Above Crespin, the wispy clouds seemed to form a seven in the sky. As he shifted into his wolken form, tracking the sun to his realm, he cast a breeze to the skies, blowing the clouds into a fine mist that fled across the horizon into nothingness.
Chapter 20
Pietre bent down to the creek and took a long drink before filling his bucket. The dogs could be heard singing miles away. They rarely rhymed, but somehow their songs still rang with a cadence that lilted even better than the bards’ couplets. When the dogs could be heard singing, the human villages fell still and listened. It was a rare treat—a tendril of colorful light weaving amongst the dreariness of their days.
Yet when Pietre looked at Humphrey, his friend seemed tense—his jaw set.
“What’s wrong,” Pietre asked. “Are you afraid of another training session?”
“Hardly,” Humphrey replied. “I’m full-grown now. And I’ve been practicing.” Humphrey winked at Pietre, but Pietre couldn’t miss it—the way Humphrey’s jaw clenched up again as soon as he stopped talking.
“Something wrong with your mouth?” Pietre asked, a little concerned now. Pietre had heard of the jaw sickness that sometimes afflicted those dealing in old metals and lately they’d been moving Jager’s tools to boxes. Pietre knew that a scratch could cause the sickness and Humphrey wasn’t one to complain of scratches.
“My mouth is fine,” Humphrey said.
“Humphrey,” Pietre pressed.
“It’s fine,” Humphrey said louder—his voice deep and rich, carrying down the waterway. The sound seemed to startle him and he shut up again.
The hondsong came nearer—snatches catching at their ears.
Humphrey’s body swayed with the sound, but still his face remained tight.
“Not even a hum,” Pietre said, trying to tease. “You afraid Markhi will have to train you in your singing, too?”
Humphrey looked at him, not smiling. “Wolves cannot sing.”
Pietre stared back, not understanding.
“And if I open my mouth and no song comes out, then…then—” Humphrey stopped.
“Then you will be found out.”
“Perhaps. But it is more than that.” Humphrey looked in the direction of the dogs. “If I try to sing and cannot, then I will hear it myself—the side of me that I wish wasn’t, the part that is only ugliness.”
Pietre wanted to say that surely there were wolves who weren’t so bad; wolves who would spare and not destroy. But he couldn’t think of any, so he clamped his own mouth closed.
They’d had storms for the past two days and, although Wittendon knew that Sarak was eager to get to the practice fields, his trainer refused to brave the thunder and lightning that ravaged the hill. At the end of the second day when darkness settled, so did the skies. Stars broke out and the moon rose thick and bright. Wittendon went to bed with his heavy curtains open so that the constellations lay over him like a blanket. He watched them for over an hour as they slowly moved across the sky and then, when Wittendon finally fell into the black cavern of his dreams, a light broke through—shimmering and piercing. His mother stood before him pink-fleshed and as alive as she had ever been—a star of a woman in his bedroom.
“Mother,” he said and she, humming, turned—her face awash in light until at once she blinked—the thick lashes covering the bright eyes. And then she was laid out on her funeral bed, hands crossed—pale, cold. Dead. She was dead.
He woke mourning it with the same dark ice in his heart as he had felt that day. Dead.
She did not have to be dead. If the gardener had not run off, his mother might have lived. The gardener had made tonics and teas; everything had flourished under her care. Yet she—she who had claimed to be his mother’s friend—she had left when his mother had needed her the most. For this Wittendon had never forgiven the gardener. He rose from his bed and snapped the drapes shut.
Sarak tossed his blade down on the grass. “Fight like that and they’ll kill you, my friend.”
Wittendon sighed, leaning on his own scythe. “Why do I have to do this anyway?” Wittendon looked to the path he’d seen Sadora take not five minutes ago. She often went that route to pick wildflowers in the morning and Wittendon often wished to follow her. This morning a post-rain musk hung thick in the air and the lush scents of his land hovered in the moisture like an invitation.
“Because you’re the son of a king, that’s why. And don’t tell me it doesn’t have its perks.” Sarak nodded to the same hill Wittendon was looking at.
“You think she only notices me because I’m a prince?” Wittendon asked, angered by the idea and worried by it too.
Sarak sighed. “Hardly,” he said. “Although you wouldn’t have too much of a chance with her if you were just a common shifter. As it is I suppose she’s the one who should be worried about having a chance with you.” Sarak said it with just an edge of irritation in his voice.
Normally, Wittendon wouldn’t have even noticed, but since Jager’s arrest he had been wondering himself about the inequality in his kingdom—among the different races where it was obvious, but also among his own people who, though free, were divided into clear castes—most of the verlorn living in huts outside the city—digging ditches and cutting grain. “And that bothers you?” Wittendon asked.
“Look, don’t try to change the subject Witt,” Sarak said, managing a smile. “This conversation is about you getting killed because you’re clearly love-struck and cannot bring yourself to focus on the fact that in several weeks there will be a deadly blade in your hand. And, more importantly, in the hand of your opponent.”
“But does it bother you—the difference classes among our race?” Wittendon asked, picking up his blade and readying his stance.
“The Veranderen in power are those whose ancestors fought for our kind on this very hill. The others hid and hoped for the best.” Sarak picked up his own blade.
“So the story goes,” Wittendon said slowly. “But even so, it was the ancestors who didn’t fight, not those shifters who now remain in huts and farms around the head city.”
Sarak shrugged, advancing on his friend. “All are well cared for.”
Wittendon wondered. The lowest class of shifters did seem to be well cared for, and yet among the peasants of his kind there was a strange emptiness. They had clothes, food, and shelter. They worked in their appointed positions within their communities and yet something about them seemed fractured. Few, if any, had maintained their magic and because of this they often lived shorter lives than their magical counterparts. If they did live long enough to reproduce, most peasant families were divided so that they could work more efficiently. Family relations were a privilege of those in the upper classes—those, as Crespin put it, who had the education and the intelligence to understand when familial allegiance swerved from affection into distraction. Wittendon moved forward, swinging his blade.
Sarak easily deflected the blow and tried to strike Wittendon’s ribs. He was surprised to see Wittendon avoid his hit for the first time that morning.
“You know, I’ve been going to collect the miners in the evenings,” Wittendon said.
“Nope; hadn’t noticed,” Sarak replied sarcastically.
Wittendon ignored the sarcasm. Of course Sarak knew, as did anyone with a mouth to gossip. Sadora spent her evenings picking flowers and watching the moon lift from the horizon, rising over the hill just above the mines. Going to collect the slaves was the perfect excuse for Wittendon to watch her. Every tittering maiden in the kingdom knew this.
What they did not know was that it was hardly the only reason for Wittendon to be attracted to the mines. He’d also wanted to observe the prisoner Jager and his child. The humans thought they were hiding the boy, and maybe they were from the wolf guard, but they underestimated the sharp senses of a Veranderen prince. Wittendon couldn’t figure out how the boy had gotten to the mines, but that wasn’t what distracted him. Rather, Wittendon had spent the last couple weeks wondering what k
ind of child would risk the journey through thief-ridden roads and dangerous territory to see his father. He wondered what kind of father could command such allegiance. He wondered what kind of race could be bound so tightly that separation and even the threat of death did not weaken the connection. In fact, it seemed to strengthen it. Wittendon glanced toward the Grey mines, then again at the path Sadora had taken.
Sarak struck him to the shoulder and then pinned the blade to his neck. “Yup. Dead,” he said.
“I…” Wittendon began, but couldn’t think of an excuse.
“Go on, then,” Sarak said, sheathing his weapon. “Go on and woo her or whatever it is you intend to do. Although you better be good to her or I will kill you.”
Wittendon just stood there looking stupid. Sarak seemed to derive a little pleasure from that and softened. “Go on,” he said again, picking Wittendon’s weapon up off the ground. “If you can find her, of course. There have been evenings I’ve wandered those hills in search of her myself, only to give up and find her at home eating supper. She knows every inch of that land. So take comfort or torment in this: if you find her, it will be because she willed it to be so.”
Sarak cleaned Wittendon’s blade. “Just promise me this—whether you find her or she avoids you like you have mushrooms for skin, you will be here next time with your head out of the clouds. Deal?”
“Deal,” Wittendon said slowly, barely hearing the words.
“Great. A commitment made with his head in the clouds. And you will also give me two million pieces of gold upon your return. Deal?” Sarak said.
Wittendon turned to him and smiled. “We’ll see what kind of a mood I’m in.”
Sarak laughed. “Let’s just hope that good mood or bad, you’re ready to fight.” Then, holding both blades on his shoulder and smiling to himself, Sarak walked down the hill.
Just before Sarak reached the palace gates, a long, perfect trumpet note rang out followed by four short blasts. The bustle of the head city fell silent. The king, absent for nearly a fortnight, had returned. At the sides of the road, wolves tucked their paws while Veranderen and humans bowed—the humans lying prostrate, faces against the ground; the Veranderen on one knee, hands clasped behind their backs. The private guard of the king—half of them black wolves, half of them fair Veranderen walked on either side of the king. Through the procession, Sarak could see that the king looked pale and oddly unkept.
Sarak kept his distance, kneeling. Yet as Crespin swept through the palace gates, the king caught the young trainer’s eye. Crespin stared for one long moment into Sarak’s face before Sarak sank into a lower bow, and the king stormed into the castle, pushing aside the page who held open the gates. Sarak paused a moment longer before looking up, then shuddered like an animal who had narrowly avoided the hunt.
Chapter 21
Wittendon caught a glimpse of Sadora on the pathway that led outside the palace walls. If what Sarak said was really true, then she had been seen because she wished to be.
Wittendon followed several winding footpaths, got spider webs caught in his fur at every turn, and still could only catch the faintest snatches of Sadora’s scent as the sun proceeded to set. It seemed ridiculous to stay in the woods all night in search of a Veranderah who might—for all Wittendon knew—only want to keep the town gossip going.
He stopped by a stream to take a drink, bending his head almost completely into the cold water when he heard her laugh and jerked his head up. Still he could not see her, which seemed puzzling as she had sounded so close. Perhaps it was the sound of the water in his ears playing tricks on him.
He bent down to drink again, but before his mouth hit the water, he heard it again. “Sadora,” he called, standing.
The sound was coming from a hill to his right. A narrow path led up the rocky slope. He stepped cautiously onto the loose rocks, hearing high above him the faintest sounds of her voice. Quickly he climbed the hill, careful to keep his footing. By the time he reached the top, he had to stop on a flat rock and pick thorns out of each of his paws.
“Nice,” he said to himself. “She’s clearly in the mood for a romantic rendezvous.”
And then the laugh again, only this time it echoed as though bouncing off the sides of tall thin rocks. Had she not been laughing, Wittendon would have been worried for her. They had come far from the palace, far from the verdant vegetation of the woods he knew she loved. As Wittendon pulled the last thorn from his foot, a thought occurred to him—a thought he couldn’t quite dismiss. Perhaps Sarak had been wrong. Perhaps Sadora hadn’t known he was following her and she’d led him here unintentionally. Perhaps her rendezvous was with someone else. The idea sat like a brick in his stomach. He hoped he hadn’t come so far to see Sadora wrapped in the embrace of another Verander. He shook his head to free himself from the unpleasant image and tossed a rock down the hill, wondering what he should do. The rock hit far below and when it struck, it echoed in just the same way Sadora’s voice had.
Wittendon stood. There was no use sitting here pouting about losing a Veranderah who hadn’t really been his anyway. Grumbling to himself, he said, “At the very least, I can make sure whoever she’s with will meet Sarak’s approval.”
He strode down the hill, following the path of the stone he had tossed and all at once, the rocks gave way to a flat surface that felt solid yet strangely…empty. He tapped his foot against the earth and sure enough, a tinny sound tapped back at him.
“Sadora?” he said. “Are you there? Are you alright?”
Her laughter came again, clear as a hundred bells, though Wittendon didn’t hear it completely since the ground beneath him had suddenly vanished and he was tumbling down some sort of metal chute that seemed to go forever through the earth.
When he reached the bottom, not one, but six Veranderen stood to greet him, along with three men, two women, and one enormous black cat. Sadora stood among them in flesh form and when Wittendon saw her, she offered her hand in just the same way she would have had they been standing at a dinner party eating tiny sandwiches with a bunch of stuffy, starched governors.
“No, dear Wittendon,” she said as he unthinkingly took her humanish hand with his wolken one. “Sarak probably wouldn’t approve.”
Wittendon’s younger brother Kaxon sat in the dusty old library. He had sworn in his school days never to return to a library if he didn’t have to. Unfortunately he had to. And he didn’t even have the good luck of going to the library in the history wing—the one with the pretty Veranderah at a desk in the center. No. There were many libraries in the castle. This one was the oldest, dirtiest, and dullest. No one ever came. Most had forgotten it was there at all. Wolrijk had sent Kaxon after some old scrolls that would supposedly help the king find sleep. Apparently, the tonics weren’t working well enough anymore, which was a pity because the kitchen wenches with their red-lipped laughter were a lot better company than the cobwebs and cockroaches of this ancient place.
“This ought to bore him into a proper coma,” Kaxon muttered, tucking the scrolls of ancient history into his satchel and turning around. Just in front of him sat a great book, resting on a tall stand with pages etched in gold. Even in the dim library the illustration on the front gleamed. A drawing of twelve long, perfectly thin spears stood side by side. In the drawing, the spearheads seemed to glitter and they were all tipped in blood, except for one. They were so life-like that Kaxon swore he saw a bead of blood slip down the edge of a blade.
Without thinking, he walked to the book and opened it, hoping for more pictures. Unfortunately he was met by nothing but words. “Bah,” he said. Kaxon was about to close the book when the pages moved, flipping to the center of the book where a large sketch stared at him. The blueprint was of one spear, stretched along the page with measurements marked at intervals.
Kaxon paused. The tip was obviously the Shining Grey, but it was clearly marked at three inches. The Mal only allowed one inch. Kaxon was about to close the book, but all at once it seemed to
o heavy to move and his right hand was pinned underneath. A magical book was not unusual in his father’s kingdom. In fact, Kaxon had owned several as a child that would color and then erase themselves. But a book resting on his hand that couldn’t be lifted was less charming. Slowly, Kaxon found that he had the strength to move one page at a time. On the next page, he saw the same blueprint of a spear, only this time the bottom two inches of Grey had been covered in enchanted paint so only one inch of tip gleamed at him. Had the drawing not been marked, Kaxon never would have noticed the painted Grey.
Kaxon thought of the scythes he was more familiar with. He thought of the slave Jager and his renowned skill in the working of metals. Kaxon thought of his own royal position, his skill in leadership, his desire to be appointed Chancellor. He thought of his need to defeat the powerful Veranderen at the Mal competition; he felt the weighty importance of it all.
All at once, he could close the book, and he did so.
When he came to his father’s quarters, Wolrijk was there, standing guard. “Set them here and I’ll get them to his lordship,” Wolrijk said.
Kaxon nodded, distracted, as he fidgeted with a clasp on his robe, shifting from one foot to another. He disliked being bossed by a wolf. He disliked Wolrijk in general with his torn up face and distorted paws. Yet he didn’t care to stand around arguing.
Clicking and unclicking the buckle on his cloak, Kaxon handed the scrolls to Wolrijk.
“You seem quite animated, my lord. Have you seen something of interest in those old shelves?” Wolrijk asked.
Kaxon jerked his hands down to his sides. “There is much in old libraries, but little for me,” he said. “I am merely thinking on a new strategy for the upcoming Mal.”
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