It had taken several days to craft the magic. Covenant spells demanded concentration and care; otherwise you wound up giving more than you intended.
Finally, just as Loerwoei’s belly began to press at the seams of her gowns, Crespin went to her and, with the powerful words of the ancient tongue, he cast the spell by the fire of her bedchamber.
Blood of my blood, flesh of my bone,
Wizard’s spine and shining stone.
Those come forth by mother’s womb
Protected now from father’s doom.
As he from them will be secure,
If they the filial bonds ignore.
After all was done, Loerwoei looked at him occasionally, sometimes even with sweetness. It reminded him of the friend Draden whom he had lost—that feeling of closeness. And he had, foolishly, allowed himself to enjoy this one connection with his wife, this flourish of emotion, this weakness called love. A year following that first healthy child, she bore another. Perhaps another would have followed except that there had been an accident in the woods. Even his strongest magics could not control the unseen wound within her, and he had gone to the gardener for a potion. Her remedies of herb and mineral worked well to abate the sickness and Crespin and the gardener had spent many hours together, trying to concoct a permanent solution. Perhaps too many hours.
And then the gardener had left. A little abruptly for Crespin’s taste.
After that Loerwoei died quickly.
Leaving Crespin to raise two young children. Alone.
Chapter 11
Pietre and Humphrey trudged home. They had only a basket of dandelion greens and several ugly mushrooms. The old goat had ceased in her milk and now they wouldn’t have so much as a pat of butter to cook it all in. Pietre could feel the way the mushrooms would press like spongeweed against his teeth.
Before he reached his house, Pietre wiped his face with an old rag, as his mother had taught him, though he hardly saw the point. He hadn’t had time to bathe in weeks and all the rag could possibly do was smear dirt and sweat into different places. Humphrey looked better, but smelled worse.
As soon as they reached the old gate, Pietre heard his mother by the chicken coop—sobbing. Humphrey pushed open the gate and rushed in, but Pietre dragged behind. He knew the news that must be coming; the king had surely passed judgment on his father by now. He felt sick to his stomach and wished to turn around and run back to the woods, but Humphrey had already gone to Carina, and was nudging her hand.
“Sweet Cari,” he murmured. “Do not cry. All will be well. I am bigger now and can help with hunting and Pietre is man enough to gather wood, water, and herbs.”
“No, no,” she sobbed, wiping her face with an old, sopping handkerchief. “You don’t understand.” Humphrey stood back slightly as though acknowledging that he did not. And then Pietre’s mother laughed, which set both dog and boy on edge. Perhaps she was descending into madness.
“Mother,” Pietre had said. “Moecka.” He was trying to choke in his own tears at the terrible news he expected to hear.
“No, no,” she said again. “Look.” She gestured in through the open front door to a table set with a stuffed bird and a bag of bright, purple cabbages. Humphrey nearly swooned.
“He lives,” she said, rising and taking Humphrey’s front paws as though to dance with him. “And we shall too.” Humphrey cast a quick glance at Pietre as if to say, She still might be mad.
“Not only does he live to mine and work in the service of the king, but he has arranged to have food and firewood sent every week.” Still holding one of Humphrey’s paws, she pulled a paper from her apron pocket that was stamped with the king’s insignia—a wolken head with a flame rising from its brow.
“But how?” Pietre asked, now coughing back happy tears, so he didn’t start blubbering and dancing with animals like his mother had. He doubted any of the chickens would appreciate it.
“His skill,” she said, her bosom swelling with relief and pride. “The dreadful wolf who brought the provisions bore a message saying that he would be mining and fashioning the metal for the great tournament of the Veranderen.”
The Shining Grey, Pietre thought. His father had spoken of the ore at times. It was said to weaken any of the Veranderen who were exposed to it, heightening the challenge at their great game.
His mother finally let go of Humphrey and came to kiss Pietre on the head. “Come,” she said, “let us feast.”
And they did. Pietre was sure he had never been so full in all his life. At the end of their dinner, his mother stood and fingered one of the cabbages as though it was a flower. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Pietre shrugged and yawned. He would have eaten it even if it had looked like an old man’s toe. He went to his room behind the kitchen and looked through the small open window to the stars that were said to have guided men in the time before the rise of the Veranderen—in the time of the high white sun. Pietre had heard talk—talk of the Grey mine in the east, talk of madness and ghosts, gasses and cave-ins, terrifying talk. Still, Pietre looked to the stars, following the constellation of the serval that pointed east, and he wondered.
Chapter 12
Practice had gone well. Ever since his triumph on the hill, Sarak had been wary of Wittendon’s blade and had even gone so far as to say that Wittendon commanded it better than many Veranderen who’d had centuries to practice. But magic. Magic was another matter. It seemed that the more control Wittendon gained over his scythe, the further he got from making anything besides strength come out of his arm.
Wittendon walked slowly to the weapons room. From down the hall, he could hear two wolves laughing like jackals. He sighed. He had hoped to try a bit of magic in the weapons room where he felt he could shut himself off for a few moments from the stares and gossip of the other competitors, but he was sure he couldn’t do anything with a couple of giggling wolves standing around.
As Wittendon got closer, he could hear them boasting, and he wondered if they’d gotten hold of some of the human liquors. Wittendon was about to clear his throat and push open the door when a familiar name caught his ear.
“I can still hear Grender begging,” the first began.
“Oh, please, help me friend,” the second joined in, using a voice affected and high so as to sound like that of a weak, whining wolf. “The she-beast has nearly destroyed my hide.”
“What a pity,” the first laughed as the second wolf snorted. “All scratched up by his wench-hound.”
And there the name was again. Wittendon pressed his ear to the door.
“That ape general Grender. He had a penchant for she-hounds and wolf-women alike,” the first said, clucking his tongue.
“Especially wolf-women that were already mated to another,” the second said, without any humor in his voice. “He stole her from me. Only to leave her as well and go off after that she-hound.”
Wittendon could hear the first wolf snapping his teeth together. “Well, he never will again.”
“True,” the second said with much satisfaction. “Not since he was pricked by a little Grey-painted tip in his philandering hide.”
At that they laughed and Wittendon stepped forward into the weapons room, bearing the scythe across his shoulder.
“Cousins,” he said, and they bowed.
“Lord Prince,” they mumbled. “We were unaware of thy noble presence.”
“That, it seems, was quite clear. Do you find the death or your own kin so very amusing?” He removed the weapon from his shoulder and carefully put it into the weapons rack—a wall of scythes with Grey-painted points facing out and upward, glistening like the back of an enormous metallic porcupine.
Weaponless, he turned to face the wolves. They had risen from their bow. The first was a dingy gray with fur that looked as though it had not been washed for some time. The second had a bright, fine coat of rusty orange and eyes shot with red like he had spent too little time sleeping. Wittendon recognized both as members of the
Blødguard, and neither had tucked his right paw in respect as the wolves generally did in the presence of a prince. Wittendon began to wonder if re-racking the weapon had been an overly confident gesture.
“We find,” the dingy one said, facing his prince with eager, hungry eyes, “the death of traitors most satisfying indeed.”
“And is it for you to determine who is a traitor?” Wittendon asked, widening the stance of his legs as Sarak had taught him during training.
“It was not our idea in the first place,” said the first, securing his own footing.
Wittendon wanted to ask him what he meant, but the other wolf was pacing slow half-circles around him.
“And it was a very good idea,” added the second. “There are, my prince, treacheries other than those committed against the king.”
“Although treachery against the king and his kin,” the first said, moving carefully, almost casually forward. “We could understand as well if it became necessary to protect our own.”
“Your own?” Wittendon asked. “It does not sound as though you are highly concerned about your own.”
From deep within the throat of one of the wolves, a low rumbling growl could just barely be heard. The fur of the gray wolf began to rise along his neck, like the fin of a shark rising from the water.
The other looked at Wittendon and said, snarling, “He stole my mate. And then left her to go after such rubble as a she-hound. He was not worthy to be called our own.”
It made sense now—Grender’s unusual wound. It had not come before he went to seek the she-hound. It had come after. And it had not been an accident. “A trial will be set,” Wittendon said firmly, although he didn’t dare turn his back to them and leave.
The wolves ignored him. “By your own mouth, Grender’s wound was but an accident,” the first wolf said. He took a step forward, smiling, “And accidents,” he said quietly, “they are terrible things.”
“Especially when the mighty Grey is in use,” the other added.
“Especially when a young prince is as weak in magic as the lowly wolves.”
The two wolves advanced on him.
“You would threaten me, cousins?” Wittendon asked, aware of his vulnerable position in front of a wall of weapon tips.
“The penalty for killing a wolf is death,” said the dingy one. “And a prince’s word would go far.”
“The penalty for killing a Prince is greater,” said Wittendon.
“True, but the penalty for him being a clumsy verlorn oaf is nothing,” said the orange wolf. “At least it is nothing for us. Though the cost might be steep for him.”
“And you know that his poor father has been expecting something tragic from his dunce of a son,” taunted the dingy one.
“Ever since his weakened mother died,” said the second, clucking his tongue in mock pity and ramming his shoulder against Wittendon, pushing him toward the rack of scythes. Several weapons clattered to the ground. One nearly grazed Wittendon’s arm; another touched his leg, though it didn’t break skin. Wittendon was relieved. Even a small wound might have weakened him enough for the wolves to pounce. As it was, he felt plenty strong.
“Oh dear,” mocked the first wolf. “It looks like the mighty prince has stumbled.”
The rusty, bloody-eyed wolf circled around him. “You know it was just a jab of the Grey—a bit from a painted tip—that killed our own brother, weakened as he was from his fight with the she-hound. Grender came to us whimpering, he did, begging for help. We helped him.” He sneered. “Helped him to his death.” The wolf pressed forward another step.
“And now with a whole rack of weapons at your back, perhaps we can help you in much the same way.” The rusty wolf lunged at him.
Wittendon jumped away faster than he thought possible. The other wolf sprang at him knocking Wittendon again against the rack that held the curved Motteral blades so that Wittendon fell. This time a blade pricked him, though not deep enough to draw blood. Wittendon wasn’t sure what a scratch like that would do. He closed his eyes, remembering the way Sarak’s wound had bled, but he felt okay. In fact, he felt good. The wolves must have been mistaken about the spears. These ones, it seemed, were not yet tipped in the Grey and were merely blades of everyday steel. The wolves advanced, trying to see if one of the blades had struck home.
Wittendon remained still, appearing to be unconscious until they were quite close and ready to strike. When they did, he jumped up and away as they threw themselves against the practice blades, which pierced them, though not very deeply. Wittendon figured it would hurt, but not kill. He wanted to teach them that the oldest prince was not as easy a target as they had supposed.
“How dare you?” Wittendon said. “You are spared by this harmless steel which you mistook for a metal that would murder me…”
His last words were drowned in the screams and cries of the wolves.
“Demon prince,” said the one with the dirty coat. Both wolves were frothing at the mouth, red bubbles foaming from their lips. “Murderer.”
“I…” Wittendon began, confused. “You.” he said, backing away and expecting this to be a trick. Yet in moments the wolves screams had gone silent and their sides ceased heaving and spasming. Wittendon moved slowly forward. “But how?” he asked himself, picking up a scythe. “They are just practice steel.” He touched the gleaming blade, careful not to pierce his skin. Contact with the metal made his body quiver. Perhaps they weren’t just steel. Wittendon shuddered at his mistake. If he had grown careless and let the blades pierce him, then…
The two wolves bled profusely and Wittendon felt their last word like an echo. “Murderer.”
“But I’m not,” he spoke to himself. “They killed themselves.”
Yet even as he called for the Veranderen guards, shouting that there had been an accident in the weapons room, he could hear the wolves’ accusation repeated in his mind and his guilt rose up. Steel blades or not, he had lured them to it.
Chapter 13
For the third time that week Pietre could have sworn he’d seen a cat. There had been the flash of orange hair, then later a pointy-eared shadow. The third time it was more a sound and a feeling than anything he’d seen—he could have sworn he’d heard the gentle thud of a great, but graceful animal jumping down from a tall tree. It had sounded just like a ghost, and in a thrilling, terrifying way, Pietre had begun to wonder if it actually was. Some of the old storytellers liked to say that the cats had existed once, but had been hunted by the wolves until they were extinct. Of course, they also liked to say cats could land on their feet—even when falling or jumping from great heights. That made Pietre smile and shake off the teasing images of his imagination. Imagine an animal that could do such a thing. The only thing crazier was to imagine the ghost of an animal who could do such a thing.
Pietre rested in the woods, gently brushing the milky white salve into Humphrey’s fur. Humphrey lay on his back, perfectly content. “You know you could open a business doing this for dogs,” he said. “I bet they’d pay. We could call it Humphrey’s Haven.”
“What about Pietre’s Palace?” Pietre asked, stuffing the rest of the herbs into a basket to take home.
“I like mine better,” Humphrey murmured, drifting towards sleep.
Pietre rubbed his belly. Humphrey had quadrupled in size since Pietre first knew him, his voice now deep and rich. Pietre’s mother told him tales—tales that in the days of the high white sun, dogs did not grow so quickly or live so long. Humphrey was already nearly to adulthood. Even so, his size was unusual. Humphrey stood up to Pietre’s waist and was barrel-chested with paws bigger than Pietre’s own palm. “You’re going to make vegetarians of us, Humph,” Pietre’s mother would say, tossing him a fish head or chicken liver. Though now, with the weekly rations of meat and fish, it wasn’t much of a threat.
Humphrey’s coat was a shiny, soft black, though his face, neck, and legs were marked with white. Pietre could tell he would be a handsome dog. He rested his ha
nd on Humphrey’s belly.
In the cool silence of the shade trees, Pietre considered the possibility of travelling to the head city to find his father. The road would be dangerous. If he wanted to travel it, he would have to set out as soon as the sun rose in order to be back before dark. But darkness wouldn’t be his only enemy. The thieves, rumored to roam the roads in the light of day, were just as deadly as the Blødguard of the night. Pietre sighed. He was willing to take the risk, but first he would have to know where he was going. It was said that the roads leading to the Grey mines were a disorienting web of covert pathways and steep ridges—meant to be travelled only by those the king intended.
Suddenly, from just behind his back, Pietre heard a deep voice say, “Good afternoon, fair child. It seems you have put Hannahszon under a spell of contentment.”
“Hello, great Markhi,” the boy said, shaking off his worries and rising to greet the dog. “Humphrey wishes to open a retreat of sorts for dogs. He says your kin will pay.”
Markhi smiled. “Well, perhaps when our great race fluffs about on nails painted pink.” Markhi laughed with a deep resonating sound that was like the largest bells on feast days. “As for today, we fight.”
Humphrey opened one eye.
“Stand, young one,” the great dog said. “I made a promise to train you and this afternoon finds me in your wood.” The large dog began circling Humphrey. “I see that you’ve grown. That is good.” He lunged at Humphrey, tripping him so that he toppled over almost before he was fully standing. “But more weight and height will do nothing but pull you faster to the ground without speed and wit.”
Humphrey sprang up more quickly this time. Both dogs circled. Pietre stepped away.
Markhi held his head low and growled, but Humphrey refused to bow his head and stood straight and stiff. “Your pride will be of little use, youngling. Your neck stands exposed like the trunk of a young sapling.”
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