Elienad sits, chews on the fur around one paw like it itches. His gaze rests on the ground.
Toran nods, unsure about whether he should have spoken. The king nods too, once, with a slight smile.
"Walk with me,” the king says.
The two men walk together down one of the labyrinthine hallways with the wolf trotting close behind.
"It is time to send him away,” the king's chamberlain says softly. He is old and always chilled; he sits close to the fire, rubbing his knuckles as though he is washing his hands over and over again. “Or fight him. He'd make a good fighter."
"Elienad hasn't killed anyone,” the king says. “And he's useful. You can't deny that."
The chamberlain served the king's father and used to give the king certain looks when he was being a particularly obstinate child. The chamberlain gives him one of those looks now.
The king is no longer a child. He pours himself more wine and waits.
"Only commoners have been killed, yet,” the chamberlain finally says with an exasperated sigh. “Were a noble to die and it to come to light just what it is you've been keeping—"
The king takes a long drink from his cup.
The old man looks at the fire. “You should never have kept him for so long. It has only become harder to part with him."
"Yes,” the king said softly. “He is nearly grown."
"And those tutors. I have always said it was too great a risk. And for what? So he can write down the things he overhears?"
"A well-informed spy is a better spy. He understands what to listen for. Who to follow.” The king rubs his mouth. He's tired. He wishes his chamberlain would leave.
” The story you told me, years back, when you brought him here. Tell me again that it was the truth. That you didn't know what he was when you bought him. That you bought him."
The king is silent.
He does not know that his wolf lies on the cold stone outside of the door, letting the chill seep up into his heart.
The boy's room is hidden behind curtains and a bookcase that shifts to one side. Only a very few people know how to find it. Inside the room is a carved bed, a boy's bed, and now Elienad has to bend his knees to fit his legs inside it. There are no windows and no candles, but his liquid eyes see as well here as they do beneath the table or in the labyrinth of the castle.
When the king comes in, he opens the bookshelf and lets light flood the little room. “What did you learn?” he asks.
"The pretty woman with the curls. Her name starts with an A, I think, and she likes to wear purple. She wants to poison her husband.” As he speaks, the boy carves a small block of wood. He has skill; the king can make out the beginning of a miniature crest.
"Who taught you how to do that?” the king demands, pointing to the knife.
Elienad shrugs slender shoulders. “No one."
Which seems unlikely, but there is no reason for that to bother the king. Yet it does. The boy has recently turned thirteen and when the king thinks back on that age, he remembers telling many lies. Elienad's jaw looks firmer than it did a year ago, his soft limbs turning into the lean, hard arms of an adult. Soon the king will know even less about what he does.
"Does she mean to do it?” he asks, “or is it just talk?"
"Amadine,” the boy says. “I remember her name now. She's bought powder and honey to hide the taste. She says it will seem like he's getting sick. Her friends are very proud of her. They say they are too frightened to kill their own husbands."
The boy looks up at him, hesitating, and the king thinks that if Elienad were a human boy, it would be abominable to raise him as a spy with no companions save drunk scholars and the king himself.
"Go on,” the king says. “You have something else to tell me?"
The boy tilts his head to one side. His hair has gotten long. “Who was my mother?"
"I don't know,” says the king, shaking his head. The boy asked for this story over and over again when he was very young, but he hasn't asked in a long time. “I've told you how you were brought to me by hunters and I bought you from them."
"Because I licked your hand,” the boy said. “I was the last of a litter. The other pups died of exposure."
The king nods slowly; there is something new in the boy's voice, something calculating.
"That's not a true story,” he says.
The king thinks he should be angry, but what he feels is panic. “What do you mean?"
The boy is very calm, very still. “I could hear it in your voice. It isn't a true story, but I can't tell which parts are false."
"You will not question me,” the king commands, standing. “I will not be questioned.” He thinks of Elienad, lying beneath tables, listening to the inflections of lies. Watching the hesitations, the gestures, the tensed muscles. Learning a language the king was unaware he even spoke.
"Did my brothers and sisters go to the fights?” the boy asks and his voice hitches a little. He drops the wood and the knife on the bed and stands. “Was it you who found me? Maybe you shot my mother? Please just tell me."
The king is too afraid to answer, afraid some movement will give him away. He stalks from the room. When he looks back, Elienad has not followed him.
"I won't be mad,” the boy says softly as the door shuts.
The king's heart is beating so loudly that he thinks everyone in the hall must hear it. To him, the sound is the dull thudding of something chasing him, something that speeds the faster he runs from it.
Late that night, the boy leaves his room and pads barefoot to the great hall where the throne is. He sits on the velvet and runs his hands over the carved wood. He imagines himself no longer cowering under a table. He imagines looking every one of the courtiers in the eye.
Every evening the knights ride out into the town and hunt. They patrol the streets until dawn and come back empty-handed.
One night as the courtiers spin in a complicated dance that looks like cogs in a delicate machine, Toran walks into court, his armor wet and red. At the sight of the blood, ladies shriek and the wheels of spinning dancers come apart.
The king is flushed with exertion. “How dare you?” he demands, but Toran seems to ignore him, sinking down on one knee.
"The monster attacked me,” the knight says, his head still bowed. “We fought and I managed to slice off one of its paws."
He opens a stained woven bag, but inside is no gory paw. Instead there is a slim hand with long, delicate fingers, pale save for the hacked flesh and severed bone at one end. And one finger is circled with a fat ruby ring.
There are more screams. Elienad smells blood and fear and the commingling of those scents wakes something coiled inside of him.
Toran drops the bag, rises, backs away. “Your majesty,” he stammers.
Elienad pads closer. Courtiers shrink from him.
"This hand came from a wolf?” the king asks, still hoping that somehow it has not come to this.
One of Toran's party, all of whom idle near the doorway, not bold enough to interrupt the king, steps forward. “It was. We all saw it. That thing killed Pyter."
"The rumors are all true! The creatures walk among us!” Lady Mironov says, before swooning to the floor. She is practiced at swooning and is caught easily by her husband and his brother.
"It is gravely wounded,” says the king. “It will be tracked and destroyed.” He hopes it will be killed before it can be interrogated. He does not want to hear the things of which the creature might speak. His kingdom must have the illusion of safety, even at the cost of truth.
He does not remember the ring or the woman who wore it, but Elienad does. He recognizes the red stone and remembers the hand he licked clean under the table.
Elienad finds her by smell, behind Lord Borodin's stables. The horses shift and whinny in their pens as he passes. Her blood has soaked the icy ground around her and dotted the snow with bright red holes, like someone scattered poisonous berries. She is wrapped in a horse blanket, stiff with gore. Her hair is tangled with dirt and twigs.
She has never seen him with a human face, but she knows him immediately. Her pale mouth curves into a smile. “I didn't know they let you out of the palace,” she says. She is very beautiful, even dying.
"They don't,” he says and knees beside her. “Give me your arm."
He ties his sash around it as tightly as he can and the bleeding ebbs. It is probably too late, but he does it anyway.
"It is a hunger never ending, to be what we are. It gnaws at my stomach.” Her eyes look strange, her pupils blown wide and black.
"Where did you come from?” he asks her. He doesn't want to talk about the hunger, not with the smell of her blood making him dizzy.
"From the forests,” she says. “They caught my son. I thought it would be easy to find him. I had never even seen a city."
He can't help hoping. “Like me. They brought me—"
She sees his face and laughs. It is a thin rattling sound. “He's dead. And you never came from any forest."
"What do you mean?” he asks. He has brought a sack with men's clothes. They are too loose for her in some places and too tight in others, but they are warm and dry.
She struggles to get the shirt over her head. Her shoulders are shaking with cold. “You were born here, in this city. Didn't you know?"
"I don't understand.” Part of him wishes she would stop talking because he feels as he does when he's about to shift, like he's drowning. The rest of him only wishes she would speak faster.
"A mirror would tell you more than I could.” Her sly look bothers him, but he still doesn't know what she means.
He shakes off the questions. “We have to get you inside. Somewhere warm."
"No. I can care for myself.” Her hand slides under her body. She holds out a knife. Toran's knife. “I want you to take this and put it into the chest of the king."
