This shard was warm, as if Nolar were touching a piece of living flesh. The initial tingling had diminished, or had it? When she focused her attention on the stone, Nolar realized that the stimulating sensation had transferred from her skin physically touching the smooth surface to a gentle … presence in her mind. Abruptly, Nolar knew with absolute certainty that she could walk in utter darkness straight to this stone even if it were deliberately hidden from her in Lormt's farthest corner. She would simply feel where it was.
“Morfew,” she said, her voice faltering, “there is something magical about this piece of stone.”
Morfew did not appear to be at all surprised or dismayed. “Many objects with magical aspects have been stored at Lormt in the past,” he remarked. “May I touch it?” When Nolar extended the stone to him, he gently pressed his right hand against it. He shut his eyes for an instant, then sighed, and withdrew his hand. “I fear that, to me, it is only a piece of stone. A rather pleasant piece to look at—cream, would you say, with that interesting veining of dark green?”
He did not mention its warmth, so Nolar assumed the stone must feel expectably cold to Morfew. Obviously, there was some special link between Nolar and the shard. An odd similarity occurred to her: somehow, she must be attuned to the shard—or perhaps it was attuned to her—in a way resembling the linkage established between Witches and their jewels. Ostbor had told Nolar, that as best he could guess, the jewel was matched to its possessor for life when she became a Witch. Nolar was simultaneously excited and frightened by this thought. She felt driven by forces beyond her control, pressed toward the acknowledgment that she essentially must be a Witch. Nolar did not want to be a Witch; the
prospect made her long to flee, to hide somewhere safe from discovery.
Unconsciously, in her distress, she gripped the stone shard, and a second absolute certainty slipped into her mind. This stone was what she had been meant to find at Lormt. Elgaret had Foreseen an important quest for some unknown object, but had not been able to identify it. Nolar knew that she had now found it. A new problem immediately thrust itself before her. What was she supposed to do with the shard? Why had it sought her out? As she became aware of that notion, Nolar wondered at the intrinsic lightness of it. The shard had sought her out. She had been drawn to it, as a moth to an open candle flame … with better results, she fervently hoped.
Nolar looked up to find Morfew dozing … or pretending to doze. “Morfew. … Morfew! May I keep this shard? I feel it is somehow important that I carry it near me. I cannot say why.” She felt keenly how foolish she must sound, but the old scholar accepted her request with complete gravity.
“As I told you, my dear, I am a man of Alizon. Objects of magic seldom come our way, and if they do, few of us can sense their presence. That does not mean that the objects are any less powerful. If you feel an influence from that stone, then it must have special meaning for you, and you should attempt to discover what you should do with it. We must tell Ouen of your discovery, of course, but would it not be wise to see whether there might be any writings associated with the shard?”
Nolar impulsively touched his hand. “Dear Morfew—you are so like Ostbor in many ways. Certainly, we must search the chest with care. Surely there would be some explanation stored with the shard. Can you help me pull the chest nearer your lamp?”
Both of them crouched down, and with considerable effort, hauled the chest out into a more accessible space. Morfew insisted that they first examine all of the scrolls that had been packed above the shard.
“It may be,” he said, “that your shard is referred to in one or more of these, although I must say I have seen no such reference in the passages I have so far read. Still, we must be thorough. Here, you take these, and I shall read through this lot.”
Almost frantic to delve farther into the chest, Nolar forced herself to concentrate on the musty parchments. She knew that Morfew was right. They must not overlook any possible references, however slight, to the stone shard. Her share of scrolls concerned an amazing jumble of subjects. Nolar had to assume that the scrolls had simply been snatched up at random and bundled into the chest. She skimmed through a tedious discussion of drainage methods to restore sodden fields, followed by a wordy recital of remedies for various ailments of horses. Only Ostbor, she thought, as she impatiently unrolled the third parchment, could have appreciated this interminable kinship list for some unknown noble from generations past. Her last scroll was enlivened by tiny, but clear drawings of the plants it described for use in cookery. At any other time, Nolar would have been enchanted by it; now, she raced through it, searching for any mention of the words “stone,” or “shard.” There were none. She looked up to find Morfew similarly setting aside his final scroll.
“No reference to your stone in these, my dear,” Morfew said. “I see that you have had no better success. Let us then examine any other items left in the chest.”
Nolar had shown Morfew the carved boxes of herbs and potions which she had initially discovered. Together they now opened each container to be sure that she had not missed any scrap of parchment that might have been tucked inside. Next, Nolar sat down beside the chest and handed up to Morfew each remaining item.
“More powders, I think, and a small bundle of parchment strips describing herbal remedies.” Nolar leafed through the strips, naming aloud some of her old familiar friends from the meadows and forests. “Burdock, ground apple, comfrey, vervain, fennel, hyssop, nettle.” The ancient cord that had once bound the strips together was now frayed beyond further use, so Nolar felt in her scrip for a spare length of new cord. She retied the bundle and handed it to Morfew. The next prize from the chest was a tight roll of age-darkened linen. An intricate design of ivy leaves and trefoils was embroidered down its entire length, displaying the skill of some long-dead needlewoman. Morfew placed it carefully on a protected shelf.
“Mistress Bethalie will be most pleased to see that,” he commented. “Her needlework is a joy to behold. She cares for all our clothing, but often complains that our simple tastes give her little opportunity for ornamentation.”
Nolar peered anxiously into the chest. “There is so little left within. I see only a small box or two and another roll of cloth. Oh, Morfew!” Her voice suddenly rose in excitement. “There is writing on this cloth, and I can just distinguish the word ‘stone.’ “ She lifted out a cylindrical packet and carried it to Morfew's desk to be unrolled.
“This is indeed ancient,” observed Morfew, as he gingerly loosened a narrow fabric strip binding the roll, being careful not to tear the delicate material. “Set the lamp a trifle closer, if you will. The ink has faded badly in places, but you were correct. The text does concern a stone of magical power. There is a name here. …” He gently smoothed out a crease in the cloth. “Konnard—it is, or was, the Stone of Konnard.” Morfew paused, thinking. “I cannot recall ever before reading or hearing that name. Perhaps the text will explain the history of your shard. Let me see. I believe this must be a continuation of some earlier writing, for it seems to begin in the middle of a line. ‘When the injured body is brought near to the Stone of Konnard,’ “ Morfew read aloud, then frowned. “Oh, fie! The next part is quite ruined by damp.” He unrolled the cloth past the damaged portion, and resumed reading. “ ‘Let them know that great changes in both flesh and bone may be secured if the proper ceremonies be observed. Works of healing such as had never before been seen may …’” Morfew stopped, frustrated. “More damp. Ah, here is an admonition, or at least a part of one. ‘Warned that much evil had resulted because of it, and therefore it should be destroyed utterly, but he was overruled … agreed that a shard might be taken for further study, but that the main Stone of Konnard must be interred, together with …’ Really, this is most annoying. Still, as a scholar,” Morfew added with a sigh, “I must say that damage to writings always seems to occur just at the most interesting points in the text. I sometimes think it must be intended to teach us patience and proper humility, not to mention the virtue of persistence. There is only a little more left—very difficult to make out. ‘When the seals were set, a cry of great thanksgiving went up that such dire peril was removed. So long as the light of the sun cannot fall upon it, shall all be safe. …’” Morfew gestured helplessly at the damaged cloth. “I fear that is all we shall be able to read, my dear. Your eyes, however, are keen. Let me take my quill and copy as you read to me so that we may not have to touch the fabric any more than is necessary.”
Her hands trembling, Nolar bent over the faded writing. The Stone of Konnard, from which her shard must have broken away, was apparently endowed with healing powers. If it had truly caused “great changes in both flesh and bone,” and “works of healing never before seen,” then, perhaps … Nolar tried to contain her soaring hopes as she read each word aloud slowly so that Morfew could record it on a fresh parchment. Morfew was completing the last few phrases when Derren arrived with their evening meal.
While she fed Elgaret, Nolar told Derren about her exciting discovery. She set aside the spoon and dish to show him her shard. When she offered the stone fragment to him, however, Derren hastily drew back.
Ill at ease, Derren declared, “No, thank you, lady. I know naught of magical things. Such should stay with those who understand them.”
Nolar grimaced, disgusted with her own lack of knowledge. “I would I did understand this shard and its uses, Master Borderer. If only we knew how to employ it, perhaps it could aid Elgaret.”
“There is also the question,” Morfew quietly reminded them, “of where this Stone of Konnard now lies. It would seem to have been buried, but that must have been many generations ago. As I told you, I have never
seen any reference to it or to Konnard, whoever or whatever that was, whether person or place.”
“If only they had left us some directions,” Nolar fretted.
Morfew rolled his quill thoughtfully between his fingers. “You must consider, my dear, that some magical objects may better be left undiscovered. Remember the warning that much evil had resulted from it, and that at least one authoritative person at that time insisted upon the destruction of the stone.”
Stunned, Nolar slid back on her narrow bench. She had not properly attended to that warning. The proclamation of healing powers had seized her total attention. “But surely,” she objected, “if the stone promoted healing, it must have been empowered as good, not evil.”
Morfew shook his head, clearly recalling baleful precedents. “I possess only a scholar's outside knowledge of magic. From my lifelong observations, I may tell you my individual opinion that Power itself is neither good nor evil. It is a … a force, and how it is used, for what purpose and to what end determines whether its effect is fair or ill. It may be, and I merely suggest, that this Stone of Konnard was misused for evil purposes. It therefore had to be hidden away, banished, so that it might not be so used again. In some of our oldest scrolls, I have read that objects of Power can be corrupted by long use in the service of evil. Perhaps the Stone of Konnard was one such.”