and rescued the jewel from its prison. The very next morning I ran away at first light.”
With that, Lakif produced the Rare Earth Stone from her pocket. The iridescent shine briefly blinded her. She held it at arm’s length, but it still only reached the crouched listener’s chin.
“This is the Stone. The inner light is the trapped heart of my mother.” She then remembered that Brontes could not appreciate the Stone’s inner drama. “Let not its precious appearance fool you, thunderer. It’s valued much less than my father’s love.”
XI
The Clout
“M Y GREAT EYE IS MADE FOR WEEPING.” A DROP OF WATER TRICKLED DOWN Brontes’ cheek. Was it sweat or really a tear? “How can I help you, little one?”
“Destroy it,” Lakif ordered. “Throw it into the lava, and when it is softened, smite it with your hammer, summoning all your might. With its destruction, we will be forever free of that bastard.”
“To tempt a father’s wrath in order to free a mother’s chained soul? Your wretched tale smites at my heart of flint, eliciting a spark of compassion. My obedience is yours to command, Acaanan. Come.”
Lakif smiled inwardly as the Cyclops lumbered to his feet. Lakif smiled, for her story, from alpha to omega, had been a complete lie.
She had always known that the acquisition of a Rare Earth Stone was but the first step in capturing its ancient power. Mere possession was insufficient to wield its might. The abbot could attest to that. The Arcanum was frozen within; it could not be called forth to produce wonders. Lakif knew that the Arcanum had to be freed from its faceted confines. Only by destroying it in her own presence could she hope to absorb its eldritch energy.
That said, Lakif knew that such a feat was well beyond her abilities. Rare Earth Stones were notoriously invulnerable to harm. Such a feat would require the hottest of forges and the strongest of blows to reduce it to rubble. She had concluded that the only sure way was to enlist the aid of the most famous of blacksmiths, the Cyclopes of the Vulcan.
That decided, she had been faced with yet another dilemma. She couldn’t very well show up and simply ask the giant to pulverize the hard-earned treasure. Although of giant stature, the Cyclopes were not mindless brutes. They were widely accredited with a philosophical nature. There was a chance, however slight, that the metal worker would know of the ancient legends concerning the destruction of a Rare Earth Stone. If so, the Acaanan’s request would immediately peg her as an aspiring warlock. This, of course, would be disastrous considering the universal scorn directed toward Arcanum. Public outrage at suspected warlocks knew no bounds. She would surely be beaten to death or cast into a lava pit. Or worse, she could be relinquished over to the Seekers.
No, she had known that she would have to somehow dupe the blacksmith. She had initially thought of hiding the Stone in another object. Using a hollow tube had intrigued her. But she feared that under the lava, some of the metal would melt away, revealing the glittering Stone underneath. She would surely be branded a warlock if this deception came to light.
In the end she settled on inventing an elaborate story. In the day following her return to the Goblin Knight, her cocktail came to fruition. Recent events from her own life were essential ingredients. Lucretia had become the inspiration for the lighthouse witch. Her young mother frolicking in the tide pool had been inspired by the lover in the baker’s story. In addition, she threw in elements of reality to lend credibility. She was well aware that Grimpkin’s northern rim was congested with derelict apartment buildings that leaned over the raging swells of the Dank Well. The reference to the Shamir rock was added to sting the metal worker’s pride. That legendary stone, supposedly harder than diamond, was said to be used to etch metal. By citing it, Lakif obliquely implied that it was
With that, Lakif produced the Rare Earth Stone from her pocket. The iridescent shine briefly blinded her. She held it at arm’s length, but it still only reached the crouched listener’s chin.
“This is the Stone. The inner light is the trapped heart of my mother.” She then remembered that Brontes could not appreciate the Stone’s inner drama. “Let not its precious appearance fool you, thunderer. It’s valued much less than my father’s love.”
XI
The Clout
“M Y GREAT EYE IS MADE FOR WEEPING.” A DROP OF WATER TRICKLED DOWN Brontes’ cheek. Was it sweat or really a tear? “How can I help you, little one?”
“Destroy it,” Lakif ordered. “Throw it into the lava, and when it is softened, smite it with your hammer, summoning all your might. With its destruction, we will be forever free of that bastard.”
“To tempt a father’s wrath in order to free a mother’s chained soul? Your wretched tale smites at my heart of flint, eliciting a spark of compassion. My obedience is yours to command, Acaanan. Come.”
Lakif smiled inwardly as the Cyclops lumbered to his feet. Lakif smiled, for her story, from alpha to omega, had been a complete lie.
She had always known that the acquisition of a Rare Earth Stone was but the first step in capturing its ancient power. Mere possession was insufficient to wield its might. The abbot could attest to that. The Arcanum was frozen within; it could not be called forth to produce wonders. Lakif knew that the Arcanum had to be freed from its faceted confines. Only by destroying it in her own presence could she hope to absorb its eldritch energy.
That said, Lakif knew that such a feat was well beyond her abilities. Rare Earth Stones were notoriously invulnerable to harm. Such a feat would require the hottest of forges and the strongest of blows to reduce it to rubble. She had concluded that the only sure way was to enlist the aid of the most famous of blacksmiths, the Cyclopes of the Vulcan.
That decided, she had been faced with yet another dilemma. She couldn’t very well show up and simply ask the giant to pulverize the hard-earned treasure. Although of giant stature, the Cyclopes were not mindless brutes. They were widely accredited with a philosophical nature. There was a chance, however slight, that the metal worker would know of the ancient legends concerning the destruction of a Rare Earth Stone. If so, the Acaanan’s request would immediately peg her as an aspiring warlock. This, of course, would be disastrous considering the universal scorn directed toward Arcanum. Public outrage at suspected warlocks knew no bounds. She would surely be beaten to death or cast into a lava pit. Or worse, she could be relinquished over to the Seekers.
No, she had known that she would have to somehow dupe the blacksmith. She had initially thought of hiding the Stone in another object. Using a hollow tube had intrigued her. But she feared that under the lava, some of the metal would melt away, revealing the glittering Stone underneath. She would surely be branded a warlock if this deception came to light.
In the end she settled on inventing an elaborate story. In the day following her return to the Goblin Knight, her cocktail came to fruition. Recent events from her own life were essential ingredients. Lucretia had become the inspiration for the lighthouse witch. Her young mother frolicking in the tide pool had been inspired by the lover in the baker’s story. In addition, she threw in elements of reality to lend credibility. She was well aware that Grimpkin’s northern rim was congested with derelict apartment buildings that leaned over the raging swells of the Dank Well. The reference to the Shamir rock was added to sting the metal worker’s pride. That legendary stone, supposedly harder than diamond, was said to be used to etch metal. By citing it, Lakif obliquely implied that it was
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