Beckoning of the Gate

Working in Stone

{1}

Working in StoneBeads of sweat fell to the stone floor as Santha tried to keep up with Dandon’s considerably longer legs. In odd moments like these, she wished she was a little taller. Being mistaken for a child at nearly twenty years of age was a sore point she realised she’d never overcome. Taking four steps for every one of his, she followed grimly behind.

Colours flickered past in every hue from the stained-glass windows of the school’s archways, painting rainbows of light on the walls. Dandon took a sharp left into the northern corridor, catching Santha off guard. Grazing her shoulder on a pillar with a grunt, she suddenly realised where they were going: Dandon’s private quarters.

‘Why are we …?’ she began when he stopped.

Their footsteps continued to echo for a moment in the still hallway of the school as Dandon turned to her, his eyes gleaming.

‘Contain yourself, Santha,’ he teased. He was practically shaking with anticipation. It was obvious, then, what this was all about.

He pushed open the rosewood door and made his way inside. Crossing the room, he disappeared through another doorway where his study and bedroom lay. Santha did not follow, not that it would matter in the slightest. Staying with the man, in his own home, without witness or chaperone—the rumour mill would already be grinding that bit of chaff to dust. But it was the principle, to Santha at least. The impropriety of visiting an unmarried man’s bedchamber was something she was unwilling to tally to her personal list of sins, the town gossip be damned.

Making herself comfortable in the greeting room, she strolled amongst the countless pieces of art instead. Most were Dandon’s—chiefly among them, those from his university days when he’d first discovered his talent for the visual arts—though not all, such as a strange clay model of a mother holding a child. Both their faces and bodies were warped and distorted as if someone had punched them into place none-too-gently. A depiction of the old gods, Santha remembered Dandon saying. There was also a painting of a horse on grassy plains with the sun behind it stretching over the hill, its rays reaching out to embrace the creature, giving it warmth.

If that did not speak of Dandon’s wealth, his furnishings did. They were luxurious and out of place in a town of simple farmers. Soft, padded chairs packed with duck down and cushions of sky blue with delicate pink embroidered flowers sat in one corner. A large oak table, carved by his own hands, of course, was the greeting room’s centrepiece. It, too, was cluttered.

Dandon was well taken care of. His ageing uncle, an earl in Berisolis, funded his nephew’s endeavours quite generously. The school itself had been commissioned by the old man with little more than a letter from his nephew stating his intentions to teach long-term in the Silver Valley. The expense would have been considerable. The rosewood exterior and stone pillars at the front entrance, imported all the way from Nagha Baahgnee in Vaera, would have beggared the entire valley alone. The stained-glass windows on the northern and southern corridors were, to Santha, an unnecessary extravagance, though one she freely admitted taking advantage of every morning as the sun’s light peeked over Mount Tira in the east.

It was fortunate Dandon had such an amiable and wealthy relative to call upon. He certainly wasn’t teaching for the coin. Not in the Valley.

Dandon returned with something veiled, clutching it to his chest. Santha’s intuition was rewarded: he was about to reveal a new piece he’d created. And by the look on his contorted face, it was heavy. Laying the bulk on another sturdy table that wasn’t completely crowded, he stood back without so much as a patch of sweat on his brow—an irritating sight as Santha felt rivulets trickle down her own back. He looked up and beckoned her to come closer.

‘What is it this time?’ she asked, curiosity taking hold as she walked over.

He said nothing as he gripped the cotton veil and pulled it off in one fluid motion. Santha gasped in awe, for before her stood a dog, or so it seemed at first glance. When she looked closer, she saw it was completely made of dark stone.

She turned to Dandon, a tad confounded. ‘It’s not wood …?’

He tilted his head. ‘An astute observation,’ he said mockingly. ‘Marble, actually. Black marble from a renowned quarry merchant just outside the capital. I thought I would try my hand at sculpting stone for a change.’

Santha turned back to the masterpiece, black and veined with white, which made it appear a deep, deep grey. What could she do but gape? She had never seen worked stone before. Not like this.

‘Surely this isn’t your first.’

‘Why do you look so surprised?’ He chuckled and then shrugged. ‘Of course not. I have been practising in secret until I had the technique right. It is a very hard stone, difficult to shape, but I had to experience it for myself—the stone of the masters—if only once.’

‘It looks so real, as if it’s actually alive.’ She looked at Dandon again in disbelief. He stood to the side, arms crossed, an air of satisfaction about him.

‘And so it should,’ he said. ‘It has taken me over a full season to work the marble.’

It must have. It was a magnificent sculpture, the size and shape of a small canine, but for the life of her, she could not tell what breed. It had long pointed ears with a bushy tail and a slender body that spoke of swiftness and cunning. The detail was perfect, from each strand of fur to its delicately engraved nails and small nose that sat upon its long, pointed snout.

‘I know what you are thinking, and it is not a real breed. I made it up, though it does have some characteristics of animals you do know, predominantly a fox.’

Yes, thought Santha, that’s what it looks like, a fox, but not quite.

‘What shall we call her?’ he asked, as was their tradition.

‘I’m not sure,’ she pondered, feeling the immensity of her decision this time. Choosing a name for such incredible art somehow seemed different to all those times before. Then something came to her. ‘What do you think of Biahnd? I heard a Vaerese merchant mention the name in a story he told at Ulric’s inn. I liked it. It was unlike anything I have heard. And this piece, I must say, Dandon, is unlike anything I’ve seen. Your best work yet.’

‘Biahnd Des’rhatna. Ah yes, that will do nicely,’ he praised. ‘The name of a great female warrior in Vaerese lands. Very fitting. And thank you, I appreciate it. Art should always be shared.’

Santha punched him in the shoulder. ‘Just don’t make me wait this long next time,’ she scolded him. ‘Now, I’d best be leaving if I want to see to the goats before dark. It’s getting late.’

‘Fine, fine.’ He ushered her out of his private quarters all the way to the front entrance of the school, a gentlemanly gesture so unlike him that there had to be an ulterior motive. ‘Make sure you dine with me for supper tonight. Knowing you and your penchant to sneak out at the crack of dawn to tend your unsavoury short-haired beasts, breakfast tomorrow will be out of the question. And so will half of the day, I would wager.’ He looked around conspiratorially then cupped his mouth with a hand like a child telling a secret. ‘I want to show you something else, something I think you will find very interesting.’

She frowned at him, suspicion and intrigue warring with each other, but asked no questions as she tied her bonnet beneath her chin and took up her handbasket, full to brimming with offcuts from Dandon’s kitchen, a delicacy for her goats. She stepped down the stairs into the afternoon sun. The commotion of the late-afternoon markets was finally starting to slow. She turned, impulsively, to say something more, but Dandon got there first.

‘You should talk to them, you know,’ he said carefully. ‘Especially Lilay.’

Santha went rigid, her defences going up at once. ‘I will do no such thing,’ she hissed up at him. She glanced over her shoulder at the thinning crowd in the markets, the sweat down her back turning cold. The fear of being overheard made her march back up the slate stairs.

Dandon held a hand out as if to appease. ‘You avoiding your mother is giving me quite the headache.’ His attempt at humour was ruined by his faltering smile. ‘I have never exchanged so many letters with one living quite so close. And all of them enquiring about you, in the roundabout way you both seem to favour. Like mother, like daughter.’

Santha’s nostrils flared. ‘She tossed me out, Dandon. Practically disowned me, and you want me to—’ A sudden thought came to her. ‘You haven’t told them anything you promised not to, have you?’

‘I have kept your secret and will continue to do so until my dying breath, Santha. Shall I swear it again?’ She shook her head with downcast eyes. ‘Lilay and Tomm need to hear the full story, not just gossip from the street,’ he told her gently. ‘They will understand. You are their daughter. Talk to them.’

A memory, from all those months ago, hit Santha like a blow to the gut. She felt nauseous for a moment, dizzyingly so, as she remembered the smell of hay and sweat in that barn. The pain, the shame, she swallowed it all down into the quiet place at the pit of her stomach. I won’t let him win. I can’t. Her ire returned.

She strode right up to Dandon and thrust a finger into his stomach, his figure looming over her in his pristinely pressed white shirt and brown trousers. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do. This is mine to bear, no one else’s, least of all my parents. The man’s dead anyway and good riddance. He got what he deserved.’

Santha regretted her words immediately, and Dandon’s comforting hand went to her shoulder.

‘Ah, little one. So, you have heard the new rumours, what they are saying about you?’

She looked up at him solemnly. ‘I have.’

‘Then your parents have too. It could get worse, you know this. The death was suspicious and fingers will start pointing. You need them by your side if something should happen, and the truth will be better coming from you—’

‘Enough!’ Santha’s hands clenched at her sides, her breath seared her nostrils. ‘You have offered your home to me and for that I am grateful, but now you go too far, Dandon D’Avery.’

Dandon nodded slowly, his brown curls bobbing. The crow’s feet at his deep-set eyes intensified as he regarded her for a moment. ‘Although I am old enough to be your father, I often feel like your older brother: full of sage advice to give and no one to follow it. I have grown to love you over the years, Santha, despite your best efforts to thwart me at every turn. Your parents, on the other hand, have loved you from the very beginning. They will understand, I promise.’

Santha fumed on the doorstep for a few seconds more, glaring back at her friend and host silently. Then, for a moment, her spirit failed her and she wilted like a daisy under the midday sun. Shoulders hunched, head down, she took a deep breath and straightened, disgusted by her weakness.

‘Evict me from your school if you must—I am getting quite used to that by now—but I will not be pushed and prodded, Dandon. Not even by you.’ Spinning around, she left without another word.