Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  The king crumpled to the ground. “Draden?” the king said. “Can it be?”

  Wolrijk laughed and kicked him in the jaw.

  “Draden,” the king repeated, blood pouring from his shoulder and trickling from his chin.

  Wolrijk stood on his hind legs, murmuring words of an ancient tongue. The fur broke along his back, like seams of a child’s doll bursting apart. His front paws turned to hands with daggered nails, his legs lengthened, his body grew tall. The wolfish face broke and contorted—half man, half animal—bleeding and splitting in the places where the scars had run along it. And though his body was distorted and malformed, it was clear who he was.

  “I am Draden, Nadenszbror. You and then your sons will die at my hand and I will claim this kingdom.” He shoved the wounded king against the throne. It cracked under the weight of its leader, gem and cement crumbling beneath the king. With his good arm, Crespin groped for his staff.

  Wolrijk stood to his full height and laughed. “You cannot use that weapon against me.”

  Crespin stood. With his good arm raised he spat out a spell, sending a burst of energy into Wolrijk, pushing him back. The king grabbed Wolrijk’s neck and lifted him into the air, but only for a moment before Wolrijk kicked Crespin in the gut, knocking him to the floor.

  Wolrijk held the Grey blade to the king’s neck. “I must thank you,” Wolrijk said, “for the idea of the extra-long blade. You were right all those years ago—it’s the perfect thing for killing the unkillable.”

  Crespin rolled free just as Wolrijk stabbed at his neck. The king kicked Wolrijk’s legs so that the shifter stumbled. Without pause the king grabbed at the scythe, but couldn’t reach it with his good arm.

  Regaining his footing, Wolrijk laughed. He kicked the blade aside, then lifted the wounded king up as if he were a mouse and tossed him against the northern wall of the royal box. The northern wall collapsed, burying the king and leaving nothing but his hand visible, his staff on the floor several inches from it. Deliberately, Wolrijk lifted the scythe as though to drive it through the king’s hand, but instead he brought it down on the top of the king’s staff—the bauble cracking and dimming until nothing remained but the smoking, blackened glass.

  Wolrijk walked to the hill and stood at its center. To the crowd below, he shook the scythe and shouted, “I am Draden, Nadenszbror, known to this kingdom as the General Wolrijk, Night Hunter. With the king’s most noble consent, I claim my royal right as brother to the elder Naden and will participate in the Motteral Mal in this the year 12,000.”

  The crowd seemed to break—a wave of noise and confusion, alarmed and overjoyed. At the sidelines, ladies clucked to each other about the excitement of Crespin’s cloying tournament—each new development more exciting than the last, while the king’s guard exchanged shocked glances, looking at the distant figure of their transformed general and then to the southern wall of the king’s box.

  Wolrijk could see Wittendon’s thin frame near the east side of the hill. Stretching in a way the wolf-turned-shifter had ached to for years, Wolrijk ran towards the prince—salivating for the hunt.

  Chapter 55

  Sadora had seen the black flare, had watched Wittendon walk across the hill. In a gush her world had emptied out into nothing. All these months she had moved quickly, steadily. But now, slowly, she walked to the king’s box. Near a creek, she picked three dark purple calla lilies and laced them through her hair. She had felt it the moment Sarak died—a crushing burst in her own lungs. He had not been struck; she was sure of that. It was as though he had been consumed. She, it was true, had been consumed long ago, but she had never expected to take her brother with her.

  When she got to the king’s box, the northern wall was destroyed while the others that faced the crowd remained intact, concealing what Wolrijk had done. The general, she well knew, was a traitor and a madman, but not an idiot. With her foot, she tapped the king’s staff, pushing it to the side and letting it roll to the edge of one of the unbroken walls. Beneath the rock, she heard the king groan. Gently she raised one hand and the rocks began to move, slowly at first and then more quickly, creating a whirlwind of stone above the king’s weakened body. Moving her weight, the rocks, metal, and gems of the desecrated throne and walls lifted; she shook them to the floor in a gentle heap of rubble and dust.

  “My lady,” the king said, groaning and reaching blindly for his staff. “Your power is great. I confess I did not expect it. Thank you.”

  “Do not thank me,” she said.

  The king did not respond, but looked for the first time very carefully at this woman whom he had considered to be nothing more than a beautiful implant to his land. “No,” he whispered. “It cannot be.” His shoulder where Wolrijk had pierced him bled continuously and several of his bones were broken, but he did not make a move to stop the flow of blood. As well as he could, he stood on the leg that was still sound. He held out his hands and, looking past Sadora, he said, “To me.”

  His ruined staff shivered and rose to one hand, but still the king waited, his other arm trembling and outstretched.

  “Perhaps,” she said, calmly, “you are looking for this.” She held both arms above her head, her hair and eyes reflecting the setting sun. The long-tipped spear, the one that had followed her out of the cave, flew into her hands. She lowered the weapon, and pointed it at the king.

  He gripped his own staff, his arms cut and bleeding. “Why then,” he asked, “have you saved me from another who had equal, perhaps greater, claim to my life?”

  “Because,” she said, not appearing to relish her task, “he cannot destroy you in the way I can.”

  Without pause, Crespin sent a blinding light toward her chest. She did not move to protect herself, but the light broke before reaching her as though shattered. She stepped toward him.

  “My life has not all been balls and fashions, laughter and frills. It has also been time spent searching for a family line that didn’t seem to exist, for a place in the world that I hoped could fill the empty parts of who I was.”

  Crespin ignored her and struck again, his spell shattering. The force of his own magic pushed too much weight onto his broken leg and caused him to stumble. He knelt there on one leg before her, his eyes flashing, his shoulders firm and proud. “I will not beg for mercy, if that is what you expect.”

  “I do not expect it. And you will not receive it.”

  Crespin pushed up with his good leg, barreling into Sadora’s small frame. She pushed his body back with the strong wooden handle of the spear, though she did not pierce him with its tip. The king stumbled again, his bleeding shoulder splattering on the hem of her gown. Again he rose. “You will not kill me without first feeling the strength that has kept me in power for nearly a millennium,” he said.

  “I have no intention of killing you,” she said. “It is my destiny to destroy you.” She paused to look at the king. “You have been deceived by your first in command and duped by a giggling socialite of your court. Your youngest son has fled in disgrace. Your world, as we speak, is being transformed by those of lowly hands. It is a transformation made possible by the wife whom you unwittingly slew, the half-breed daughter left from another union, and your eldest son. This kingdom will crumble, the laws of nature shift. There is, my king, precious little left to you worthy of destruction. But I will do my best.”

  He struck her again, this time using his staff as a blunt weapon and this time hitting his mark—a line of blood and a rush of bruising sprouted on her cheek as she moved aside to avoid the full force of his blow.

  “This blade,” she said carefully, holding the spear. “It was formed to do more than just murder. It was formed to rob families of their magic, their position in this society, their dignity and power. How many?” she asked, dodging another hit. “How many grandchildren and great-grandchildren from those last elders roam in our midst? How many of them use magic for good or ill in this world? The bloodlines of those elders have been ruined or made verlor
n, their progeny left to rot in graves or slums. All the weakness of humans with none of the craft. It was this I first noticed before I knew who I was or who I would become.”

  “The families of the elders would have been too intense of a threat. The kingdom was fragile,” Crespin said.

  “The slaughter of the elders was tragic,” Sadora said. “But the deterioration of their family lines—of the innocents of their blood—was more than that; it was under-handed; it was weak.”

  As she spoke, light from the setting sun formed a fiery halo behind her. “Even Wolrijk survived only because he discovered a metal more powerful than the Grey. The same metal that saved my father, the same metal that granted this spear to my control.”

  Sadora held the spear in front of her chest like a talisman. “This blade could kill you,” she said. “But there are things that can do worse.” She moved the spear to her side and Crespin noticed the mangled locket around her neck.

  “The necklace,” he said, springing upon her, knocking her to the ground. He grabbed the locket with his good arm and tore it from her throat, standing before her and holding it triumphantly above his head. Quickly, he held it to the still-bleeding wound in his shoulder. Instantly the wound sealed itself and the king laughed, though in another moment he put his free hand to his shoulder and fell to his knees.

  Sadora stood up. Her back and chest hurt, her cheek throbbed.

  “You will not have it back,” he said stubbornly, clutching the locket, pushing it against his broken bones.

  “No,” she said. “I will not.” She sat on a large piece of rubble and sighed. “All my time was not spent at royal galas. I spent a good deal of it hiding musty, stolen scrolls and trying to figure everything out.”

  The king hissed a curse at her. He stood on legs with bones that had healed, yet he trembled and the hand that held the metal locket hung limp at his side as though it was too heavy to lift.

  “Did you think,” Sadora asked, “that Wolrijk was scarred beyond your recognition because this metal had powerful restorative properties?”

  The king did not answer. He concentrated only on his breathing, drawing it in in slow, wheezy pulls that seemed to take all his energy.

  “The metal Pallium is unusual—a metal of containment, useful, but not entirely predictable. Many metals conduct energy. This one traps it. My father used it to temporarily contain the power of the Grey and thus resist it. That is why it did not sap his strength. Or mine. Wolrijk’s use of it, like Wolrijk’s use of so many things, was somewhat perverse. Many naturalists believe certain metals to have energy. Pallium is no exception. It has energy so potent that it can be used to heal. The problem is that even as it heals it continues to contain. Wolrijk could use it to heal, or rather to hold together, only because he allowed it to contain or absorb a great many other energies—his sanity, his humanity, his senses of reason and love, his potential, his sweetest memories of his own dear brother. He maintained his magic, he multiplied his power only because he allowed this metal to take a part of him and absorb from him all his goodness. It was a dangerous trade.”

  At last the king collapsed, gasping for breath. “What have you done?”

  “I?” she replied. “I have done nothing. You have done it all—or nearly all—for me. And to my credit, King Crespin, I did just sit here and try to explain it to you. The metal has restored parts of your physical body, but only by absorbing other energies from you—your wishes to ruin me, your strength, your magic. Those feelings you have carelessly poured into the Pallium as we’ve been sitting here and the metal has contained them; it has contained you.” Sadora stood. “And I must congratulate you, dear king, for you must have some goodness left in you, which you have kept to yourself. Otherwise I expect the metal would have consumed you entirely.”

  At last the king let the mangled locket fall from his hand. It rolled slowly to her feet. She stepped away, careful not to touch it now, and held the long-tipped spear in her hand.

  “The Grey could not destroy the Pallium when one was made to deflect while the other was created to destroy. But now both have been filled with destruction and, as so many things of that nature, they will eagerly take care of each other.” With a movement more powerful than any would have expected from the satin-gowned lady of the court, Sadora stabbed the tip of the Grey into the mutilated Pallium. The Pallium twisted around the blade of the spear, both metals hissing at each other like warring reptiles until in a burst of white and gold, they were gone.

  Crespin looked down to see himself transformed into his flesh form. He was small and balding, his lips a thin line of feeble pink, his skin nearly hairless, except for a few patchy, black tufts along his chest.

  Conqueror conquered now descends.

  To meet his own most bitter end.

  Sadora picked up the wooden shaft that remained now that the Grey spearhead was gone. She turned from the king. “You are free to go, Verander Crespin. As free as the descendants of those you destroyed.” Sadora walked from the crumbled room to the battlefield where her people and friends waited just over the hill

  The king tried to follow her, but was too weak. He sat for a few moments in his trembling flesh form. And then staggered away toward the wood.

  Chapter 56

  Alekas looked at the hill, the sun sinking steadily behind it. They had at most an hour before it set completely. Sadora had left, giving instruction to the rebels to find their positions without her. Pietre stood at the front of the troops, if such a rag-tag group could be called that, but Humphrey hung back with Alekas, laying his muzzle on her head at the spot just between her ears. Constantly it felt as though her belly squirmed. It would not be long now before her first litter of pups was born—quarter breed pups, doomed to death unless this crazy plot worked. After a minute Humphrey moved his head off of Alekas and followed her gaze to the top of the hill.

  “Though I fully intend to see you again,” he said. “It is possible that we may never be able to speak.”

  “Though not with words, we will always speak,” she said. “Do what you have to do to protect the innocents.”

  “I will,” he said, touching her nose with his. Then, letting his muzzle rest for one long moment on the soft fur of her neck, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before he ran through the ranks to meet Pietre at the front.

  On Humphrey’s back, Pietre led the force of humans and rebels over the first foothill. This part was easy. None were yet aware of their presence, much less who they were or what they were doing. But before the rebellion could succeed, they had to find Wittendon and get the stone. And now they were not the only ones looking.

  Pietre could see the Tablet at the top of the hill where the stone had to be placed. And he could see the sun, touching the horizon.

  The old stories said that the prophecy called for one of pure heart. And Zinnegael had told him that the circumstances called for him. He wondered which was right. If either was. Pietre knew that he did not have a pure heart, and he knew that the circumstances could be altered. It was in his power to ask another to place the stone, or to abandon their designs completely.

  Pietre climbed off of Humphrey’s back, watching the hills in front of them and waiting. Silently, he bent to pick up several round stones for his sling.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Humphrey said, sensing his sadness and nudging a smooth, round stone toward him.

  “I’m not afraid,” Pietre said, picking up the stone and placing it in the pouch by his sling. “At least I’m not afraid of them.” He gestured out to the hills in front of them.

  “Then what are you afraid of?” Humphrey kicked another rock—this one sharp and large.

  “Me,” Pietre said miserably, picking up the stone, weighting in in his hand and then tossing it away in favor of a denser, smaller stone. “I’m just a child.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Humphrey answered. “So what’s the problem?”

  Pietre picked up three more rocks, dusting them off, checking their
edges and choosing one with several small, jagged ridges. “Children don’t do great things. At least, not me.”

  Humphrey cocked his head to the side. “You saved me. I was just a tiny, helpless thing. Now look.” He held up a huge paw. “With luck, the small things you do will grow into big ones.” Humphrey looked ahead and Pietre knew he was thinking of his unborn pups. Humphrey continued, “Many desire to do good, but to desire and do are separate virtues. You used both when you saved me.”

  “I ignored both when I didn’t save my parents.”

  Humphrey moved his body in a way that looked a lot like a shrug. “You could not have saved your parents.”