Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  Wittendon turned to leave before he could see Sadora’s reaction, although he was not out of ear shot when he heard her gentle voice murmur, “You tease me brother. It seems barely possible to crush a hilt. And to shatter it into something of such beauty…A hilt,” she said again, and laughed.

  Her laughter was just as honeyed as her hair. Wittendon unconsciously slowed his walk in the hope that he would hear it again. It was no wonder Sarak cracked so many jokes if that was the sound that greeted him when he did.

  Sweaty and tired, Wittendon walked to his chambers, not feeling exactly good, but not feeling quite so hopeless either.

  Chapter 7

  Pietre laid out his findings from the day—five small minnows and a satchel of greens. Most of the fat fish had swum further upstream to mate, and though greens were bountiful in the wood, they did little to keep the belly full. His mother had remained home to do a bit of mending and laundry for their crotchety old neighbor. His mother worked well with a needle, but since the visit from the prince, most people had been hesitant to give Carina work. It wasn’t that they were cruel. They were just afraid.

  No one came to the door. No one stopped them on the street to share gossip. But occasionally, several slices of bread would show up near the door or a bucket of berries drizzled with a few spoonfuls of milk would be hung on the gate. On those days his mother would weep. Pietre knew why—whoever had left the crusts or berries would likely go a little hungrier that night. There was not much that grew well in their village. The woods were shared by animals and humans; animals claiming the better part. With the way things were, there was not always an abundance to share. So when people gave a little—even when they avoided being seen helping the unlucky family—they were really giving quite a lot.

  One morning, an anonymous vial of oil with a fat clove of garlic had appeared at their doorstep. The sharp, slick dressing made things taste a little better, but today it didn’t make Pietre feel any less hungry after sunset meal. Pietre went to bed early.

  Humphrey came to him and tried to lie on Pietre’s chest as was his habit, but he was getting too big. Instead he rested near Pietre and laid his head on the cot in the warm spot between Pietre’s shoulder and head—the soft black and white muzzle and wet nose tickling Pietre’s neck. Usually Humphrey fared better than the humans—he could eat foods their weaker stomachs could not. But tonight Humphrey had gone just as hungry as everyone else and his stomach growled. Humphrey didn’t seem to mind and fell into slumber almost as soon as he’d tucked his head next to Pietre’s. But Humphrey’s grumbling belly kept Pietre awake—wondering. Over and over he heard the words of his mother on that first day he’d brought Humphrey to their home. As if a dog could be kept.

  Pietre tried telling himself that Humphrey wanted to be here, but in his heart he knew that Humphrey had not been given the chance to be anywhere else.

  Pietre wrapped his ragged nightshirt around his skinny chest as the howls of the Blødguard filled the night. He knew the Veranderen starved the Blødguard in order to intensify their hunts. Pietre still couldn’t find a place in his heart to pity the vicious wolves, but as Humphrey’s stomach growled so hard the cot seemed to tremble, Pietre found a sliver of understanding for the half-starved beasts that he’d never known before. The Veranderen would starve their friends to get something out of them. Was Pietre doing the same thing in keeping Humphrey close instead of returning him to the dogs?

  Deep into the night, after the wolves had fallen silent, Pietre knew what he needed to do. He curled into his thin quilt, holding it to his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear the grumbling of Humphrey’s belly; and finally fell asleep.

  A goose slathered in honeyed cream sauce and showered in huckleberries sat untouched in the king’s chamber. King Crespin rose from his bath and dressed, though most of the nobles in the palace were likely laying out their bedclothes. The sun dropped low, slipping beneath the earth and pulling his thoughts to things departed. Most of the Veranderen lived so many years that those who didn’t sat like stones in one’s memory. Crespin picked up the ten-foot staff with the translucent ball at the top. He fingered the smooth wood gently, then touched the ball, which lit with a subtle hum.

  Crespin did not wish for things, but he wondered occasionally how it might have been if Draden—the only Verander he’d considered fit to be his advisor—had not fled shortly after the slaying of the elders. Draden had been both sorcerer and scholar, master of the old language and the new. None had known more of metalwork, minerals, and magic than Crespin’s renegade friend.

  Draden had crafted the staff that Crespin now carried—a staff that could shift with mood to act like any weapon, except the Grey, for any circumstance except to kill Draden. The king smiled—it was just that sort of thinking that he had liked about his old friend.

  The moon hung high as Crespin exited the palace. He followed its light through the northern woods and into the forbidden grove. No one knew it was forbidden; no one knew it was anything unusual at all. But nearly fourteen years ago when something had been taken from Crespin, he had enchanted it. Now, if any of his subjects happened upon the grove, the ground pulsed with danger and the air hung heavy in their lungs. The unwitting trespassers’ thoughts would begin to spin with their darkest memories and deepest fears. Those who didn’t leave immediately were escorted off, and though they often had to spend several nights in the mental infirmary, they never quite remembered why.

  Crespin laughed to think of it and then stood in the center of the grove, indulging in a few minutes of silence—no buzz of insects, no hoot of owls, no breaking of twigs, nothing in his bewitched patch of earth except his own thoughts.

  Draden had had his reasons for fleeing. In the slaying of the council, Crespin had taken from Draden many men whom he had revered and one he had loved deeply. Still, the cleansing of the council had been necessary. Crespin had tried to explain this to his friend—his friend who was hardly opposed to a brutal act when necessary. Yet Crespin had been unable to sway Draden to his side with arguments of the power and renewal the two of them could accomplish together. Draden had fled to distant hills to eat herbs and tree bark until he withered away—a victim to the weakness called love. Crespin would not be such a victim. After Draden left, the king had burned Draden’s letters, his portrait, and any of his belongings left in the palace. Crespin found that memories were harder to destroy, but he had carefully pushed the defector’s face and voice from the forefront of his mind, remembering only those things most practical—Draden’s tactics in battle, his ferocity, and his ability to mold the powers of those he defeated, to shape them into something useful.

  Crespin took a deep breath, the cool air sharp and refreshing in his lungs. The partial moon hovered brightly, and Crespin let his staff dim, the memories of his old friend settling, hiding. Crespin walked several paces southeast, the trees thickening around him until he came to a damp, vine-hung crag. Crespin clicked his staff to the ground and the vines parted, revealing an opening. Then, letting his wolken body grow as large as possible, Crespin walked, stooping, through the cool mouth of the cave into its warm middle. Water sounded in his ears as he trod over the sludge, then the rock-like bits, and deep under the earth into his great room. The torches within lit up as soon as he entered, revealing neat towers of coins, artifacts, weapons, and jewels. The room was a storage shed, a treasure chamber, a sanctuary. Or it had been for most of his reign. Now, though the room was still bursting with riches, a jewel stand at the center of the room sat empty, its four claw-like Pallium prongs filled with nothing but acrid air.

  Crespin struck his staff to the floor—a shock of light bursting from its tip like a small star. Quivering green smoke snaked around his feet, as though bending, bowing. “My lord,” three voices hissed from the mist. “An honor, a delight, a joy.”

  The king scowled. He had captured these spirits many years ago when his reign was still young. Most assassins had been conquered with ease. Crespin had drawn their stren
gth into his staff and then used their own power to kill them. These three had given him an especial challenge. As their reward he had given them a special punishment: to live as Mördare—half-lives—protecting the treasure they had wished to claim. They could not die; they could not live. It was a fine, and particularly cruel, piece of enchantment.

  Staring at the mist that began to take a slinking humanish form, Crespin asked, “Have any breached this chamber since last I visited?”

  “Oh, no, our Magnitudinous One. No.” The three voices wound over each other like maggots, their wispy ghost forms scraping the ground.

  The king scanned the room, inspecting each gem, each breastplate, the twelve thin spears, then nodded. “And do you now wish to tell me who it was that took the stone those years ago?”

  It was a question Crespin asked every time he entered the cave, though every time he was greeted with the same reply. “You have bound us, oh Almighty Master, to protect, not explain.”

  Crespin gripped his staff, the tip a sickly green. “You’ve done such a marvelous job protecting,” he said very quietly. “I can see how I shouldn’t pester you in asking for explanation.”

  “Such a small stone,” they hissed in unison. “Why should our Infallible One need it?”

  “Clearly I do not,” Crespin said, waving his staff so that the phantoms stood before him in full bodily form. “But just because I do not need a thing does not mean I do not wish to know who took it.” And then he smiled, leaning toward them. “Remember,” he said, “that to tell me is to alter the terms of our arrangement. To tell me is to be released from your lovely little stewardship here.”

  The Mördare bit their rotting wrists, pulled out tufts of hair, scratched at their own eyes. Crespin knew it took all their efforts to refrain from telling him.

  “It would be so easy,” he said sweetly, “just a few simple words.”

  The Mördare ground their teeth, pulled at their tongues, dug their nails into the hollows of their cheeks. Of course they wanted to tell him. Of course they wanted to be released from their bondage. But to tell him would be to lose the one piece of power they now held against the king, the one small portion of themselves they had retained. Crespin had not thought a theft possible. Because of this, he had bound them only to report any who sought the stone. And according to the Mördare no one had sought the stone; someone had simply taken it. Now, they held this bit of knowledge as their only revenge. And no matter the prize, they would not let it go. Crespin understood. What did freedom matter if you held no power in it?

  “Please, our Thunderous One. Magnanimous. Colossal.” The ghouls twisted their bodies in a misty circle around Crespin—swaying, bowing. “We did more than any others could have against a force more powerful than any in the land,” they moaned. “And the force is now gone. We have killed it.” The Mördare stood, smiling—the green ghoulish lips curling over putrid fangs.

  “So you have told me,” the king said. “Many times.”

  The Mördare seemed to laugh.

  “But the most powerful stone of this land is gone and you have given me no one to blame. Thus your servitude must continue.”

  The ghouls stopped laughing. “No, our lord. It is too long already. Release us to the life beyond. Do not force us to always remain in this in-between.”

  “You will be released,” the king said, “in the year I or one of my lineage has access to the stone.”

  The ghouls moaned and shrank, hissing and shrieking until the king stamped, and they were gone.

  When Crespin came back into the fresh night air of the forbidden grove, his head felt clear. The Mördare could retain their secret and their bondage if they wished. Eventually Crespin would have what he wanted. Eventually Crespin always had what he wanted.

  When the stone had been taken almost fourteen years ago, Crespin had enchanted this wood. All would be repelled by it. All except the heir of the one who had taken the stone. Should such a creature exist, he would be drawn to the cave; and thus to his death. Crespin would have more than revenge; he would snuff out the bloodline that might be strong enough to rival his own.

  But none had come. Not yet anyway.

  Chapter 8

  Humphrey bounded through the wood. The morning was fresh and clear, the sky a deep periwinkle that signaled the winter rains were over. He could smell the coming of spring in the land at his feet and in the darkening leaves of the trees.

  He had understood language since he was a babe, but in the last few weeks his speech had come to him clear and strong. In it he felt a connection to his mother and his race. Every morning when he and the boy scoured the woods for mushrooms and dandelions, wild asparagus and chicory, Humphrey thought of his mother and felt the beginnings of a song in his head. He had not quite got it right yet and he would not bring it forth until he did. It would be his first—his hondsong.

  “Humphrey,” Pietre called out harshly.

  Humphrey felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It was true he was quickly outpacing the boy; still, he didn’t like to be scolded like a common chicken. He ran further ahead of the boy, until he could barely hear the scuffling walk of his friend. And then, suddenly, he could hear it no more. The dog stopped, pricking his ears, listening. At once the morning seemed very very still. Humphrey raced back to the boy, worried that he’d been overcome by a wolf, or a bear, or the wolf-turned-man that had come to the house all those weeks ago. Humphrey could not see the boy, could not hear him; faintly, though, he could smell him. The dog followed Pietre’s scent until he came to a small opening between two rocks where Pietre sat.

  Between those dark boulders of the earth, the child looked pale and small. In the last weeks he had eaten little. Humphrey had tried to help—finding old carcasses crawling with tasty maggots, chasing the scavenge birds away before they got the best parts. But the dogs, Humphrey was learning, could eat many things that the delicate humans could not. Pietre clearly longed for bread and fresh beef. This longing had begun to show in the dark circles of his cheeks and eyes.

  Now as the child sat in the dim cave with his face toward the stone, Humphrey could not deny that he looked more ghost than boy.

  “Go on,” Pietre said, gesturing to the thick woods. “Your mother would not have wished you to die with us.”

  Humphrey did not immediately understand, but sat at the boy’s heels and looked into his face. When the boy failed to acknowledge him, Humphrey lay down and curled into a ball. Where they sat between the boulders, the sky could not be seen, the spring could barely be scented, and shadows cast over the boy and dog as though night was on the horizon.

  “Go on,” Pietre said again.

  Humphrey paused, looking into the boy’s eyes and feeling for the right words. “To whom?” the dog said finally. It was true that Humphrey’s legs longed to run outside of the boundaries of walls and houses, that his lungs ached for air that was not crusted by chimney smoke and goat dung, that his heart wished to know those of his own—their ways, their foods, their rituals and friendship. But he had also come to love the boy and the sweet Carina who had become his mother. It seemed impossible to simply separate those two parts of himself and leave this one behind. Gently, he placed his head on the boy’s bare foot.

  The boy put a hand to Humphrey’s head and then in the distance the two of them heard the sound of running and barking and sniffing. From far off, the dogs began to sing—their call coming to pup and boy as a sort of travelling tune, lifting through the air, forcing spring’s advent into the cold, dark cavern.

  Pietre stiffened. “To them,” he said, even more sadly than before, taking his hand off Humphrey’s head, and turning again to stare at the boulder behind him.

  Even among the dogs, Markhi’s sense of smell was renowned. He could track things from the smallest hint of scent. He could find food or water where others thought none existed. Pack leaders often asked him to help seek out dogs who had gone missing. He had found numerous lost pups, waylaid messengers, rebe
llious youth, and the remains of more dogs than he cared to count. Weeks ago, he had been sent to seek the she-dog, Hannah—a task which he had undertaken with much duty and some dread. He had known her well, though he had not seen the she-dog for years.

  Hannah had always run to her own rhythm and Markhi knew that many years ago, she had desired to spend time among the humans, learning of their ways and aiding them in seeking food. After she had disappeared several months ago, all the nearby human villages had been searched and when she did not turn up, her mother had sought out Markhi, now as muscled and sleek as a dog could be and leader of the great pack known as Sontag.

  Markhi had used every trick he knew, but Hannah had been careful to cover her tracks and her scent. Perhaps she had known Markhi would try to come for her. Until this very week, he had neither known nor felt anything of his old friend. Then, quite suddenly, as he and his pack had come to a clearing seeking fish, she had been there. Not in the flesh, but in the scent of everything around him—the bushes, the rocks, the mosses. He knew she had birthed young ones and he understood then why she had left her home, family, and pack. At the birthing spot, he could also smell wolf—wolf mixed so fully with dog that Markhi feared the worst. He knew the pups had been killed and he knew Hannah was hurt if not dead. The other dogs, he trusted, did not fully understand what the confusion of smells on the lonely hillside meant. He wished for it to remain that way. “There has been conflict,” he said.

  The dogs ran on, their paws and nails clicking with the rhythm of animals so accustomed to each other that their bodies joined into synchronized movement.