Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  “And your words wax long,” Humphrey said, pouncing, though not quickly enough. Markhi stepped aside and Humphrey soared through the air like a javelin gone off course.

  “Head low. Move like an arrow,” Markhi said. “Are those sentences short enough for you?”

  Humphrey lunged again, much like an arrow, this time hitting his mark and barging into Markhi’s shoulder.

  “Yes,” Humphrey said, smiling at his accomplishment, though it was only a moment before Markhi knocked him off-balance again and pinned him to the ground.

  Pietre gasped and stepped back several more paces.

  “Throat, gut, even ankles are good points to attack or weaken a dog. Shoulder, nape, and back—they do little.”

  Humphrey was breathing hard when Markhi let him go.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” Markhi said, but Humphrey barreled towards him again.

  “Or we could go another round,” Markhi said, clipping Humphrey in the side.

  Again and again the dog and dog-wolf fought until finally, Humphrey knocked Markhi into a tree and pinned him by his neck against a root.

  “Well done, child,” Markhi said. “If I were a human, I would end today’s lesson on this positive note.” Then, like a flash, he bit Humphrey’s ankle, gaining a few seconds to pull the young animal down. “But I am a dog and will not take defeat for your benefit.”

  Pietre might have spoken in defense of his race except that Humphrey had risen again, teeth bared—ready to fight once more. His mouth was frothing from the heat; even the pads of his feet had begun to sweat, leaving wet marks in the dirt. Markhi stood still and straight. “I see persistence is a lesson you have quickly learned,” he said. “But it is time to stop. My pack awaits my return and you, young one, grow too tired to learn more at present.”

  Humphrey growled and advanced, but Markhi stood firm. “No, young one. A dog fights hard, but knows when to stop. A wolf,” he said pointedly, “does not.”

  Humphrey snarled again, but stopped his advance.

  Markhi bowed to him, tucking a paw under his chest. For a terrible moment Pietre thought Humphrey—in his defeated anger—was going to charge the older dog. Yet after a moment, Humphrey took a deep breath and tucked his paw as well.

  “There is much to learn,” Humphrey said, not even bothering to hide his sadness at the defeat.

  “You have learned much already,” Markhi said. “And I was wrong—you were able to learn one final lesson today.” After a pause Markhi added, “Your mother knew quite well when to stop and when to fight.”

  “Did she?” Humphrey asked with sadness, his head tilting up.

  “I’ve no doubt of it,” Markhi said, looking Humphrey directly in the eyes. “Ah, but you do grow unusually big. Already we are face to face.”

  Markhi turned to Pietre. “You have done well with his scent, child. I cannot smell even a trace of wolf in him. And if I cannot, none can.”

  Pietre nodded.

  Just as he was about to leave, Markhi added, “I have heard the news of your father, boy, and I am glad of it.”

  “But how have you heard,” Pietre asked.

  “The mines are not so very far from my home,” Markhi said. “News travels quickly among dogs; they love stories almost as much as the air in their lungs.”

  “The mines,” Pietre said with a quickened hope. “Can you lead me to them?”

  The older dog looked at the boy for a painfully long minute. Pietre stood as tall as his skinny frame would allow, and held his face straight and firm like he thought a man would.

  “No,” Markhi said. “You are young, child, and the mines of the Grey are deep. You will find your way when the fates lead you there. No sooner.”

  More quickly than seemed possible, the dog was gone.

  “He does make a good exit, doesn’t he?” Humphrey said, nursing his front paw.

  Pietre gathered up his basket of rotherem, feeling like a little girl.

  “Well, that’s two of us then,” Humphrey said, seeming to understand Pietre’s thoughts and limping slightly on his left forepaw to follow.

  They had walked nearly a mile when a voice spoke—soft as silk, but clear as summer.

  Well met, good child, is met indeed.

  But better met when voice you heed.

  Pietre stopped, his breath sucked out of him. Humphrey’s hair had risen and his teeth were bared.

  The fates may call to places hollow,

  Only when whispered words you follow.

  They saw nothing. And then Pietre heard it again—the gentle sound of an animal landing in the soft grasses below.

  “A spirit,” Humphrey whispered. But as they listened to the soft swish of the grasses, Pietre wondered.

  “The old tales speak of cats as masters of agility and silence,” he said to Humphrey.

  “Well, yes, but did they ever mention rhyme?” Humphrey said, scratching an ear.

  Pietre glared at him.

  “Well, did they?” Humphrey asked. “Rather annoying, actually. Imagine a race who always spoke like that. It’s just strange.”

  “Almost as strange as race that could always land on their feet,” Pietre said, considering his theory.

  “Yes, well, that’s pure myth,” Humphrey said, a little vainly. “And quite honestly, I don’t see what makes it so extremely special…” he began, but was cut off by the voice.

  Well met, good child is met indeed.

  Five days hence beneath these trees.

  “Five days,” Pietre said. “The fates waste little time.”

  Humphrey sniffed. “More of a slant rhyme, that one.” And, ignoring his hurt ankle, he bounded ahead toward home.

  Chapter 14

  Dreaming of quiet meadows, flowing waters, vine-hung caverns; it shouldn’t have been a nightmare. But it was. Always. The meadow was deeper than stillness—soundless, mute—pulling him towards it, enfolding him in its void. And then the screaming of the water, a siren call that drew him, thick-footed towards itself and then towards the cavern—cool-mouthed, hot-bellied. Through it he walked, stiff, dragging himself down tunnels that enfolded him like layers of blankets over his eyes and mouth—thick, strangling, voiceless.

  Since his mother had died, his dreams had always started like this—a black abyss, a cavern, a cave. Strangest of all, when he woke, he always felt deeply sad that the horrible dream had ended, and found himself—inexplicably—wanting to go back.

  Tonight, into the dark abyss of his nightmares flowed the screams of the dying wolves. And then Wittendon heard his own voice command the human Jager to kill the wolves.

  Wittendon bolted up in bed, shaking, and tossed off his blankets, hoping the chilly castle air would calm and cool him. He had spent the week wondering who he was—what kind of Verander would feel pity for a human and kill—however unintentionally—two wolves. Of course they had fully intended to kill him. The taunt ‘verlorn’ hung in his head next to the ancient word ‘werewolf.’

  He got out of bed and pulled on an old bronze cloak. His hair was still matted with sweat and he was quite sure a bath was in order. But no one would be up at this hour and he wished to walk and calm his nerves.

  Wittendon’s head and shoulders ached from lost sleep and he wandered the castle halls aimlessly. Before long he found himself in the art wing. It was dimly lit with only a few lanterns hung along the walls. He walked along a display of ancient, conquered countries and peoples, then through the pictures of extinct animals and mythical creatures when a slight movement caught his eye. Too late he realized that he was staring at the soft hair and delicate back of Sarak’s sister.

  He did not think she’d seen him and had decided, quite conclusively, to leave when Sadora said, “Hello, Wittendon. What brings you to this quiet corner at such an hour?”

  Wittendon took a deep breath, and walked towards her. “Lack of sleep, I’m afraid to say.”

  She nodded without taking her eyes from the cluster of portraits she was admiring
. He came closer and stood at her side. “And you?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I have never been one to tire early and have become a bit smitten by our distant history.” She gestured to a painting of an enormous cat. “The records of the time before the golden age are—” She paused. “—spotty.” She leaned back a bit, tilting her face up towards one of the paintings. “I find some of these portraits helpful in connecting pieces of the myths to an image I can better understand.”

  Wittendon nodded, remembering with regret that he hadn’t bathed. He patted down a sweaty patch of hair and stole glances at her profile. Her chin was a bit too square, but he found he liked it that way, especially with the wisps of cinnamon-honey hair that fell down around her face. Her eyes very nearly matched the color of her hair and he liked that too.

  “What do you think of this one?” she asked, and Wittendon remembered he was supposed to be staring at art. The cat in the portrait was sleek, the body twisted into curves so tight yet graceful that it made both dog and wolf look clumsy and bulky in comparison.

  “She is very beautiful,” Wittendon said.

  Sadora laughed her tinkling laugh. “And how do you know it is a she?”

  Wittendon wished very much that he had taken a bath and mumbled, “Well, I, it’s something in…” but he could not place it and his words dropped off.

  She laughed again. “Don’t worry, I thought the same. You are not like most others, good Wittendon.”

  “There are not many who consider that a virtue.”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  Wittendon wiggled uncomfortably and then turned. “The hour grows quite late. May I walk you to your quarters?”

  In answer she gracefully put an arm through his.

  “Do you think they really existed?” she asked as they left the hall.

  Wittendon had focused once again on the color of her hair and was caught once again off guard.

  “The cats,” she said.

  “To tell the truth, I have thought of them but little.”

  She smiled and when she did, he could see the smallest creases at her eyes. He had to suppress an urge to reach forward and touch them.

  “Nor had I until somewhat recently,” she said. “Did you know that some scholars claim that the cats were the keepers of riddle and prophecy, that the knowledge they held in their long-stretching memories could fill more libraries than even this palace could contain.”

  They were nearly to her quarters when Wittendon turned to see another, much smaller painting of a cat to the left of a dim lantern. He was about to ask Sadora why she had become interested in this point of history when the cat in the portrait moved. Wittendon gasped and Sadora looked over. What they were both looking at was not a portrait, but a small mirror.

  “I hope that reaction wasn’t at my expense,” she said, glancing in the mirror and adjusting a perfect lock of hair.

  “No,” Wittendon said stupidly. “It wasn’t you. You’re…you’re. It was. I thought.” He looked at Sadora’s smiling image in the mirror. “I am sorry, my lady.” Above him in the beams of the ceiling, he thought he heard a soft swish. He shook his head to clear it. “The hour does you great favor, lady Sadora, but I fear my brain sizzles and spits like hot grease at this time of night.”

  When they reached her quarters, Wittendon quickly took her hand and touched it to his forehead in a polite good-bye.

  “Perhaps,” she said as he released her hand, “we can meet again sometime when the sun still grants her benevolence to your senses.” She smiled teasingly.

  “That would be,” Wittendon said, “very nice.”

  Wittendon walked through the halls in a happy daze until, turning a corner, he nearly bumped into his brother.

  Kaxon raised an eyebrow at him, noting the direction from which Wittendon was walking. Wittendon cleared his throat. “I couldn’t sleep; I went to the art wing,” he stammered.

  “Of course,” Kaxon said. “Where else would you have been that is in that exact direction?”

  Wittendon’s face grew hot and Kaxon smiled. “Well, if you need it, I can have the kitchen maidens concoct the same sleeping potion our father has ordered. Unless, of course, it’s thoughts of a certain pretty someone keeping you awake. In which case, I’m going to assume you want to be left with your thoughts.”

  “Is it too obvious?” Wittendon asked, not even bothering to pretend he didn’t know what Kaxon was talking about.

  “Idiotically so.”

  Wittendon sighed.

  “Don’t worry, brother. A lady appreciates a little adoration.”

  Wittendon smiled. He and his brother had never been extremely close. Their interests and friends were almost as different as the colors of their fur. But his younger brother could always laugh off his father’s criticism and Kaxon had a keen eye for a beautiful face. In this way, Wittendon sometimes felt he had an unlikely friend in his brother. Of course, Kaxon would throw Wittendon into the mines if it meant winning the Motteral Mal. But to Wittendon, that determination was part of his brother’s charisma.

  They walked past the gardens and into a corridor that led them along statues of famous Veranderen, then past the door of the vault where the great books of magic were kept. After ducking into a dim hall, Kaxon turned into the kitchen. “Sure you don’t need a bit of a tonic?” he asked laughing. “I hear some of the girls can concoct a wicked love potion.”

  Wittendon waved him off, pretending not to hear, and walked to his room. That night, the black cave of his dreams still beat against his skull, but through it flickered mysterious felines, honeyed hair, and eyes with creases so soft his mouth went dry to think of them.

  King Crespin sat up abruptly in his bed. He dreamt of her almost nightly now—she who stood surrounded by that unceasing expanse of blue sky, she who should not have been. Years ago, before her birth, his best wolves had been sent to kill her mother. Indeed, they had sworn most convincingly that they had. But a dead mother could not have birthed the child that beckoned to him so persistently in his dreams. She was the same as her human mother in stature and figure, but the hair that fell to her waist was distinctly wolken and when she turned, he was met by a keen copper eye that matched his own. He woke in a rush, dressed, and began to pace. After an hour, Kaxon knocked at the door, steaming tonic in hand.

  The king did not even look to his son, but snarled, “It is no good.”

  Kaxon bowed and was about to leave the room when his father turned suddenly. “Bring me the wolf Wolrijk.”

  “Yes, Lord Father,” Kaxon said, setting the tonic on a small table near the door.

  After Kaxon had left, the king walked over to the drink and carefully poured it into a small flowerpot. “I do not need a useless potion,” he said to himself. “What I need is an assassin.”

  Chapter 15

  Pietre wound his way up the high road with Humphrey. At each bend, his pulse quickened and he expected a daggered thief to jump at him.

  “You shouldn’t have lied to your mother, you know,” Humphrey chided him.

  “What was I supposed to say? I’ll be heading off to the mines now, through dangerous forests and up Robber’s Ridge. But don’t worry because I’m following a strange voice from a being I’ve never seen.” Pietre gritted his teeth, listening for that very voice. She had promised to warn him if any evil waited ahead of them.

  “I don’t know,” Humphrey mumbled. Pietre could tell that Humphrey disliked this last leg of their journey, disliked the spectral voice with the constant rhyming that had led them there, disliked telling his sweet Cari that they would be spending the day hunting with a nearby pack of dogs. “At any rate,” Humphrey said, “you shouldn’t have dragged me into your lie.”

  “Well, I beg your perfectness’s pardon,” Pietre said, but before Humphrey could fire back, a hiss came from behind a rock that was just ahead and the sound froze both of them. It was followed by three distinct scratches. After a moment the voice called out,

 
; Proceed now with gentle speed.

  Around the bend you’ll find what you need.

  Humphrey rolled his eyes and Pietre let out a relieved sigh. “Thank goodness,” he said. “I thought something might have gotten her.” He rounded the final corner and was struck suddenly in the back by a hooded, toothless man who sprayed dust in Humphrey’s eyes and then grabbed Pietre by the shoulders and shoved him to the earth.

  Jager bent low in a lonely tunnel of the mine. He was sure it was here. He could feel ore in the way some could sense water in a desert, but no matter where his pickaxe struck, the walls stared back at him black as night. Finally he threw the pick down and sat to eat his sackful of stale crackers. “Compliments of his highness,” he mumbled. “He who threatens me with smaller rations every day that cursed metal eludes me.”

  He crunched on his meager victuals and the sound of his own chewing seemed to echo through the mines. He missed the way Carina had cooked salted meats into bread and wrapped them in paper to take to the tunnels. He missed watching her long fingers fold the edges. He missed the heat of her face near his. At once, he shivered. The mine seemed very quiet. He stood, hunching to strike again at the dull rock when he thought he heard a voice. He paused to listen. Most of the miners refused to go this deep into the rock. They feared poisonous gasses, avalanches, and the ghosts they believed haunted the tunnels under the ancient battlefields that were the Hill of Motteral. Jager did not believe in ghosts, though he had known more than one man driven to madness by the silent enclosure of thick, stone walls.

  He struck at the stone again and this time he was quite sure that the sound he heard echoing back at him was not the sound of axe on rock.

  “Speak,” he said. “Or if you are the voice of my own faltering mind, then be still.”