The Stag and the Wolf

FALL TERM - DAY 20 

Marblebrook had warned me that the deal I'd struck with Orendell likely came with a few clauses. I can do magic, yes. That was a given. But, today I felt his influence crop up again. The wolf in my mind's eye is always there, and today he showed his face. 

Marblebrook said the wolf isn't Orendell. I believe her for two reasons. First, because she's seen how deals with deities like him tend to go, despite how rare they are. And second, because she said the wolf wasn't Orendell, and now I know with absolute certainty that he is not. 

It had happened a few months ago- the Night of the Crimson Haze. It's something to do with the three moons during the summer solstice– the sky turns red and the deities of the broken pantheons are able to cross into this realm for a few short hours. Or at least that was the version of it I grew up with. It was the kind of thing that only ever happened every half-century or so. Rare enough to be storied, but frequent enough most vampires had lived through a few of them already.

That night, the Stag's Court was aflutter. Lord Hart had donned a new crown of interlocking antlers adorned with gold leaf for the occasion. Ianthe wore a new circlet with blood red garnet stones. 

It was the Crimson Ball - vampires were always throwing balls. Most of them had names, stupid, forgettable names, but this one I remember. It was held in honor of Orzoq - the first vampire. In my mind, Orzoq was more a myth than a real historical figure, but I suppose the same could have been said of Orendell, and he's already proved that's very much not the case. The story I knew went something like this:

Orzoq was an elven king, known first for his beauty, and second for his magic. He, like so many heroes of stories like these, was born with magic, and its gifts came naturally to him. With his magic, his subjects never wanted for anything. His people were wealthy, well-fed, and generally happy. 

Until one day, Orzoq looked into the mirror and noticed the first signs of age taking hold of his features. He tried to return his youth with magic, but it failed. As he continued to try, the more he noticed the start of wrinkles. Then, the first strands of gray gleaming through his silken locks. 

He didn't know then what we know now - that magic has a cost. And for him, it was his youth. (A quick aside - all the stories say that magic has a cost. I've always assumed it was true. Different things for different people but now that I'm at the Midnight Court, training to be a mage, is it true? If it is, no one's mentioned it. What does magic cost a mage? But anyway, back to the story…) 

The more magic Orzoq cast the quicker he aged. He needed his magic for his kingdom, to keep it as it was, perfect. But day after day, the price was wearing on him. Orzoq was vain - we all have our character flaws, and this was his. He didn't want to grow old. He couldn't give up his magic either, so something needed to change. 

One day, while trying to find an answer, Orzoq went out with his hunting party. Amidst the hunt, he locked eyes with a great stag. His bow string had snapped earlier in the day, so he was without his weapon. He gestured to his men, but they didn't see it. But Orzoq refused to let it get away. So, he used a spell to slay the beast. As its blood spilled, Orzoq felt for the first time no more years were taken from him. His sacrifice had been taken from the stag instead. 

So, he made the stag the sign of his kingdom, in honor of its sacrifice, but the sacrifices did not stop there. Orzoq was a vain king. He found many ways to use blood for magic until eventually it made him something no longer mortal. 

You can imagine why Lord Hart loved this story, as magicless as he was. It wasn't something he ever would have said, but it wasn't a secret the old buffoon was waiting for Orzoq to emerge from the Crimson Haze one day and offer him the ability to do magic of his own. With that said, deities didn't just give away magic. I imagine some probably don't even have magic to give, but in stories like these, deals are struck and the thing everyone always wants is the ability to use magic. And in any event, that happens to be what happened to me. I might be a living cliché, but well, it's my life. 

But I hadn't been expecting Orendell. 

So, the Crimson Ball - Ianthe dressed all in red. I wore white coattails and a cravat with a ruby pin. There was dancing because there was always dancing. 

It was a good night because Ianthe asked me to dance with her while it was still early. I preferred not getting blood on my white jacket whenever possible. Bleaching it was a pain. And after a few turns around the dancefloor, inevitably some victim would catch her eye and I could count on having some time to myself for the night. This was what happened. I don't even remember who she disappeared with. The faces really all blur together. 

I was mostly just glad it was the shortest night of the year. The first red light of dawn seeped up over the horizon the earliest it ever would. Lord Hart, feeling sentimental, had grabbed Ianthe and the two of them swayed strangely in the middle of the floor. She had dried blood around one corner of her mouth. Her dress was the same deep maroon that it was hard to distinguish spilt blood from the swirling damask print. 

Lord Hart was still swaying, holding Ianthe's head to his shoulder when he announced to his guests that there would be a surprise. Generally speaking, surprises at The Stag's Court were not good surprises. Lord Hart's strange mood didn't exactly set me at ease either. My ears weren't the only ones that perked up. 

He waved the arm that wasn't keeping Ianthe trapped to his side and in was brought a large red stag. The beast bucked its head, nearly goring an attendant with wide arching antlers. Admittedly, I don't have much of a reference when it comes to deer - I'm a courtier, not a hunter, but this deer looked strong. Its antlers alone were larger than any I'd seen displayed around the Stag's Court - and there were many. I couldn't imagine where Lord Hart had gotten the thing and where he'd kept it.

The other half of the surprise was a nervous-looking priestess brought in to summon Orzoq. She was sweating enough to make her ceremonial makeup drip and stain her face. Had I known what I was in for, I might have paid closer attention to what was happening, what she'd done. But at that moment, at the ball, I'd already written her off as one of the visitors of The Stag's Court who wouldn't survive the night. She didn't. 

Neither did the stag. 

But from the minute Lord Hart had had the stag paraded into the ballroom, that was already a forgone conclusion. I looked on as its throat was slit and could only think, better him than me. 

The summoning failed, all of us looking on had expected it would. Orzoq had always only been a story, a myth. It wouldn't matter how much blood was offered up in his name. He wasn't coming. 

It was an especially short night, and one where I'd gone home alone. I still wonder if any of this would have happened had I decided to stay a little longer, if I'd found someone to leave with. In the end, it's a useless hypothetical. I returned to my flat, threw off my coat and slacks - still blessedly clean - and threw myself down on the couch where I'd ended up falling asleep. 

It's this next part I don't trust - 

Something prodded my shoulder, like a heavy limb, blunt, wet, and cold. 

I opened my eyes to a creature hovering too close to my face. It snorted. Its large nostrils hovered just above my head. 

I scrambled back on the couch. Had it been an animal, it would have been startled by my movement, but it stood stone-still, large black eyes following me in the dark.

It was the stag. It stretched its neck and knocked its antler against the crystals on the overhead chandelier. I didn't doubt it was the same deer, its fur was matted black where the priestess had slashed. 

The stag's mouth twisted in a way its bones shouldn't have allowed. Its teeth turned jagged and its dark eyes pitched forward on me. Whatever it was, it was most definitely no longer a deer. It was something evil. Unnatural. 

"Are you Orzoq?" I asked. There was a quiver in my voice. If I could hear it, so could he. I had to steady myself. I was trying to steady my breath. I couldn't let myself look afraid, even if I was sitting on a couch in my underwear in front of a god. 

The creature laughed - or at least, I think it was a laugh. It was a particularly nonhuman sound. No, he was not Orzoq. As if to shed any confusion of that, the deer thing reared up onto its hind legs and contorted. Bones snapped, hide tore. Its features reshuffled beneath the deer fur becoming something distinctly not-deer. 

It had been so jarring to watch that it took me several minutes to figure out exactly what I was seeing. Part of me had mentally braced for the thing to attack. I didn't flinch - it wasn't because I wasn't afraid. I was terrified. But when it raised its great head again, its face in the red dawn light was now that of a wolf's. A wolf with antlers - those had remained. To call it a wolf even might still be a stretch. Its teeth were jagged, broken bone shards. Its eyes wet and black. Its fur was patchy, clumped. There were still places where it looked like deer hide. Other places where the fur had worn away completely, showing bone. I knew then, this could be no living creature. Not even the undead of Caburh could do a thing like that. 

I'd been afraid to look at it head on. I didn't flinch or scream or anything else that would betray my true feelings but this. The wolf saw it anyway. He came closer to the couch, crowding in around me. I had the briefest thought, if this is how I die, so be it. Better this than by Ianthe's hand. 

The creature's eyes found mine. His fur gently brushed against my face. 

In a flash, I saw my own face through the eyes of the stag, just before the priestess cut its throat. I saw myself around the ballroom in a dozen quick flashes. He showed me how he'd followed me home. 

I was there with the wolf creature, in my flat, for what felt like a long time, locked in a wordless conversation. I don't remember all of it. I can't. It's like how Ianthe twists my memories, but worse - like they aren't there at all. 

I'd only just come around to the thought that maybe this thing didn't want to kill me when the wolf lurched forward and caught my arm in its jaw. I know I screamed, or at least, I tried to. My mouth was open, but no sound would come. 

The pain of it seared. The cracked bone teeth bit deeper. Blood rushed up. 

I saw red. 

And then I startled awake. 

It was a dream but not a dream. Not a dream, because the spot on my bicep where the wolf had bit me was still burning. I saw the wolf again every time I shut my eyes. It was not here, but had never left. 

I assumed I'd meet the wolf in my dreams again, but no. It was during the Crimson Haze and never again. 

The mark still burned into the next day. I wrapped it in bandages and made excuses to avoid Ianthe until I could talk to the one person I trusted enough to show this to openly, my mother Petra. I told her about the dream, the stag-wolf-creature, and showed her the mark it'd left. She listened stone-faced and serious. I wasn't the type to make up stories. 

She told me first, "Tell Ianthe you have the flu. She can't see this." 

"Do you know what it is?" 

If she recognized the mark, her eyes gave nothing away. "I will know," she said instead. 

Within days, she had a name. "Orendell." 

I'd never heard of him. 

"He's Orzoq's brother," my mother explained. "Though, gods are only brothers the way vampires are brothers. They're not. But they're linked anyway. Orzoq and Orendell are bitter rivals. In legend, Orzoq was the first vampire, sharing his blood with a trusted few. And Orendell, the first werewolf, turning men into beasts indiscriminately with each full moon. This happened because of that priestess. She probably knew her trip to summon Orzoq was a one-way ticket and decided to try to take as many vampires out on her way. Though Orendell didn't do that. He stuck around and struck a deal with you." 

"I didn't agree to anything," I said. "He couldn't even speak. How would I have agreed?" 

My mother only shook her head. "Elandria said you wouldn't remember it at first. That mark on your arm is his seal. The sign of your contract. The memories will come back with time." 

She sighed. 

It was only then that it hit me that this was actually something very bad. Lord Hart had tried to summon Orzoq and got Orzoq's nemesis Orendell instead. He'd killed the priestess already, but against all odds, I still went out of my way to make a deal with Orendell. I didn't like my chances. 

No one could know about this. 

And no one would. My mother decided it was time for me to disappear. She had already contacted someone who could arrange my passage out of Caburh. She's said that Elandria knows about this kind of thing. I would be safe there. It was another few days before I learned it meant going away to a school for mages. 

It wasn't until I was already gone that I realized the full extent of what disappearing had meant. It meant not going home. It meant losing contact with my family and everyone I'd known. But also, leaving Ianthe. 

From that point on, I was a dead man walking.