Grey Stone

by Jean Knight Pace

  “Humphrey,” Pietre said, shaking his friend. “Humphrey, it comes.”

  The animal rolled over, lifted his head, then sank down again. Pietre pushed on him again. He wanted to talk to him one last time before the light hit; he wanted to hear his voice. “Humphrey,” he said. “We did it; we won. You are free.”

  Humphrey lifted his head again, his eyes glazed. He looked at the boy as though he still couldn’t see him. “Humphrey,” Pietre said again. “Thank you. You threw me to the Tablet. You did it just in time.” Pietre paused. “And Humphrey, Humphrey you sang—the most beautiful note I have ever heard.”

  Slowly, Humphrey smiled, then opened his mouth to reply, but just as he tried to speak, the sun crept over the mountain and touched the animal. A sound came from his lips that surprised them both—not language, not hondsong, but a crude sort of bark. Humphrey said nothing more, but placed his head in Pietre’s lap. Pietre stroked the dog-wolf’s neck for several minutes, letting the tears run down his cheeks and drop onto the half-breed’s fur.

  Above them a small bright sun found its way over the hill and into a crisp blue sky. Beneath them, the hillside staggered to life. From the base of the hill, three sharp bugles sang out and just below them, Pietre could hear Sadora’s voice. “Prepare your weapons and wait for my signal.”

  Pietre waited too. He expected to feel the trembling earth as he had yesterday. Instead, after more minutes than he had expected, he was greeted with a shrill whistle followed by the steady barking of the dogs. It was good enough. The rebel troops streamed down the hill.

  The Veranderen forces, now all in human form, stood and re-grouped, but most were completely unarmed in robes that hung loosely from their smaller human frames.

  The Septugant ran into the weakened pack of Veranderen and wolves, plunging human-made spears and swords into thin human flesh while the wolves howled to one another, speechless and confused. Quickly those who survived were forced down the hill. When nearly to the bottom, their Veranderen captain turned to the others and called, “Stand down.” His haphazard troops fell back, waiting several paces down from their leader. He walked forward—stout, pale, and unarmed. Normally the wolves of the Königsvaren would handle these negotiations, but normally the wolf-guard was not a howling, wordless, messy mass of noise.

  Sadora went forward to meet the Veranderen captain, the bladeless shaft in her hand, two of her men at her side. Pietre watched from behind.

  “My lady, I do not know how it has come to pass, but you have won. More than won,” the captain said. “Will you now slaughter my—our—kind as you tear through a city filled with thousands of them? I beg you,” he continued, “three hours to gather our people and flee the city.”

  “You may have until dusk,” she replied. “Those who wish to stay and live in equality and peace may hang a piece of green fabric above their doors. Those houses, we will pass over; the rest will be taken, emptied, and re-filled with the families of this rebellion. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, my lady,” he replied. Beside him stood a wolf—silent and sulking—his foot set in a hurried splint.

  Sadora paused. “I am glad to see, good Rorof, that you are recovering from yesterday’s blow.”

  From deep in his belly, Rorof growled, each tooth visible to the new leader of the head city.

  Sadora closed her eyes sadly. “Our troops will supervise the evacuation. You will find camps on the north and west sides of the city, though I hope that many choose to stay and live in peace with the other races since one way or another, this will become their new way of life.”

  The captain replied merely by bowing. Then he turned down the hill to give orders to the defeated forces.

  Pietre watched as Sadora stood on the hill for several minutes listening to the bugles wailing and the messengers shouting as they ran past houses. Then she struck the spear shaft to the earth, whistling shrilly, and the rebel troops streamed through the crowds at the base of the hill to supervise the evacuation. “Fight only if necessary. Spare as many as possible,” she called. Under her breath, Pietre heard her mutter, “There will be enough unrest and violence as it is; we’ve no need to aggravate it.”

  Pietre walked slowly toward the city below. In his pocket he could feel something heavy. He hadn’t yet dared to reach in and touch it, but as the long form of Wittendon came into view he felt its weight more keenly.

  Sadora stood at the northwestern gate and waited for he who was no longer a prince or a king. Inside the palace walls she could hear her troops streaming through the castle—hunting down nobles who tried to hide or resist. Humans were cheering and marching and joining her troops, some of the Veranderen were fighting or running or screaming like children in tantrums. The wolves and the dogs were uncomfortably silent. To the north, a steady stream of Veranderen and wolves had begun leaving the city—heavy bags tied to their backs, children at their sides crying and asking questions. It’s hard to feel like the good ones, Sadora thought, trying to remind herself how much worse it could have been, trying to remind herself she had given them a choice.

  Wittendon met her at the gates without looking her in the eyes. Together they walked into his mother’s garden. Much of it had been trampled. Sadora saw Wittendon’s hair—now tipped in white—rise up in anger. He raised his hand to pull the earth up and create a gate around the garden, but nothing happened. Again Wittendon raised his arm, this time murmuring an incantation as well. Still not so much as a cloud of dust stirred from the earth.

  “Oh dear,” Zinnegael said, coming up behind them. “This will never do. Especially not when this garden was formed by a human and shifter working side by side.” Quietly she stood beside them, focused and careful. Slowly the vines from the morning glory began to wind around the thorny branches of rose bushes. Both plants climbed steadily to the height of a man, forming a fence. In front of this sprang a dozen or more Dewberry bushes—their thorns nearly as sharp as the humans’ swords.

  When she was done, she stepped forward toward a branch of the sterling rose and plucked two blooms.

  “How is it possible,” Wittendon asked, “when magic has escaped the rest of us?”

  “It has not escaped you,” she said, handing him a flower. “Though I suspect that you will now feel the strength of your magic change with the moon; and nearly non-existent in the sun. You will find many things now driven by the course and strength of the moon and sun.” She handed the other flower to Sadora. “But I am not a shifter—my insides are wound in unusual lines that allow unusual things. Why do you think your father wished the half-breeds extinct?”

  The sun hung high in the sky—bright as a coin. They walked through an open courtyard, where several of the troops, done with the supervision of their quarters had come to receive further orders. Sadora sent several after food and then she, Wittendon, and Zinnegael stood alone and silent.

  “Well then,” Zinnegael said after several quiet minutes. “I need to see what mischief the cats have found. They haven’t been alone in a city for centuries—the local fish market will never be the same.”

  When she was gone, Wittendon turned to Sadora, casting the flower Zinnegael had given him to the ground. “Did you kill my father?” Wittendon asked abruptly, still without looking at her.

  “No,” she replied. “Though he no longer has power and has fled to the woods as he caused many to do before him.”

  “But he lives?”

  “Yes,” she said, “he lives.” Sadora paused, taking a deep breath, “But Wittendon…” She stepped nearer to the once king.

  Wittendon stepped away. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Sarak is gone.”

  “I know,” Sadora replied. “I felt it the moment it happened. You did what you had to do. As did he. We all did.”

  They paused again before Sadora continued, “And Kaxon,” she said slowly, “Kaxon did more than he had to do.”

  “Kaxon?” he said, looking to her at last.

  “Yes,” she said, handing Wittendon he
r rose. “He came back, but now he is gone as well.”

  “You know this?” Wittendon asked.

  “Yes,” she replied. “He gave himself up to save me.”

  Wittendon stood without speaking for so many minutes that Sadora turned to leave him with his grief.

  “I didn’t feel it, in case you were wondering,” Wittendon said abruptly. “We weren’t one. Hardly wound together as twins.”

  Sadora wanted to look down, but forced herself to gaze into his face.

  “But I wondered if he would come back,” he said. “Leaving didn’t seem like something he would do.”

  At the center of the head city a plume of dark smoke rose up. Sadora knew the purpose of the great fire. Bodies could not be left to rot in the streets. “Come,” she said. “Let us go inside while others handle this business.”

  “No,” he said, looking to the hill. A muscular human carried a shifter still in wolken form. All those who had died in that form remained so. “No,” Wittendon whispered, running toward the body.

  “Give him to me,” he said to the human.

  The man turned to Wittendon, but did not immediately obey. Damiott came down the hill and gestured to the peasant. “G-go on,” he said.

  Turning back to Wittendon, the man held out the body like it was a rag. “My lord,” the human said, his voice turning down on the word ‘lord’ like a frown.

  Wittendon carried his brother’s body to the garden. “Where is the witch?” he said, the pitch of his voice rising. “Where is the bedeviled sorceress when I need her?” He placed the body among his mother’s favorite flowers and walked to the edge of the garden like he expected Zinnegael to appear there, then kicked his foot into one of the old rose bushes, blood beading on his humanish skin like dew.

  “Where is she,” Wittendon shouted at Sadora. “I cannot now do this without her.”

  Sadora looked at him, slow tears running down her cheeks. “Yes,” Sadora said, finding an old shovel in the corner of the gardens. “Yes, you can.”

  For a minute Wittendon just held the shovel, tears streaming down his chin and onto his clothes. Then with one powerful movement, he stuck the shovel into the ground and began to move the dirt. Sadora went through the garden gathering sweet herbs, which she laid upon the body. The sun sat high and Wittendon dripped with sweat. After several hours, the two of them lifted Kaxon into the earth and then both of them—Wittendon with the shovel and Sadora with her hands—covered Kaxon’s body with dirt. Sadora reached into her hair, pulling the last dark lily from it. Gently she placed it on the mound of dirt. “Come,” she said.

  Wittendon fingered the soft petals of the lily. “He always did like you,” Wittendon said.

  “He did not do it for me,” she replied. “He did it for you.” Sadora handed him the sterling rose he had dropped earlier.

  Wittendon looked into Sadora’s coppery eyes, then reached out and placed the pale rose behind her ear, letting his fingers trail down the side of her cheek.

  Pietre burst through the gate, startling them. “Have you done it?” he asked, breathless.

  Sadora looked to him in surprise. “Done what, brave child?”

  “Have you brought them? Come and see.” The boy ran through the halls of the palace into the street to the side. “Look,” he shouted. “They come.” Jumping on Humphrey’s back, the two of them raced to the thin figures coming across the square accompanied like royalty by a band of stout, short hounds.

  Pietre sprang from Humphrey and ran to them. His father caught him in his arms as though he was a small child. His mother touched his hair, his eyes, his cheeks. She moved her hand to the bloodied spot where no ear was and for one long minute she closed her eyes. Humphrey waited to the side, respectful, until Carina broke free from her family and knelt beside him, stroking his muzzle as though it was silk. “It seems, good creature, that you have carried on the work of your mother after all.” With a twinkle in her eye, she removed her hand and said, “And I hear you carry on her blood line as well.”

  Humphrey pressed his body against Carina, touching her hands with his cool nose as though in thanks. At once the group was caught up by part of the crowd and carried to the great hall. The new sun hung low and into the room ran humans, dogs, green-robed shifters, and a few shy wolves. Several men at the end of the procession carried a fat pig, roasted with tubers and greens that lay in heaps on the platter around it. “It is finished, my lady,” one of the captains said. “There is much work still to be done, but I think it can wait until morning.”

  Throughout the city and the great hall, torches were lit. One of the Septugant began to play a long metal flute and before long dancing began.

  Sadora wanted to enjoy the music, the dancing, the food, but it reminded her only of Sarak, of graves, of loss. Before long, Wittendon came to her and took her hand. The two of them exited the hall, wandering along the empty corridors of the palace. Shortly, they heard footsteps behind them. Wittendon turned with his blade outstretched, but in front of him stood only the boy with the silent dog.

  Humphrey walked in front of them as if to lead the way. Pietre stepped in behind him. Wittendon looked away from the scab at the side of the child’s head and sheathed his weapon. The four walked quietly for a very long time, feeling far away from the feast that carried into the streets—songs filling the air, stomping, laughing.

  “Zinnegael has suggested a contract,” Sadora said at length. “To protect the dogs.”

  “What of the cats?” Pietre asked.

  “The cats she is less concerned for. The large cats will always be free and powerful. The small ones feisty, crafty, and fast. No, she worries for the dogs.”

  Humphrey let out an indignant sniff. Pietre stuck his hands deep into his pockets, then stopped. “The stone,” Pietre said. “I have it—your stone.”

  Sadora stopped to look at him. “You placed it and then you took it again?”

  “No,” Pietre said. “I placed it and then when I awoke, it was with me again. Here,” he said, holding it out to Wittendon.

  “It is not mine,” Wittendon said, “and never was. I think you are meant to keep it; and to keep it safe. At any rate I think it best kept out of my hands.” Wittendon looked at the stump where the child’s ear had been. “I am very sorry,” he said. “Have they not found the ear? Zinnegael could heal it in a breath.”

  “No, my lord,” Pietre said.

  “Do not call me that,” Wittendon responded.

  Pietre ignored him and continued, “Zinnegael sent the cats to look for it, but they found nothing. She thought it odd. She said usually the cats can find a needle in a haystack.”

  “Well,” Wittendon said. “Ears are different than needles. Maybe one of the felines ate it.”

  “Hardly,” a voice from the shadows said.

  All four stopped. From the darkness stepped Ellza and her sister Savah.

  “You speak,” Wittendon gasped.

  “But of course,” Ellza responded. “We are not of the four races. We are not bound by the laws of the stone.”

  “Or any except our own,” Savah added.

  Humphrey growled.

  “However,” Ellza continued. “We have lived too long in the shadows to easily jump into the sun and we prefer it thus. We will remain silent; we find much wisdom in this. Together the two chanted,

  Others do not appreciate

  that which they do not understand.

  We will sit in quiet

  keeping the riddles of this land.

  Pietre mumbled, “And we’re back to rhyme.” Wittendon and Humphrey both smiled and when Pietre looked up, the cats were gone.

  Outside, the sun sank beneath the horizon, stars twinkled, and a small, bright moon glowed. They watched through a tall arching window.

  “Thank goodness it is not blackness,” Wittendon said and each of them laughed nervously. Far in the distance they could hear the wails and mourning songs of the evacuated Veranderen as the noise carried through the n
ight air. Sadora chewed her lip and Wittendon put a gentle hand at the small of her back.

  At once, a ruckus rose up from the already rowdy celebration—whoops and barks and cheers rang out. Quick short steps ran toward the group. Wittendon again unsheathed his sword, but it was only Carina who burst into the hallway, followed by Markhi and Borl. “She has birthed,” Carina called to them, bending down to hug Humphrey. “Seven strong pups!”

  Pietre looked to Humphrey whose face glowed as bright as the waning moon. “Freeborn,” Pietre said. “Quarter-breed pups and allowed to roam as they were meant to do.” Markhi bowed in respect and Sadora kissed Humphrey’s head as Wittendon sheathed his sword and smiled. Outside, a group of dogs raised their speechless voices to the moon and howled their congratulations—not hondsong, but beautiful still.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Character Names (in order of appearance):

  Zinnegael (Zin-ə-gayl. The ‘ae’ form a long ‘A’ sound as it male)

  Savah (Sah-vah)

  Pietre (Pee-ay-tray)

  Crespin (Kres-pin)

  Grender (Gren-dər)

  Wittendon (Wit-tən-don)

  Kaxon (Kax-on)

  Wolrijk (Wohl-rike. The ij form a long ‘I’ sound as in kite)

  Hannah (Ha-nah)

  Carina (Car-ee-nah)

  Jager (Jay-gher)

  Humphrey (Hum-free)

  Sarak (Sa-rək)

  Sadora (Sah-doh-rah)