Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  Silence greeted him and he let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He raised the axe to strike again and just as his arm flexed to come down, he heard it and stopped.

  The wall you strike is rich, my friend.

  But only from its other end.

  “No,” Jager murmured. “I will not lose my sanity to this tomb.” He sat and rubbed his head. Then, reaching for his canteen, he heard it again. The voice was soft, clear, and distinctly inhuman.

  Go north, stand left.

  Trust heart, not head.

  In tunnel’s bowel

  You’ll find more than lead.

  “I am mad,” Jager said, standing. He moved back through the tunnel, due north, stopping when he came to a wall and then, taking a deep breath and wanting nearly to cry, he took a step left. As he did, a small crack came into view. How he had missed it before, he could not be sure. Raising his pick, he struck at the fissure of stone. It trembled, dust crumbling, and from the wall a small, round stone fell at his feet. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Jager picked it up. Except for bits of rock that clung to its edges, it was as smooth as glass and ribbed with delicate lines of bright metal.

  Jager leaned his head against the wall. “Thank you spirit or angel or whatever you be.” He put the stone in his pocket so that when he came to the surface and reason kicked in, he would remember the mystical voice that had helped him.

  Then with a mighty blow, he struck at the wall again, revealing a large pure vein of the Shining Grey.

  “Enough with the screamin’ boy. It rings off them rocks like glass in my ears,” the man said, glaring at Pietre and Humphrey from under his hood. He pushed aside a large rock and, with the strength of someone half his age, easily dropped Pietre through a hole.

  Humphrey lunged at the man, who stepped aside even faster than Markhi had, so that Humphrey also plunged into the darkness of the hole.

  The man followed, a dim lantern hanging at his waist and said, “Everybody okay? It’s a steep descent.”

  Humphrey growled and prepared to attack again, but the man just laughed. “Easy, does it. The mines are closer than you think. And ol’ Winterby is gonna take you there.”

  Being thrown into a hole had temporarily stopped Pietre’s calls for help. He was surprised to find that it wasn’t just a pit trap dug into the earth, but some type of elaborate system of tunnels. As his eyes began to adjust to the dim light, he could see a long narrow stair leading down and to the east. He struggled to take it all in. “You are,” he asked, “not a robber?”

  Again the man laughed. “If I was, I’d be a mighty bad one, picking off two ragged pipsqueaks like you and expecting a coin to fall from it.”

  Pietre pursed his lips and Humphrey growled again, low and threatening.

  “Hey now,” the man said. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Them mines is less than a mile from here. Woulda took you a good hour through the switchbacks up above. And then you really mighta got robbed by some deadhead. Besides,” he continued. “You can’t just waltz up to the Grey mines and let yourself in.” He moved up ahead, holding the lantern. “That Savah—she’s the best guide there is—but even she can’t lead you past the guards to see your old man, now can she?”

  “Who’s Savah?” Pietre asked.

  The old man paused. “Your guide,” he said, then after a minute, “and a keeper of information. As is her sister. But no information is going to get you through the Königsvaren that surrounds that mine. I got ways down here that’ll go right under them.”

  At that, Humphrey finally stopped growling.

  “Seriously,” Pietre said. “You couldn’t have said that in daylight.”

  “Ah now, but where’s the fun in that?” He winked, but Pietre didn’t look amused. “Come on, boy, ya gotta give this old man a break. You live under the earth long as I have and you get a little bored. Not to mention the fact that the sun off them rocks is something fierce and you were screamin’ like a steam whistle.”

  “I was not,” Pietre said under his breath.

  Winterby looked sideways at him, and in a couple of minutes said, “You two wanna snack?”

  Suddenly, it didn’t much matter if he was crazy friend or crazy foe, both dog and boy strode up to him with a boldness that only two hungry youth on the brink of manhood could possess.

  When Jager came into the sun, his own child was standing behind a large boulder near the mouth of the mine—a dog at his side that could only be Humphrey, though he’d grown into a great barrel of a creature.

  “How is it possible?” Jager whispered, fingering the handkerchief that held the stone in his pouch, and looking to the line of unsuspecting guards far below him on the mountain. Quietly, he stepped behind the large stone.

  Pietre stepped toward his father. Each stood silent. No tidings of the last weeks, no tales of voices or guides, no explanations for anything. Finally, Jager held out his palm in the greeting adult men and women give to one another. Pietre placed his own smaller palm against his father’s and then almost at once his father embraced him weeping.

  “Come,” he said at last and turned to lead his son quickly into the mine where the guards would not think to look.

  Jager led them deep into the earth, wandering through the tunnels as though walking his own backyard. Pietre followed in much the same way, touching the walls and breathing deeply. He picked up rocks like they were flowers and ran his fingers over wet walls of stone.

  Humphrey, on the other hand, lagged behind, panting. Jager slowed his step and fell into line with the dog. “Thinking you might want to make a break for it and take your chances with the wolf guard, eh?”

  Humphrey tried to smile. “What? When I could wander deeper into this crypt with you two?”

  Jager laughed, the sound scratchy and foreign to his own ear. “Ah, the dogs were born to run free in the sun, not to be encased by stone.”

  “I have gone through worse today,” Humphrey said. “The boy and I took an unexpected path to get here.”

  “I’m not sure what other kind of path could have gotten you here,” Jager replied.

  “Our path ended in a tight stone hole—one that unfortunately no grown human could ever fit through. The boy squeezed through like a lizard, but with every breath I took, the stone squeezed me back, trapping me in its hardened clutches. I had to claw my way out.”

  “That is true,” Pietre said, winking. “And he whined like a little girl.”

  Again Jager laughed.

  “I’ll do it again if we have to go much deeper into this catacomb.”

  “Lucky for you,” Jager said. “Your dignity will be spared. Here it is.” He stopped, and turned to a wall of stone.

  Humphrey stared at it. Pietre’s smile closed up and he looked sideways at his father as though concerned.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Jager said.

  Humphrey cleared his throat.

  “Father,” Pietre said, “it is only black stone like all the rest.”

  Gently, Jager took Pietre’s shoulder and moved him several steps to the side until the boy’s face opened up again. “The Shining Grey,” he said, touching the glimmering thread of a line that widened into a river of metal.

  “Yes, child.” Reaching into a pouch wrapped around his waist, Jager said, “Take this.” He put the small stone into Pietre’s hand. Even in the dim light of the tunnel, it seemed to shimmer with thin streaks of metal. “In a way this stone led me to the vein. It was the first that fell from the wall and, when it did, the large streak of the Grey became visible.

  Pietre rubbed the gift gently with his thumb. It was a bit rough on the surface, but smooth underneath. “Thank you,” he said.

  The three returned to the mouth of the mine where they rested away from the eyes of the guard, but in full view of the afternoon sun. Pietre gave news of his mother, the village, and the spring vegetation. Humphrey told of Markhi and his first training. Jager looked continually toward the south with a slight unease. F
inally he said, “Someone will come soon to take me back to my cell. Today bears excellent news, but still you must be gone before he gets here.”

  Pietre nodded, clutching the stone in his pocket. “I will return,” Pietre said. “Even if you forbid it, I will come.”

  “I do not forbid it,” Jager said. “Though you must take care. These many weeks, I alone have been in these tunnels. But with news of the Grey, many human slaves will be sent to the mine and the guard increased. You must not be seen.”

  Pietre nodded and placed his palm again against his father’s. Humphrey bowed to Jager just as he had to Markhi, before they turned away.

  Jager watched them step behind the boulder and then, a few paces later, they both seemed to vanish. It was hardly the strangest thing that had happened that day.

  When Jager turned back to the south, a figure stood on the hill watching him. Slowly the figure advanced. When he was quite near, Jager was surprised to see that the tall, pale prince stood before him. The prince did not seem to have seen the boy and dog. All he said was, “I hope you have excellent news. My father grows impatient. And surely you grow hungry.”

  Wittendon turned and a small onion dropped from his cloak. He looked east as though he hadn’t noticed it fall.

  Jager tried not to look at it, though its scent wafted upward, making his mouth thick with saliva. To Wittendon he said, “On the morrow, send all the human miners you can. I have found a vein, thick and long.”

  Wittendon nodded joylessly and turned.

  Jager bent to pick up the onion and held it out. “My lord.”

  “A bruised onion is of no use to me,” Wittendon said curtly.

  Jager stepped in front of the prince, the onion now a bulge in his pocket. The prince walked heavily behind him.

  Up above on a small precipice where the white moonflowers were known to bloom, a pair of honeyed eyes watched the two descend. She had noted Wittendon’s slow advance. Of course he had seen the boy. He had watched the palm of father and son meet. Perhaps he had wanted to rush forward and, in jealousy, punish them. But he had not. The youth who had braved the journey here and the father who had risked any safety that remained to him were left seemingly undiscovered. And of course she could not have missed the onion.

  “He is different than most,” she murmured.

  “More different than you know, pretty one,” the cat said, coming to sit beside her.

  “Good eve, Savah. Have you no rhymes tonight?”

  “You know I do it mostly to aggravate the dogs,” she replied, cleaning a delicate paw with an equally delicate tongue.

  “Of course.” Sadora said, smiling.

  Then the two of them stood, quiet as trees and graceful as birds, and retreated together deep into the woods.

  Chapter 16

  Seven wolves fanned out in front of Crespin, ready to assist him in his search for the girl. He had not told them of the dreams—only that there was a young traitor who must be found. Wolrijk had gathered a posse of wolves from across the kingdom to assist in the search. Crespin disliked this tactic. He disliked councils of any kind, preferring to work alone or to appoint a trusted specialist. Groups, he believed, led to slowness, to indecision, to endless bureaucracy. Wolrijk had argued that with so many they could cover more ground. Which should have been true.

  Yet already one of the wolves—the head scout, Rorof—was injured. A dead branch had fallen, catching the wolf squarely in the paw. Just before it had happened, Crespin had noted a breath of movement. The injury forced them to set up camp nearly an hour ahead of schedule. It had also left the wolves feeling spooked.

  Zinder, a nearly white wolf who ranked second to the general, stood in front of Crespin instructing the others in the set-up of the camp. A pond was nearby and they took turns going for drinks. They went in pairs, their ears pricked upright, an edginess to each step. Never could a foreign creature be seen or even scented, but at times a twig broke or the grass seemed to swish in a direction opposite the blowing of the winds.

  “Spirits,” he’d heard a few of the wolves mutter, and had silenced them with a stern look. Ghosts, he knew, did not exist unless he willed them to exist. Whatever this was, it was of the flesh.

  As the injured wolf nursed his swollen paw, Crespin paced around the camp. To make matters worse, a pack of dogs traveled several miles to the north. It seemed they had also set up camp. Just as the wolves were bedding down, the dogs’ hondmelodie began to carry over the hills. Wolrijk cursed audibly and the two wolves on guard stiffened. Crespin could not hear most of the words the dogs sang. Rather it was the melody—smooth and story-like—and the eerie spirituality of the harmonies beneath it—that crept under the skin of the wolves.

  The dogs sat round the fire—some on their haunches, some resting with their paws tucked under their chests. A young one opened his mouth into a long steady howl and soon the others joined in. The song, as song it was, was not intoned on one trembling note as their ancestors had done in millennia before, but on many notes that blended together into harmonious hondsong. Some moved the tones up and down and as they did, one picked up a story and began to spin it. As he sang, the other dogs continued to hum and howl, their voices dancing like the swaying rhythm of the fire.

  “Many years before the fathers of our fathers of our father’s fathers, the great Dog of the First broke from the wolves—following the call of the Great White God, fleeing to meadows low and long until joined by others of his brothers, sisters, cousins, friends.”

  The howls of the dogs were like a deep drone beneath the words.

  “They gathered together—this Pack of the First, and left the bloodlust of the wolves behind.”

  “Behind,” the chorus of voices echoed. “Behind.”

  “Many a time the great wolves came, muzzles dyed in blood. And many a time we pressed against, fighting alike to save the pack. And so we spread.”

  “Like the waters in flood year, so we spread.”

  Five gray dogs began to circle the fire, chanting and stomping—the embers rising up as though in obedience to the rhythm.

  “The Great Prophet rose from lowly clan. White vision from his tongue: kindness, loyalty, bravery, family, love.”

  The dogs chanted their creed, the words swirling in circles until the sounds met, each dog stomping the ground. The crescendo of the voices seemed to fill the clearing like the rounded barrier of a shield.

  “The God of the White, his face fell black; the God of the Red increased.” A long moan broke over the valley, pressing with weight into any who heard it.

  “Tethers, tethers to the dogs.” The dogs in the circle swayed, like long grasses pressed by a wind, unseen, but heavy.

  “Tethers, tethers break.”

  The swaying stopped. A long, still silence filled the night until after many minutes a hum began, low and long, and then the lead singer sang out, “White God rise. A sacrifice. White God rise. A test.”

  “Kindness, loyalty, bravery, family, love.” The song broke on the final word and the dogs fell silent at last.

  Late in the night, King Crespin walked into the gray woods beyond their camp, hoping the night air would clear his senses. The stars lay dusted across the black sky—the brightest sitting to the right of the moon—an anomaly that happened once every hundred years. The moon was full and he could feel it pour its golden strength into his tired bones. He stood alone, covered in a black cloak, gazing into a dark pond. He stared at his reflection in the waters, the moon hanging in the sky at his back. It brought him some relief.

  He bent to the water to take a drink. When he rose, wiping his mouth, the silhouetted figure of a woman stood on the other side of the pond. Cautious, he walked toward the figure, but by the time he reached the opposite bank, she was gone. Turning back to his camp, he heard a voice that made the skin rise along his neck and back. It called his name. As fast as any Verander, he pivoted toward the sound, but saw nothing.

  “Crespin,” she whispered, her voice a mu
rmuring echo in his head.

  Again he spun around to see no one, and again through the wind in the trees, he heard the voice of the woman who had been his wife’s gardener and potion-maker. “You betrayed me King Crespin—a betrayal that led me to the point of death.”

  Dizzy and sick, he tore at the trees, searching for the owner of the voice. It seemed to be above him, around him, surrounding him.

  “And that,” the voice said, nearer now, as though just over his shoulder, as though inside of him, “led to the death of your beloved Loerwoei.”

  Furious he turned again, raising his staff above his head, the bauble at its tip glowing with daggers. “Show yourself, dark magician.”

  Spinning his staff in the darkness he struck at a tree just as he heard a quiet footstep behind him. He turned, weapon raised, to see the cloaked figure. He leveled his staff at her and she pulled the cloak off of her head to reveal the face, not of his dead potion maker, but of another woman—hair and eyes in shadow, lips and nose white in the moonlight.

  “Impetuous human witch,” he shouted, raising his staff to thrust a ball of energy at her.

  She laughed. “Sorceress, I may well be, but human I am not entirely.”

  As the golden ball of energy hurled toward her, a branch of a nearby tree seemed to bend in the wind, deflecting it.

  Again, the girl laughed and again the king leveled his staff at her, gripping it hard.

  Slowly, she raised her own staff. “The ridiculous dead wood of your staff can do nothing to me,” she said calmly. “My influence begins to exceed your own. And I am set on the destruction of your kingdom.”

  He found he could no longer lift his staff as the woman transformed into twelve metallic cats who lunged at him.

  He awoke on his bedroll, screaming. He could hear the band of wolves as they sprang up, running to him.