Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  He remembered too much now, though it came to him in mis-formed chunks like a dream. The human gardener returning with someone—though it was not his father. And something at the end of the tunnel—something that was still alive, something that had killed those who were now the bones over which he trod. Wittendon remembered screaming and then—at once—he remembered raising his hands at the monsters, all the force of his young magic pouring from his fingers.

  Wittendon stopped. Magic. At his hand. The memory was clear and, as he began again down the steep path, he felt as though a thick veil was lifting off a corner of his mind. He had come to this place with the cocky swagger of a young prince. He had left with his station and power diminished—a verlorn, soon-to-be-motherless misfit in his father’s kingdom.

  Abruptly, the tunnel ended. It opened into a great round room that Wittendon could not clearly see. He breathed heavier and felt cold. The light that had been in front of him went dark, as did the torch in his hand. Then there was nothing but blackness and a silence that fell just as thick.

  Wittendon had seen nothing yet. He could still return to the surface, but to step forward, to step forward would mean death. He did not know why he would step forward, except that he had done just that all those years ago. He had stepped into this room, only to be saved by his mother whom the gardener had fetched. His mother would not come this time; she could never come to him again. Wittendon hesitated, and then stepped forward.

  The lives within the cavern stirred, the air shifted. A pale green light seemed to ignite, a hazy, thin cloud at the edges of the room. The chamber was wide and open. Wittendon stood to his full height and grasped his sword. “Show yourself,” he called. All around him the haze thickened and trembled as though it were laughing. Wittendon took another step forward. The walls were smooth, though barely visible. And the room, even in darkness was quite full of all the most precious things of his father, all the wealth of his race’s history—books with pages of gold and platinum, iron breastplates with blood red gems at their centers. Now when his feet crunched over the earth, he knew that it was rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that shifted under his weight. And there, in a dim circle hung twelve thin spears—the blades of Crespin. Wittendon might have laughed at the discovery, except that around him the green mist began to glow. It gave him enough light to see clearly. The twelve spears were positioned in a protective circle around a display stand that stood empty. Four prongs of dark, unusual metal stood atop the stand, open like an empty claw. Wittendon closed his eyes and remembered what it had held all those years ago—a strange jewel—metallic, round, and shimmering.

  When he opened his eyes he felt almost as though he heard a voice, a soft voice that could not have come from the glowing green mist that now threatened to blind him. “The human tool,” the voice said in his head. The voice was familiar, an echo of her voice as he had heard it all those years ago. Only then his mother had been telling him to use another weapon—the jewel. He turned around to look for the voice, the voice he knew so well and the voice he feared to hear in this tunnel more than any other. But there was nothing behind him except darkness and nothing ahead of him but death.

  The mist began to coalesce, taking the shape of three figures. At first they were faceless, although gradually eyes began to form within the mounds that became three heads. After the eyes came crooked, sharp noses, and long, wispy mouths. Three assassins—the greatest the king had ever fought. Mördare. The word came to Wittendon from a place as deep inside himself as this room seemed to be in the earth. The Mördare were the darkest myth of his race—the half-life killers that formed every young child’s worst nightmares. Hundreds of years ago, they had come from across the seas with a pact to end the rule of King Crespin. They had been the greatest leaders of north, south, and east and had come to slay the one who had taken the earth for himself and would not share its power. Crespin had defeated them, as he had countless others. Yet these had gone down only after a great battle that had sapped much of the king’s strength and aged him hundreds of years. Because of this, Crespin had cursed them, cursed them to remain imprisoned—forced to protect those very things they had wished to acquire.

  The Mördare stood before Wittendon, donned in misty battle garb. Veranderen rulers. The assassin phantoms now spoke as one in a ghoulish voice. “You should not have come here, prince fool. We were not permitted to spare even one as great as your mother, and we shall not now spare one as quivering and weak as the king’s first son.”

  Wittendon took his sword and held it high, but again the murmur in his head spoke to him of the tool and he felt the weight in his pocket as if Jager’s pick were made of lead. As a child, Wittendon had fled to the corners to cry while she—his mother—had flown through the tunnel to save him. This time, Wittendon forced himself to gaze at his attackers.

  “Well,” one laughed, his voice high. “Perhaps he has become more his mother’s child after all.”

  “No matter,” said another. “Even she could not match us.”

  “Although,” chattered the third, “she was the only one to leave these walls after we had struck. And more beautiful than any we had seen,” he concluded, licking his misty lips.

  Wittendon swung at them with his sword, the vapors of their bodies parting easily, their laughter bouncing off the smooth walls and echoing so that it seemed thousands of them were in the room.

  He swung again and again; sweat matting the fur of his face. The ghouls cackled—rotted fangs hanging from their mouths, their own stink putrid and smothering. “The son of the king is a rare treat,” the ugliest one said to the others. “Family members are such delightful pieces of revenge.”

  Gasping for breath Wittendon swung his sword above and beside them, trying to think.

  One of the Mördare raised his own weapon—a heavy scythe, barbed at the tip and so golden it glowed. The ghoul swung, and struck. Wittendon felt a sharp pain and the air rushed from his lungs. The second of the Mördare hit him across the knees with a blackened club and Wittendon weakened and fell.

  Think, he told himself, but the familiar voice came back into his mind. “Do not think,” the voice of his mother said, sounding almost annoyed. “Obey.”

  Wittendon reached into his pocket and grasped the pick. It was so small, so thin, so light. He pulled it out. He remembered his mother as she had held the gemstone—swinging it at the head of the first Mördare just as he had stabbed at her heart. The phantom had staggered back and she had grabbed Wittendon and run back through the cave, taking Kaxon at the end, and then they had spilled out into the night.

  Wittendon staggered to his feet and took a careful step forward.

  “Obey,” she whispered.

  Wittendon nodded and looked into the empty eyes of the Mördare. “I am Wittendon,” he said. “Son of Loerwoei, and the last known Greylord of this earth.” He struck the middle phantom. It smiled for a moment about to laugh, then stumbled. Wittendon jabbed again, this time aiming at its throat. It withered into a gust of foul air. The others howled, rushing forward with their weapons, trying to defeat him before the pick could penetrate them as well. But Wittendon felt stronger at once. He took a step to the side, swung at the head of one, stabbing its eye, and then moved through the mist of its withering form so he could strike the other directly to the heart. They sank into a dim haze.

  The mist whirled and writhed around his feet, hissing and murmuring. “It is clear that your desires have changed; you wish for more now than to please your father. Indeed your father would not be pleased, good princeling, but we thank you. You have freed us from our damnation and we return to you now that which was always your own.”

  The room went dark. Wittendon turned, hoping to see his mother standing behind him. Hoping to see that she had been returned to him after all these years, after dying from the invisible wound the Mördare had given her while she had scooped him into her arms. She was not there. Wittendon picked up his sword, his body growing hot with anger, with loss.
And then, in his hand, he felt his sword grow hot too. He touched it with a finger and the dank air around it steamed. Returning it to its sheath, Wittendon retrieved the torch and focused his anger, his heat. Then, as he had seen Sarak do a thousand times with a simple act of magic, the flame leaped up from the cinders at its tip. “My magic,” he whispered. “It is returned.”

  With the Mördare gone and his torch re-lit, Wittendon could look at the room at his leisure. There was wealth beyond any he had seen or imagined. There were the twelve thin blades of Crespin, shining as though new. There was the stand where as a child he had seen the gem, the four prongs now empty. He touched one of the prongs—a mysterious metal he didn’t know, which cooled his finger instantly. “Thank you,” he said, hoping she could hear. “When we fled all those years ago, I told you that the next time I would obey. In exchange you said you would not tell father. I’m glad you reminded me. I’m glad I could keep my promise.” He took his hand off of the empty jewel stand. His mother must have run with the gem when they were leaving. Wittendon felt a strange satisfaction at that. Her heirloom had been returned to her after all.

  Sadora sat in the dank library, her candle burned to a nub. She didn’t like to steal the documents that comprised her nation’s geography and distant history, but there were many things she needed to know. The metal Pallium could do more than contain. It could absorb. It could neutralize. It could even repair or restore. The ancients had attempted to utilize it as a mineral in healing—using it to stave off bleeding or seal up breaks of skin and bone, though they had quickly abandoned the practice because in order to heal, the Pallium had to consume. Early patients would find themselves with a wound healed, but a portion of memory, magic, or strength missing. The exchange was simply too risky.

  Only traces of the metal were left in the land and they could only be found in the River Rylen—a river that held, she was learning, many secrets. Secrets, she began to suspect, that were related to those she was sure the king’s general was keeping. She had often wondered about Wolrijk and his excessive scarring. What could cause and seal wounds like that?

  The wick of her candle flickered and she knew she would have to leave soon. Turning with an ancient scroll tucked into her cloak, the light quivered and she hit the corner of something, stumbling. It was an old picture that had been turned around and wedged behind an even older document, a parchment book with rules. Much of the glass in the frame was already broken, though several more shards cracked and clattered to the floor when she bumped it and again when she tried to right it. Carefully she held her candle in front of her so as not to step on any of the shards. The candle illuminated the faces in the portrait, twelve Veranderen seated in a circle. Sadora stopped. She had never seen an image of the Elders. No one had. As far as any knew, all depictions had been destroyed when Crespin came to power. The candlelight flickered across each face and then Sadora gasped. There, pictured at the center of the broken portrait, was a tiny replica of the thing she’d been searching for all her life. She opened the locket that hung at her heart, fingering the engraved coat of arms—the pieces of her life clicking together as the candle reached its end and went out.

  Chapter 41

  The Motteral Mal opened in flame.

  The king stood atop a tower in the center of the amphitheater. He welcomed North, South, East, West. He wished the competitors luck and grace. He bowed to the ladies of each court. And then he lifted his arms above his head and the fire burst forth around him. He shot above it, suspended in the air. More flames poured from his mouth and fingers. His shaggy hair swirled around his face like a great meteor in the midst of the flame. He threw more light from his arms in streaks and swirls of color. And then from every edge of the arena, magical courtiers released an intense burst of firelights—azure, emerald, fuchsia. So many that the amphitheater warmed and the spectators gasped and clapped like children.

  A small room sat at the top of the amphitheater with eight guards stationed at its door. Wittendon slipped into the royal box and took his seat. Sadora came and sat beside him. “Your father certainly understands a show,” she said.

  “Yes,” Wittendon said, standing and stepping away from her. “Appearances are his specialty.”

  “Well,” Sarak said, walking over from the corner near a window. “It appears the son of the king has decided to show up after all. Do you know how many times you’ve stood me up for practice lately?”

  “Yes,” Wittendon said, “I do.” The prince stood in flesh form, adorned in battle sashes of crimson and gold. His breastplate was a shimmering series of copper discs that moved with his body so well he could almost forget they were there. His legs were wound with sturdy yet thin fabrics that would help to protect the weak skin of his flesh form. His sword hung loosely at his side in a golden scabbard with the king’s crest upon it.

  “Well, at least you look the part,” Sarak said snidely. “Like father, like son.”

  Wittendon gave him a hard look. “Enjoying these seats I’ve secured for you?” he finally asked.

  “Delightful,” Sarak said. “I’ll remember them when your father hangs me after you get your hide kicked by some twelve-year-old Verander who actually attended his practices.”

  “Well,” Sadora said sweetly. “I’m feeling a bit parched. I’m just going to step out for a minute and find some refreshment. Anyone else need anything?”

  Trainer and pupil just stared at each other. Sadora left with a clink of jewels, a swish of gown, and a pointed look to her brother.

  Below them dancers leaped toward the center of the field—the females lifted upon the backs of the males to form a shape like a moonflower.

  “You are angry,” Wittendon said when Sadora had left.

  “I am worried,” Sarak replied, looking out towards the edge of the area where the first round of competitors was preparing to be released to the field. “But it comes out feeling the same.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wittendon said. “There were other matters—”

  “I’m sure there were,” Sarak said, glancing in the direction his sister had gone.

  Wittendon wished he could tell Sarak the entire story. Instead he said, “I brought you a gift.” From his pouch he pulled a short, sturdy knife that had come from Jager’s smithy. There had been dozens retrieved by the Veranderen guard who had been sent to search the smithy. This particular dagger was made of steel and the workmanship was unusually fine considering the short time Jager must have had to create it.

  Sarak stared at it a little greedily, but did not reach out to accept it.

  “You’re an idiot if you don’t take it,” Wittendon said.

  Sarak still didn’t speak, but held out his hand to take it.

  “There. Now you can cut your noose if I do badly today.”

  “Or tomorrow. Or the next day.” Sarak turned the weapon over in his hand. “The tournament lasts almost a week; you’ve got plenty of chances to get me executed.”

  “All the more reason for you to be nice to me,” Wittendon said.

  Sarak looked up and lifted an eyebrow, then smiled, shaking his head. “I thought it was my job to crack the jokes around here.”

  “You missed your cue,” Wittendon said, almost smiling.

  “At least Kaxon will be out there to pick up your slack and make your crazy father happy.”

  Wittendon’s smile vanished.

  Sarak saw it and looked to the door. “He is a bit late, isn’t he?”

  Wittendon didn’t answer at first. Six magicians lined the field. They broke maidens from cages then transformed them into birds, caught them, and caged them again. “It’s a stressful time,” Wittendon finally said.

  “It’s still weird for Kaxon,” Sarak replied. “He’s never late, especially for things like this.”

  “You mean the biggest event of his life?” Wittendon said. “No, he’s not.”

  Sarak looked away. “So you’ve noticed he’s been acting strange lately?”

  Wittendon nodd
ed.

  “I haven’t even seen him in the kitchen for weeks.” Sarak said. “All his favorite wenches must be weeping.” Sarak smiled, but Wittendon’s expression didn’t change.

  The smile fell from Sarak’s face and he sighed. “I’ll be glad when the whole of this madness is over and our lives can return to normal.”

  Wittendon looked at his friend for several long moments. They had known each other since childhood. They had dug worms in the gardens, built shanties in the woods, camped, hunted. They had been the only boys without mothers in this long-lived race and, despite their differences, it had woven them together tighter than any mutual hobby or social class could have.

  “Sarak,” Wittendon began. “These are strange times. Promise me you’ll take care of Kaxon if he ever needs it and I’m not here.”

  Sarak just stared, surprised at the earnestness. “Of course,” he said. “I mean, what else would I do? But…lately, it’s like, everything has been so different.”

  Wittendon pursed his lips. “I know.” He was about to say more, but just then the king stepped onto the field with his staff aglow.

  “Let the battles of this, the 12,000th year of the Motteral Mal, begin,” Crespin roared. A bell tolled, two of the arena doors opened, and two warriors dressed much like Wittendon ran through the doors, straight at each other without hesitation or a nod to the crowd. A great cheer rose up. The century-awaited game had begun.