“True,” said the tallest Verander. “At his word, we will all hang. Or worse,” he said, giving Sadora a pointed look.
“You could always read his thoughts, captain,” said the flower-holding Veranderah. “His precious memory would be spared, and we would know where we stand with him.”
Sadora stood and walked forward as though to place her hand on Wittendon’s forehead as Wittendon had seen his father do with hundreds of prisoners. But she did not touch him. Instead she stood only inches from Wittendon and stared straight into his eyes for several long moments. “So go,” she said at last. “Verander Bray will escort you through these tunnels.”
“A very complex form of magic,” Wittendon said bitterly. “To read my thoughts without a touch to the head.” He was not even sure his father could do it.
“Complex indeed,” Sadora said, turning from him. “I call it trust.”
The black cat nodded approvingly, though several of the council sucked in a quiet breath. Wittendon actually laughed. “Very well then,” he said. “You may trust me, and I will not betray that trust,” he said, looking to the council around him. “But I hope you know that I still do not trust you.”
When Wittendon came into the light, he stood—not on the rocky path that had dumped him into the tunnel—but on the Hill of Motteral, below the wolf guard that protected the Grey mines.
“How’d we wind up here?” he asked the Verander who had escorted him.
“The tunnels are vast,” was the only reply he got.
“Do any of them lead into the actual mines?” Wittendon wondered if a Verander could actually wander to his death.
The Verander shuddered. “Thankfully they do not. There is, I am told, a small crawlway that leads nearly to the mouth of the mine, though not directly in. And none of our size would ever fit through that passage anyway.”
“Just in case we wanted to,” Wittendon mumbled.
Chapter 23
Pietre set several of his father’s tools in the old wooden crate his mother had brought him. Humphrey was out hunting and Pietre missed him. He didn’t like doing this task alone. Packing up his father’s tools felt like preparing him for burial. Yet, with a member of the wolf guard coming every week, his mother was nervous about having any of his father’s things confiscated. Or noticed in the first place.
Pietre picked up a long, narrow-headed object used for driving screws through heavy metal. He turned the simple tool around in his hand, touching the flat pointed tip with his finger. No wonder his mother was concerned. Pietre glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone before thrusting the long screwdriver forward, burying it into a block of wood in front of him. Seeing it embedded in the wood, Pietre suddenly understood how little separated a tool from a weapon—one thing really, and that was the hand that held it.
Pietre jerked the screwdriver out of the wood and hurriedly packed it into the crate before grabbing a small jar of the various sized screws that went with it. The honed tips of the screws clinked against the glass and Pietre realized that they looked even more vicious than their parent tool—small, but undeniably sharp. The screws would have to be, of course, to wind through metal and wood as they did, but if they could go through metal, they could go through flesh. Pietre pulled one from the jar and pressed it against his finger, then threw the screw down like it had bitten him.
It was illegal for the humans to own or form weapons when not under the supervision of a Veranderen master. Pietre knew that, but until now, he hadn’t thought that the very tools used to form devices and weaponry might be used as weapons themselves. Looking at the room filled with sharp, heavy, sometimes bladed tools, he realized how suspicious it might look to the Veranderen and wolves.
Pietre grabbed mallets, saws, wrenches, chisels, weights, and bevels from the shelves. He tossed them into the crate, not bothering to wrap them first. How had his mother allowed the tools to be kept out for as long as she had? If a wolf had happened into this room and seen them—Pietre stopped. If a wolf had happened into this room and seen them, there would have been very little that he could have done. He would have been trapped in a room full of sharp, heavy objects, and if a person was there who knew about the tools and how to use them—Pietre didn’t dare finish the thought. To kill a wolf was death. To betray the Veranderen was death. To go against the king was death. Even if it was to preserve oneself, one’s livelihood, one’s dignity, even one’s family. It was death.
Dusk was settling, and the howling of the Blødguard rang sharp and brittle in Pietre’s ears. Pietre set several of the tools around him on the floor, then shoved them back into the crate. They might be able to hurt one wolf, but they could never stop a force as powerful as the Veranderen, never even slow them down. Pietre fingered the small stone in his pocket, then opened the crate again. There was something about holding a tiny force in your hands, a small piece of power, even if it couldn’t save you. At least you would not be destroyed so easily—like a spider who, before being trampled, opens her mouth to insert a small shot of venom into her destroyer. It was no more than a pinch, a pinprick, a nuisance, but it was also a reminder—a reminder that had the spider been a good bit larger, she could have been the destroyer.
As soon as the darkness had settled, Pietre took the case of tools into the room where his mother had fallen asleep, a puddle of mending in her lap. She started when he entered.
“Where should I put it?” he asked, setting the box near her feet.
She shook her head, as though willing the sleep to fall away, and opened the crate, fingering each tool like it was a piece of Jager himself. She slipped out a small iron file. “Your father made me this,” she said, touching its thin edge. “For times when my nails broke from work.” She ran it over her rough fingernails several times, smoothing the tips, then set it back in the box.
If Pietre had had any doubt, it left. The file had flashed like a tiny dagger.
His mother looked at the box, her eyes heavy as leaden shingles. “In the morning,” she said, “perhaps you should bury it.”
Pietre nodded, though he knew he would not obey his mother. As soon as the sun glanced over the horizon, he would take it to the chief elder to see if he knew of any in their village who might make good use of such tools, those who might appreciate their quality, and understand their potential.
Chapter 24
Crespin walked through the great hall so quickly that his black wolf guards had to trot to keep up with him. His nails had been trimmed, sharpened, and polished to a shine. With each step he clicked importantly, and with every third stride his staff came down on the tiling with a loud thud that echoed through the chamber.
Wolrijk met the king at the door and bowed low. “The great wolf Gog will soon be released from the asylum. They tell us that with a few more treatments any lasting effects should be minimal. He’ll be back to his docile, level-headed self in no time.” Wolrijk paused pointedly. “As long as they complete the treatments.”
Crespin dismissed this news with a swat of his hand. “Tighten the security outside the human villages and starve the Blødguard an extra day. Our watch-wolves and hunters grow lazy. Send the white wolf Zinder to the dogs; he communicates well with them. Tell Zinder to make sure the dogs do not come to the humans’ aid against my orders.” For a moment the king hesitated. “And,” he began, looking sideways into Wolrijk’s eyes, “have them dismiss Gog immediately. I’m sure that his healing is sufficient for my needs.”
The wolf smiled. “Yes, my lord.”
“Oh—and the scout, Rorof—has he recovered his ability to run?”
“Yes, lord, though he tires easily—”
Again, the king waved his hand. “Send him to find the witch’s wood. Give him the hem of my traveling cloak to smell if you must. Instruct him to go around the dog’s land; I do not wish for them to know I have an interest in the land outside their borders. Is that clear?”
“Entirely, sir.”
“Good,” the king said.<
br />
Wolrijk bowed low and left without a further word.
The king had spent the last several days in his quarters recovering and handling matters that had been neglected such as the never-ending flow of merchandise to the north port, and a communication with the governors overseas about transportation to the upcoming Motteral Mal. He wished for as much of the kingdom as possible to attend. He wished for it to be a display of his power and dominance over the kingdom he had spent most of his life shaping. It was the first time in the last several centuries he had felt the need to openly exert his strength, and he wanted masses there to see it.
Daily, his guards and spies brought news of the Septugant. As if the graffitied sevens weren’t irritating enough, three of his human prisoners had been mysteriously freed this week, and an ancient document taken from his oldest library. The Septugant’s acts were desperate, almost pitiful—the paper they’d stolen had been nothing more than a historic report on sediment. Yet he had learned in his lifetime that pests are best controlled before they grow into pestilence.
This morning he had signed a decree—any human, Verander, dog, or wolf found in alliance with the Septugant would be hanged without trial. Any leaders were to be publicly beheaded. It was gruesome business and there was some possibility that a few innocents might get caught in the fray, but at this point Crespin did not have the time or forbearance to wade through the trials of those who were hoping to unravel the tapestry of his rule.
Crespin thought about the witch girl’s final prophecy about the firstborn of Tomar—the “surviving foe” that, according to her, would defeat him. Crespin knew the witch hoped to cripple his confidence. He had no intention of allowing her to succeed.
Crespin waited for the tailor to arrive and fit his ceremonial robes. Making a strong show at the Mal would serve him well with both witch and rebellion—it would display his assurance to the witch and his invulnerability to the Septugant.
The old tailor arrived with a low bow and a blue measuring tape. The king stood straight, grateful for a few moments of forced stillness. In the last week, he had thought through several elaborate plans for destroying the witch and had finally decided on a classic, simple approach. He would burn the witch’s forest. It was wood. And it would burn. The thought brought him some satisfaction since he was certain that burning would add insult to the injury of her loss. She wouldn’t be able to stand losing her precious garden and tea chairs. Crespin would send Gog to do it. The wolf was, at this point, the perfect candidate. He was mad as the March wind. Which was just what Crespin needed.
After the witch’s wood was gone, Crespin suspected it would be even easier to locate members of the underground rebellion, to stamp out their fight for equality.
The king grunted as the tailor pinned the fabric along his shoulders, the cloth falling in red rivers down his back. His people had no idea what equality meant, what it was like to live in a world where every burden was supposed to be the same. They did not remember what the ancients had written and warned about—the humans’ disdain for labor, the packs of wild dogs claiming land after land as their own, the wolves’ incessant hunger. They did not read or remember the primitive texts about those who were once called werewolves, those who could control neither their shifting nor their destinies. They did not understand all the reasons things had needed to be changed, controlled, and even—at times—repressed.
The tailor draped a long length of cloth over his forearm. “Would you have, Lord King, a smaller robe designed for your most noble flesh form?” he asked, pinning and tucking.
The king looked into the mirror to the tailor behind him. “You have tailored my clothes often, good Verander, have you not?”
“Yes,” the tailor answered, taking a small step backwards.
“And have I ever desired a smaller robe made for my, as you call it, ‘most noble’ flesh form?”
“No, my lord,” the tailor replied, beginning to tremble. “I only thought that with the upcoming tournament you might require one for certain ceremonies. Or, perhaps to impress the vast groups of governors and ladies that will travel to these parts.”
“And you believe my flesh form necessary for this?” the king asked, resting the tip of his staff against the mirror.
“Well, of course not, my lord. I only thought that perhaps some protocol or tradition or…Or that perhaps his lordship would need, well, something further.”
“No,” the king replied very slowly. “I need nothing further.” He pulled his staff from the mirror and when he did, hundreds of shards flew towards the tailor’s delicate face and hands, stopping mid-air and hanging there ready to burrow into his flesh.
“Does it seem,” the king asked, “that my flesh form could ever bring me anything greater, anything further, than what now stands before you?”
“No, good king,” the tailor said very quietly.
“Good,” Crespin replied. He nodded and tapped the mirror, sending the glass back to it, sealed and fixed.
Shaking, the tailor finished with his pinning and the king stood, adorned from neck to floor in a blood red robe that shimmered and caught the light with the smallest movement. The garment was heavy and when the king moved, his clothes rustled and swayed with purpose.
Crespin held his staff and smiled into the mirror at his trembling tailor. It was a robe kings could respect and that even the foolish Sadora and her gaggle of admirers would be forced to appreciate. Pity he would have his tailor hanged as soon as the robe was complete.
Chapter 25
Sarak stood silhouetted against the dawn. He was not as tall as Wittendon, but so lean in his torso and long in his legs that he often appeared taller. His shoulders against the rising sun looked disproportionately wide. As Wittendon walked the hill toward his friend, Wittendon felt a little sick. It’d been several days since their last practice, but still his head wasn’t focused on the tournament. It was in tunnels with beautiful traitors and talking cats. It was thinking about the twelve blades his father had hidden.
Sarak was looking at him now—a long, slow stare that Wittendon could not meet. Wittendon had given Sadora his word that he would keep his mouth shut, but he didn’t like hiding things from his closest friend.
“Soooo?” Sarak said, tapping the hilt of his practice blade. “How’d it go with Sadora?”
Wittendon looked away, but that didn’t stop Sarak. “So bad you don’t want to tell me or so good you don’t dare?” he asked.
“It went,” Wittendon said, pausing to unsheathe his blade, “very differently than I expected.”
“Different can be good,” Sarak said.
“Hmm,” Wittendon muttered.
“And different can be bad.”
Wittendon didn’t even respond.
Sarak paused. “Well, as stimulating as this conversation is, maybe we should get to practicing.” When he said it, he seemed just a little annoyed. He raised his blade before his face and Wittendon did the same. They circled twice and Sarak lunged. Wittendon met his attack with a ringing clang of his blade and they sparred for several minutes in silence, neither of them gaining an advantage over the other.
After several minutes, Sarak put down his scythe. “Well, at least your head has come out of the clouds,” he said. “You fight well.”
Wittendon shrugged and Sarak sighed. “Look, I’m sorry if she broke your heart. If it brings you any consolation, she has broken many.”
Wittendon shrugged again, but after a pause he said, “She didn’t break it exactly. It’s like…it’s like she poked it.”
Wittendon felt like he had spilled out some deep secret, but Sarak tipped his head back and laughed. “Well, friend, then it could have been much worse. Just think—if you get only poked and not broken at the Mal, you’ll be in good shape.”
For the first time that week, Wittendon cracked a smile. “Glad this is so entertaining for you,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been worrying about it for months. My friend. My sister. Ah
. You have no idea.”
They drank from their flasks of water and rose to fight again.
“You know your sister loves history,” Wittendon said.
“Oh, good Grey, tell me she didn’t spend the whole evening talking your ear off about that.”
Wittendon blocked Sarak’s hit without answering.
“History is a new thing with her. Well, sort of new.” Sarak angled his blade, nicking Wittendon’s hand, and taking a step closer. “It started a couple years ago when she wanted to find out more about our parents and was doing all this research—since our aunt died, there is no one to actually ask. And then all that time in the history wing, it just got to her brain. I think it was the dust.”
Wittendon smiled, but it was a weaker one this time. Sarak started moving in more with his blade, snipping at Wittendon’s wrist and shoulder.
“Lately,” Sarak said, nearly pinning Wittendon’s arm, “she’s been obsessed with the history of weaponry and metallurgy. I told her she must be getting into the Mal after all, but she just stuck her nose back in her smelly old scroll; it was some ancient text about how sediment can carry metals or something.”
Wittendon didn’t respond. Even if he’d wanted to, he was too intent on blocking Sarak’s blade—a blade Sarak kept using to reflect sun into Wittendon’s eyes.
Sarak jabbed, pricking Wittendon’s side. “I’m just glad she loves the gardens and woods so much. It keeps her away from the books enough to add some color to her cheeks.”
Wittendon cleared his throat. It kept her away from the books alright.
Sarak’s scythe circled like a ring around Wittendon’s neck, the tip just touching his jugular. “Gotcha,” he said. “It’s good your opponents won’t know my sister as well as I do. Otherwise they could distract you hopelessly.”
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