The Shadow at the Gate (35 page)

“I suppose it is a what, not a who.”

“A what?”

“I think I’d like to dance,” said Liss. She cocked her head to one side, as if uncertain of her own words and thinking them over. “Yes. I’d like to dance. It has been a long time.”

“How long?” he said wearily. He attempted to smile and did not succeed.

She smiled, not needing to attempt it. The lamplight pooled in her eyes. Surely she was only a girl, hardly seventeen years old. But then the light was swept away by a tide of gray, then green, then a blue depth that swayed and settled into stillness.

“Before the dragons fell asleep, the poor things. Before men sailed into the west and found the land of Tormay. Before the Dark came, stooping down from the heights, searching and hunting and so hungry for what it could never have. When the stars sang for joy. When the world was still young.”

He understood none of it and could only continue across the marble floor, frowning and wondering. She drifted at his side, attached to him by virtue of her hand on his arm but more distant than the horizon of the sea is to the shore. The throng ebbed and flowed around them, full of richness and light, murmuring with a thousand conversations, a thousand asides and undertones, a thousand bits of gossip carried along like so much flotsam and jetsam. Silver platters bearing goblets and tasty tidbits bobbed along overhead, secure in the hands of servants. A staircase swept up at the far end of the hall. It was wide enough to allow ten men side by side. Up and down its steps flowed a procession of lords and ladies.

Just past an enormously fat woman listening to the solicitous conversation of a rather small man, Ronan caught sight of a familiar face. Smede. The Guild accountant was dressed in faultless black and mooched along with his hands clasped behind his back. Ronan steered Liss away. Odd that Smede would be invited to such an event. Perhaps Dreccan Gor had him to the castle for some reason.

Ronan and Liss came to the staircase and mounted up it. They heard music and entered into an even larger hall than the one they had just left. Here, the walls stretched up and up into an arched ceiling so far overhead and lit with so many hanging candles that it was as if they stood under a starry night sky. Couples twirled and drifted across a black stone floor polished to such an impossible sheen that it seemed more water than stone. Liss turned to him, her face solemn. One hand settled into his and the other came to rest on his shoulder. The music rose up in a swirl of strings and swept them out across the floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

STORIES IN THE RAIN

Owain Gawinn reined in his horse and glanced back. The night was dark and the rain made it even more difficult to see. A few shards of moonlight gleamed on leather harness and oilskins. He could hear more than he could see: the creak of saddles, horse hooves squelching through the mud, and the mumble of talk between the men.

They were good men. Well-trained. Hardened under his tutelage. Few of them, though, had proper battle experience. Oh, there had been some skirmishing over the years. Bandits raiding villages and traders. A particularly nasty fight with ogres in the upper reaches of the Rennet Valley. Old Yan Frearen had lost his arm in that one. Not to mention the boy who had been killed. The new recruit.

Owain frowned. He wiped rain from his eyes and squinted ahead. They were nearing the rise at the west end of the Rennet Valley. The eucalyptus trees crowding along the north bank were unmistakable, even in the dark. He could not remember the boy’s name. He could remember his face, though. Pale, uncomprehending, eyes widening as if already seeing something more, something beyond Tormay. But even ogres, no matter how vicious they were, could be taken down by sheer strength of numbers. It was a matter of fielding enough swords. The trick with ogres was not to get drawn into fighting in tight quarters with them. Though that wasn’t always true. The Farrow lad had proven that. If the story was true.

“River’s runnin’ high.”

It was Hoon. The little tracker materialized out of the night and nudged his horse alongside Owain’s mount. He had a length of oilcloth wrapped around his head like a shawl. Water dripped from the end of his nose.

“Runnin’ high,” repeated Hoon. “Ain’t seen it this high in a long time.” There was gloomy satisfaction in his voice.

“How high?” said Owain.

“I reckon right up t’ the withers at the edge of the ford. Midstream, deep enough to founder a horse. Probably haveta do a little swimming there. Weren’t about t’ go in just t’ find out. Track looks mighty soft where it runs down next t’ the bank. Slick clay. ‘Spose we could allus turn back an’ climb outa the valley. There’s a trader’s road just south, runnin’ up from Lura.”

“No. We’ll go on,” said Owain. He shook his head. “I’m not about to lose half a day backtracking. We’re almost home. If needs be, we can swim the ford. Everyone’s wet enough already as it is.”

Hoon chuckled as if this idea made him happy.

“It’ll be easy enough. I do enjoy some good swimmin’.”

The two rode along in silence for some time. The entire company had slowed from a canter to a walk, due to the muddy path and the darkness. Owain was not about to push them any faster. A well-trained horse was wise enough to be allowed its own pace in such conditions.

“Hoon?”

“Aye?”

“You’ve been hunting in the wilds for years. Probably longer than I’ve been alive, if I guess your age right. What do you think it is we’re searching for?”

“Wouldn’t rightly want t’ say.” Hoon spat into the rain and then tugged the oilskin closer around his head. “There be plenty of horrible things in this world, I reckon. Sure enough. Plenty be willing to cut your throat sooner’n say how-do.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” said Hoon. “You got your ogres an’ bears an’ kobolds to begin with. Those are bad enough, though them kobolds ain’t much for fightin’ unless they got no other choice. Then, you watch out. Ogres an’ bears—I don’t advise tanglin’ with neither, but bear steak is good eatin’ an’ there ain’t much like a good bearskin t’ keep you warm in winter. Ogre? I’d sooner eat my boots. Nasty, greasy stuff, ogre is.”

“I’m not interested in ogres or bears. What of other creatures? You’ve lived up in the Morn Mountains. Surely you’ve encountered strange things there that I’ve only heard about in stories.”

The path began to descend. Owain’s horse picked its way forward. From up out of the darkness they could hear the murmuring rush of the river below. On either side, the edges of the valley sloped up, reaching higher and sharper until they met with the sky. The wind was cold and brisk and it blew the rain into their faces. High up on the plain, though, Owain knew the wind would be howling.

“Trouble is,” said Hoon reluctantly, “stories are most ways true. Makes me wonder if somethin’ comes true if enough people say it enough times. Y’ever hear the story about the Lady o’ Limary?”

“My sister,” said Owain, “bless her heart, used to scare me senseless with that story when I was a little boy. Of course, when I grew older, I realized it was only a story. Things like that don’t happen.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. Parts of the story might be true. Far as a girl makin’ a pact with the Dark to live forever, well, most girls are giddy enough t’ try somethin’ damn fool like that. But that’s aside the point. Truth is, there’s a village called Limary, up in the mountains on the northeasterly edge of the Loam Forest. Only, ain’t hardly anyone call it Limary anymore on account of no one’s lived in the village for more’n two hundred years. Just ruins now. But there’re a few folks round abouts that remember. Sheepfarmers, of course.”

“What do sheep have to do with the so-called Lady of Limary?”

“Enough, an’ I’ll tell you why. It happened a whiles back. I weren’t much more’n a boy in those days, but I’d struck out from home, making my way hunting an’ doing odd jobs. A friend an’ I wandered into a village on that same northeasterly edge of the Loam. East of Dolan somewhat. Pretty much nowhere, but right up against the mountains. A farmer hired us to hunt down an old wolf. It’d been makin’ off with his sheep. Least, that’s what he thought it was.”

Owain shifted in the saddle, trying to find a spot that wasn’t sore. It had been years since he had been so many days on horseback. The ford wasn’t much further now, if his memory served him, and then it would be an hour more to the gates of Hearne. A quick ride in good weather, through the cornfields and meadows of the western reach of the Rennet, but undoubtedly muddy and treacherous this night.

“Oh?” said Owain. “I suspect you’re going to tell me it was this Lady of Limary making off with the sheep, and not a wolf.”

“Ain’t no use tellin’ the story,” said Hoon. “Ain’t no use if you’re bound on tellin’ it yourself.”

“There’s surely more to the story than that.”

“Well, there is. Much more. I’ll tell it, if you let me. We lit out on those tracks, my friend an’ I. But the wolf knew a thing or two more’n us, an’ we lost the trail halfway up a mountain. Big mountain. Found out later it were called Limary, an’ it’s had that name long afore any folk lived in those parts. Night was comin’ on fast an’ it were cold up that high. Cold enough to drive ice into your bones. Luck would have it, just when we were thinkin’ about crawlin’ our way back down the mountain, my friend sees a light up ahead. Look, he says. I weren’t too happy about that light, but I weren’t too happy about the cold neither.”

“I’ve heard of the moor lights,” said Owain. “Lights far out on the moors that lure travelers to their death in the bogs and falling into sudden crevices.”

“Pshaw,” said Hoon. “Moor lights ain’t nothin’ much. Only a fool be taken in by a moor light. Our light, now, was altogether different. We made our way over to it an’ found a big stone house built there, right on the mountainside. Light shone out the window. The door opened at our knock an’ there stood the loveliest lady you’d never seen. Skin as white as frost on the flowers and lips redder’n blood. She had the prettiest green eyes.”

“Ah,” said Owain. “The stories are all the same.”

“Right they are. That’s because they’re true. Hadn’t you heard me afore?”

“Of course, of course. It’s just I’ve only heard the stories. You’ve obviously experienced them. So what happened then?”

“Well, I’ll tell you,” said Hoon, somewhat mollified by these words. “I’ll tell you, if you let me talk. The lady offered us shelter for the night. Invited us in. Had her servants give us a dinner—”

“Mutton, probably,” said Owain to himself.

“—an’ we ate until we were stuffed. Ain’t had such good feed in all my life. Real quiet sorts, was her servants. Never said a word. Just all eyes starin’ an’ silent an’ tiptoeing about. She bid us good night an’ had us shown to our room. Only one room for the both of us, but she apologized nicely, sayin’ it were on account of the weather an’ she had other guests already at bed. We was both right tired an’ it were late. My friend dropped off like a stone, snoring away. Mebbe it were the racket he were making, but I couldn’t sleep straight off. Lay there for a while. The food didn’t sit well in my stomach. Just when I were about asleep, I heard this noise at the door. It were quiet enough, but y’understand I were a hunter’s son. The sound weren’t human, I can tell you. It were a sniffing sound as if some creature were getting a taste of us into its nose. The hair stood up on the back of my neck.”

“What happened then?” asked Owain.

“Whaddya expect? About had time to sit up in bed, blink, an’ then the door opened. Silent an’ slow, but I got a glimpse of green eyes staring at me, huge and flaring like lamps, an’ I smelt something like wolf but worse. Tumbled off the bed an’ dove into an old wardrobe standing ‘longside the bed. Gave a yell enough to wake the dead, but my friend just snored on. Then I was in the wardrobe. Luck would have it, there was slats on the inside an’ I held onto ‘em for dear life. Somethin’ hit the doors, harder’n a mule kick, but it were made of good solid oak. Three times, whatever were on the outside slammed against those doors. I could hear the thing scratching an’ snarling. An’ then there were only silence. I must’ve fell asleep in that wardrobe, still clinging to them slats. I woke up shivering the next morning, I were that cold. Except, I weren’t in a wardrobe in a room inside no stone house. I were curled up on the mountainside. Just ice an’ rock around, an’ there weren’t no houses in sight. Only thing in sight were my friend, lying there with his throat torn out an’ big pawprints in the snow around him. Gave me a right turn.”

“And you suppose it was the Lady of Limary?”

“Who else?” Hoon shrugged. “Laugh all you want, but I know what I saw. I know what happened. I was there. You weren’t. Point is, ain’t much we know. Or want to know. S’far as our murderers, I dunno. Could be any number of creatures we ain’t never seen nor heard of.”

By this time, the path had descended down to the riverbank. The river rushed through the darkness, and they could hear the rain hissing on the water. The horses behind them halted.

“Going to get wet,” said Hoon.

“As long as we’re home tonight. That’s all that matters.”

“All right, men,” said Owain. “Swim ‘em over. The river’s running too high.”

Someone mumbled a curse, but Owain did not bother turning. He had not the heart for such discipline, not after a long day’s ride in the cold rain. He would have cursed as well, but his thoughts were already full of home and warmth and Sibb. Owain kicked free from the stirrup and stepped down to the ground. His boots sank into the mud. He could feel his men’s eyes on him. All grinning, probably. He took a grip on the horse’s reins and walked it into the river.