Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  Wittendon sniffed the night air and looked to the stars to lead him through the black woods, hoping to find the guilty beast soon so that no one of innocent blood had to be taken instead.

  Chapter 4

  King Crespin paced his great hall, troubled once again by a dream of the girl. She had stood nearly swallowed by a bright blue sky. He had not in his life seen a sky of blue. The red sun and its flaxen moon, which provided power to him and those of his lineage, cast the skies in a gentle purple hue—sometimes bright as summer’s lavender; sometimes hazy as a female’s cloak. The sky set into indigo, and rose into a ruddy lilac. But never did it blink at him with the bright blue of the humans’ eyes. Never did it rise with the golden stare of an extinct cat. Never did it set like the sterling gaze of his deceased wife. Except in his dreams. Then and only then did the ghosts of his and his nation’s past rise up before him and spread themselves across the skies. Then and only then did he feel fear brewing in his chest that he did not understand.

  His wolf general was dead. His eldest son was sure to be humiliated at the upcoming Mal competition. His spies brought word almost daily of a new rebellion—a group of Veranderen and men called Septugant—the seventh era. Each week he received reports of missing serfs and wayward Veranderen, of stolen weapons and midnight gatherings. A rebellion was nothing new. He had known and crushed many in his reign. But their convergence with the Motteral Mal was creating a minor nighttime malady of his otherwise fluid senses. Inconvenient, he reasoned, but nothing more.

  Kaxon, his youngest son, arrived at the hall, a steaming mug in hand. “Another dream, my lord,” he asked, bowing and presenting his father the medicine.

  “It is nothing,” the king replied. “There is excitement in the land over the upcoming Mal competition. It stirs my blood. I trust that it ignites yours as well.”

  “Indeed, my lord. My training goes well.”

  “Very good,” his father replied and, dismissing his son, took slow sips of his sleeping tonic until violet dawn began to creep through the east windows and he finally fell into slumber.

  Wittendon awoke with the birds and a short hour later found the town to which the bloodied she-dog had retreated. Catching her scent had been surprisingly easy. The wolf and dog had met at a secluded hill outside this village. Other animals had been there too—young ones whose scent was that of dog and wolf combined. Wittendon did not need to dig the tiny graves left by the she-dog to understand what that meant. The wolf, Grender, had fathered a litter of half-breeds. And half-breeds could not be allowed. Of all things, King Crespin was most clear on this. Although half-breeds were sometimes born harmless or even deformed, they were often born with strange powers and were dangerous—their bloodlines wrapping about in unpredictable ways with the potential of two different races at their command. Yet, as Wittendon had trodden the tiny graves, as he had scented the blood trail the mother dog left in her work of burying her young, Wittendon could not deny that the thought of so much premature death left him colder than when he had first arrived.

  Now, in the muddy morning, choking in the smells of dirty chicken pens, children’s feet, and breakfasts of burned porridge, Wittendon wished he had not caught quite so many fish for breakfast. He could tell that even by low human standards this village was repugnant. The city gates themselves hung askew and unguarded, the smoke from the chimneys seemed thin and dingy, and the scent of unwashed human was so strong, it made Wittendon’s full stomach turn circles.

  Before entering the gate, Wittendon shifted into his flesh form. Even so, there was no possibility that he would be mistaken for a human. His wine-colored robes, which hung to the ground, were streaked with orange and lined with golden thread along the hem and sleeves. His face was young and ruddy, his eyes sharp and steely. And his stature—tall even by the standards of his own kind—was that of a giant to the mortal flesh-wearers.

  Wittendon had but to look at an old, crumpled woman and she pointed toward a hut on the outskirts of the village. The she-dog had clearly retreated there and collapsed. Then some minutes later, it seemed she was carried into the gates of the hut and placed in a bed of meager grass. Near a weed-filled garden surrounded by wildflowers, Wittendon could see—as any half-blind hag could have—a mound of freshly dug dirt. Deep within it, he smelled the death of the creature he sought.

  Wittendon sighed. The wolf’s murderer was quite dead. Which left Wittendon to hunt out and convict the humans connected to her—those who lived in the filthy hovel before him. At least it had been simple.

  “Man serf,” he called, waiting only a moment before a chestnut-haired man opened the door and stood before him.

  The man offered a low bow. “May I be of service to his greatness, the prince?” A woman appeared at the man’s side, silent and nearly as tall as the man.

  Immediately Wittendon sensed the smell of the she-dog on the woman. He was surprised at its strength considering that the dog must have been buried for some days now.

  “A wolf has been found dead,” Wittendon said. “I am sent to find the human responsible for this death.”

  “I would be happy to assist you if I in any way knew how,” the man said in a way that did not convey even the smallest hint of happiness or willingness. “But no wolf has been known to have died in these parts for generations.”

  “I do not believe a human has killed the wolf,” Wittendon responded. “Yet I am quite sure that a human is connected to the murdering dog and it is my job to find that human.”

  “I wish you much luck in this, good prince,” the man began, trying to shut the door.

  Wittendon reached out and held it. “And my job is completed at this hut. The woman at your side reeks of the offending dog. As the dog no longer lives, the woman is to be taken instead.”

  With this news, Wittendon could feel heat rise in the man’s body as well as a gentle trembling.

  “My lord,” the man began, more humbly than before and with an especially low bow, “how could such a thing be?”

  “You know the law,” Wittendon said. “The murder of a wolf must be paid through the murder of another.” Wittendon could feel the man trembling through the thin boards of the floor. Firmly, Wittendon took both of the woman’s arms and led her forward. Her face was clear and open with eyes the color of forest paths. She had not yet spoken and, while Wittendon could feel sadness and a sense of fear in her, he could not grasp at any feeling of repentance.

  “That dog did not belong with us,” the man said, boldly stepping beside his wife.

  Wittendon tied the woman’s hands in front of her body. “And yet you showed it mercy.”

  “We were unaware of the she-hound’s”—and here the man paused, choosing his words carefully—“crime.”

  “The woman is connected to the animal,” Wittendon said simply.

  “The woman is a silly woman. She cannot help but be connected to the suffering.” The man’s voice had begun to rise.

  “Come,” Wittendon said gruffly to the woman, grasping her wrists and growling.

  “Besides,” the man continued suddenly, “I was the most connected to the animal. I found the dog and brought her here. I cleaned her wounds and dug her grave.”

  “Jager, that is enough,” the woman said at last.

  Wittendon looked to the man. “Your defense does you no favors.”

  But the man continued, “The dog was my project. This woman merely followed my instruction.”

  Wittendon raised one pale, hairy brow and bared his upper teeth, no longer looking as human as before. “Well, then,” he said calmly, holding out his rope and tying the arms of his new captive more quickly than seemed possible. “I can release her.”

  He pulled at Jager’s wrists.

  Quickly, before Wittendon could move, Jager leaned forward, fleetly touching his forehead to that of his wife.

  Wittendon felt the heat of the faces of man and wife connecting. It was something he had never seen among the humans or known among his own race.
His father’s only affection was a quick touch of his fist to Wittendon’s shoulder in the formal greeting of nobility, and Wittendon’s memories of his mother were dim and distant—snatches of flower-laden scents and bits of song that hummed into his veins when she had bent to say good night.

  More harshly than he intended, the Veranderen prince turned and led his captive through the dim morning. The smells of meager human breakfast assaulted him as he walked towards the exit, the sounds of nervous mothers’ lullabies bidding him farewell.

  Pietre had been told by his mother to avoid being seen at any cost. Humphrey, she had said, must be kept in the room, even if he had to be tied to the bed. Pietre had gasped. To tie a dog, it was unthinkable. His mother had bit her lip nervously. “I believe that even the dogs would agree that to be temporarily bound is better than to be permanently killed. He cannot be seen or heard or it will mean death; do you understand?” Pietre had nodded, though he had not understood. Now he began to. He had peered around the kitchen door, shaking, as his father was led from the house. Pietre had seen humans taken before. They did not return.

  Pietre walked slowly from the kitchen to the place where Humphrey was tied. The dog was just learning to speak. He whined softly, looked to Pietre, and said, “No.”

  In the other room, Pietre heard his mother crying.

  “Don’t be angry,” Pietre said, untying Humphrey. “I wish I could have tied my father to the bedpost too. And I’m pretty sure if he’d needed to, he would have tied me.” As soon as he said it, Pietre began to cry. None of it made sense. They had done nothing wrong. In fact, they’d done everything they thought was right. And nothing good had come of it.

  Pietre sat on the floor sobbing until Humphrey came and pressed his nose to the boy’s hand. The dog’s nose was still pink and black, his fur mostly black with patches of white on his chest, muzzle, and legs. His body was small, but his paws—also pink and black—seemed to grow bigger every day. Humphrey put a paw in Pietre’s lap.

  “Humphrey,” Pietre asked suddenly, wiping his face on a ragged sleeve. “If he comes around again—he who shines like the midnight moon—if he comes again, would you be bound for your safety?”

  “No,” the dog repeated.

  “No,” Pietre said. “No. My father would not either.” The boy sat there for a long time tears steadily trickling down his face. When his eyes were swollen, but his mind felt clear, he stroked the now sleeping dog in his lap. They had both lost a parent now. It didn’t make Pietre feel better exactly, but it made him feel less alone.

  For Wittendon, the distance to the head city was a mere hour’s run through woods and pasture, but with the human it took several hours of walking along paths and badly paved roads before they arrived. At a small patch of dilapidated huts outside the great wall of the city, Jager asked to stop at a well. “Please, my lord,” he said, his voice cracking from thirst. Wittendon consented though he told the prisoner to hurry. On this, the west side of the head city dwelt the most destitute and desperate humans. They clustered together—outlaws, beggars, and thieves—messy camps of men who lived no better than barnyard beasts, and did not seem to want to.

  Wittendon waited impatiently for the prisoner to draw water. The prince did not wish to have beggars pulling at his robes, holding out their filthy palms, and muttering for a crust of bread, but just as Jager finished his small drink, an old man tottered before the prince, bowing in an exaggerated fashion. Wittendon opened his mouth to say that he had no food to give when the old man suddenly spit at Wittendon’s feet.

  Calmly, Wittendon stepped over the spittle, pushing the man aside and walking towards the western gates of his city.

  “Haven’t time for me, eh, Lord Werewolf?”

  Jager drew in his breath.

  Wittendon stopped and turned slowly to face the man. “What did you say, old man?”

  “I said,” the man repeated, stepping so close that Wittendon could see the three rotten teeth that dangled from his upper gum, “that those of mighty blood and impenetrable hide have little time for the humans who make their tools and send their rations in grain, sweat, and blood.”

  Wittendon drew himself to the full height of his flesh form and faced the man squarely. “We give more time than we wish and more care than some deserve, you toothless, drunken fool. But that is not what you said.”

  “I said,” the beggar whispered, moving closer, “a name deserved by those who shift from man to wolf and wolf to man and give more care to one race than the other. Werewolf,” he hissed.

  “And,” Wittendon said, with a seeming calm, “you will not say such a word again.” In a moment, Wittendon was holding the old beggar’s throat, but the hand he used was no longer that of a man. The fingers had grown long and gnarled. Coarse hair rippled like a wave of shimmering water along his back and limbs, a thick, slate-colored mane. The shifter’s teeth grew sharp, white, and strong. His hands were human-shaped, but as muscular as a man’s arm with thick nails like polished iron tusks.

  He held the old man by the throat and lifted him so that the man dangled in the air like a dead goose. Wittendon held him until the man’s skin turned gray and his breath came only in slow, thin wheezes. “Perhaps now you will remember that the Veranderen are a mighty race that oversees—despite the seething, often ungrateful nature of their varied kingdom—many kinds of subjects.” He dropped the man to the ground. “And that they are not the ancient, limited, verlorn beasts whose name you so carelessly speak.” Wittendon growled low, his skin softening, his back, chest, and arms shrinking back into the tall, thin form that was the pale prince. Only his teeth remained sharp and wolken. Wittendon smiled, baring them.

  The man held his throat, gasping and nodding. Wittendon shook his head, dropping a thin gold coin at the man’s feet. The old man bowed again, still coughing, and scratched a bit with his foot in the dirt.

  Wittendon walked ahead, not noticing that the man did not pick up the coin. The prince jerked the rope connected to Jager’s wrists. Jager stumbled forward, falling into the dust where the old man had sketched a small, rickety ‘7.’ Wittendon pulled the rope again, without turning back. Jager quickly swiped his hand through the dirt and stood, the remnants of the dusty ‘7’ clinging to his skin.

  Chapter 5

  The 6th Era began at the end of the 11,100th tournament of the Motteral Mal. It did not begin peacefully.

  Born a son of one of the king’s sorcerers, Crespin had barely ranked high enough to compete in his first Motteral Mal. Fortunately, rank did not concern him. He had strength, and magic more powerful than anyone had seen since the changing of the suns.

  At age sixteen, Crespin stormed through the tournament, defeating Veranderen decades older with years of training. In the years of the 5th Era, the winner of the Motteral Mal would become head of the great Council of Elders, the highest-ranking official in the land.

  As Crespin continued to conquer, moving up each round, the Council grew more suspicious. They were concerned about an ancient prophecy having to do with one who could control the Grey, one who could change the suns, overturning their way of life.

  When Crespin left the final hill, bloody and victorious, they did not greet him as a victor. Rather, they examined his skin, his blade, his eyes, his urine. Nothing was amiss. Crespin was not one of the Greylords as they had feared. Even so, the members of the council were concerned to see such a young, inexperienced Verander ascend to a rank higher than their own. At the last moment, one of the most esteemed Veranderen, an elder known as Tomar, found an old scroll stating that competitors under the age of eighteen could be made to wait until the next tournament if the Council deemed them too young. An elder named Naden supported the motion and after a unanimous vote, Crespin was deemed too young—too impetuous, too rash.

  The elders would come to regret their decision. One hundred years is a long time for a talented, driven Verander to practice. And plan. At the next tournament, Crespin easily took his victory. And then, after the tou
rnament, feasting at the victor’s place of honor, alone with the great elders who would be decorating him with leaves of the Crimson Maple, Crespin produced a long straight blade—tipped in over three inches of the great Grey. The elders stood, scattering, trying to summon the blade away from Crespin. With a burst of magic Crespin divided the blade into twelve long deadly slivers, slaying all but one of the elders—the very one he had most wished to kill. That Verander—Tomar—fled the land, never to be seen again.

  It didn’t matter. Crespin came forth from the chamber of the elders covered in blood and crowned himself as leader: the first king. That night, during a speech at the celebration, Crespin declared that his people did not need bureaucratic councils. They needed leadership. He had just defeated eleven of the most powerful Veranderen of the land. Leadership was what they got.

  In the years that followed, assassins flocked to Crespin, only to be killed before they had so much as glimpsed a hair of the king’s precious face. Crespin could sense them. He could feel their weaknesses. He could destroy them. Through the years, murder attempts came less and less and finally not at all. Rumor whispered that the king had power to seize the spirits of the most vicious and powerful assassins, bending their ghosts into his service, though none could know for sure. Most of the Veranderen now living did not remember life with the Council, or a time when any would openly threaten the king. King Crespin had been, in his way, good to them. The Veranderen now lived in a golden age at the height of wealth, comfort, and security.

  If not loved, King Crespin was respected. If not honored, he was feared. And each Verander depended on the king’s strength, his cunning, and his talent in government. He was a masterful politician, a perfect swordsman, and a magician like none had ever seen.

  Chapter 6