The line of the sun blinked once—dull and sleepy—and then the light went out.
Pietre felt the darkness like a hammer. To be out after dark—it was death. Pietre gripped the rock his father had given him—patches of it were still quite rough. He held it so hard it seemed to make his palm buzz. His mother’s eyes were wet, but she did not cower or hide her face.
“And now even the literal reading of the law is no longer on your side,” Wolrijk said, staring at Markhi. “Tonight I will see that both dog and human pay the price for breaking it.” He advanced as the wolves began to form a circle around the dogs and humans. “I owe you,” Wolrijk said, “for this fine streak of pink scar that now runs along my pretty back. I thank you for adding it to my collection.”
“A fine collection indeed,” Markhi replied, his voice deep and rumbling. “You must be proud as it seems you are determined to add more.” Markhi lowered his head inviting the challenge and Wolrijk pounced. The two animals met chest to chest with a crack that sounded like both must have broken the other’s collarbone. They rolled on the ground, Wolrijk now covered with much of the mud that had been on Markhi. Markhi tore at the wolf’s ear, ripping a piece off which he spat into the leaves. Wolrijk stared at him, straight into the eyes—the scars along his face almost glowing when he sprang on the leader of the dogs.
The wolves stood in a circle around the humans and dogs, although the wolves did not attack. Pietre was confused, but Carina whispered, “They wait. They wait to see which of the beasts comes out victor.”
Softly, she began to hum. Her voice rose and fell in a steady melody. Behind her, Alekas picked up the tune and added her own voice. One by one, the other dogs joined in, the song twisting and dipping, the noise pressing against the line of wolves that surrounded them.
Wolrijk struck at Markhi’s back, dragging his nails along the spine, blood beading and matting into the dirty fur. “There, now you have something to start your own collection,” Wolrijk sneered.
Markhi did not reply and that made Pietre nervous.
Markhi ran at the wolf general and then, just as Humphrey had done in mudball, he slowed, shifting his weight to his back legs, and leaped forward, landing on top of Wolrijk. Wolrijk howled in pain and it seemed the fight was nearly won when the foaming wolf Gog came forward screaming, “I will feast this night!” He tore at Markhi’s head, ripping the flesh from his cheek so that it flopped around like a butterfly lighting upon a flower.
Carina gasped and the song broke. Alekas bowed her head with a low, sick moan. Several of the dogs howled as the wolf Gog came in again for another bite. “No,” Pietre screamed. Pietre ran toward Wolrijk and Gog. Gripping the stone his father had given him he used it to strike at two other wolves that stepped forward to stop him. He hit one in the side and sent the animal sprawling away, then nicked the other in the neck. The wolf Gog paused in his attack on Markhi, turning to Pietre with a growl so deep that all else fell still.
Humphrey did not hesitate. Pietre could feel him running—his feet pounding the ground with a freedom that seemed to surge through him—a freedom at being neither dog nor wolf, a freedom at being bound by none of their laws or restrictions. He jumped at the wolf Gog—tearing at his eyes and scratching into his forehead. And then, just as though the wolf were as light as a dove, he kicked him to the ground and pressed on his ribs until they bowed and threatened to crack.
The other dogs growled and stepped toward the party of wolves, but just as they did, Wolrijk flipped the unconscious Markhi over and tore into his chest. Pietre ran at Wolrijk, screaming, and hit him soundly in the head right between the eyes. The stone was not sharp, but on impact the rough edges bored into the wolf’s skin and a tiny prick of blood appeared. Pietre braced for the wolf’s attack, pulling his arm back and preparing to strike again.
But to Pietre’s surprise, the wolf did not retaliate. Instead he toppled over, weak and moaning. In fact, it seemed that all the wolves paused, looking as though their blood had thinned and their bellies turned. Pietre brought his arm up—the small rock so light it felt as though it had joined with his hand.
“No,” the wolf moaned. “No more. I have greater battles to fight than this. You may pass, boy. You and the woman also.”
“First let the dogs return,” Pietre shouted.
Wolrijk paused, looking to the still figure of the unconscious Markhi.
“Let them return,” Pietre repeated. “And know that it is quite dark and that you are quite uncertain of who they are.”
“Quite,” the wolf replied weakly. “Now go.”
Humphrey stayed behind, but the wolf general looked at him. “Are you deaf, stupid hound? Go.”
Humphrey paused and looked to Pietre. Pietre nodded to him, wanting to cry, but knowing it would be safer for Humphrey with the dogs now than with him.
Humphrey turned with the pack and followed them, helping to bear the unconscious body of their leader on his back. When Pietre turned away from the dogs, he saw only Wolrijk—his eyes filled with shards of hatred like tiny promises for revenge. Pietre stepped into his village pressing the stone tightly as the wolf general slumped into a helpless pile of fur and blood.
Chapter 27
Kaxon ran to the top of the hill that led to the mines. He tried to run everywhere now. The beginning of the Mal was just a few weeks away and he wished to be as strong and fast as any Verander. Today he planned to be a little more cunning as well.
He stopped at a distance. He could see the cartfuls of rock and metal being brought out by the human slaves on this final day of mining. He could feel it too—so much of the Grey in one place. He was relieved it was as yet unrefined—the rough-hewn stones were not as potent as the finished Grey. He walked past the wolf guard and gestured to the head miner, Jager, who walked slowly toward him down the hill. When Jager arrived, Kaxon was relieved that he didn’t see or feel a trace of Grey on his person.
“Well met, good human. How goes your work?”
Jager stared at him for a long moment. “It goes quite well, my prince. Tomorrow the refining and smithing will begin.”
Kaxon nodded absently. “Yes, it is about that that I wish to speak.”
He paused and Jager waited in perfect silence, though he cast a glance up the hill at least once.
“The usual tips are made of precisely one inch of the Shining Grey.”
“Yes,” Jager said, looking the youngest prince in the eyes.
Kaxon gathered his strength, surprised at how nervous he felt in front of a mere human. “This year there is a need for one of unusual length. I am commissioning you to make a blade of no more or less than three inches of the mighty Grey.”
Jager bowed respectfully, but said, “A similar request was made by another only a short time ago.”
Kaxon took a quick step back, curious and angry that someone else might be trying to do what he was doing.
“And you did not wish to inform your king of his identity?” Kaxon asked.
“His identity was and is unknown to me,” Jager said. “He wore a dark cloak over his person, which completely shrouded his face. I did not recognize him as any of the competitors I have seen practicing on this hill.”
“Such an exchange should nevertheless have been reported,” Kaxon said, pacing.
Slowly Jager looked at the prince. “I did not consider it of importance as his request was promptly denied.”
Kaxon stopped in his pacing and met the human’s gaze. He was not used to pushing around his name. Usually he didn’t have to. Pulling his shoulders back and holding his neck high, he said, “Well, this time it comes by order of one born to the great King Crespin—one with the power to reduce your rations.”
“And generous they are my lord,” Jager replied, his cheeks sunken, his face taut with hunger.
“And those to your family.”
Jager stood for some minutes, his shadow lengthening with the quickly lowering sun, and then said, “Has the king himself then made this reques
t?”
The question irritated Kaxon. “The son of the king has made it; it is very nearly the same thing.”
“Very nearly indeed,” Jager replied, pausing again before speaking. “Of course, if what you request were to be done, I would want to protect my assets.”
Kaxon smiled. “You wish for gold,” he asked. “Extra rations?”
“Continued food for my family,” Jager replied. “If I am ever…If I am gone.”
Kaxon nodded. “I wish to have the blade no later than three weeks hence.”
“It will be delivered to your quarters.”
“No,” Kaxon said, turning suddenly. “You will have it taken to a small chamber to the left of the weapons room. The handle of the scythe, will be marked with a moonflower. You will place the marking here.” He pointed to a specific place on the hilt of the weapon he carried.
Jager bowed. “As you wish, my lord; it will be marked.”
Kaxon had already turned. “Your men may conclude for the day and follow me,” Kaxon said, beginning down the hill.
Jager stood still for a few more moments before he turned back to the mine to retrieve the men.
Wolrijk woke late in the afternoon with his head still throbbing and his mind swimming in fog. He did not enjoy being humiliated and manipulated by a human child. As soon as he got the chance, he would kill the boy. Unfortunately it seemed the little brat had gotten hold of a stone with Grey in it. Wolrijk shook his head—unusually potent Grey. Wolrijk knew it hadn’t been smuggled to the family with their ration of food because he personally inspected every package and he was sure they’d been free of rocks. Or anything else odd. Yet it also seemed impossible that the boy could have gotten through the wolf guard at the mines. The guard stood two thick and completely encircled the hill just below the mine’s only opening.
Wolrijk wandered to his bathing quarters and dunked his head in a basin of cold water, the small nick from the stone burning. Suddenly, he jerked his head out, shaking off the fur. He had heard, he remembered, rumors of a sighting. Some of the wolf guard near the mine claimed to have seen a young ghost—scrawny and pale as clouded moonlight. He appeared as a glimmer and then was gone. Now Wolrijk wondered.
Unfortunately, he could not wonder long. The king would expect him in less than an hour at the entrance of the Fortune Ball. Just before sunset the Motteral competitors and other guests would begin arriving. Wolrijk groaned and dunked his head into the basin again, wishing it was a bucket of cement instead of frigid water.
If there was anything he hated more than the Shining Grey, it was a ball.
Chapter 28
She was not there with bells on. Rather Sadora stood, glowing at the entrance of the ballroom, in an amethyst colored cloak that parted at her neck to reveal a delicate lilac gown and a gaudy metal necklace strung with what seemed to be dozens of platinum petals that clinked together merrily every time she laughed.
Wittendon stared at her so intently that he didn’t realize Sarak had come up behind him until his friend said, “It couldn’t have gone too badly then. She’s made a necklace of the hilt you broke.”
“By the moon,” Wittendon said. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“You always were a little too easy to surprise,” Sarak replied. “We’ll have to work on that at our next practice.”
“Is it really the hilt?” Wittendon asked.
“I can’t think what else it might be,” Sarak paused, staring at his sister. “You should be very flattered. Sadora rarely wears anything over the locket our parents left to her. Come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen it covered at all.”
Wittendon nodded. Already, Sadora was being swarmed by Veranderen, and he wondered if he would have a chance to dance with her at all that evening. He needed to, he told himself, just so he could get a closer look at that necklace.
As though reading his thoughts, Sarak said, “Oh, honestly, Witt, do I have to help you with everything? Come on.” He led the prince through the throng to his sister. “Pardon me, gentle beasts,” he said politely, while firmly nudging Sadora’s admirers to the sides. “First dance goes to her brother.” Sadora smiled, her eyes flicking up to Wittendon before she took her brother’s extended hand.
The two siblings walked to the dance floor and as they passed Wittendon, Sarak whispered, “Give me one minute for this crowd to thin a bit and then feel free to cut in.”
A waltz began and Wittendon stood there while Sarak and Sadora swirled through a crowd that was still oohing over Sadora’s gown. Across the room, Wittendon saw Kaxon come in with a pale, wispy female at his side. Kaxon caught Wittendon’s eye and winked. Which reminded Wittendon it was time to cut in.
“May I,” he said, feeling like an idiot, and holding out his hand for Sadora to take. As soon as they were together, Wittendon felt that a collective female swoon caught all the ladies of the court. Kaxon’s date was staring at them completely gooey-eyed and whispering behind her hand to another Veranderah.
For the first time, Wittendon understood how Sadora might prefer a dark tunnel filled with a group of sworn friends to the lights and sparkles of celebrity.
“Welcome to my world, good Wittendon,” she said. “I am glad you are here.”
“I am often at the balls,” Wittendon responded. “My presence as prince is required.” He kept his step simpler than the swirling pattern that Sarak had chosen.
“Yes, but then you are here only as required and tend to hide by the food and drink. That is not quite my world.”
“Perhaps not,” Wittendon said, “though I am not now convinced that this is really so much your world either.”
“This, good prince, is a vitally important part of my world. Without it, no other could exist.”
Wittendon was not sure what she meant. He was also not sure he was still in step with the music. But looking at the adornment around Sadora’s neck, he was quite sure that it was the hilt he had managed to break.
“Do you like it?” she asked, moving so as to put their feet back in time with the waltz.
“You are as a flower tonight,” he replied, thinking of the pale purplish-blue of his mother’s roses. When he did, the final rhyme of the cat in the tunnel wound into his memory—Your father’s blood, but half of you. The other part runs flower blue.
“Thank you,” she said, the music slowing to its conclusion. She curtsied; Wittendon bowed. A short, dark Verander moved in beside Sadora to take his place for the next song.
“You will save me a dance near the end, won’t you, good prince?” she asked.
Wittendon nodded, not quite trusting himself with a response, as the woman who was the head of the Septugant rebellion spun away, smiling like she had no other care in the world.
Kaxon came up to Wittendon and clapped him on the shoulder, grinning in every way like a wolf.
“You look like you’re going to eat me,” Wittendon said.
“With any luck, Sadora will get to you first,” Kaxon replied, laughing.
“I think she already has,” Wittendon said and laughed although inside he felt there was nothing funny about that fact.
“You ready for the opening ceremonies in a few weeks?” Kaxon asked a little abruptly.
Wittendon could sense that his brother was nervous. “No. And you?”
Kaxon grinned again. “Not quite, brother, but I took care of some business recently and I think I will be.” With that Kaxon’s lady came up with a delicate éclair that she pushed into his mouth, giggling.
“Enough talk,” she said, nodding briefly to Wittendon and leading Kaxon out to the ballroom floor.
Wittendon wandered through the throngs of people—the dance floor glittering with reflections of the gems and finery of his race’s noble class. He felt just as lonely as he would have if it were a great, dark wood.
Wolrijk stood near the king’s throne, which was elevated above the crowd. Wolrijk noticed each guest who walked through the door—the adornments, the gossiping, the
ridiculous, expensive ignorance of them all. He also noticed that Crespin seemed much more interested in it than usual. After several dances, the king motioned for him. “The young Sarak,” the king asked. “Do you know of whom I speak?”
“The trainer for your eldest, my lord—yes, I know of him.”
“His sister draws close to Wittendon,” the king said carefully, “and my son seems to return her affections.”
Wolrijk nodded, waiting. Young couples danced like snowflakes on the floor below them.
“The parentage of these two siblings is quite unknown. They came here eighteen years ago with nothing but a half-dead nanny and a note addressed to a lady of the court—the second cousin of their mother. We have welcomed them into this realm, given them every privilege two Veranderen could enjoy. And they—in turn—have been respectful and helpful to the kingdom. However, respect and beauty alone are not enough to deserve the hand of the prince.”
Wolrijk nodded. The king paused for a moment, watching Wittendon and Sadora dance while the trainer Sarak looked on.
“I leave it to you, Wolrijk, to learn more of their mysterious parentage. If all is honorable, I see nothing wrong with letting this piece of romance grow. However, if there is ought in their ancestry that is not befitting for the bride of a prince, it is best that we halt this before it goes too far.”
Wolrijk noted that as the king concluded, he looked—not to the lady Sadora—but directly at her brother. “And the priority of this investigation?” Wolrijk asked.
“High,” the king responded, meeting Wolrijk’s eyes for just a moment before turning away. Crespin held out his hand dismissively. “You need not do it yourself. You have my permission to appoint it to another if you feel there is one more suited to the work.”
Wolrijk looked one last time to the dance floor. Sarak kissed his sister on the cheek and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh. Then he left the hall. The king’s eyes flicked to the trainer as he walked out the door.
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