“Let me look,” Wittendon said gently.
“I’m not sure you should unwrap––” she began, but he was already removing the makeshift bandage. The wound still flowed in lines of red that showed no signs of clotting. He frowned, touching her palm. She winced, but let him. With the rag, he wiped the blood from her palm as best he could, holding the back of her hand gently.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really thought there was no danger left in this room.” He pressed his other hand against her palm, hoping he could exert enough pressure to slow the blood flow.
Her hand was hot, but the fingers were soft and smooth. He found he liked having them wrapped in his own large hand.
“It is not your fault,” she said. “I knew what the blades could do, though I underestimated their strength—a mistake my father never would have made.”
Wittendon pressed firmly against both sides of her hand. “I could carry you to Zinnegael. She will know how to mend it.”
“Wait,” Sadora said. “I think what you’re doing is helping. The pressure seems to be slowing the blood. Just let’s sit here for a few moments before we move again.”
Maybe she was captain of a rebel force; maybe she’d tricked Wittendon into the tunnels the first time and then asked him to do a dangerous, nearly impossible task; maybe she was his father’s sworn enemy. But he was in a dim room sitting close and holding the hand of a beautiful Veranderah he’d been interested in since he’d thought to have interest in such things. She’d asked him to wait. Wittendon wasn’t an idiot. He held her; and waited.
Her smooth hair pressed into his chin and he could feel her breath against his chest. It was growing steadier and stronger. He uncapped one hand, venturing a peek at her wound, and stared. He’d expected to see the huge hole, torn flesh, congealing blood. Instead, the blood was gone and a thin sheet of skin had sealed over the wound.
“A little gruesome, is it,” she asked, trying to get a peek.
He moved one hand off of hers and she gasped. Carefully he placed three fingers over the spot where the Grey had pierced her. The tips of his fingers shimmered as her skin thickened into a firm white scar.
“Stop,” she said abruptly.
Wittendon pulled one hand away from hers, feeling embarrassed.
“I wish,” she began, tracing the shimmering scar. “I wish to remember this day. Don’t make the scar vanish completely.”
Obediently, Wittendon took his other hand off hers. She held it up to the light of the torch and turned it right then left. “Who knew such things were possible?”
“Not me,” Wittendon mumbled.
She smiled. “Wittendon, lord of the Grey,” she said. “This is amazing.” She looked into his face with the glee of a child and the wonder of a woman.
Wittendon could not help it. He leaned down and kissed her.
The spears followed Sadora out of the tunnel, like ducklings after their mother. Wittendon held her other hand—the one without the scar—and traced the fingers with his thumb.
They walked in silence until they had passed the bones and Wittendon finally said, “What was the word you uttered? The word that shattered the other blades?”
“My name,” she said without explanation. “In the ancient language, the name I was told not to forget.”
“Good thing you didn’t,” Wittendon said and paused. “It was well chosen—beautiful, dangerous, resolute.”
“Yes,” she said without embarrassment or pride, and then added abruptly. “Does it bother you? My destiny set on your father’s destruction?”
“Well,” he said slowly. “Every relationship has its bumps.”
Chapter 45
Pietre stood near Humphrey, surveying the armies on a field below. Zinnegael said they marched in three days. She said it was imperative that the attack occur on the night when the moon filled into a great disc of summer light. The night that happened to be the last night of the Motteral Mal. Somehow, attacking an enormous force when they were strongest, gathered together, and armed to the teeth wasn’t the most appealing battle strategy to Pietre.
Zinnegael came up beside him and looked over the men on the field. There were also several women and even a few older children practicing with sticks and swords. “A motley crew, aren’t we?” she said like she was proud of that fact.
Humphrey laughed and trotted down to the field to help a young boy select a weapon. Pietre wanted to laugh too, but the sound just wouldn’t come out. The closer they came to battle, the easier it was to see why the dogs were so cautious with their alliances. Pietre looked down at the weapons and troops. The fact that they were together was largely his doing. The men and women carried knives and pitchforks, spears re-fashioned, and old swords sharpened and cleaned. Yet to look at them Pietre knew that they might as well have been holding children’s paper fans for all the good it would do them; and guilt swept through him. Had he gathered his people and lined them up like cows at the slaughter barn? Turning to Zinnegael he blurted, “Why the last night of the Mal?”
“Because,” she said, “despite how things look on the outside, there is much hope. It lies, unfortunately, with two unlikely not-quite-allies and some very fortuitous timing.”
“Great,” Pietre mumbled.
“It will be,” she said, winking. “Just watch.”
The pitch black Ellza—her shoulder patched since collapsing the uppermost tunnel—came and stood beside her mistress. “Another group of fighters has arrived, my lady.”
“Very good,” Zinnegael said. “Sent by Sadora?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I must go and greet them.”
Zinnegael and Ellza left, and Pietre stood on the hill—happy to be alone for a moment in the silence. After a few minutes, however, Pietre started to feel as though someone stood behind him, watching, although he had heard no one approach. He turned, expecting to see one of the messenger cats and was surprised instead by Alekas’s pretty cream-colored face.
“Good morrow, she-hound,” Pietre said, bowing slightly. “Have you come to join us?”
“I am neither brave nor particularly cunning,” she began. “And my greatest asset has always been one of kindness.” She looked out over the field of sparring humans. “Which I am not sure is the best strength at times such as these. But I have news for Humphrey—ill-timed I’m afraid, but news that must be shared.”
Pietre nodded to the place on the field where Humphrey stood, just as Savah came to join Pietre on the hill. Savah stared as the dog departed, purring in a way that hummed like gossip. “She does not plan to fight, does she?” the cat asked.
“No, actually. She does not. But why do you state it like that?”
“My boy,” the cat laughed. “I suppose you are too young and too human to see it, but the she-dog is thick with child.”
Pietre gaped at the field below, watching Humphrey jump away from a club leveled at him by the young boy practicing.
“Now come,” the cat said. “My mistress awaits.”
Chapter 46
Round two of the Motteral was grueling—some said the most grueling of all. It lacked the energy of the first round and the desperation of the last. It was fought in wolken form, but without weapon or magic. This round relied on speed, skill, and a bit of improvisation. It also relied on teeth—a lot of teeth.
It was teeth that were facing Wittendon right now. The canine teeth were bloodied and looked so barbed Wittendon wondered if the large Verander in front of him had actually sharpened them. His breath was bad too.
The Verander pulled his head back, rearing to strike like a snake. Wittendon let his body relax, counting slowly to himself. One…two… and then he jumped up, funneling all his energy into his legs. He pounded into his opponent, knocking the breath out so that he staggered back. But it was only for a moment. The Verander ran toward Wittendon, his head down like a hammer. Wittendon, still recovering from the last impact, took the hit in the forehead and moaned. His thoughts went fogg
y—drifting to a song his mother used to sing to him that seemed suddenly the perfect thing to be humming in the middle of a potentially life-threatening tournament. “When the sun sinks low, and the moon shines high,” he murmured, standing unsteadily. It wasn’t until he got to his feet and his head began to clear that he realized the other Verander should have been on his chest and bearing down on his neck. Looking around, still seeing stars at the corners of his eyes, Wittendon saw the Verander, lying unmoving on his side with a small pool of blood forming under his snout. The arbitrators at the side were counting, “Nine…ten.” One raised his hand and the round was declared.
Wittendon went to the Verander and sang a few more lines. “When the night goes black and the stars retire. It’s then you’ll go to sleep.” He doubted it would have been much appreciated if his opponent had been conscious, but maybe it would sweeten his dreams until the healers got him back on his feet.
Sadora waited for Wittendon at the side of the field. “Fortunately your head is harder than anyone anticipates,” she said as they walked to the dinner cart.
Wittendon smiled, still a little fuzzy-headed, and followed her.
On their way to the dinner cart, they passed Kaxon. Wittendon gave him a thumbs up. Kaxon glanced at him and returned the gesture, though it was distracted; and his brother’s smile—usually one that ate up half his face—looked more like a limp fish making a final squirm before its death. Wittendon wondered why. His brother had done just as well as he had, better even. At this point Kaxon had several more points, even though they’d won an equal number of rounds. Perhaps Kaxon was just not as far ahead as he had hoped or expected to be. Or maybe he dreaded facing Wittendon as much as Wittendon dreaded the thought of facing him.
Sarak stood in the practice room alone. Alone was something he was getting used to, but that didn’t make it any nicer. Wittendon and Sadora were now always together or entirely missing—which was pretty much the same thing. Sarak wondered where their hiding place was. He wondered it with a little resentment and then felt guilty about that. Hadn’t he wanted them to be happy? Hadn’t he felt terrible for Wittendon when it seemed the whole thing might not work out? Sarak swung his sword, feeling it grow hot and cold with his shifting feelings. Control it, he thought to himself, and your feelings will follow. He swung the blade steadily, so hot it seemed to sizzle away the moisture that hung in the air. Silently, he moved through his evening practice, legs bent then straight, arms flowing from his body like water dragons through the sea. It felt good. It had always felt good. No wonder he’d become skilled enough to train a prince—he’d spent too much of his life alone to be anything else. The thought gave him some comfort. And Wittendon was doing well in the Mal. Surprisingly well.
Sarak spun through the room, always knowing where his feet would land, always anticipating the weight of his sword, the place it would strike if he had had an opponent to face. The sword, the magic, the control—like a dance, they soothed him, made him feel he had a place in this world, this world that otherwise would have rejected a nameless orphan. Sadora had her looks, her fashions, her laugh. He had a steady hand and a talent with magic that surprised even the king. Sarak had not really wanted to fight in the Mal. He had always known that as one without a confirmed parentage he would not be able to and so the desire had never taken him; he was one to flow with his lot in life instead of kicking against it. And yet an opportunity to prove himself at the Mal—to show himself as the powerful Verander he was, to be one with his people in a way that had, as an orphan, eluded him—he couldn’t help but feel a pang for the chance. As it was he would have to shine through Wittendon. Something he didn’t begrudge exactly, but found that he wasn’t cherishing either.
Sarak tossed his sword to the side of the room where it landed perfectly in its spot on the weapons wall. He’d done it hundreds of times and it made him smile every time. Quietly he took a grandiose bow, only to be jolted upright by the sound of clapping.
“Most impressive,” the king said as Sarak fell to one knee, bowing. “You fight like a king or one nearly destined to be so.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Sarak said, not daring to rise. Indeed, the king did not release him as he usually did with a wave of his hand.
“Your work with my son,” the king continued. “It is admirable.” The king paced tight circles around the kneeling Sarak. “Although it remains to be seen in the coming round whether you’ve managed to coax any hint of magic out of his stubborn fingers.”
Sarak tried to smile, but felt like his cheeks were wobbling. “Yes, my lord, it remains to be seen.”
The king stopped in his pacing and looked down at Sarak. For one brief moment, Sarak thought the king would raise his flaming staff and crush him like an unwanted mouse in the pantry, but all at once the king relaxed, bidding Sarak rise, and clapped him on the back as if in congratulation. “Yes, child, you’ve done quite well. Let’s hope it continues.”
King Crespin smiled—his sharp wolven canines pressing down over his lower teeth—and left.
Sometimes, Sarak thought, it wasn’t the worst thing to be an orphan. Wittendon had a father. And his father was terrifying.
Chapter 47
She offered him quiche.
“The full moon,” Pietre began, ignoring Zinnegael’s tiny plates and mugs of tea. “Why is it necessary for our attack?”
She pushed a plate to him, along with a little tin fork and napkin. He pushed them away. “I am not the only one with these questions,” he said. “The troops ache from days of practice and nights on hard ground. They begin to long for their wives’ stew almost more than freedom itself.”
“Such is the way with men,” she said. “Now have some food and a cup of tea because my answer is neither short nor easy.”
She took a bite herself, chewing slowly before she began. “This land was not always thus. In the time before our time, a small sun shone, blinding and white.”
“Yes, I know,” Pietre responded, ignoring his meal.
Zinnegael unfolded his napkin for him, then dropped three sugar cubes into his tea and gave it a stir. “Do you?” she asked. “In human lore, there is much talk of the hot, white sun, but little known of the moon that also shone. The moon hung off of its earth, which hung off of that sun—connected by its mass, its force. This moon reflected light only because of the grace and majesty of that powerful sun.”
Pietre nodded.
“This ancient moon, though bright, could only be seen in the darkness of night and then only when the sun was in position to bestow her light to it.”
“The moon was not always seen?” Pietre asked.
“Correct,” Zinnegael said. “In fact, the moon was often not seen. When the worlds were changed and the Veranderen came to power, all of that changed. The humans became weakened by the dullness of the sun just as the Veranderen power steadied and grew constant like the moon.”
Pietre picked at his breakfast.
“The stone must be placed at the summer solstice in the year of the Motteral Mal because it is only then that the powers of moon and sun balance equally in the sky. The moon at its fullest point, the day at its longest. The Zonnesteen can be empowered only as the sun is setting and the moon rising, both giving equal light to the earth. It is then, during this moment of symmetry, when a Greylord’s power is greatest. After that, the stone can be placed in the Sacred Tablet by one of pure heart, thereby bestowing the worlds with power to change. Man will have the potential to rise in power becoming level with shifter—”
“Anybody home?” a voice broke in.
Zinnegael turned to see Wittendon’s tall frame stooping through her door, followed by Sadora’s willowy figure. Pietre scowled and turned away.
Zinnegael stopped in her story and shooed them out. “Be a couple of dears and wait outside in the kitchen. You’ll find a tart just about ready to come out of the oven.”
Zinnegael turned again to Pietre. “In the last changing of the suns,” she said, “the wer
ewolves held almost all the power. They held the stone, empowered the stone, placed the stone. Our current world reflects that imbalance. Now there is need for help from all the races. Now there is a chance for something better. The Veranderen and humans have always worked best and been strongest together, and with the other races, but only when unified by will. So it was with the Sourcestone at the very beginning before it was corrupted. So it can be with the Sourcestone again—empowered by one race and placed by another with the help of both dog and wolf. Such a change could create a world with more power and peace than we have ever known.”
“Could?” Pietre asked, his face hard.
“Of course it would take a good deal of cooperation.”
“Is cooperation just another word for the humans doing the bidding of the stronger races?”
“In this case,” she replied. “I’d say the humans have a good deal more to gain than anyone else.”
“Only because we are on the lowest rung of the ladder already.”
“Indeed,” she said. “But the truth still remains that others will step down somewhat while the humans step up.”
“As they should,” Pietre said a little harshly.
“Which doesn’t change the fact that the Veranderen rebels have much to lose through this upheaval. As do the dogs. As do the cats and even the wolves. While the humans stand only to gain.”
She paused, puttering with the quiche. “If only we could find the stone—”
Pietre stopped scowling and looked up sharply. There was something in her tone, something distinctly cat-like. When she met his gaze, he expected to see her with eyes like slits—slits that let in only the amount of light that was exactly necessary. But when he looked, the eyes were the same round discs of green and copper they always were.
“Tell me of the stone,” Pietre said, feeling afraid to hear it.
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