RIDDLE IN STONE

By  Robert  Evert  

 

Book  One  of  the  Riddle  in  Stone  series  

 

   

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp. 443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016 www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 2013 by Robert Cimera

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any

form whatsoever.

For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com.

First Diversion Books edition February 2012.

ISBN: 978-1-938120-95-4

 

   

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife and two incredible sons. It is also dedicated to homeless pets everywhere. Please support your local humane

societies and shelters.  

   

PART ONE

Chapter One

“Blood was spurting out of him, saturating the ground where he lay crumpled in the bushes,” the evening’s hired storyteller, Harden, said, his voice wavering with emotion. Standing alone on a long wooden table in the middle of the Wandering Rogue’s crowded common room, he knelt in the circle of lantern light as if he were comforting a dying comrade. Around him in the smoky dimness, a couple hundred of Rood’s townsfolk leaned forward, spellbound.

“And then my brother slowly opened his eyes, and he said to me with his last gasping breath, ‘Harden . . . tell Rose, tell her that I—’”

Harden sprang to his feet, his booming voice startling the audience. “But another of the goblins’ accursed arrows tore into his chest, my brother’s blood splattering across my face as I drew my trusty sword . . . ”

From his usual spot in the far corner of the tavern, Edmund watched Molly wait on Bert the cooper a couple of tables away. She filled the elderly man’s stein to the rim, smiled at him, and made her way to the next customer.

Quickly, Edmund drained the rest of his warm beer. Pushing aside the books he brought to read during the meal, he placed his glass in the middle of the table so that she couldn’t miss the fact that it was empty.

Okay. Just relax. Just relax and try to sound confident. Be confident! “ . . . with my dead brother still in my arms, the terrible goblin horde charged at us,

waving their cruel scimitars over their heads and screaming as if they were possessed by the Evil One himself!” The speaker swung an imaginary sword over his head and shrieked a high-pitched war cry that sliced through the darkness. Cowering, those around him covered their ears.

The people at the table behind Bert didn’t require anything else to drink, so Molly continued down the aisle. One more table to go before she got to Edmund.

Relax. Just relax. Remember to breathe. And don’t say anything stupid! “ . . . at least forty of the foul beasts stormed up the hill upon which just me and my

three surviving comrades stood drenched in blood . . . ” Molly began filling the glasses of the customers in front of Edmund. When she

looked up, her gaze met his. His heart thumping, he couldn’t help but smile at her. She smiled back.

After saying something to the customers in front of Edmund, Molly nodded and started to leave their table.

Okay . . . here she comes! Relax. Just relax. And for the love of the gods, don’t stutter! As she approached, Molly playfully pretended as if she didn’t see Edmund or the

empty glass sitting next to his stack of books. As she passed him by, she bumped into his shoulder.

“Oh, excuse me, my dear sir!” she whispered in exaggerated surprise. “I didn’t see you sitting here all by yourself! How could I have missed such a handsome gentleman?”

“ . . . the first goblin fell dead at my feet,” the storyteller went on, “my fine blade planted in its cloven chest . . . ”

“Hello, M . . . M . . . Molly,” Edmund said, trying to remember to breathe. Winking at him, she bent forward to retrieve his glass. Edmund’s grinned widened

when he inadvertently caught a glimpse of her ample breasts rebelling against the fabric of her tight dress.

   

What the hell are you doing? Chivalrous men don’t leer! Look away! Look away! Averting his eyes, he mentally reproached himself for what he was thinking. Golden-brown beer rose higher in his stein as she poured. Hurry! Say something. Compliment her. Women love that kind of thing! “Uh…uh,” Edmund said, struggling to find something to say. Then he blurted out,

“Th-th . . . that’s . . . that’s a b-beaut-beautiful, a beautiful dress you’re wearing.” “This?” She tossed her hips to one side, showing Edmund her profile. “A special man

gave this to me for my birthday.” She winked again. “W-w-well . . . well, you look beaut-beautiful.” He shifted his gaze nervously several

times, unable to find a part of her that didn’t make him babble like an idiot. “But it, but it . . . isn’t, it isn’t the dress that does it.”

Should I have said that? Did that come out wrong? Oh, I’m so stupid! Damn it! Putting her hand on his shoulder, Molly let it slide down his back a couple inches.

Wonderful warmth radiated throughout Edmund’s body. His ears tingled. “Why Ed, I do believe you are trying to make me blush!” However, it was Edmund who was blushing. He felt as if burning light were radiating

from his face. “Look . . . M-Molly. I . . . I want to ask you something.” Molly’s eyebrows rose, a devilish smirk appearing on the corner of her red lips.

“Oh?” Edmund fumbled with his full glass. “I . . . I was just w-wondering . . . ” He spilled some of the beer on the table. Molly quickly mopped it up before the

puddle could reach his books. When she brushed up against Edmund’s arm, her hand lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Breathe! Remember to breathe! “I . . . I was just w-w-wondering . . . ” Edmund sucked in an uneven breath. “Well.

That, that, that is to say . . . I was just w-wondering if—” “You!” the storyteller bellowed, pointing at Edmund from across the common room.

“You, there in the back!” Jerking up, Edmund knocked over his glass, sending a wave of foaming beer onto the

person sitting in front of him. He glanced around, hoping that the speaker meant somebody else. But everybody was looking straight at him, including the cursing customer with beer dripping down his back.

“Yes, you,” Harden shouted. “The fat fellow in the corner. You’re interrupting me. If you have something to say, say it and be done with it! Otherwise these good people deserve an uninterrupted tale.”

Rood’s townsfolk glared at Edmund. Next to him, Molly knelt, mopping up the beer dripping to the dirty wooden floor.

Edmund tried not to glance down her dress, but failed on several occasions. “Now, are you going to let me continue?” the storyteller shouted. “Or am I going to

have to give you what you deserve?” He clenched a sizable fist. A sense of excitement rustled through the dark room. A fight was as good as a tale for

entertainment, though it wouldn’t have been much of a match given the speaker’s young, well-muscled body versus Edmund’s short stature and generous middle-aged gut.

Edmund glowered at the storyteller. Go ahead. Show everybody what a fake he is! Him at the Battle of Bloody Hills! He

doesn’t know a damn thing about it. Ask him who his commanding officer was or what his company was called. Show everybody that he’s been making everything up all night. Go ahead!

The speaker hopped effortlessly from his makeshift stage. There was a screeching of benches being pushed aside as a lane leading to Edmund appeared through the crowd.

   

Edmund’s defiant expression faltered. Shrinking back, he searched for Molly, but she was nowhere to be found.

Don’t cause trouble. It isn’t worth it. Don’t say a thing. “Well?” the storyteller asked, tattooed arms folded across his chest. Edmund shook his head. Reaching for his glass, he lifted it to his lips with a

trembling hand, forgetting that all of his beer was on table, floor, and the person sitting in front of him.

Everybody was still staring. The storyteller tapped a foot. You’re going to have to say something. Damn! Just focus. Nice . . . smooth . . . speech. He took a deep breath. “I,” Edmund began, softly. He coughed and tried to speak louder, praying that he

would get the words out intact. “I, I . . . I’m s-s-s . . . s-sor-sorry. Pl-pl-please . . . please go on.”

The storyteller turned to the audience. “Did you all hear that?” he asked in mock astonishment. “The fat fellow is s-s-s-s-

sor-sor-sorry!” Everybody laughed. Edmund swore under his breath. Nearly everybody from town was at the tavern. For years, they had all come to

Edmund if they wanted their children to learn their letters, or if they needed a legal document read, or if they needed something translated into the Common Tongue. They all came to him for help when they needed it. But now they were laughing, taking the side of a complete stranger rather than standing up for him.

Ingrates. Where are you when I need you? The speaker pointed to the door at the back of the room, the door to the kitchen that

only the staff of the Wandering Rogue were supposed to use. “Why don’t you j-j-j-just g-g-g-get out!”

Tell him to go to hell. By the glowing fire pit, a boy of eight years or so was pretending to stutter. Several of

his friends giggled. Go ahead! Show everybody what a liar he is. Tell everybody that he’s been making

the entire tale up! He doesn’t know a thing about the Battle of Bloody Hills. You have the books and maps to prove it!

Slowly, Edmund got to his feet. Some children snickered. The storyteller took an angry step toward Edmund. Women on the other side of the

room scrambled on top of their benches, hoping to get a better look at the coming carnage.

“I said, get out!” He jabbed a finger at the door to the kitchen again. The room held its breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Fight him! Punch him in the nose! You’ve been coming here every day for the past

twenty years. You have every right to stay! Punch him in the nose and watch him— The storyteller lunged forward, snarling. Gasping, Edmund shot to the back door, nearly tripping over the bench in the process. There was an eruption of howling laughter and clapping. Somebody stomped their

foot. “And that, ladies and gentlemen,” the speaker announced to an even greater

avalanche of applause as the kitchen door slammed shut, “is how you deal with stuttering morons!”

   

Edmund tried not to run as he pushed his way through the Wandering Rogue’s crowded kitchen, but wasn’t able to slow himself down. A serving tray fell clattering to the floor. Cooks yelled. Without looking back, Edmund hurried outside through the servants’ entrance.

Panting, he stopped to listen. The storyteller wasn’t pursuing him. With a humph, he sat on the tavern’s rear steps and stared up at the pale blue stars

shimmering in the autumn night. They were of no help to him. He dabbed the sweat from his forehead with a silk handkerchief.

Well Ed, you’ve make a jackass out of yourself again. You’re never going to live this one down. You should have fought him.

He’s a trained solider! He would’ve cleaned the floors with me. Besides, there’s no use fighting a man like that. They never change.

But at least you would still have your dignity. Behind him, the screen door creaked opened. Edmund spun around, ready to run. But

it was only Molly, silhouetted against the yellow lantern light streaming out from the bustling kitchen. She grimaced, strands of her auburn hair slipping out of its ponytail.

“You okay?” she asked, bushing her hair behind her ear. Inhaling, Edmund stared back up at the stars and nodded, though he wanted to say

otherwise. “Should I bring your dinner out here or are you coming back in?” Edmund considered his options. “I, I, I think . . . I think I’ll just go home,” he said,

although the thought of spending another night sitting alone in his empty house made his soul dim.

“All right. If that’s what you want.” From inside the tavern, the storyteller was addressing the common room in an

embellished stutter. The crowd hooted and cheered. Edmund frowned at the ground. “Look, Ed . . . ” Molly began softly. He waved his hand. “I, I had it c-coming. I disrupted him. I shouldn’t have.” She squeezed his shoulder. He felt like melting. “Don’t worry about it. In a couple days, he’ll be off to Havendor and all of this will

be forgotten.” Havendor! He’s half my age and has seen more than twice as much of the world as I

have. What I wouldn’t give to see Havendor! You’ll go some day. Edmund nodded again, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to say anything clearly. Kissing the bald spot on top of his head, Molly patted his shoulder. “I better get

going. Have to earn a living and all that.” Tell her! “W-w-wait,” Edmund said before she could disappear back inside. Molly’s eyes gleamed in the starlight, her smile making his heart sing. “I-I know that you are busy with the, the throng and all. B-b-but I was hoping that

you could talk with me for a moment. I’ll give you the b-best tip that I have ever given you if you stay.” He forced a grin.

“I have a minute,” she said, leaning up against the door. “Maybe two if you keep me interested.”

“Interested,” Edmund repeated to himself. Go on! Tell her! “What do you want to talk about, Ed?” “L-let, let me ask you something.” Standing, he inched closer to her. “Wh-wh-why,

why do you think I come here night after night? I mean, with my books and all. I mean, I

   

could easily read at home. Why do you think I come here?” He longed to take her hand in his, but didn’t.

“I would guess for the same reason I come here.” She touched his forearm. Edmund’s eyebrows rose in hope and anticipation. “We’re waiting for somebody to sweep us off our feet and carry us away from this

horseshit of a town.” Edmund began examining the uneven step he was standing on. “Oh.” “Don’t be ashamed, Ed. I know you’re looking for a way out of here. Most of us are.

Hell, I certainly am. This isn’t exactly the most exciting place in the world, am I right? And no men here are knocking down my door no matter what I try.”

I’d batter down an iron door with my bare hands for you. Edmund played with his trouser pocket. “Wh-what makes you think that? I mean

about me wanting to leave?” She tapped her temple playfully. “A woman knows these things. Besides, on the rare

occasion when a merchant or adventurer or government official comes through this place, you practically beg them to take you with them when they leave.”

Edmund’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m mostly teasing you. You don’t actually beg. But everybody knows that you

want to leave. Heck, I remember when I was a little girl you used to tell me how you were going to go adventuring and find some such hidden treasure or lost sword or some priceless relic that only your precious books talked about. You were quite the character back then, very unique, especially for this tiny place.”

His head lifted. “Were? And, and, and . . . now?” “Well, you know how it is. We get older and have to stop acting like children.

Dreams change. People become more predictable. More settled. You have to pay the rent, put food on the table, and all that.” Molly patted his arm again. “Speaking of which, I better get back. I’ll put that big tip on your account.”

His eyes followed the gentle curve of her hips as she hurried into the kitchen. He wanted to say something. He wanted to stop her and finally reveal his heart. But, as usual, the words never managed to get past his spastic lips. The screen door banged against its frame behind her.

You should’ve said something. The timing wasn’t right. It’s never right. Edmund sighed. “Never in a million years,” somebody said, laughing in the darkness. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Edmund sat on the steps, ignoring the smirking

stable hand standing by the stable door. “Not even if you were the head librarian of the King’s personal library,” the begrimed

man went on. “I, I don’t know what you mean, Norb.” Edmund replied. “And I’m n-n-not, I’m not a

librarian.” The stable hand sat next to him, the stench of body odor and horse manure making

Edmund’s eyes water. “Oh, then teacher, if librarian doesn’t suit you. Heaven knows you have enough books in that house of yours to make a library. But don’t go pretendin’ that you don’t get me. Not you, Edmund. You’re a man, and a smart one at that. I see how you look at Mol and those breasts of hers.”

“I never!” Edmund said, his blood running cold. “And you never will.” Norb chuckled. “And it’s not why you think.” Remaining indignant, Edmund didn’t take the bait. “It’s not your s-s-stutter, my dear teacher,” Norb continued.

   

“S-s-scholar,” Edmund stammered defiantly. “I-I-I’m, I’m a scholar. Not a t-t-teacher or a librarian. I’m a scholar.”

Inside, the storyteller was recounting how he singlehandedly fought three scimitar-waving goblins all at once.

“All right then,” Edmund said, giving in. “So, so, so what is it then, if not my stutter?”

“Oh, so the learned scholar is interested in what a lowly stable hand has to say, is that it?”

“Come on, out with it, Norb. Say what you want to say. I’m listening.” Norb leaned closer to Edmund. There was a more than a hint of cheap alcohol on his

breath. “As I was saying, the reason why you’ll never, you know, with Molly there isn’t because of your particular manner of speaking. It’s because women don’t dream about being with guys like us.”

Edmund recoiled at being lumped into the same category as the skinny, foul-smelling stable hand.

“You see, women always want what they can’t have. And around here, they can’t have men of adventure, men of glory. Don’t believe me? Look at all the women drooling over this storyteller the past week. Now, he’s a good-looking enough chap, I’ll give him that. But put him in mended trousers and throw shit on his boots, and he’d look like any of the lads from the farms.”

Edmund recalled the overabundance of women attending the evening’s festivities. Most of them were gathered in the front rows, the mixture of their perfumes nearly overwhelming Edmund way in the back of the room. He remembered how they hung on the storyteller’s every word, giggling and crying out at all the appropriate moments. The girls approaching marrying age were dressed in their best clothing and had their hair done up. At least three were holding bouquets of red roses, presumably for the speaker when he was finished.

“Your point?” “Let me put it to you this way, my dear scholar. In all of those books of yours, how

many times has the beautiful damsel ever run off with the librarian? Or the stable hand? And how many times have they run off with the unknown stranger? Or the mysterious traveler? Or the lad coming back wounded from the big battle?”

He has you there. “Go on.” “The qualities women want in a husband are, one—” Norb held up a grubby finger,

its ragged nail gnawed to the quick. “Faithfulness. They want somebody who’ll not run out on them when they get old or when somebody prettier comes along.”

Nodding, Edmund motioned for Norb to continue. A second blackened finger appeared. “Two, they want security. They want somebody

who can buy them the things they want. And they want to know they’ll never starve.” Again, Edmund nodded in agreement. A third finger rose. “Three. They want something different than what every other

woman around them has.” Raising his own well-manicured finger, Edmund tapped at the evening air. “I, I don’t

see your point there. We’re, we’re all different. No two women can have two men who are identical. It’s an im-im-im . . . possibility.”

Norb smiled sympathetically. “Boy, for as smart as you are, you just don’t get it, do you? Here, let me educate you about the fairer sex.” He got even closer to Edmund as if letting him in on a well-guarded secret. Edmund leaned away, attempting to get a breath of unspoiled air. “Suppose that the Rogue here is the Royal Gathering Hall at Eryn Mas. Each of the men inside is a tried and true warrior, rich, famous, and oozing with all of the

   

chivalry crap that you’re always spouting off about. Now, of all these suitable mates, which one would be the most desirable to women?”

“You’re talking nonsense. You haven’t provided enough information upon which to—”

“I’ll tell you who’d get all the ladies panting . . . the fella who’s different from all the rest, that’s who.”

Thinking about this, Edmund jumped when Molly appeared on the top step behind them. In one hand, she had a bottle of wine and a glass. In the other, she had his books.

“Here you go, Ed,” she said, handing him his stack of books. “I don’t want anybody to spill anything on your precious babies.” She handed him the glass and the bottle. “Do you want me to bring you out some steak? Bart killed a young heifer last night just for this group. I can give you the best cuts.”

Edmund stammered. With no coherent words issuing from his mouth, he shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” she said. “Now, don’t let Norb here get you into any trouble, you understand? He’s a rapscallion if ever there was one.”

Norb chuckled, not disagreeing. “Good evening, Mol,” he said, inclining his head in a slight bow. “Sure lookin’ pretty tonight, as always.”

She grinned at the stable hand, about to say something in response. But then somebody in the common room called for more ale.

“Gotta run!” She wiggled her fingers at them and disappeared inside, the screen door banging shut behind her.

Edmund stared, blinking at the space that Molly had just vacated, finally able to breathe. Sighing, he said to Norb, “Go on.”

“Finally, women want to live through their men. They can’t go out and do what they want. They don’t have the legal rights or education or the money. So they live vic . . . vic . . . vicorously—”

“Vicariously,” Edmund said, pouring himself a drink. Norb eyed the bottle. “Yeah, that’s the word you use, ‘vicariously.’ They have to do

that through their men. They want excitement and passion and mystery and adventure. Let me ask you this. How exciting would it be to be married to a librarian? Or a stable hand for that matter? What new stories could we tell them each night as they served us our dinner?”

“Ah, but, but, but that’s where you are wrong.” Edmund sipped the red wine with satisfaction. It was from the Hillcrest vineyard. Molly knew all of his favorites. “You see, I have a world of st-st-stories. Stories from back when humans first came to this continent!” He stabbed his chin at the tavern and took another drink. “Stories that are far better than this imposter could ever tell.”

“Yes, but those aren’t your stories. They’re the ones that you’ve read about, which gets back to my third point. Any woman can have their man read them those stories.”

Only if they’re literate. “Look, Ed. The reason why women like Mol don’t go for fellas like us is because

we’re boring.” Boring? You can’t deny that one. Scowling, he took another drink. I’ve been bored my entire life. “Here, let me ask you this. How long have you dreamt about going to Eryn Mas and

becoming one of the King’s advisors? How many years have you dreamt about writing your own book or adventuring into the wild lands or all those things you keep talking about? If a man doesn’t follow through on his own hopes and dreams, how can a woman believe that he’ll help her achieve hers?”

   

Staring off into the darkness, Edmund took another drink. I’ll do all of that and more. I just haven’t had time. You always say that. Pretty soon, you won’t have any time left. “You’re a good guy, Ed. But you ain’t exactly exciting, if you don’t mind me saying

it.” Norb flicked a manure-encrusted thumb at the screen door. From inside, the storyteller was now regaling the crowd with a comic rendition of how the goblin chieftain surrendered to him. “He, on the other hand, has gone places and done things we could only dream about or read in your books.”

Edmund refilled his glass, trying not to show his growing anger. You know what he’s saying is true. You need to do something with your life. You can’t

just sit here until you die! “Let me ask you this.” Licking his lips as he watched Edmund drink, Norb scratched

the grey stubble on his grubby chin. “Could you honestly see yourself standing on a hill, leading a company of men against a single goblin, let alone a horde of them?”

Edmund snorted. “Now, all right, this young fellow might not have done that either,” Norb conceded.

“But it’s easy to picture him doing it. He has that air about him, you know what I’m saying? It’s the perception that’s important. That’s what makes the man. It’s not what men actually do, but what women believe he’s capable of doing in a pinch, if you get me.”

Edmund emptied his glass in one long gulp. “And, and wh-wh-what is it that I’m capable of doing, pray tell?” Laughing, Norb slapped Edmund hard across the back. “Running and hiding.” Bastard. Edmund slammed the nearly empty bottle on the step between them. Norb’s laughter died. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I mean no offense. Like I say,

you’re a hell of a guy. You’re kingly compared to the likes of me.” Then why do I always feel like a worthless peasant? I used to think I would be somebody of consequence. Somebody who mattered. But— “I guess what I’m trying to say is, you’re a bit of a loner. You’re a tough book to

read, if that makes it plainer to you. Women don’t like that.” Norb threw up his filthy hands. “But hell, what do I know? I go to bed alone every night, stinking of horseshit.”

Thinking about the miseries of going to bed alone in an empty house, Edmund stared at the dry ground.

I can’t keep living like this. I want to— The back door swung opened. Standing above them, Molly was holding a plate with a

thick pink steak, steaming baby potatoes, and pickled cabbage. She gave it to the startled Edmund.

“Just in case you change your mind,” she said, returning the way she came before Edmund could coerce ‘thank you’ out of his mouth.

The screen door banged closed. When she had gone, Norb went on. “Look, we’ve both known Mol since she was a

squirt in pigtails. Do you honestly see her with a fella like us? Or do you see her more with a guy like this storyteller? That’s all that I’m really saying.”

You know he’s right. I don’t want to hear this anymore. Edmund shoved the plate of food into Norb’s hands, the steak sloshing to the edge.

Several potatoes rolled off and bounced on the dusty ground. He heaved himself to his feet.

“Where are you going?” Norb asked. “Oh, come on, Ed. Don’t go away mad. I didn’t mean any harm . . . ”