“And our voices,” the fluted one said.
“Our stories,” the elder continued.
“Our experience,” the secret-keeper chimed in.
“Are but frivolity if we cannot fight when wrong is done to us,” Markhi said suddenly. “It is true that at present our losses have not become catastrophic. But with Crespin as king, there is never a guarantee that this will continue. What if he did not wish to reimburse us our land? What would we do? What could we do? In this conflict there is a chance to unite with a cause greater than our whole.”
“And yet still very nearly doomed to failure,” the planner pointed out.
The dogs fell quickly into a rough babble of argument. Pietre sat dazed, but Humphrey stared at them hard and waited, then stamped his enormous front paw three times. It shook the ground and one by one the faces turned to glare at the stranger in their midst.
“You prattle on about pros and cons,” he growled. “You worry for your young taken as pets, about food sources and security. You defend yourselves with words about your language as ancient as the sun. You are already as pets to the king—to be spoiled and pampered or beaten and abandoned at his whim. Your language, your history, your break from the wolves whom you claim to despise—what does it mean, what weight does it bear when you quiver at the command of a master while you let those weaker, and yet more loyal to you, falter and fall while you close your eyes, hum your tune and turn away? You sing your songs—songs of loyalty, bravery, and love. Yet, how many of you have been—or known those—housed or fed, bandaged or buried by the soft-fleshed humans, the humans who even now gather and rally for causes in your defense? The humans who, even in their own poverty, have begun sending parcels of food to the packs of dogs suffering as a result of their scorched lands. While the Veranderen, who have so much more, still do nothing to supply food to our hungry packs near the fireland, do nothing to aid us at our time of need. Stay and keep your language and your history for all the good it will do you when others join together as friends and allies, making sacrifices of love that have the potential to bring about changes on your behalf, changes that will never happen if you just sing about them and walk away.”
Humphrey stepped back, the circle of leaders silent and scowling.
“And you, human child, what do you think?” asked the strongest dog. “Is this conflict, your race, worth sticking our necks out for, worth sacrificing many of the things that are of most importance to us?”
It was not meant to be an insulting question, only an honest one.
Pietre pressed his lips together and stuffed his paper into his pocket. “The humans,” he began, “are not always as honorable as the dogs. We are a race that sometimes abandons its own in a way the dogs never would, a race that is cowering in a way the dogs never are, a race that sometimes uses each other in a way the dogs never would.” He looked down. “And yet we, more than any other races, have shown a willingness to join with others, stick our own necks out for others, and allow others into our midst, even when they have been cast out from their own. We are a race that harms, but also forgives; a race that understands that sometimes to gain something, something else must be sacrificed. We are far from perfect, good dogs, but part of our strength lies in understanding that.”
The singing dog seemed to hum her disapproval, but several of the others were looking at Pietre, deep in thought.
Markhi raised his paw to signal a vote. Each dog cast his ballot and when all were tallied, Markhi sighed. “It is even,” he said flatly, looking with sad eyes to Humphrey and Pietre.
“So?” Pietre asked.
“There is nothing we can do,” Markhi concluded. “A majority must rule for the dogs as a group, to act.”
Humphrey snorted and walked in disgust from the dogs. Pietre knew Humphrey had always wished to be a full-bred dog. Now Humphrey seemed proud that he was not, that he could not be bound by their laws, prejudices, and inactions.
“We will meet again in three days,” Markhi told Pietre. “And discuss it further.”
Pietre nodded respectfully to each dog, trying to make up for the hole of Humphrey’s absence, and left.
They met at midday. Wolrijk handed the letter to King Crespin. It was written in a lavishly scripted hand—a hand that had clearly spent far too many years in a monastery with not enough to do. The prose was almost as flowering as the handwriting. The writer gave his greetings to the king, his compliments, his apologies for missing the great tournament on account of his oath-bound commitment to a life of silent meditation and humble service.
The king flipped through the pages impatiently, slowing occasionally to nod or scowl. At the back of the pile were two documents: one to seal Lila Friedenszdotter and a foreigner known as Mar together in life. And another to close them in death. Included with these documents was a flat, metallic seal. Crespin held it up to the light, rubbing his thumb over the intricate etching several times before dragging a sharp nail down its center, leaving a thin, jagged slash through the otherwise perfectly preserved disc.
“That will do, General,” he said. “You may go.”
They met at dusk. Wittendon stood by the door of the cave and waited for Sadora’s thin shadow to emerge from the bushes. He had secured a position in the Mal that would advance him to the second level, as had Kaxon. His father was pleased. Which no longer concerned Wittendon.
After the prisoner Jager had escaped, his father had burned the smith’s clothes and tolled the execution bells. But that wasn’t enough for the king. Several of the Königsvaren had been demoted to starve with the Blødguard while each and every human servant who had brought Jager food or been in the smithy to pump bellows or feed the fire had been ordered hanged. Hanged. Wittendon knew his father knew that those servants were not responsible for Jager’s escape. But the king wanted his presence to be felt. He wanted to be absolutely sure that any rumors of the escape were silenced. For this over fifty innocent humans would die as soon as the Mal was over.
Wittendon had always known his father to be strict and immovable, but he had never considered him rash or purposefully cruel. Now Wittendon realized that his father could be both. Wittendon did not know the servants who would be hanged, but he had seen them bringing food to Jager, sometimes sharing a laugh when they thought no one was looking. He had seen several of them help the smith feed metal into the crucible above the fire and pump the bellows when it had been necessary—the sweat pouring off their gaunt faces, hissing as it hit the fire or the hot floor. And he had seen their faces as they had been walked through the courtyard, their hands tied in rope. They did not know why they were being led to the prisons adjacent to the gallows, only that they would not be able to tell their families where they had gone.
Wittendon sighed. His father was correct about him in one thing. Wittendon had the weakness called pity. And Wittendon was fairly certain that it would do him no good. Yet he couldn’t help but step toward it instead of away. To show the blades to Sadora would be the last step, the final treason against his father, his race. It would begin the process to “level the field” as Zinnegael had put it. Level. That was how Wittendon had felt with Jager when he had freed him—not superior as he’d been taught to feel toward the humans, not inferior as his father and his kind had often made him feel. And yet to lead Sadora here—it could change everything—his people, his position, his beautiful city. Wittendon paced nervously in front of the cave. Being level with the human Jager had felt more right than anything he’d ever felt in his land. And yet the right thing, Wittendon realized, would come at a price.
Sadora arrived shortly and without a sound. “You have found them?” she asked, her voice so full of wonder and surprise that Wittendon wasn’t sure if he should be gratified or insulted.
“Yes,” he answered, holding up a branch that blocked the mouth of the tunnel so she could step through.
“And they lie here, unguarded,” she asked.
“Guarded no longer,” he replied, swatting at a bu
g and not bothering to elaborate.
“You are a mystery to me,” she said at last.
Wittendon wasn’t surprised. Lately he had become a mystery to himself.
Sadora stepped carefully through the low mouth of the cave and then walked ahead of Wittendon and his torch by several paces, unencumbered by memory or trauma. Wittendon followed slowly, surprised at the dread he still felt in the tunnel—not the deep foreboding of his prior fear, but a cautiousness that came from knowing what had lain ahead. The sludge turned to pebbled bits and suddenly Sadora let out a scream. She stood in front of the skeleton, felt the bleach white rock under her feet, the worms, the death. She turned, grabbing Wittendon by one arm as if to pull him away. “The myth,” she hissed. “It is the Tunnel of the Mördare. It is death.”
“No,” he said. “Not anymore.” He held her arms firmly in his hands so she would not run. He couldn’t help but enjoy the way her soft humanish skin felt under his fingertips, especially in the near darkness. He stepped back to shake away the feeling and she stepped back, still trembling.
“How?” she asked in a whisper.
“Oddly enough—through a lot of brainless risk and a human-made pick,” he responded.
Her forehead furrowed as though she was trying to remember something. Wittendon found himself fighting the urge to touch the line at the bridge of her nose. She is not the same girl as you thought her to be, he reminded himself, striding forward. “You may shift if you wish, though there is no need.”
Behind him he felt her body ripple and grow, absorbing more of the light and air. He shifted too, not liking the feeling of being shorter and weaker than she. She walked forward and took his elbow. “Forgive me,” she said, seeming embarrassed. “I feel as though the marrow in my bones has turned to cream and sugar.”
“You are forgiven,” he said, leading her through the tunnel and pausing at the point where it opened into the great room. There was no blackness, no haunted green haze, no misty voices shaking with scornful laughter. But there was a single low hum that Wittendon was sure had not been there before. It gave him pause.
Fortunately so.
The blade whizzed past him as his foot crossed the threshold.
Chapter 44
Sadora stepped aside with so much speed that it seemed the blade hadn’t quite surprised her. Wittendon was surprised. When last he left this room everything was docile and lifeless. Now eleven of the long blades of Grey hovered in the air pointed at them.
With a quick movement of her hand and a muttered word, Sadora lit each torch in the great room, the one in Wittendon’s hand blazing so high and thick he had to hold it away from his body to keep from being singed. In the brightened room, he noticed that the blades were not pointed at them; they were pointed at her.
Slowly she unsheathed a narrow sword. The long tips of Grey shook like angry snakes. Two flew at her. She struck one with the blade and knocked it into the other, but not before four others were released as though shot from giant, invisible bows.
Wittendon finally came to his senses. He drew his sword, grateful he had brought it. He cut each of the blades from their wooden shafts and they fell to the earth, but only for a moment. As seven more hurtled toward Sadora, the four on the ground reformed. Only one remained in place, and for some reason that made Wittendon more nervous.
“I need,” Sadora said, panting and striking as though she were swatting at flies, “two minutes. Can you give me that?”
Wittendon nodded, swinging just as wildly with his sword. Eleven blades gathered together in a clump of deadly metal pointed at Sadora. Wittendon could hear them move before he saw them. Quickly, he jumped in front of Sadora. Each blade stabbed through his flesh with the usual sickening sucking noise. Wittendon still wasn’t used to it.
Sadora gasped. If she had been the lady in waiting he had once thought her to be, she would have fainted. As it was she held her arms above her head and stood perfectly still.
Wittendon felt his skin close, forcing the blades out with a pop that might have been funny if Sarak’s sister wasn’t in mortal danger.
Again the long tips of Grey hovered, preparing their attack, but Sadora didn’t move. She faced them with her arms held high, her face and neck exposed, her eyes closed. They buzzed and shot toward her but just as they did, she shouted out a word—ancient and beautiful, thick and terrible. The word sprang forth like a weapon. The blades halted, shuddered, and burst—shards of the Grey raining through the air like sharpened hail.
Wittendon held his hands over her head and pulled her face and body into his, surrounding her as much as possible with his limbs and head. Enough scratches from the shards could still destroy her.
“It is not over,” she whispered into his chest. “The worst is not begun and I have nothing more with which to fight it.”
Behind her on the wall hung the last remaining blade. It creaked from its position like an old man moving from his bed. Even as it rose to the air the shards at their feet began to reassemble. It would take longer this time, but in less than a quarter of an hour all the blades would face them again.
Sadora held her weapon by her side and began whispering incantations—some wild and quick, some slow and complex. None halted the blade of Grey now pointed at her heart. She swung at it and it moved away from her with such speed that Wittendon could barely see it move. She sweated and panted, chanting and stabbing until after several minutes her voice fell silent. The blades at their feet were rejoining to their wooden shafts.
“Move away,” Sadora shouted to Wittendon as the eleven sprang again into the air and the twelfth dove straight at her heart. Impulsively, she closed her fingers around the locket just as the blade pierced her hand and bore into the metal of the pendant on the way to her heart. She stumbled back at the force of the blow, shrinking into her flesh form, and screaming at the pain in her hand. Then, at once the eleven spears fell to the ground and in another moment the one at her chest did too.
Wittendon ran to her expecting to catch her as she fell dying, but she stood—silent and stunned. Slowly, she took her hand from the locket, blood flowing from the gash at her palm’s center. The locket at her chest was a mangled mass of metal, but the skin beneath it had not even a scratch.
Wittendon stepped back and she stared at it. With her free hand, she tore a sleeve from her cloak and wrapped it tightly around her hand.
Then she bent to the earth and picked up the fallen weapon. She knocked the end to the ground and the eleven remaining spears stood upright like slender soldiers at her command.
“You,” she said to Wittendon without looking at him, “are a Greylord.”
“Yes,” he said. “And you?”
She turned to him, her skin glowing golden white like the inside of a flame. “I am the oldest born of the last surviving elder—your father’s mortal enemy.”
“Well that explains a few things—like why all the spears were enchanted to attack you.”
With a swoop of her hand, she gathered the blades to her.
“But this part?” Wittendon said, gesturing to the now-obedient weapons.
“For this part,” Sadora said. “I have only a guess.” To herself she murmured, “Close to my heart indeed.” She fingered the mangled locket.
Looking to Wittendon she said, “Growing up I had no idea who I was. When I was quite young and my nanny died, I was given three commissions: to always wear this locket, to remember my name, and to obey my brother as though he was the oldest. I didn’t like the last nearly as much as the first, but I did my best to fulfill this dying instruction.
“And then ten months ago, I began to wonder if I was going mad. I always felt as though I was being followed, saw strange shadows cross my path, noticed cat-like statues where I was sure none had been. To appease the haunting of my mind I started to research the extinction of the cats, which led me to notice the seeming extinction of other lines within our own race. It was a bit shocking—the families of Veranderen who sometimes
vanished without a trace.”
Sadora pressed on her wounded hand. The blood had begun to soak through her wrapping. “I became involved with the Septugant rebellion; I met more cats than I ever could have imagined. And then very recently while researching metals, these blades, and several other things in the dingiest wing of your father’s libraries, I found a portrait. The canvas was torn and dirty, the frame broken in half, but it was clearly the Circle of Elders and at its center stood a man who wore on his robes a clasp—I did not connect the fact that the metals were the same—but the clasp bore the exact same crest as the locket I’ve worn since my infancy.”
She held her hand above her head and sat down, looking pale. “It could have been a fluke; this locket could have been a bauble purchased by my mother at some ancient shop in our land to the north. But the eyes of the man in that portrait—it was like looking into Sarak’s face.”
“Then this metal,” Wittendon said, sitting beside her and reaching out to finger the locket at her neck, “is Pallium—the same that deflected the blade the first time. But—” Wittendon paused. “Tomar did not overcome the blade.”
“No.” she said softly. “He jumped from a window and fled. Your father called the blade back. But today Crespin was not here to do so. The blade found its mark and bore with all its strength into that mark. But its strength was not sufficient. Pallium is a metal with the strange property that it can contain or deflect many other powers. I, with my accidental shield, overcame Crespin’s blade of Grey. As such, it—and the eleven blades connected to it—are mine.” The blade hummed again, but this time almost in pleasure.
“We should go,” she said, standing.
When she did, the blood drained from her face and she quickly sat down again. “Of course the Grey is still the cursed Grey,” she said, nursing her pierced hand.
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