The Hawk And His Boy (20 page)

“Within families,” said Levoreth, “resemblances have been known to happen. Perhaps it did not occur to you, but that’s why you look, sound, and behave like your father—a more pigheaded man I do not recall.”

“My dear,” said her aunt.

“It came to me,” said the duke stubbornly, “quite clearly. While I was drinking my wine.”

“Precisely,” said Levoreth.

The advent of an enormous trifle, borne by several staggering servants, prevented the conversation from going any further. A collective, drawn-out sigh was heard from the other members of the high table who had been attending the exchange the duke and his niece. Old biddy Clummian, who was standing on her seat down at the second table, snorted in disappointment.

Levoreth looked out across the hall. Ierlings, Hydres smelling of sheep, flaxen-haired Meyrtts and their Wendish cousins. Mallets, Feorlins, Farlins, Ealu Fremman and his six sons. Munucs—pious to a fault, every one of them—solemn Murnans, old biddy Clummian who knew every bit of gossip there was to be had in Andolan and was never loath to pass it along. Sceohs, fat Wynn the cobbler, merry Elpendbans, and the dour Hyrian family. They were all crowded elbow to elbow, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, arguing, red-faced and cheery in the candlelight.

Dolan.

Her people—if something like that could be said. Her heart turned over in her chest. They were a stubborn lot, set in their ways and determined not to see beyond the ends of their noses. But that same quality was also what kept Dolan strong and rooted in the Mearh Dun, right on the edge of the cold north and bounded by the dangerous beauty of the Mountains of Morn.

Levoreth sat on the windowsill of her room later that night and brushed out her hair. Lights shone in the village clustered around the castle. She could smell wood smoke in the air. Two years away. Perhaps she was losing her touch. Falling asleep all the time and dreaming about the past. Dozing off during the day. Getting into ridiculous arguments with the duke in front of half the town. How mortifying! She smiled.

Dreaming about the future
, said the voice within her mind. She frowned at that, but then sat for a long time, staring out into the night. Her daydream down by the Ciele. The young girl standing on a windswept plain. Black hair flowing. Gray eyes emptied of everything except sorrow. She looks like me, Levoreth thought, startled.

Precisely.

Like I looked six hundred years ago, when Dolan came riding up the Ciele and I ignored him until he could only sit on his horse, foolish and red-faced, staring like a boy at his first midwinter feast. Maybe I was foolish as well, lingering for thirty years and watching him age before my eyes. But I bound him to this land, another bulwark against the Dark. That was no violation of who he was, for he had already grown to love this place before I strengthened his resolve. I gave him three sons to carry on and sink their roots deep into the Mearh Dun. A fair trade by anyone’s lights. It cannot be said I did wrong there. I loved him.

But the girl—I was never that sad when I was her age. How long ago was that? I can’t remember. Perhaps I never was young. I thought it was all a lark, a wonderful adventure unfolding. I never realized. Perhaps that’s what went wrong. Not badly wrong—but enough. Not realizing. I put down roots of my own without knowing it. The better part of six hundred years spent returning to these hills and inventing yet another Levoreth to weave through the descending generations of the Callas family. That was a mistake, she thought tiredly. Tormay is bigger than just the duchy of Dolan. I have been remiss and must set about fixing that. There is still time. But Min loved these hills. And I never thought I’d fall in love. I never thought I’d love this family so—my children and their children’s children continuing on and on. At any rate, there’s been no hint of the Dark for so long, besides the news the wolves brought me of the sceadu in the mountains. And even that creature proved to be long gone. It might not even have been a sceadu.

Yes, but have you been hunting these past years?

She lay back on her bed and promptly fell asleep, without even blowing out the candle. The wind wandered in through her window and, after investigating the hanging drapes of her bed, snuffed the candle out. It blew back outside into the night sky and headed south, winging its way toward Hearne, further to the Vornish lands and the deserts of Harth beyond.

For the first time in a long while, Levoreth did not dream.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AN ENJOYABLE CRISIS

“You’ve got that look on your face again.”

“I do? What look?”

Owain Gawinn tried to rearrange his features into a pleasant smile but could not. He was not fond of smiling. His wife, Sibb, was sitting by him, knitting a scarf from red wool. The needles clacked in her hands.

“There,” said his wife. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“I know that face, Owain,” she said. “That’s the same look you got the day you told me you were leading a troop to Vomaro to hunt for Devnes Elloran. Intent, inscrutable, as solemn as an owl, but there! With a bit of glee glinting in your eyes.”

“I do not feel glee, as you put it,” he said, “due to the distress of others, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying. All I mean is you enjoy crises.” Sibb softened her words with a smile. “There’s nothing more you love than buckling on your sword and riding out the gates with your soldiers behind you.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted. “But if I’m out in the field, cold and tired and bruised, there’s nothing I love more than riding home to you.”

“Devnes Elloran!”

A strand of wool snapped in Sibb’s fingers. She exclaimed in annoyance.

“That girl was a hussy if I ever saw one,” she said. “She got what she had coming to her!”

“Sibb, Sibb—I wouldn’t wish ogres on anyone. At any rate, the Farrow lad handily beat us there.” Owain shook his head in wonder. “I still marvel at the story after all these years. He must’ve been the bravest fool in the land to have done what he did. Even with a column of men, I’d be wary of venturing into an ogre’s lair.”

“So what are you thinking of doing now?”

“Doing now?”

“Don’t try that on me, Owain. I know when you’ve got something brewing in your head.”

He smiled and kissed her, but then his face became serious.

“I’ve been wondering about our little foundling. To my knowledge, she’s the only survivor of whatever’s been murdering its way across Tormay.”

“Murdering its way—what? There’ve been others?”

“I didn’t want to trouble you, my dear,” said her husband. “But there have been other incidents reported. Twice in Vo and three times in Vomaro. Mostly isolated farms. The news of them has been trickling in over the last few weeks. The same signs, the same methods of killing. Murder for no reason at all. No reason, at least, I can see.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Do?” He picked up a ball of wool and turned it over and over in his hands. “I’m not sure yet. It doesn’t affect Hearne, but the regency does have obligations. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

She touched his hand.

“No, you can’t. No Gawinn would.”

He smiled.

She said something else, but it was lost in the sudden shrieks and laughter that invaded the room as their four children burst through the door. Loy was scrambling about on all fours, mooing like a cow and chasing them about.

“Help, Father! Help!”

“My duties don’t extend to defending the city against cows,” said their father, laughing. But his smile faded when he looked up, for the girl was standing in the doorway. Her face was grave. Her eyes stared at the other children, but Owain had the distinct impression that she did not see them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

RONAN MEETS HIS MATCH

Some hot ale would do him good.

Ronan paused outside the Goose and Gold and considered. Even though night was approaching, the day still had time enough in it to accomplish what he had to do. Cypmann Galnes would be at his warehouse for at least another three hours. Plenty of time.

Any other inn would have been more to his liking, as the Goose and Gold was a dirty, run-down place, but he was chilled to the bone and the inn was conveniently on the way. A wave of warmth and noise met him, lit by lamplight and the roar of a fire burning on the hearth.

The boisterous chatter lulled as he walked through the door, and then it surged back. He recognized many of the people in the room. Guild members, mostly. Eyes slid toward him and then flicked away. Curiosity on some faces. Fear on others. He was used to it all. He sat down at the bar.

“Mulled ale,” he said.

He drank and savored the heat flowing down his throat. He propped his elbows on the bar and shut his eyes. Oats and honey. A memory surfaced in his mind of his mother stirring porridge over a fire. The sun was not up yet and he remembered there had been a sound of horses nickering to someone nearby. Likely his father, bringing them something to whet their appetite before they ventured out onto the moor to crop the grasses. Oats as well, probably. His mother had turned to him and smiled, seeing him wake, and she had spooned honey into the porridge. Ronan took another sip of ale. The taste was like the memory of the taste. Porridge and honey. Oats and honey.

Someone slid onto the stool next to him.

“Go away,” he said.

The Juggler tried to smile. He took a pull at his mug of ale and smacked his lips.

“Go away,” repeated Ronan, not bothering to look at him.

“I was wondering,” said the Juggler, “when I’d be compensated for the loss of my boy.” Here, the Juggler almost managed to look sad but ruined the effect by rubbing his hands together.

“Your boy?” Ronan scowled at the fat man.

“Innkeeper, another ale! Ahh, that’s more like it!” The Juggler took a gulp of his freshly filled mug. “We were family. Almost like father and son, we were. It pains me to have lost him. It pains me, lemme tell you! To have lost my son! Are you a family sort? I didn’t think so. I can tell with most folks—I have a knack for it. You can’t imagine the sorrow a father experiences when his son goes missing. A lamb from the fold! Ahh—someone’s drunk my ale. Wuzzit you?”

“Innkeeper!” Ronan barked. “Get this man more ale!”

Another mug of ale appeared as if by magic. The Juggler blinked at it.

“Have a drink on me,” said Ronan. “Drink and shut up. I don’t want to hear another word.”

The Juggler drank. He wiped his mouth.

“But where’s my money?” he said. “Where’s my—”

Ronan grabbed him by the collar and threw him headfirst into a nearby table. Plates and food went flying. The table collapsed in a tangle of legs and curses and spilled ale. The Knife had been moving so fast when he threw the fat man that it was doubtful anyone saw what he did, other than the innkeeper, who had been wiping the counter nearby. Ronan sat back down and took a drink of ale. Behind him, a joyous roar went up and the place descended into chaos.

A pitcher whizzed by Ronan’s head and shattered against the wall behind the counter. He turned to survey the room. There was no logic to the brawl other than a willingness on most participants’ part to fight whoever came within reach. The Juggler’s face surfaced briefly in one spot, long enough for someone to break a plate over his head.

“No blades!” bawled the innkeeper.

A man staggered up against Ronan. The man took a swing at the Knife and then stepped back, aghast.

“Sorry,” said the man. “Didn’t recognize you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Ronan. He kicked the man’s feet out from under him and sent him flying face-first into the thick of the fight. He sighed and mopped at his shirt. The man had spilled his ale.

“Can’t a man drink in peace?” he said, glaring at the innkeeper.

The innkeeper scowled back at him.

Ronan closed the door of the Goose and Gold behind him. The street was quiet after the clamor inside the inn. It was raining. A lamp shone above the door of a pawnshop across the way, but the street was dark other than that. Time to visit the Galnes manor in Highneck Rise. He stepped out into the rain.

“Hey, mister.”

The voice came from somewhere on his left. There, in the alley running back alongside the Goose and Gold. He saw some movement. Water streamed down from the eaves.

“Hey, mister.”

He kept walking. He had a few hours before Cypmann Galnes would leave his warehouse down at the docks. A few hours to break into the Galnes manor. Time enough to find the missing ring.

“He’s still alive, ain’t he?”

That stopped him.

It was a young child’s voice. High and taut with malice. There, just within the alley, he saw a face. A white blur of a face. He wiped the rain from his eyes.

“I saw him. You didn’t kill him, cully.”

“Kill who?” But he knew who the child was talking about.

Nothing personal, boy. We all have our jobs to do.