Mayka tried to be patient as Master Siorn studied her and the birds. He sketched them. He measured them. He instructed her to raise her arms, then touch her toes, then turn her head, then sit and stand and walk and even demonstrate how well she could use her fingers to tie a knot in a ribbon. All the while, he murmured praise about her father, which was nice to hear but not why she’d come.
Every time she tried to ask a question—about Father, about Skye, about the Stone War—he shushed her absentmindedly, his attention clearly on his notes, not on her words.
She gritted her teeth and managed not to complain, though, because he’d promised to save her and her friends, and he had fixed Jacklo. Risa spent the entire time next to Jacklo’s cage, scolding him about being reckless and irresponsible and worrying her so badly that she wanted to molt, which was impossible because she was stone. All the while, Jacklo hung his head and promised to be more careful.
At last Master Siorn put down his pencil, and Mayka thought, Yes! Now we’ll talk about recarving us. But instead he said, “Garit, continue with your notes. Measure the birds carefully and record copies of their marks. As fascinating as this discovery is, I must work on my masterpiece.”
“Yes, sir,” Garit said.
Before Mayka could ask any questions, he bustled toward a heavy door covered in iron decorations at the back of the workroom. He swung the door open, and Mayka caught a glimpse of a massive mound of rocks inside a cavernous room—before she could see anything else, he’d shut the door behind him.
Si-Si waddled over to the door, sat, and stared at it forlornly. During all this time, Master Siorn had barely noticed her. And now they’d all been deserted, in favor of his “masterpiece.” Morosely, Si-Si curled into a ball next to the door and rested her head on her front paws.
Mayka realized the stonemason had never answered the little dragon’s question. Si-Si didn’t know if he would try to fix her, now that he knew it could be done. I should have asked again for her, Mayka thought. But Master Siorn hadn’t been paying attention to anything but studying them.
“He forgot about me,” Si-Si said.
Garit shot an apologetic look at her. “I’m sure he’ll help you when he gets a chance. With Master Kyn’s birds to study, it should be possible to replicate his marks for flight.”
Springing up, Si-Si danced in place. “Oh, oh! You think so? Me, flying! Could it really happen?”
“Just not until after the festival,” he cautioned. “That’s his priority right now. Master Siorn cares deeply about his work. He believes he’s the one who will restore the reputation of stonemasons to what it was before the Stone War. Stonemasons used to be revered.”
“What was this Stone War?” Mayka asked.
He glanced at the door to the workroom. “Bad luck to talk about it before a festival. And I’m supposed to finish his notes. So . . .” He scurried across the workroom to the stack of notes, straightened them into a neat pile, and then shuffled their order and straightened them again.
“Are we supposed to just wait?” Risa asked. “Our friends are expecting us!”
“Master Siorn said I need to wait another day to heal,” Jacklo said. “But truly, I feel stronger already. I could—”
“Stay still,” Risa instructed him.
Garit spread his hands, palms up. “I’m sorry. The festival’s important. Especially for Master Siorn this year. He’s debuting a new mark. I’m sure he’ll help you after it’s over.”
Sighing, Risa folded her wings around herself. “Then we wait.”
“Make yourselves at home,” Garit said. “You can look around, if you like. Meet the other stone creatures. If you’re hungry, you can visit the kitchen . . .” He smacked his head with the heel of his palm. “No, obviously, you can’t be hungry. Sorry.”
“There are more stone creatures here?” Mayka asked. She’d seen the otters outside and the magnificent griffin, but she hadn’t paid attention to anything as she’d raced through the house. She’d been too focused on Jacklo.
“Lots,” Garit said.
I want to meet them! All of them! She’d seen plenty of other stone creatures in the city, of course, but here was a chance to talk to them and hear their stories. She glanced at the workroom door, then at the birds and Si-Si, then at the door again. Given that Jacklo was fine and the stonemason was busy . . . “I’ll be back soon,” she promised the birds.
“We’ll be here,” Risa said. “Waiting.”
Leaving Garit with the others, she went to explore the rest of the stonemason’s house. She’d passed through so quickly before that she’d barely looked. Now she wandered slowly. It was strange and beautiful, with mosaics on the floors, walls, and ceilings. Made of shards of stone, they showed flowers, vines, woodland animals, sea creatures, and dozens of kinds of birds. Every doorway was trimmed with stone swirls and flourishes.
As she peeked into dining rooms and sitting rooms, she heard a thunk, thunk, thunk sound. She followed the sound until she reached a stairway made of rolling boulders. Each boulder thunked as it fell onto the next one. It was like the street outside but more complex.
As they tumbled, she read their marks: “I roll. I carry. I . . .” The third mark was one she didn’t recognize—it was another verb but with flourishes all around it. “Curious he didn’t name you.” The marks were all verbs, which wasn’t the same as an identity. She looked up the stairwell. Am I supposed to ride on them?
She supposed she was.
“Do you mind if I walk on you?”
The moving steps didn’t answer. She hadn’t really expected them to—their story was so simple that all they knew was a life of constant motion.
Stepping onto the first boulder, she held out her arms for balance as it rolled beneath her, carrying her up the stairwell. She stepped off at the top and looked back down at it, as it continued to roll along, not speaking, not reacting, just rolling. What an odd thing to carve, she thought. It wasn’t necessary or even very useful. She hadn’t risen to any great height, and she could have easily walked up ordinary stairs.
She wondered what other oddities the stonemason’s home held.
Upstairs, the walls were of polished blue stone with flecks of mica. They glittered like the night sky, and she found herself looking for constellations as she walked along.
The walls murmured as she passed, as if talking about her, but she couldn’t hear any clear words. It was more like the babbling of a brook. She found their marks: “‘Walls that watch.’ That’s it? Where’s the rest of your story?”
Searching the corridor, she found more marks: “Protect against the rain and cold. And . . . huh, there it is again.” The mark on the boulders she hadn’t recognized. She wished she could draw and dissect it. It seemed to be a mix of other marks. Staring at it, she thought it reminded her of the mark for “lead” but it was backwards.
Up ahead, she heard a noise like a brushing sound and went toward it. Rounding the corner, she faced a stone creature that looked . . . well, she’d never seen anything like him. Sculpted from sandstone, his body was bulbous, with eyes set into either side, and he had eight smooth . . . tails? Each tail held a brush or a broom, and the creature was maneuvering through the hallway, dusting and sweeping everything he could reach.
“Hello? I’m sorry to bother you, but . . .”
The creature halted. “You aren’t tracking dirt into the house, are you?” He stuck to the ceiling as he climbed over her to examine the floor behind her; then he swept.
“Sorry,” she said again. “But . . .” She didn’t know what to ask without being rude. “Were you made by Master Siorn?”
“Yes, I most certainly was. Lift your left foot.”
Mayka obeyed, and the creature rubbed the bottom of her foot with a rag. “Um, would you mind if I read your story?”
“Right foot.”
Mayka lifted her right foot. She held her arms out to balance. “It’s only that I’ve never seen anything like you.”
“Octopus,” the creature said. “See the eight tentacles? Master Siorn saw an illustration on a map drawn by a sea captain, and he decided to replicate me. I was shown at the last Stone Festival, but there wasn’t any demand for me, so Master Siorn kindly decided to keep me. He gave me a purpose here in his home.” He lifted two tentacles (Not tails, Mayka thought) to expose his stomach, which was etched with a spiraling circle of marks.
She spotted the mark for “octopus” quickly. Even though she hadn’t seen it before, it was a clear representation of the creature. The story went on to talk about how the octopus loved cleanliness and order and . . . And there’s that same mark again. Curious.
Why would the stairs, the walls, and the octopus all have the same mark?
“Excuse me, but I must continue my work.” The octopus lowered his tentacles and continued down the hallway, not touching the floor but instead suspending himself between the walls and cleaning beneath him. Mayka watched him go.
The mark was a mix of two other marks, she was sure, judging by the way the indents curved, but which marks? And could that really be an actual creature? She’d never heard of an octopus.
Still mulling over the marks, she peeked into rooms: bedrooms and bathrooms, and then she went down again—using a second rolling boulder staircase—and found the kitchen.
The kitchen was curved like a cave but an open one with stone tables down the center and hearths on either side. A fire danced in the fireplace, with pots and pans and kettles hanging over it from an iron rod.
It was a marvel.
Not so much because of the room itself, but because of the creatures in it.
Six stone creatures bustled between the tables. One would chop a vegetable and toss the slices into the air, another would fling a pot across the room, and a third would catch the pot, then catch the vegetables. The other three were playing by the fire, tossing a glowing ember back and forth as if it were a ball. Once in a while, they’d pause to scrub a pot or fold a piece of laundry.
All of them looked like mishmashes of other creatures: one was half hedgehog and half lizard, one had a deer head with antlers but a body like a turtle. Another had human hands but a snake’s body covered in stone scales. Another looked like a cross between a duck and a rabbit. These were the creatures that Garit had mentioned—the ones that Master Siorn had carved but no one wanted. They’re incredible, she thought.
Careful not to interrupt what looked like a choreographed dance, Mayka picked her way between them, studying them and looking for their marks.
Oddly, on all of them, she saw the same mark she’d seen on the stairs, wall, and octopus. It was improbable for so many vastly different creatures to all bear the same bit of story.
Seating herself on an unused stool, she began to draw the mark in flour that had been spilled on a table. Sketching the various lines, she separated them into essentials.
Two different marks—combined into one—that much was clear.
One was the verb “lead” inverted.
The other . . . It didn’t resemble any word she ever knew—it was structured like a noun but not a familiar one. The fact that the two marks were intertwined had to be important. Rubbing her hand across the flour, she wiped out her experiments.
“Stone girl,” a voice grated.
She looked up to see the griffin, Kisonan, filling the arched doorway into the kitchen. All movement and sound ceased as everyone turned to look at Mayka.
“This household functions best when everyone focuses on their duties, without distraction,” Kisonan informed her, then barked to the others, “Go about your tasks! The master requires his dinner in his private workroom. Leave it outside the door.”
Crossing the room, Mayka smiled and nodded at the strange creatures, who all ducked their heads and resumed chopping and mixing and stirring. A few smiled back at her. “Sorry for bothering you,” she said.
One—the half headgehog, half lizard—waved its paw. “No worries. Not a bother.” The creatures all returned to their slicing and stirring and cooking, chattering to one another in a low murmur.
Reaching Kisonan, she asked, “Do you have the same mark?”
“Excuse me?” He ruffled his neck feathers as if she’d just asked something rude.
Mayka was growing tired of trying to guess what passed for manners here in the valley. It wasn’t an unreasonable question. She was curious. All of them wore the same story, yet they were all so different. It didn’t make sense.
“The one that looks like a verb and a noun tied together. May I read your marks?” Mayka stepped toward him, eager to see what was written on the griffin.
“My story is mine alone,” Kisonan said. “Now, if you would allow me to escort you back to the workroom. The master would not want you poking your nose into matters that don’t concern you and upsetting the balance of his household. You are here as his guest, and if the master wants—”
An idea occurred to her, and what had seemed to be merely an interesting mystery now suddenly seemed alarming. No, it couldn’t be. She interrupted him. “How does your master write his name?”
The griffin broke off his scolding. “Pardon?”
Mayka hurried past him—she didn’t need him to answer. She knew where Siorn’s name would be. All the stonemasons had had signs in front of their houses. She hadn’t paid attention to Siorn’s, but if she was right . . . Please, don’t be right. She reached the boulder that served as the door.
Kisonan squeezed between her and the door. “I do not believe the master wants you to leave. He wants to study you and help you. If you’ll wait here while I inquire—”
“I’m not leaving.” Not yet, she thought. And not without my friends. But if I’m right . . . “I only wish to see his sign. Could you please step aside?”
He hesitated a moment, then scooted sideways. “It is heavy. You seem agitated. Perhaps if you told me your concerns, I could assist—”
“It could be nothing,” she said. “Overactive imagination.”
Bracing herself, Mayka pushed the boulder. It rolled sideways, opening a gap. Outside the stone otters popped up around the yard. “Play, play, play?”
“Not now,” Mayka said.
She stepped out, careful where she put her feet, trying to remember the exact pattern that Garit had walked. An otter popped up from behind a boulder. Watching her, it chittered to its friends. She stopped walking and called, “Lizard? Hello? Could you please turn around?” She hoped she was wrong. Garit seemed so friendly, and Master Siorn seemed so nice. Absentminded and focused on his work, perhaps, but no more than Father had been. When Father had been in the middle of a carving, it would have taken an earthquake shaking the mountain to catch his attention.
One of the lizards at the gate swiveled its head to look at her.
“The shield you hold. May I see it?”
He turned, facing the stone shield toward her.
Oh no.
She was right.
This was it, the noun she hadn’t recognized, beside the mark for a stonemason. It was Master Siorn’s name. The mark she hadn’t recognized was his name, combined with the inverted sign for “lead,” which could be read as “obey.”
Obey Master Siorn.
He’d made that a part of all of the creatures’ stories. Obey me, he’d written on their bodies. She was certain she was reading it correctly, and equally certain they had to leave. Right now.