Voice in the Stones - Chapter One

Tristan Lador clutched at the side of the decrepit wagon as it hit a particularly deep rut in the road, causing his brain to rattle. He glanced sidelong at Ghent, of a mind to tell him to watch the road. 

“My mum says she’ll send my brother to check in on your ma and Kea every day, so you don’t have to worry about that, at least,” Ghent said, hitting the rump of Elfie, the donkey, with his lead. The donkey tended to find distraction in the many bushes they passed, nipping away at the fresh buds of spring when Ghent got lost in conversation. 

Which was often. 

 “I’m not worried,” Tristan replied, grinning at his long-time friend.

This was true and not true. He so rarely left his mother and sister, but when Tristan did, he always feared the worst, especially with the recent rumors of a bad famine to the south of them. Desperate people did desperate things and had been doing so since the Torrolc takeover twelve years ago.

“Mum also said she would have them over for supper a night or two, just to keep them company,” Ghent said, elbowing Tristan in the arm and shaking him from his dark thoughts. “Gods above know Elias won’t shut up about how pretty and wonderful and breathtaking Kea is, so likely she’ll have to be on her guard in case he tries any funny business.” Ghent rolled his eyes at Tristan. Everyone knew Ghent’s eldest brother possessed an almost unhealthy crush on Kea.   

Ghent, one of seven and the middle child at seventeen summers—just like Tristan—knew how to hold his own. Their family, with their dark hair and dark skin typical of northern Starn, was exceptionally more fun to be around than Tristan’s own. 

Ghent had taught Tristan how to herd, how to swim, and how to carry the weight of losing his father and older brother without being crushed by it.

“I can’t believe your father is letting us go alone, and without a brother to boot.” 

Ghent grinned. “Thank the Gods! My brothers have been driving me mad lately. They’ve become so bossy. Besides, Auntie will look out for us when we get there. Small wish to hope for complete freedom.” 

Tristan leaned back, gazing at the blue sky and distant gray clouds as they made their slow way over and down the mountain. They would camp out for two nights before they finally arrived in the city proper. 

During Fall and Spring Markets, Tristan got to be someone else. Someone who drank watered-down pints of ale and wandered the streets with others his age, admiring the smells and many faces decorating the main square. Not just a poor, goat herder with no future. Not someone constantly trying to make ends meet to keep his mother and Kea alive. 

“Auntie wrote and said to be careful about running into the soldiers. She said there has been an increase in all sorts of unrest ever since that Torrolc pig, King Brenlin, fell ill. Savages,” Ghent said with venom, spitting over the side of the cart. 

Ghent and his family often reminisced, even after all these years, how much better off they had been under the Royals' rule. Free to do as they liked, mostly left alone, the taxes fair, and far less violence, death, and famine.  

Tristan did not agree, though he kept it to himself. He hated the Royals, dead and gone as they were, just as much as he hated the Torrolc. The Royals had made a bad call. The Torrolc were brutal savages. He held both responsible for the deaths of his father and brother, and thousands of others.  

So, while Ghent cursed the rebels and thirsted for another rebellion rising to put a true and worthy man on the throne, Tristan continued to bury his anger and thirst for revenge. His family needed him, and he couldn’t put his mother through another death.  

Tristan sighed. “I wouldn’t go spitting on soldiers' shoes once we get there. I’m a laughable fighter, and so are you. Besides, the only time we really feel their presence is come spring when the Torrolc pigs drain us dry with their taxes. At least we don’t live anywhere near Marsicya City. That’s where all the horror stories come from.” 

“I could take a soldier, and so could you. They are all soft, anyway, from all these years of eating all our food and drinking all our wine. They haven’t had a real fight in years, whereas we fight for our lives every stinking day,” Ghent scoffed.

Tristan glanced sidelong at Ghent, his face now red, and at Elfie, who stood eating a large bush of heather. 

In another world, in another life, it would have been his brother, Ren, beside him in this wagon headed to Spring Market. 

Tristan shoved the memories down and grabbed the whip, his breath tight. “Let’s just get there, Ghent, then we can decide about fighting soldiers.” He didn’t say the rest out loud. That they were just farm boys and that if they ever stood against a soldier, it wouldn’t be a fight—it would be an execution. And they both knew it. 

Reburth’s Spring Market wasn’t as grand as its Fall Market, but it was still far busier and more crowded than any market day in their small village in Yú Valley. 

“Catch!” Ghent shouted, tossing Tristan a hot scone as they quickly walked toward the far side of the market, Elfie and the cart raucously dragging behind him. Already, the main square swelled with people. 

Tristan could smell the meats of the day roasting on their spits, and the flags of the Torrolc King flapped in the soft wind of early morning. He felt refreshed after a night of deep slumber, the two nights of camping in the woods quickly forgotten by the modern comforts of Ghent’s aunts’ home.

“I can’t wait for this day to be over, then we can go to a real pub and enjoy our freedom. Bless this city. Bless hot scones and pretty ladies and ale!” Ghent tilted his head to the heavens.

Tristan laughed, “I’ll buy the first round if you’ll focus already and get us to our stall. If we don’t sell anything, we'll have nothing to buy that sweet ale with.” 

Ghent let out a whoop, and together they made the remainder of the journey to the far-right side of the market. But when they arrived, no stalls were left. 

“Great,” Ghent said, eyeing the way they had come. Only stalls next to the main fairway remained, which meant more noise, more beggars, and a higher chance of theft. “Come on,” he said testily, turning their cart around.

Their stall placed them directly in front of the main road leading to the summer palace where the Royals used to come for the summer before they were all killed. 

Tristan’s eyes traveled along the large green lawn separating the common people from the light stone palace as it rose high into the sky. Large, metal gates twinkled in the sun, and guards lined the exterior, preventing anyone from getting any ideas. 

Every time he came near such wealth, it was hard for him not to curl his lip in disgust. That one person could own all this while his family struggled to afford food was sometimes too much to bear. 

Forcing his anger down, Tristan turned to the task at hand: helping Ghent set their wares out. 

A shout from the palace jerked Tristan away from his task. He watched as a handful of soldiers poured out from the castle gate into the courtyard, shouting words they were too far away to hear.

Immediately, the soldiers guarding the outer walls departed, retreating with the other guards into the palace. 

“What do you think that was all about?” Tristan asked, glancing at Ghent, who had turned away. 

“What do I know? Perhaps the Torrolc Pig is visiting and needs someone to cut his meat for him,” Ghent grumbled, obviously uninterested. 

Ghent’s hand landed on Tristan’s shoulder, drawing him away from his musings. In Ghent’s hand, he held a small but thick stick. “You can start with the thieving stick,” he said, smiling sweetly. 

Tristan groaned. He hated being the one to hit the small urchins, even though they were stealing from him. He knew what it felt like to be desperate.

“We’ll switch at first bell, though we both know I’m better at selling to the ladies.” 

“Is that a challenge, Ghent?”

He shrugged. “It’s not a challenge if it’s true.”

“Keep track then, and we’ll compare at the end.”

Ghent grinned. “I love an easy challenge.”

Tristan hit him with the thieving stick and offered his hand to Ghent. “No cheating.”

Ghent grasped his hand, smirking. “But cheaters always win.” 

“I’ve twelve sales. How many have you got so far?” Ghent asked over his shoulder, his eyes and feet making continuous circles around the stall. 

Tristan ground his teeth. The heat and slowing of the market at midday made him feel on edge. Around them, voices called out wares, blending into a rough song that grated on his nerves. Men on horseback and the threading of constant feet this close to them kept a continuous cloud of dust in the air, making him feel grimy. Sweat dripped along his spine as the sun beat down on them, unusually hot for this early in the season. Tristan only had seven sales, but he wasn’t about to admit as much. Not yet. “I’ll keep my number until we close up.” 

“Ach, you’re no fun.” 

Lost in the misery of the day, Tristan jumped when the bells of the palace suddenly rang out. 

The crowd surrounding them reacted as well, stopping mid-sale and gazing in confusion at the pealing bells. A strange silence washed over them, and that was when the pounding of horses filled the air—lots of them. 

A few people shouted, and a child screamed. Tristan craned his neck to get a glimpse of the small army riding along the main road toward them. A muttering shifted through the crowd, and Tristan reached forward and drew Ghent back and behind the stall. Muttering never bodes well. 

The flags appeared first: a mountain lion with its mouth open and dripping with blood, framed by the red and black of the Torrolc Army. The son's insignia, Prince Tibius. 

“By the Gods,” Ghent whispered under his breath. Tristan could already feel the waves of hatred rolling off his friend. 

Twenty men on horseback rode into view, their leader on an inky black stallion, a large sword strapped to his back. 

Tristan had never seen any of the ruling Torrolc this close before, but he had heard rumors of the young prince. Rumors of his cruelty and violence, but also his stupidity and laziness—so when the prince at last came into view, Tristan was slightly disappointed to discover how normal he looked. A face drawn in a scowl framed by long, black hair, well built and dressed extravagantly, and young, likely not much older than Tristan. The prince rode by with an air of disdain for those around him, heading toward the opening palace gates.

Then the crowd made a different sort of noise, one which fluttered from far beyond them, making its way to their ears as another group galloped the road toward them. 

It was the sound of fear. 

The crowd stepped away from the road while Tristan unconsciously did the same as the second riding came into view. 

Ghent let out a string of curses, ducking behind their stall.

A different group of men approached. They wore long black capes despite the heat of the day, riding black stallions identical to the one Prince Tibius rode. And in the middle of the group sat a man. Cape-less, pale, and gaunt, he looked more like a corpse than a man. There was something about him...something unnatural that made it hard for Tristan to turn away despite the cold creeping down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck rising. 

As if sensing the weight of Tristan’s stare, the man turned. His eyes locked on Tristan—hollow, hungry things, stripped of anything human. No joy. No love. Just something ancient and wrong, like a soul gone too long without a body.

Eyes that widened as though the man recognized Tristan. 

“Tristan,” Ghent growled, yanking him back.

The spell shattered.

Tristan staggered, choking on a breath he didn’t realize he’d lost. He tore free of Ghent’s grip and ran—no plan, no thought, just the raw, blinding instinct to flee before those eyes reached deeper than they already had.