The Shadow at the Gate (17 page)

But she had memories of sceadus.

Leaning forward, she could look all the way down the table, past candelabras and fantastic arrangements of flowers, past the faces of the noble houses of Tormay, eyes shining in the candle and firelight. Servants wavered in and out of the shadows, indistinct except for the platters and flagons they carried in their hands. She caught a glimpse of Nimman Botrell and, bent forward in smiling intimacy toward him, the lean, youthful face of the duke of Mizra. Light shone on his hair, and it looked to her as if Brond Gifernes wore a burnished helm of gold.

She took a bite of soufflé. Even cold as it was, it was delicious. But she pushed the plate back. She had no appetite.

“And whaddaya think,” brayed a voice near her ear. “Whaddaya think of the regent’s hospitality, Lady Levoreth? Do ya—do ya think?”

She did not recognize the lord next to her, but he was young and already unsteady with wine.

“I do think,” she said to the young man, and then decided to stop there.

“Yes, yes,” he said cheerfully. He sloshed some wine on his shirt. “Couldna said it better myself. Best table there’s to be found in all of Tormay. Ain’t any better. Been at the best, and this is the best. Bet my life on it.”

“You are brave,” she said, her head aching even more, “to bet your life on such a thing. After all, you have to be willing to die for something, no?”

At her own words, a wave of homesickness swept over Levoreth for the hills of the Mearh Dun; for the cold waters of the river Ciele wandering down from the Mountains of Morn, flowing west and murmuring of old sea dreams; for the mountains rising up to their snowy peaks; for the forests sleeping under the constant twilight of their branches, letting fall acorn and seed in trust of yet another spring; for the howl of the wolf, the questions of the owl, and the protest of the mouse, the comfortable whicker of the horse, and the dry laugh of the fox; for the earth with its silence and secrets slowly gathered from so many lives drifting down, settling through the grass and roots and soil to find rest.

Levoreth opened her mouth to apologize for the cruelty of her words to the young lordling, for it was not his fault that his life—nay, all the lives of men—was lived in a world of roofs and walls and swift years that did not allow the eye to see beyond. But he had not heard her to begin with. He had already turned, satisfied and smiling, to whoever was sitting on his other side. She heard his words fall and there was less meaning in them for her than the splash of the fountain outside the windows.

No wonder the men of Harlech seldom leave their land, she thought dismally.

The string trio glided into a dreamy air as the dinner ended with more wine. A roar of laughter resounded from the distant head of the table. Botrell was seen weaving about with a bejeweled lady on his arm, her mouth frozen in a smile.

“Lady Devnes Elloran,” said the drunk lordling. “The daughter of the duke of Vomaro and a great beauty.”

Levoreth pushed back her chair and stood up. She wondered where the Farrows were that night. Probably still out on the plain of the Scarpe, with a bonfire burning in the midst of their wagons and someone playing old love songs on a lute. The girl, Giverny, would be sitting by the fire, dreaming her dreams with the earth under her hands and the flame light on her face.

Levoreth walked through the other guests toward the open garden windows. Her dress whispered on the floor—the delicate brown silk her aunt had been so pleased with. She drew the skirt up into her hands and stepped out onto the veranda. Somewhere on the lawn around the nearest fountain, she lost her slippers. The grass felt cool beneath her bare feet. Light spilled from the castle windows and softened the darkness. The garden spread out around her in groomed terraces that stepped down to the castle wall.

Not the wilds of the north. But earth, nonetheless.

The bushes alongside the fountain rustled and then divulged the narrow face of a weasel, black eyes flicking around suspiciously until they settled on Levoreth. In a quiver of delight, the animal scurried across the grass toward her, daring even to pat at the hem of her dress with a tiny paw.

Mistress of Mistresses!
And then the weasel was overcome with excitement and it dashed away, chattering to itself of gods and legends and ancient memories that had been passed down from weasel to weasel. Levoreth smiled.

“There are not such animals in Mizra.”

She had not heard him approach. Light shining from a window behind him rimmed his head with the same gold she had seen inside at the table. She could not see his face, though, as it was in shadow. The happiness of the weasel faded into silence as it disappeared into its burrow under the foliage.

“Is there not? I’ve never been to your duchy,” Levoreth said.

“You have not, milady?” There was a hint of amusement in the duke of Mizra’s tone. “This is a defect that must be remedied, and doubly so, for if you would deign to visit Mizra then Mizra itself would be happily remedied for the lack of yourself.”

“Do you speak thus to all ladies?” she said. “I come from a land of horses and shepherds. They’re plain-spoken, though the horses are usually the wiser of the two, as they hardly speak at all. Having grown up around such, I confess myself unaccustomed to the flowery ways of Tormay’s courts. We have no such delicacy in Dolan.”

He laughed.

“I was warned of your tongue, Lady Levoreth, but I confess your wit would make any edge pleasant. I would not mind such cuts. Rather those than the simpering of the beauties of the regent’s court. Their words flutter as weightlessly as butterfly wings. I do not mind a little blood, milady, for pain reminds one of life and all its promises and obligations.”

She turned slightly, forcing him to turn as well. His face emerged from the shadows as light from one of the windows fell across it. His green eyes were earnest and clear.

“Need you be reminded of such obligations?” Levoreth said, wondering at his eyes. The greenness of them provoked her. Unreasonably so—she admitted that to herself, though she wasn’t sure if she was irritated or intrigued—and she allowed a flicker of thought to waver out toward him and then hastily pulled it back. She blushed and hoped that there was enough shadow on her face.

It was common among the rich and important of Tormay to set wards about their minds, for it wouldn’t do to have every hedge wizard and blackmailer probing such people for their secrets. The duke of Mizra, however, had no such ward. His thoughts were as open and as guileless as his green eyes. From that single touch—as delicate and as fleeting as a bee dabbling for pollen—she had gathered the sense of a boyish mind on the cusp of manhood and contentedly grave with his ducal responsibilities. She had also sensed in his mind a keen interest in her. An infatuation, she thought. He’s never even met me before.

I hope he’s not sensitive enough to realize what I just did.

Apparently, he was not sensitive enough, for his brow was wrinkled in earnest thought at her question.

“But obligation,” he said, “must be chosen afresh every day, particularly for those who rule, for the power of the ruler brings with it a temptation to order one’s world so that it no longer contains opposition and all the painful weights of duty.”

She was about to frown at such a pompous utterance when he grinned and said, “At least that’s what my old tutor always used to say. He was fond of lecturing on duty. Bit of a bore, but now that he’s gone—he died last year—my castle in Ancalon is too quiet for my tastes. I miss his conversation.”

He took a step closer. He looked even more earnest than before. Alarmed, Levoreth wondered if she might convince the weasel to make another appearance.

“I’ve been thinking lately,” continued the duke of Mizra, “at least, that—”

“My Lord Gifernes, I never did get a chance to thank you properly—Levoreth!—oh, how nice, my dear; I confess I thought you already off to bed.” The duchess of Dolan stepped out on the veranda.

“Just going now, Aunt,” said the girl sweetly. “It’s been a long day. I’m rather tired. I bid you good night, my lord duke.”

The duke bowed and she left them standing on the lawn in the darkness. Somewhere off in the bushes, she heard the tiny death rattle of a mouse. The weasel, she thought. Her headache had returned, but she could not remember when. She went to her room and fell asleep in bed. In the middle of the night she woke and lay staring up into the darkness.

Strange. I have no memory of Mizra. I have no memory of that land. Perhaps I never have been there.

She turned on her side, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SETTING TRAP FOR MUSKRAT

Owain and his troop left the village early the next morning. The silence of the place was oppressive and the men had become more and more nervous as the night went by. The horses were uneasy and had to be picketed deep within the stand of pine trees, far from the walls and empty windows of the houses.

They rode in a long curving loop that brought them up out of the valley into the rolling hills on the far side and then back down into the valley further to the east. At the end of the day they had completed a wide circuit around the vicinity of the village. Hoon had argued the exercise a waste of time, given the weather. Owain had insisted, but at the end of the day he conceded that the tracker had been right.

“Now if I was a Farrow,” said Hoon gloomily, “mebbe then we’d have summat. Those folk are cannier’n foxes, but I ain’t a Farrow. I’m just Hoon.”

Owain reined in his horse and sat for a while in thought. A hawk sailed by overhead, wings outstretched and motionless. It was heading south. Owain turned in the saddle.

“All right, men,” he said. His voice carried cleanly in the cool evening air. “We’ll camp here for the night. In the morning, we’ll head south for Vomaro. There’ve been three reports there of such killings as in the village. A couple of days and then back to Hearne.”

The guardsmen made camp with good heart on this news and soon a fire was burning, ringed about with saddles and equipment. The horses were hobbled and set to graze. Darkness crept up, but the fire kept it at bay. Long after the others had fallen asleep, Owain lay awake, staring up into the night. A purpled swath of stars stretched across the sky. The moon rose, full and pale yellow. Its eye did not close, but Owain’s did and he fell asleep.

They made Vomaro the next day—though, truth be told, there are no real boundaries between the duchies of Tormay. It took a knowledge of old treaties and a good eye for certain hills and river bends and the like to know where one duchy began and another left off.

As they reached the crest of a hill, a lovely view greeted their sight. A lake lay before them, wide and still and shining under the afternoon sun. The farthest shore was not visible. Trees grew along the banks and everywhere there were meadows of late summer flowers like the canvases of some eccentric artist who had daubed on every single color his palette boasted.

“‘And to the lake she came to pick her springtime blooms,’” quoted Hoon. “‘With her maids not knowing their swift approaching doom.’”

“I never liked that song,” said Owain. “Most minstrels are damned fools, writing such tunes to please other fools who happen to have gold. I daresay little of that song is true. Declan Farrow’s story will probably never be known. I’d give much to talk with him, if he still lives.”

“Probably happened ‘round here. More’n likely.”

“The eastern lakeshore. Bad enough fighting ogres with good swordsmen, but with just a bevy of maids and some court fops?” Owain shrugged. “It must’ve ended quickly—look there. We’ll make for that hamlet further around the shore.”

It was a small village—just a handful of houses built at the water’s edge. A dock reached out into the lake. Several fishing boats were drawn up on the rocky beach. A dog ran growling toward them, but a kick from one of the horses sent it shooting off, howling its dismay for any who might care. Children peeped from windows and their elders stood silent in doorways.

Owain reined in his horse, and the troop behind him clattered to a halt. He raised his voice. “Is there anyone here who knows aught of certain strange killings? Where entire villages or crofts were wiped out?”

An old man stepped forward.

“Who wants to know?”

“I am Owain Gawinn, Lord Captain and Protector of Hearne. Word of these things has reached my city and I would seek what knowledge I can find.”

“You’re far from Hearne, m’lord,” said the old man, but he tugged his forelock in respect.

“Hearne must still concern itself with the affairs of Tormay.”

“Better’n can be said of our own duke. If’n it’s true.” The old man spat on the ground. Other villagers nodded. Owain swung down from his horse.

“Why say that, father?”

The old man did not need much encouragement.

“Near two months back now,” he said. “That’s when it happened. Nonn here, sailed over t’ Upper Wen—we’re Lower Wen, see? He sailed over ‘cause he be courtin’ Ganfrey’s daughter Gan.”

“Aye,” said a young man, but that’s all he managed. He clamped his mouth shut and turned bright red.

“He found t’whole village dead! Every last one. Man, woman, child. Even the poor dumb beasts. Nonn here, came back straight away an’ we all sailed over. It were a terrible sight. Still turns my stomach t’ think on it. Course, we sent word t’ the duke in Lura, but none came. Things ain’t right in Lura ever since she came back.”