His mother’s gem. His father’s treasure room. A secret tunnel. The pieces clicked together in his memory like the outside of a jigsaw puzzle—the border forming, the center still empty. Wittendon felt as though his legs were being pulled through the tunnel. It was the same feeling he’d felt as a child, but instead of magical excitement, he felt a sense of dread curl into his gut. He shook his head, trying to remember what he’d been doing before he came here, where he’d been going, why he’d changed course. But all he could feel were his legs moving forward, his eyes focused on the path in front of him.
Soon the walls narrowed and the ceiling became low while the sound of water increased to a great roar. The pinprick of light grew bigger. Oddly it was the light that stopped him. There was something about it—something wrong. He shook his head, forcing himself to step backward, one foot, then the other. As he pushed against his legs, his memory started to clear. He had been planning to free Jager, not hunt around in tunnels for things he could barely remember. Slowly, he walked backward, afraid to turn his face from the strange light ahead of him almost as much as he was afraid to go toward it. Instead of the light, he thought of the boy’s bright blue eyes, staring at him stubbornly without speaking. Those eyes were clear in every way the glow in front of him wasn’t. Wittendon pulled back from the aura, and escaped out into the night.
Chapter 35
Carina breathed into the darkness—slow thin breaths as though rationing the air that surrounded her in the musty dimness of the trunk. From the darkness of her tiny prison, she could hear the sounds of the wolf Wolrijk, stalking through her house, knocking over drawers, pawing through clothes.
Kicking the trunk into which he had thrown her, he spoke to himself, “This is not the one I want. Where is he?” She shuddered at the voice—gravelly, angry. “But if I take her, there is a chance that the boy will come.”
Carina had known that the Night Hunter was evil. But now, listening to him speak to himself as though he was split in half, a fear of his derangement crept into her. The wolf would not have what he wanted. Even if she had to die to ensure that. Carefully with the fingernail of her thumb she scratched into the wood underneath her. Her nail cracked and the bed of her finger bled, but still she scratched. “I will not be found. Go to Humphrey.”
When the wolf forced her from the trunk into which he’d pushed her, she pulled out a blanket, leaving it dangling. The trunk slammed shut on the quilt and she tried to scream, but his hand held her mouth. The paw was scarred and mauled as it ever had been, but when it held her lips, she felt almost as though a palm of flesh pressed into her face, not the foot of a beast. His scarred face loomed over her and he laughed. “You are much loved, my dear. That is good.” Now even his voice sounded human, but perhaps it was just the madness creeping through her for in his hand he held a broken vial with a bitter liquid that seeped into her mouth. In moments she felt as though spiders were crawling across her skin and up the walls, as though a snake uncurled itself inside her belly and spoke to her, as though a thousand fingers covered her eyes and stabbed her neck. She thought she saw the stars fall from the sky until only a black abyss stared at her and then her mind failed and she thought no more.
Pietre awoke wishing to scream, but the sound stuck strangled in his throat.
In the girl’s hut, Pietre dreamed in ways he never had before. Every dream was bright, clear, and—strangest of all—perfectly remembered. He had dreamed Humphrey standing in a sea of ash, his father encased in a room of flame and Shining Grey, the terrifying wolf Wolrijk peeling the skin off his own skull and laughing.
When he told Zinnegael about his dreams, she looked at him with pity and said, “That is the way of these woods, my dear. Your dreams will be strange, and sometimes strangely accurate.” She always talked to him like that—like she was three hundred years old when he guessed she was no more than two years his senior. Turning back to her stove, she had concluded, “You’ll get used to it.”
Pietre doubted it. It’d been over a week and he still felt the same shock from the dreams every night.
Zinnegael poured two mugs of warmed chocolate. Pietre went to get the plates down to set the table. He had tried to hate Zinnegael like he hated the prince, but it was impossible. The prince reminded him of the loss of his father, but the girl witch reminded him somehow of his father himself—the laughter and food, the security and protection of her small hut. Pietre did not know why she needed him, but he did know that he hadn’t exactly been taken by force—collapsing into the path of the cats couldn’t quite count, and afterwards they had done much to revive him. The witch girl herself had promised to try to retrieve his mother and keep her safe. Strangely, Pietre trusted her.
Last night Pietre had dreamed of his mother and it had been the worst of the visions yet. He woke insisting that Zinnegael send a cat after his mother immediately. He needed to see her, to feel her face. He needed to subdue the haunting that plagued his sleep.
Wolrijk sat in the oldest library without even a candle to light it. The darkness reminded him of the cellar of his old hut—his only sanctuary—though it was now filled with the breathing of the unconscious woman. If there was one thing he’d learned from King Crespin it was that if you wanted to get under someone’s skin, you did it through a loved one. Wolrijk now had bait and something to barter. He had watched the hut constantly for two days and when the boy had not returned, he’d sent a spy to patrol the woods outside the village. Wolrijk would wait. He was a patient wolf—the most patient in all the land. And while he waited, he had plenty to do.
After taking Pietre’s mother, Wolrijk had returned to the castle and searched the room of the trainer Sarak. King Crespin claimed he wanted information on the female Sadora, but it was clear that Sarak was the sibling of most interest to the king. Ever since the king had found the witch’s wood, he had watched the trainer hawkishly, followed his movements, censored his correspondence. In addition to being interested in the trainer, it was clear that the king was interested in Sarak’s parents. What wasn’t as clear was why, although when King Crespin started wondering about people’s parents, it wasn’t because he hoped to invite them over for brunch.
In Sarak’s room, Wolrijk had found several books on combat and magic, a closet full of fine robes, and a carefully folded note from the trainer’s old nanny—soft, yellowed paper, heavily creased from much reading. Most of the words were blathering sentiment and motherly instruction, but on the upper right corner of the paper was a wax stamp of Sarak’s father’s house. Wolrijk looked at it closely, tracing a gnarled nail along the lines left in the wax. Some were deep as though they had been made millennia ago; some were shallow, as though they had been scratched into the seal later. For several minutes Wolrijk sat tracing only the deepest lines of the seal. It was not a stamp Sarak would recognize. It was not a stamp most people living in the head city would recognize. But hiding in the deeply etched lines, it was a stamp Wolrijk recognized.
In the last two lines of the letter the old nanny had written, “Your parents were sealed many years ago at the Monastery Girrodan, in the lands above the northern sea. It is in this same monastery that they have been laid to rest.”
The old wolf smiled and walked to a table, pushing open a guide to northern monasteries. It was full of elaborate pictures of the Girrodan cathedral and pages of family lines. The line of the trainer’s mother was easy to find. The line of his father was not. Wolrijk pawed open an ancient book of Veranderen history and in it he found only a few short pages on Tomar’s escape—a great leap from a window, a special agility and speed possessed by few others, the way his family had been hunted and questioned. Wolrijk knew plenty about all of that. And the pages seemed to contain little else. But Wolrijk was used to looking for things in unusual places.
Although most wolves were not known to be able to do much with magic, Wolrijk was an unusual wolf. Opening the history book once again, he bit the pad of his paw until a faint trickle of blood rose to the surfac
e. Holding the bloody paw above the enormous book, he carefully turned the thin pages one by one until at the end of the sixth chapter, the bloodscript began to appear—shimmering at first until Wolrijk held his palm closer to the page so that the script formed into clear, red words—notes jotted in Crespin’s young hand: The search for Tomar has failed, ended at the River Rylen where traces of the metal Pallium have been found, and with it the answer to a great mystery. The metal Pallium can resist the Grey, temporarily absorbing its powers. The river has been searched—less than one gram of the Pallium collected. This has been taken into my possession to be reserved for future use.
Wolrijk closed the book with some satisfaction and absently licked his wound. Wolrijk knew much about the River Rylen. After his brother’s death Wolrijk had spent many years in a secluded hut at its edge. There he had learned of the metal Pallium and its power. He probably knew even more about it than Tomar had. Pallium had the power to contain, but it also had, when used in a certain way, the power to hold things together that weren’t meant to be held together. That old River Rylen held other secrets too. It was an anomaly—flowing north not south, and emptying into the northern sea. Tomar, who had spent almost as much time at the river’s edge as Wolrijk had, would have known this as well.
In the morning, Wolrijk would send a missive to the head monk of the Girrodan monastery. He expected the monk had records of the deceased—papers about Sarak’s parents and, more importantly, the original stamp for the family seal.
Wolrijk re-folded Sarak’s note along its well-worn creases. It smelled of love, of use, of history. In one gulp, the ugly wolf ate it—the paper scraping his throat, then sitting dry and empty in his stomach.
Chapter 36
Pietre had spent most of the last two days trying to find a suitable weapon. The cats had not yet brought his mother, or even any news about her. In fact the only thing the cats had brought were whispered rumors that his father was soon to be executed. Pietre’s dreams would not let him believe it. Still, he wanted to be prepared to fight for his parents. Or—he thought, feeling a little sick—to avenge them.
Pietre had spent almost every minute since arriving in Zinnegael’s wood taking missives to miners and artisans, gathering weapons and recruiting those skilled enough to craft more. They had accumulated tools and scrap metal, even bringing together things of the women folk—heavy pans, thin needles, kitchen knives sharp enough to make quick work of gristle and bone. It was not enough. It was never enough, but it was a start. A forge had been erected to sharpen swords, re-shape spearheads, and melt down metal to create crude blades and spikes.
Pietre had expected the search for his own weapon to be exciting, but the swords were too heavy, the spears too long, and the arrows wobbled at his inexperienced hand. The hunt for a weapon had made him feel more like a young, ignorant child than a hero on a mission. Even the lowly slingshot, a weapon he’d used since he was a small boy, seemed impractical. Slingshots were well and good for killing birds for supper or chasing away squirrels in the garden, but he had a hard time picturing himself running after wolves throwing stones that would bounce off their hides until, eventually, he ran out. The thought made him shudder.
Now the sun was poised to set and he stood watching it—still weaponless. It was odd to sit in the woods while the sun sank low—a fat, dark garnet against the plum-colored sky. It sent beams of color across the horizon to bounce off the clouds. Who knew sunset could be a beautiful thing? Until he’d come to this wood, Pietre had known sunset as nothing short of deadly. Even now, he was programmed to run. He could feel his mother’s worry with each inch the sun sank. In one of his dreams, she had sat knitting until every last ray of sun had vanished, and then she had put her head on the table and cried. Yet she had seemed to know he was still alive.
In the last dream—the dream of his mother in the trunk—his mother had left a message for him. She wouldn’t have done that if she’d thought he was gone. Of course, since that night, his mind had refused to dream her again. He had dreamt Humphrey, Markhi, his father, even the prince he hated. But his mother’s place contained only darkness. Which was worse than all the nightmares in the world.
Pietre rubbed the stone in his pocket, worried. Most of the rough bits had now been rubbed off and the stone was becoming perfectly smooth. It was still mostly gray with hints of blue and green at various points throughout the shimmering, metallic lines that streaked across the stone. He took it out of his pocket to look at it. It was the shiniest object he’d ever possessed. His nervous fingers had helped with that too. Parts had been dull, nearly black when his father had first given it to him, but now every bit seemed to gleam in the sun.
The weight felt perfect in his hand, as though his father had fashioned it for him and not just found it in the mines. Pietre remembered how it felt to pound the wolf general in the head—solid and precise. He smiled and reached for his goatskin flask of water. The skin of the flask was stretched long from use and felt sturdy and leathery like the slingshot beside him.
Pietre paused. He drank the last drops of water and held the stone up to the mouthpiece of the flask. It fit inside. He dropped it down, then held the open end of the flask firmly closed in his hand and whipped the other end at a nearby branch. The heavy stone hit it squarely and the wood snapped in two. Secure it its goatskin wrapping, the stone didn’t fly off like a normal rock in a sling would have. Instead, it stayed with Pietre. He could strike but keep his stone. Pietre tried it again on a mound of dirt, then an old beehive. He knocked off berries and flowers, then apples and nuts. The pit of a peach split open. Each time, the stone in the goatskin hit its mark with more deliberate weight and surety. He aimed at a rock and struck. The center crumbled and the rock fell open like a book.
“Well, well,” a voice said, coming up behind him. Pietre was caught off guard and hurled the stone towards the voice. Zinnegael stepped aside, light as a cat, though it nearly struck her arm.
“I see you’ve found a weapon,” she said
He used it to crack a large geode, the shimmering crystals crumbling out.
She clucked her tongue in approval. “Of course, you might now get thirsty,” she said, noticing the flask. “But I suppose we can do something about that.” She smiled. “May I ask exactly what you’ve got in there that can split rocks as though they were stale biscuits?”
He dumped out his stone and held it up for her to see. “Ah,” she said. “Interesting choice. A gift from your father, is it not?”
“Yes,” Pietre said, trying to remember when he’d told her that.
The sun had sunk low while a partial moon had begun to rise. The two luminaries hovered just above the horizon like cousins across the dinner table.
“May I hold it?” she asked.
The rock seemed to grow heavy in Pietre’s hand and he hesitated. With effort he held it out to her, the stone shimmering white, which seemed odd to Pietre. He’d have expected it to catch more of the red glow from the setting sun.
She took a deep breath and slowly extended her hand. The index finger touched first and the blackness spread through her veins almost instantly, darkening her finger and blistering the tip white.
“You—” he said softly, drawing it back. “You cannot touch it.”
“True,” she said, nursing her hand and nodding as though a suspicion had been confirmed. “There are few who can.”
Chapter 37
Jager finished the last blade. The late afternoon sun spilled through the window, combining with the red glow of the forge. Jager held up the scythe, letting it catch the bloody light. He might as well have fashioned a blade for his own execution. Now that his work was complete, the king would have no more use for him. Jager set the blade down and sank into a wooden chair, holding the long chain that shackled his ankle to the table.
When his supper came tonight, it would be his last. But waiting for the inevitable did not make him feel better. He stood up and dug through the box of tools for the Grey da
gger he’d hidden there. He put it near his boots, then went back to the forge. It was still hot enough to hammer a small rod he’d made from the last bits of remaining metals in his smithy—his own scraps, as well as various other bits of metals left by other smiths—some of the shavings so small or unusual he wasn’t even quite sure what metals he was combining. He’d even added the last bits of the old Grey that the former smith had used to paint the blades. From all that, he’d created a rod, which he now began to pound into a thin, pointed lock-pick that he hoped would spring his ankle free. It was a ritual he had performed every evening for the last week. Tonight he noticed that his thoughts drifted away from his tool, away from an ever more unlikely escape and back to his wife and son. He found an unexpected sweetness in his thoughts—a different type of escape.
Just as the sun sank beneath the horizon, Jager heard the footsteps outside the door of the smithy. When the prince Wittendon entered, Jager was surprised. It had been a while since he had seen the king’s eldest. Jager tucked the lock pick he’d just made into the blackened pocket of his apron. Wittendon handed him a basket—his last meal—a small quail and a bowl of sweet pudding.
Jager ate it slowly, turned away from the Verander, wishing to spend time now only with his thoughts. When they took him to the gallows, as they very soon would, he planned to make a break for it, although he knew he wouldn’t get far. Still, he would die knowing he had tried to the end.
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