The Singing Stones of Rendor (Book One of the Eidolon Trilogy)

By Neils Knudsen

Endowed with a magical ability not seen since the ancient Rendor Empire, life for K’Las just turned dangerous—and he’s not even born yet.

His parents hide him in plain sight for several years until they learn of a plot to seize an heirloom and enslave the powerful magical voices that blend with the family treasure. The family manages to escape the clutches of cold-blooded zealots from the Grand Peer that chases them to one of Rendor’s mysterious great henges.

A wild and shrewd wizard who hides within the henge, learns of the family’s secret treasure and vanquishes one of the zealots, but not out of altruism. He too is covetous of the powerful treasure the family holds dear.

Trapped between a ruthless killer and a crazed wizard, K’Las must quickly learn to control his nascent skills to help his parents best their foes. If he can’t, it won’t matter which of their foes wins—his family will surely die. Even if he does succeed, the hostile and unstable world order will not permit such unrestrained magic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neils Knudsen
• Release date: Dec 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311699664

Neils Knudsen

Neils Knudsen enjoys the quiet life with his wife surrounded by the scenic beauty of the Rocky Mountains. He and his wife, who doubles as his muse, are retired and maintain a relatively low profile. The only pets he lives with are his peeves, which his wife enjoys abusing. It is a mutual love affair.

Book preview

Chapter one

Haegatess

Her old, bent back ached. She steadied herself against the sill of an open pub window and peered inside. She grunted her disdain into the din of the tavern as a chantey man finished a bawdy seafaring song. The pub erupted into a rousing cheer while mugs clacked and beer sloshed. The rotund singer bowed to the sailors and wenches before he stepped to a table, raised a beer to himself, and drank.

Voices rose for more singing. Sing another verse of ‘Pauline’s Whistle’.

The singer wiped froth from his gray-flecked whiskers. Nah, me throats near done for. He slapped the rump of a woman who had wrapped herself around his neck. Besides, me wench needs a bit of wooin’.

An ovation of boots stomped on the floor as fists and mugs pounded the tables, encouraging the chantey man to continue. The old man pushed back his black woolen cap, picked up his mandolin, and led the wench away. Cheers, jeers, and whistles followed him.

A sailor stumbled out of the pub. He saw the old woman, tipped his cap with a grin, then staggered to the edge of the wharf and retched into the black harbor waters of Charlestone City.

The man continued to heave while Haegatess shifted her long gray shawl up over her narrow shoulders. She continued to the next pub, her never-ending search for a true-singer still unfulfilled. The arrival of foreign ships and their crews usually brought fresh voices, but not tonight. With another night of searching finished, she began her walk home. The ache in her stiff spine and arthritic joints slowed her pace and darkened her mood.

Excuse me, dear lady. May we ask you a few questions? A man’s mellow baritone gave some warmth to the cool harbor breeze.

She turned and looked up into a man’s bulging eyes, then focused on his aggressive, hooked nose. What do you want?

The light from a tavern window emphasized the man’s flaring nostrils. My name is Percival Morehouse. He gave her a gracious bow and swept his black cloak aside. He rose and gestured to a man beside him, face hidden under the cowl of his cloak. Except for a white sash, they were both dressed in black. This is Conrad Butler. We watched you peer into the windows of the local pubs and listen to the singers.

What’s your question? She scowled at them, expecting an admonishment and an order to move on.

We noticed your long braid and how it was fashioned. Also, you’re dressed in different shades of gray, and your shawl has a unique weave. We wondered how you came by it.

You fella’s need to get around more. Haegatess waved them off and continued her walk home. Go pester someone else.

No, please. The bug-eyed man moved in front of her. You don’t understand. We’re scholars interested in the bygone traditions of the Rendor Empire. Your garb and braid are similar to those mentioned in ancient scrolls of the Cherished Weavers. We want to know about you and how your tradition was passed down. His voice had become oily, almost wheedling.

Get out of my way, young man. Haegatess tried to push by him. Those old wounds haven’t healed yet.

He grabbed her arm. I’m serious, old girl. Tell us how you came by this attire. He tugged on her shawl. Who wove this?

She laid her free hand on his to push him away, but she then sensed the tones in his skin, unencumbered by Priory dictates. Well, this is a surprise.

He yanked his hand away, sensing something in her touch. Who are you? He backed away from her, massaged his hand, and looked nervous.

She tilted her gaze at him. Can you sing?

Startled and confused, he bristled. I’m asking the questions, woman. He nodded to his partner, removed a slender white rod from his sleeve, and took a defensive stance.

A white pirn, eh? Someone seems to think you deserve such an honor. A thin smile edged her lips.

The other man, suddenly aware of his partner’s alarm, responded in kind and moved directly behind her.

She wanted them to strike—and they did. She felt the touch of the rods on her shoulders. The sudden sensation of well-tuned harmonic weaves flowed over her body. They thrilled her. Two masters. How wonderful! The men hadn’t wasted any time. Somehow they recognized her for what she was, or thought she was. Cherished Weavers once had long braids, woven loosely at the top and tight at the end. Her garb was similar only in its homespun simplicity, not its color or lack thereof. However, the ancient weavers were long gone. None were supposed to have endured the great war, and their private symbols of power and status were kept secret. No scroll ever listed those private codes. Wherever these two men got their information, they must believe they’d captured a Cherished Weaver.

Haegatess let the weaves encase her. She savored the ancient, nearly forgotten caress while the rich tones swept the ache and pain from her body. Her body moved with the rhythmic motions of the supple, sensual dance held deep in her memory. She felt the vigor of youth return. Her spine straightened, though her gray hair remained the same.

She clamped on to the weaves, traced the strand of each thread back to its owner, and bound him to her. In an instant, the two men were snared. You’re mine.

They howled in terror when they realized they could not release themselves. They ran in opposite directions, but like dogs on a tether, the rope ran out and the iron spike won. The men reeled. An arm snapped. The threads whined as they drew taut. Both men struggled against the rejuvenated old woman.

She drank in their life-sustaining tones until they sated her hunger. From the two master weavers, she drew out twelve semitones, a full scale, and filled her spools with the harmonic threads of life. She couldn’t be happier.

The bug-eyed man lay in an alley and gasped for breath. One hand clutched at his chest, the other lay limp and broken. She stood over him for a long moment and considered what to do with him. Wish I could keep you. You’ll recover your tones in a week or two. It sure would be nice to feed off you again—mighty nice. But there’s no room for you, or your friend. I suppose I could just leave you here to die. Most folk would call me merciful if I did, but those folks are nothing but a bunch of gobsmacked, superstitious sheep.

She made her way back to the other man and found him uncloaked, fuzzy-faced and very young—maybe sixteen. You’re nothing but a boy. What are you, an apprentice? You’re good, if you are. Who trained you, your partner? Who trained him? Haegatess pondered where they came from, why they were here and how to handle them. All five Priories strictly forbade anyone from being a multi-toned weaver—a wilder. If the priory forbade it, then so did the five Trade Houses and every king, prince, and duke. Yet a few dared challenge the old ways, and one in particular . . .

It’s to the blasted priory, then.

As the sun rose, Haegatess led her two disheveled and splinted captives to a large country estate outside the city. The sentinels and footmen let her pass without challenge. They knew her on sight and kept their distance. One raced ahead to announce the arrival of the master’s aunt.

Few people in the eastern realms held as much power as Sir Tomas Campanill. People in his position, a brooding, paranoid group who normally concealed themselves, preferred a reclusive, though comfortable, lifestyle. Sir Tomas shared few of the traits associated with the glum members of the Merchant Trade house and the secretive Dewy Knoll Priory—other than to simultaneously succeed at business, curry favor with royalty, and destroy his enemies.

Two attendants heaved open the heavy double doors to Tomas’ study.

My dear Aunt Haega. The corpulent businessman and Priory Minister bellowed and slapped the top of his huge desk as he lifted himself to his feet. He dismissed his attendants with a gesture. Sir Tomas, in a white silk shirt with golden embroidery from shoulder to cuff, spread his thick arms wide and buried his chin in his jowls while he grinned between his ermine lapels. Seeing you again is such a welcome pleasure. Simply wonderful.

Shut up, you old windbag. Haegatess let her shawl slip down her back and led the two men into the study. Why do you bother with that twaddle? You’re no happier to see me than I am to be here. She shook a cloud of dust from her smoke-gray kirtle.

Tomas waved the cloud from his face and did his best to maintain a smile that threatened to sag. And who are your young gentlemen friends? You didn’t break that fellow’s arm, did you?

They aren’t gentlemen—they’re master weavers. And no, he broke his own arm, but I splinted it. She sat in an armchair in front of his desk, not bothering to wait for an invitation. The two men stood behind her and remained silent, their expressions blank and lifeless.

Really? Master weavers, eh, but not gentlemen? He leaned his bulk over the desk toward Haegatess. And am I supposed to be impressed? They may be younger than usual, but I already have more than I need. What do you want? In trouble, are you? Have you been sucking the life out of children and travelers again?

Just a few innkeepers and a drunken sailor, or two—until I found these. She thumbed at the hapless men behind her, scanned his desk, and evaluated his usual banquet of treats. I thought we might come to some beneficial compromise in regards to my . . . um, inconvenient tastes. She picked a cluster of grapes from a bowl and leaned back in her chair.

You seem especially plucky today, Auntie. Did you feed well last night? Tomas pushed himself off the desk, pulled his winged, high-back red leather chair close, and sat down. No smile now. You know how I love to haggle, Haega, but I’m busy. What do you want?

Haegatess ate a few more grapes while she regarded him. These two master weavers have six tones each and they’re trained to kill. Together they’re a full chromatic scale. She popped another grape in her mouth and fixed a steely gaze on her nephew.

Tomas’ eyes glazed over in the time it took for the news to sink in. His ruddy face paled. He cleared his throat and leaned forward. His elbows pressed heavily on the desk. Did you say six tones each?

Yes.

He lowered his brow, closed his fat laden eyes, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Are you sure of this?

Yes. She stood and held her hands out for him to touch. Let me show you—oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. She raised her hands in mock surrender. You can’t sense your tones, can you? Is that little old imbuement getting in your way? She leaned toward him and sneered. Well, blast and double blast it all, you’ll just have to round up twelve trusty weavers to test my boyfriends, won’t you.

You don’t need to lecture or belittle me on the imbuements, Haegatess. Tomas reached for a bell rope and tugged. You know how I feel about them. If I could remove mine, I would, and anyone else who wanted to be free of them.

Haegatess planted her fists on her hips. You need a living henge for that. Have you heard of any? No, because they’re all tombs—dark and silent. Unless you find a well-trained Cherished Weaver, or better yet, a Cherished Pair who can revive one.

Well, you’re certainly melodic this morning. You must have drawn every sentient tone out of those two. It’s a wonder they’re still alive. He shook his head and glared at her. You know very well I’ve been searching for a Cherished since taking a seat on the Priory Council. Forty-three years I’ve been searching. It’s not an easy task when others are just waiting for me to break the law. He held up his hand to silence her usual reply, but failed.

You arrogant, overstuffed, churlish prat. She pulled off her shawl and whipped one end over the huge desk to touch him, but missed. He had moved away. I’ve been searching for most of my life. Those bastards killed my husband, then stole my daughters and killed them too. Candies, fruits, berries, and papers scattered as she gathered her shawl and recast it, trying to reach the retreating grandee. I’ll silence every one of your ungrateful, greedy senses—if I ever get ahold of you.

He pushed his chair back and walked away to keep out of her reach. Now, be fair, Auntie. You can’t blame these poor fellows. He swept a hand toward the two ill-fated men. They weren’t even around back then. What happened to your family was tragic, and you were not the only one to suffer during the Great War. He moved with deceptive grace to the two men and studied them for a moment. We can’t screen every child for those tones before their imbuement ceremony. There are many more Temple Priests and Priory Enforcers than there are of us. And now we have men like these two. They should be able to tell us . . .

A polite knock on the study doors drew their attention. Tomas’ manservant pushed open one door and entered. You called, sir?

Yes, thank you, Arnold. Please send couriers to my paladins. Summon them back. I want all twelve of them here, now.

Very well, sir. Arnold gave a polite bow and left, pulling the heavy door closed.

What are you planning? Haegatess settled her shawl over her shoulders and lifted her braid from under it.

Tomas finished his study of the two men before he turned to his aunt. Why, you’re going to help us tune up one of those old henge looms and see what these two have to tell us.

Haegatess barked a humorless laugh. You want me to teach twelve one-note ninnies you call master weavers to thread a loom. Ha! You might as well throw cats at a harp.

Tomas calmly made his way to his desk and sat down. How are your healing skills, Auntie? I assume you still have your precious heirloom.

Why? She yanked hard on her shawl and sat.

Well, you see, I’ve been expecting something like this to happen. He began to gather the scattered treats and return them to their bowls. There are verified reports of turmoil in the central realms, specifically in the Endless Realm Priory. I expect a new Peer will lead it within the next few years. Maybe sooner. He pointed to the two silent men. These fellows are probably from that confused priory. If so, they confirm rumors of trained multi-toned weavers. They call themselves Inquisitors, and perform much the same duties as our Enforcers. The fact they have come here is disturbing.

What has that to do with healing? She didn’t trust her nephew’s motives, especially if he wanted to involve her.

What happens if you use your trusty heirloom on an unborn child? He leaned toward her. "What if we found our Cherished Weaver before it was born? What if we found a Cherished Pair? What if you trained them? What if they—"

Conquered the world? Haegatess didn’t realize she had held her breath. And I could finally reap my vengeance.

"Well, maybe not conquer the world, but at least we could keep it at bay until we convince others to join us. Sir Tomas selected a fig and popped it in his mouth. We may not have long—only a few years if things don’t go our way."

They sat and examined each other for a long moment. Haegatess searched her memory of possible candidates. A name came to her mind, one with family ties. Do you remember a young nephew of yours by the name of Willim K’Las Campanill?

Yes. He’s a contender for priory membership, and an excellent businessman. The boy has a lot of potential. In fact, he’s a master—

What matters is his wife. She’s pregnant. Haegatess stood and leaned over the big desk. I’ve heard she can sing, too. I want you to send her to me.

How do you know this? He squinted suspiciously at her.

They’re tinkers. The Tinker Converse is being held near the Great Eastern Henge. She straightened, turned, and walked to the study doors. I visit the converse . . . at night . . . and gather a few, uh . . . staples. I hear things, too. She rapped on the door, and an attendant pushed it open. She walked through.

The door closed behind her.

SIX MONTHS LATER

A gentle rap on the door made Haegatess sit up. She knew that rhythm.

Haegatess, are you home? The contralto voice confirmed the woman’s arrival.

Yes, of course I’m home. Come in, girl. Haegatess’ persistent frown and the indelible scorn in her voice belied the affection she had for the young woman. Not only did the girl have a keen interest in the healing arts, but she was the true-singer Haegatess had sought for so many years. No visit from the young woman over the past six months had gone without a song and a welcome smile.

The latch clattered as it lifted. Haegatess pushed herself up from her rocking chair and shuffled toward the door. She met B’Tris at the doorway. Haegatess’ grand-nephew, Willim, followed her in.

Ah, I see you brought your husband. Why? Haegatess eyed her grand-nephew up and down. You haven’t been around in a while, have you? You’re still too skinny, and too tall and too nervous. Stop that. She slapped at his arms as they hovered around his wife’s shoulders. However, he persisted and lifted her thick auburn hair from her sweating neck.

B’Tris held her swollen belly with both hands. It’s time, Haega.

Willim steadied her while she wobbled into the cottage.

Very well, Bee. Don’t get your skirt in a twist. Haegatess closed the door behind them. Get over there to the bed. I’m ready if you are.

B’Tris clutched at her husband’s green tunic when he raised her swollen feet onto the bed. She groaned in pain while a contraction gripped her.

Willim sat beside her and dabbed sweat from her brow. Aunt Haega seems to have done you a world of good. I’m glad she . . .

Get out of my way, boy. Haegatess thrust a gnarled finger into Willim’s shoulder. I need to listen to the child.

Willim pulled himself up, one shoulder at a time, to his full height and loomed over her. Haegatess lowered her finger and stepped back. She never liked his even-tempered demeanor, but sometimes she could prod a reaction from him. Like now. Taking charge and granting me permission, eh? He regarded her for a stern moment then stepped aside and gestured for her to assist B’Tris. She nodded, acknowledging his right to be there.

Haegatess took Willim’s place by B’Tris’ side and prepared her to give birth. She placed a hand on each side of B’Tris, pressed an ear to her belly, and listened to the baby inside. Her ear knew the sounds of a normal pregnancy, and she heard them. But this time, she searched by touch for the tones she had instilled in the mother and child. Her heirloom had worked well. She gently pulled on each tone to distinguish child from mother. Only B’Tris’ strength made the task possible.

With each tug, a thread formed. Her mind plucked it. B’Tris smiled. Haegatess pulled a second tone to form a chord, then a third, and a fourth, until all the tones sang and pushed against B’Tris’ deep-set imbuement. She strummed every note and chord, to B’Tris’ contentment. Haegatess continued until she held no doubt that B’Tris might have been a Cherished if not for her imbuement. She cursed under her breath.

Willim heard her. What’s wrong?

Nothing a living henge couldn’t fix. She lifted her head from B’Tris’ round belly. Your wife is doing well, but I have to consider the child now.

Haegatess placed both hands near the baby’s head and found its tones. Each thread she pulled from the child resounded with booming notes and chords in her mind, but they drifted, undisciplined. With each strum, B’Tris’ single, unimbued resonant tone worked to pull the child into perfect pitch. The child leaped and B’Tris laughed.

B’Tris raised her head to see Haegatess. Are the tones still there? Are they still strong?

Yes. With every treatment they’ve gotten stronger, and so has the baby. Haegatess looked from B’Tris to Willim and back again. Are you ready?

Yes, B’Tris said, and Willim nodded.

Haegatess stood and pressed one hand to B’Tris’ temple and the other on her belly near the baby’s head. She drew out their shared note, middle C, and strummed.

The sudden, intense contraction lifted B’Tris’ shoulders from the bed. She heaved a teeth-grinding groan as Willim moved to support her.

Push.

Will he live? Willim sat beside B’Tris and stroked her sweat-soaked auburn hair. We’ve lost four already. Will this one live?

Yes, of course the boy will live. Haegatess washed her hands and toweled them dry. She stepped to a storage chest, took a wooden box from deep within, and returned to B’Tris’ side. I want you to have this. Haegatess caressed the soft sheen of the box while she embraced it. It’s been in our family for . . . well, a very long time.

But isn’t that your family heirloom? B’Tris lifted her gaze from the baby boy nestled beside her. Shouldn’t it go to Sir Tomas?

No, and for good reason. Haegatess lay the box next to the baby. Perhaps your uncle Tomas will tell you the story of . . . our inheritance. He won’t want to, mind you, but you make him. He’s not a bad sort, for a fat, greedy old man.

Her voice softened. But no time for stories. She tapped Willim on the shoulder to get him to move. When he stood, she sat in his place by B’Tris and the baby. The child must have his tones sealed. I don’t want them to fade away too soon. In a few years, when he’s ready, we must begin his training. She shook a bony finger at the new parents. You are his mother and father. You teach him right from wrong, and I will train him in the Weaving Arts.

Willim glanced to his wife before he met his aunt’s gaze. But I thought you were tone deaf and couldn’t weave.

I am. Haegatess caressed the boy’s tiny brow, lost in thought. She then spoke in a whisper without realizing it. I’m deaf as a post. Couldn’t spin a thread if my life . . . heh, no. Oh no, no spinning wheel for me. But spools? Now, spools I have.

B’Tris and Willim gave each other a confused glance.

Willim knelt beside the bed and took his aunt’s hand. What do you mean, spools?

What? Haegatess looked up from the boy, startled. Spools? Who said anything about spools? Pah! She shoved Willim’s hand away, stood, and glared at him for daring to question her. However, her immediate concern still lay next to B’Tris. She huffed and sat back down. I have to seal his tones.

Her hand trembled as it came to her chin and began stroking. She had never done this with an infant. He’ll be a Cherished Weaver someday, I’m sure of it. Do I even need to do this? I’ve done this with initiates for the Cherished—why not with infants? Surely this has been done before. Why can’t I remember? His tones are all there, ready to be sealed, but they’re immature.

But what happens if it works? She closed her eyes to relish the thought. The world will regret what it has done to me. The Five Great Realms of Rendor will quake, the henges will break, and my revenge will be fulfilled.

Aunt Haega, are you ill? Willim gently shook her arm.

Haegatess flailed and slapped at his hand. Leave me be. I was just planning how to do this.

How many times have you sealed someone’s tones? Willim caught one of her hands and held it firm. Uncle Tomas said you knew what you were doing and to trust you, but if there’s any danger to my son—

There’s no . . . She grunted and tried to pull away from Willim, but failed. No danger to the boy. She pulled again. Willim matched her glare for a moment, then let her go. She examined her wrist as she rubbed it. I’m more concerned about . . . I need to be here for the boy.

She bent over the infant and placed her face near his. Are you ready for this, little one? She lifted one of the tiny hands from his chest and pressed it gently to her brow. Willim leaned in to watch.

She released the spools that lay deep within her mind. This would likely be her last chance—and a very good chance, indeed. The lad’s tones had a nearly complete scale of twelve semitones. A little tuning and they would be whole and comprehensive. She would give him everything he could handle.

The spools in her mind spun up slowly, giving the child time to adjust while they unwound. Each spool surged like a sensory ocean, filled with sound, color, texture, flavor, and aroma—these were the essence of her ‘tones’. The very thing every Weaver needed.

A tiny thread formed at the boy’s temple and reached for her touch. She took it, and slowly spilled her tones into his hungry little mind on threads as thin and persistent as life itself. The ability of the boy to absorb so much surprised her. The spools gained speed, unwinding faster, challenging her ability to control them. Her grip on the spools began to fail. The flow doubled. Tripled. Slow down, slow down. A dull, throbbing pain began to build in her brain. She tried to release the thread, but couldn’t. Panic set in. Slow . . . down. I can’t . . . I can’t . . . The spools spun too fast. A blinding pain knifed behind her eyes. I . . . said . . . slo—

She sagged and fell to the floor.

Pain woke her. It grated at her joints. Her back curled and twisted like a tattered rag in a tempest. The pounding agony in her brain would crack a blacksmith’s anvil. She felt depleted. She forced her eyes open and found Willim sitting beside her, caressing her brow.

She rasped through a dry throat, How’s the boy?

Ah, Aunt Haega. Willim gently pressed his hand to her temple. He leaned closer. K’Las is doing very well. How are you?

He took everything, she whispered.

Willim lifted a water-skin from his belt, removed the stopper, and offered her a drink. What did he take?

She sipped and swallowed through the pain. Everything. I have nothing left. Her eyes closed. My anger. I’m sorry. Beware of my anger.

Of what? Willim set his ear near her mouth.

When he is of age, he will learn quickly. She licked her lips and spoke slowly. His senses will come alive. Beware. His senses . . . beware, beware of . . . my . . . anger. Her mind began to slip into darkness, but she fought back. He’s a good boy. A peculiar boy. I didn’t mean for him to take it all. I’m . . . sorry. Beware.

The fine weave of a soft, black veil enveloped her. Her mind reached and embraced it. A voice, perhaps her own, said, You’re mine.

She heard a familiar voice from somewhere far behind. Good-bye, Haegatess. Good-bye.

Chapter Two

Rat Hole

Tick . . . tock . . . tick . . . The pondering cadence of the big floor clock seduced the library patrons into a silent reverence. K’Las closed a clothbound book, signed his name to a folded piece of paper, and slipped the pencil into his day kit. He had finished his last exam. His feet dangled nervously from the too-tall chair his father had set him in two hours earlier. He waited for the clock to tick away the last few minutes of their allotted time. Before long, his feet began to swing.

His proctor, a brawny woman one might mistake for a constable, carried a well-used measuring stick. She patrolled three long, narrow examination tables with ten pensive students taking the same exam. All but two were children of tinkers, schooled on the roads of the eastern realms. The Merchant’s Trade House set the standards for children not attending formal schools in those client kingdoms.

The head librarian, a scarecrow of a man, and his assistants roamed the floor, keeping an eye on the comings and goings of books and patrons. They carefully managed the books lent out on a long-term basis—especially to tinkers on the last day of the Tinker’s Converse.

The clock finally struck a single muted tone for the noon hour. All the students