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Even The Stones

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by Marie Jakober

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Even the Stones A Novel by Marie Jakober Chapter 1 It was a night of full moon and wolves. They came out of the high reaches of Dohann where, although it was summer, the day’s rain had fallen laced with snow. They came black and silver in the cold light, circling into the valleys where hardy peasants slept uneasy, and small things did not sleep at all. From pinnacle to high pinnacle they signalled their packs, and the cries reached even into the heart of Aralev, a fierce and melancholy howling that rose and fell with the wind. But in the royal greathouse, secure within the stout wooden walls of the city, the prince of Dravia slept well. He lay on his bed naked, his light blanket gradually shoved away until it was only a tangle around his feet. He slept as he always did, with the grace of a boy, and the absolute confidence of a man who would be king. The woman who was called his wife did not sleep, but waited. It would come, as it had the first time. The pain, and then the quick spill of blood. The erasing of a life in the same manner as it had been made—without words, by darkness and by violence. She sat on the floor not far from the window. She was afraid, but she did not have much consciousness of fear; it was too old, too blunt from use. The crying of the wolves was so close they might have been just outside, in the broad square where the traders gathered, where next week the great caravan from Sardas would camp. You may choose a gift, the prince had promised her, one gift, anything you wish, no matter how costly. I will buy it for you. He was troubled now by her hollow eyes, by her thin body which would set neither flesh nor seed. Give me a fast horse, Prince Held, and a road without a gate until I come to Belengar. Give me that, or speak no more of gifts. A sharp cramp convulsed her, but she made no sound. Sweat ran down her armpits and spilled over her face. A large drop coursed suddenly into the crevice of her lips, and she licked it, tasting salt. She glanced hungrily at the blanket the prince had cast aside, but she made no move to take it. She watched him for a time, reassured by his deep, steady breathing. He was, she supposed, quite beautiful. Other women certainly thought so. He was a splendid bear of a man with a great mass of red hair, a powerful voice which had a remarkable talent for song—and yes, that extraordinary confidence, that sense of himself as a king among men, moving through the world as though he owned it. His weapons were laid carefully on the wooden table beside his bed: sword, shield, and bow in easy reach because he could not imagine being anywhere without them. And he slept peacefully, as if he did not know that the woman who shared his chamber had those same weapons in the same easy reach, and more cause to use them than any man would ever have. What did it feel like, she wondered, to be so sure, not merely of one’s own rank and power, but of its absolute inviolability? To have that certainty as a birthright? She could not imagine it. What is it you believe of me, Held of Dravia? Do you think I am too weak to lift your sword? Or too weak to bring it down? I have already killed two of your children, and you sleep there like a boy... She bent over the sharp pain in her belly, clasping her knees. She did not know when the wolf came. She looked up and it was simply there, moving slowly across the room in a spill of moonlight as brilliant as day, its body rippling with strength, its face and its forepaws covered with blood. She went rigid with terror. Only Held’s presence kept her from screaming—his presence, and the silence she had taught herself in the face of almost any peril. Then, very deliberately, she closed her eyes. It was the potion she had taken; it had to be. The city was encased in walls, the palace sturdy and well guarded, the window shut tight against the mountain wind. No wolf could pass unchallenged through the heart of Aralev, to the very bedchamber of the prince. It was only the potion, dear goddess, and she had almost cried out, she had almost wakened him...! She heard a soft sound, the sound Held’s dogs made when they collapsed on the stone floor in the hall. She looked up. The wolf was still there. It had settled in the centre of the room and was licking the blood from its feet. Its fur was a smoky gray, tipped with black; its body was lean and beautiful. Was it real, then? She could not tell, and now it did not seem to matter. The animal clearly meant her no harm. It only wanted to rest, and to rid itself of those bright stains which never diminished, no matter how methodically it licked them, over and over. Once it looked directly at her, as if to question her, to ask her perhaps what it meant, why there was no end to all this blood. She felt sorry for it. Had she been less weary she might have walked over to it, and knelt to stroke its smooth back. Surely it was a wolf from Kamilan, from her own mountains; surely that was why it had come? A great lassitude closed over her, dissolving the boundaries of time and identity. From its depths she seemed to share the creature’s thoughts. ­— Are you a messenger from Jana, Wolf? Is that why you’re here? — I am from Jana as all things are. No more than that, and no less. — She did not send you here? — I’ve come on my own errand. If it’s your errand also, that will be for you to judge. When the time comes. When you’re a queen again. — You’ve come to fetch me, then? You’ll take me home? — No. You must make your own way. — I’m surrounded by enemies. — There are many who will help you. You need only to seek them out. — Even in Dravia, Wolf? — Even in Dravia. Don’t judge the land by its lords. — Who are you? There was no answer, and after a moment the woman questioned again: — What are you? The wolf got to its feet, as bloodied as before. — I’ve searched long for one such as you, Marwen of Kamilan. We will meet again. It moved without a sound towards the window and leapt into the night. Some time later the woman rose, and carried from her chamber a bundle of darkly stained rags, and put them into the hands of a gnarled slave, along with three bright coins. The moon was almost set. CONTINUED Marie Jakober

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