The Shadow at the Gate (52 page)

“I wish I had a horse,” said Jute. “I wish I had a mutton and mushroom pie.”

“Well, you don’t have a horse,” said the hawk, “but you have two legs. Walk faster. We must be far from this city before nightfall. The sunlight will keep the wihht at bay, but there’s no telling with this weather.”

“Sunlight or no sunlight,” said Ronan, “walk faster.”

They did not stop for breakfast. Ronan produced a loaf of bread from his pack which he tore into three pieces (the hawk declined such food). That, and a hunk of hard cheese, had to suffice as they hurried along. It was not mutton pie, but Jute devoured his portion down to the last delicious crumb.

They struck a path that veered away from the river bank and carved its way up the north side of the valley. It zigzagged back and forth until it disappeared in the gray-green heather that spilled over the top of the valley and ran down the slopes. It was still early, but the air was warm. Bees busied themselves flitting about the heather. Sweat trickled down Jute’s back.

“If you keep turning your head this way and that and back again,” said Severan, “it’s liable to fall right off your shoulders.”

“I’ve a crick in my neck,” said Jute with some dignity. “I’m trying to stretch it.”

“Crick or not, you’re about to walk into a bramble bush.”

If truth be told, Jute was overwhelmed and amazed at what he saw. The sky was endless. The land stretched on forever, curving up through the reach of the valley, charged with color and distance and—despite the buzzing of the bees—silence.

The hawk chuckled inside his mind.

You have never been outside the city. . .

Jute did not reply, but it was true. The sky was not hemmed in with rooftops and walls and the stiff stone fingers of chimneys. The blue and the green went on forever.

Wait until we reach the Scarpe. Wait until you reach the sky.

What is the Scarpe?

There was no need for the hawk to explain, for the path made one last turn through the heather and then they were at the top of the valley. A breeze blew past them. Jute’s mouth fell open.

“This is the Scarpe Plain, boy,” said Ronan.

“It’s, it’s. . .”

Jute had never seen anything like it. Had never imagined anything like it.

“It’s like the sea,” said Ronan. His hand drifted up to his neck as if to reassure himself that the necklace still hung there.

The hawk launched from Jute’s shoulder and flapped his way up into the sky. He soon was lost in the blue. The sky was immense. But the plain stretching out before them was just as immense. It was a vast sea of green that undulated in waves rolling away under the breath of the wind. The plain had no end to the north, but vanished in a blurred horizon of sky and grass. Looking to the east, almost invisible in the brilliance of the sun and the distance, a mountain range rose in jagged, snow-capped peaks.

“The Mountains of Morn,” said Ronan.

“We aren’t going there, I hope,” said Severan.

Ronan did not reply, but merely hitched his sword up higher on his shoulder, settled his pack more comfortably on his back, and started walking north. Jute and Severan trudged after him. The morning sun mounted higher on their right side, and everywhere there was a delicate light and scent that filled Jute’s heart with a gladness he had never known before. Behind them lay the valley and Hearne and who knows what else? But Jute did not look back.

CHAPTER FORTY

THE DUKE AND HIS SERVANT

The party of Brond Gifernes, the duke of Mizra, left Hearne that morning.

“Sorry to see you go, Gifernes,” said the regent. “Seems like you just arrived. Seems like everyone just arrived. Still, good times always find their end. It’s been splendid having you. Splendid.”

“Duty calls, milord,” said the duke. “While I’d like nothing more than to enjoy your hospitality, duty is, as you know, duty. I’ve been away too long and my duchy needs me.”

“Yes, yes. Duty.” Botrell shook his head and stared around him somewhat blankly. They were standing in the stable courtyard behind the castle. The duke’s retinue waited patiently around them. Horses stamped and blew out great breaths of steam in the cold air.

“Duty,” repeated Botrell blankly. “Well, yes, it’s been splendid having you.”

“Are you feeling well, milord?”

“Eh, what’s that?” The regent looked at the duke of Mizra, squinted, and then seemed to properly see him. “No, no—never felt better. Just a touch of indigestion. All these feasts. You’ll know what I mean when you get a bit older. Rich food, you know. I must have a word with the cooks. Damn their black hearts!”

“And the dancing,” said Brond. “The dancing can be wearisome.”

The regent shivered. “What was that thing?”

“My lord?”

“Good grief, man, you were there, were you not? That dreadful creature that gobbled up half my kitchen staff and then did its best to slay the duke of Dolan’s niece. Right in my best ballroom and right in front of everyone who matters in Tormay.” The regent shook his head. “What’ll people say?”

“I don’t know,” said Brond. “I’m afraid I’m still taken aback. It was inappropriate, to say the least.”

“Inappropriate?” spluttered the regent.

“As was the behavior of Lady Levoreth.”

“Indubitably, indubitably.”

“I must confess—and this is purely between you and me, my lord—I had entertained thoughts of wedding her and allying the houses of Gifernes and Callas.” The duke of Mizra sighed and attempted to look sad. “Still, whoever—or whatever—she is, her defense of that beggar boy was most admirable. But extremely unladylike. One must have standards.”

“Er, yes.”

The sun was clearing the Mountains of Morn far in the east when the duke of Mizra’s party left the city gates. The contingent of Guard sprang to attention as the duke rode by. Mist hovered on the surface of the Rennet River down in the valley. The stifling smells of the city quickly gave way to the scent of wet grasses as they rode along.

“Curse this city,” said the duke to himself as his horse cantered down the road. “May it know fear for the rest of its days. And may the regent never sleep but know the Dark stands watching. May there be terror in his dreams.”

“Shall I kill him for you?”

The duke turned in his saddle. To one side and a little behind, rode a figure all cloaked and muffled as if it sought to hide from the sunlight. The hood raised a bit and he saw the thin, white face of his servant Cearu.

“Curse you too,” growled the duke. “How could you let the boy out of your grasp? Do you understand the infinite worth in his wretched frame? Doubtless he’s far from this city now. Must I take apart this land, stone by stone, to find him?”

“What’s lost can be found,” said Cearu.

The duke did not respond for a while. Behind them, strung out along the road, was the rest of his retinue. Horse hooves rang on the road’s hard earth, bridles jingled, and saddle leather creaked.

“I dreamt last night,” said the duke. “I dreamt of a people named Farrow.”

“The Farrows,” said Cearu. He hissed the name, letting it linger in the air until it died away into a sigh. Farrows. “I have heard something of them.”

“They’re a clan. A family of wanderers who live on the grace of the earth. The Dark has turned its thoughts to them. The family has a daughter. I dreamt of her and I saw her face. She has the silence of the earth waiting in her eyes, but she knows it not.”

“Ahh.” Hunger trembled in Cearu’s voice.

“Bring her to me, though I think you will not succeed. The old she-wolf is running on the plains. I can smell her scent.”

“I would have had her,” said Cearu. “I would have had her spitted on my sword, except for the wind. I would meet her again.”

“You will,” said the duke. “Perhaps she thinks you dead. You were lucky she did not unmake you. The boy diverted her, though he aided her. There was something else in the room that night. Something watching. I would not have lifted a finger to save you.”

“What is life?” said the other. “But I am alive, still. I availed myself of another last night and fed well. Enough blood to make me whole.”

“Something else was watching,” said the duke, not listening to his servant anymore.

Cearu wheeled his horse away. The duke turned his attention back to the road and his own thoughts. The future lay ahead. Heat kindled inside of him. And an old dark hunger.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

BOTHERING THE REGENT

“For the last time, Owain—it isn’t your fault.”

Sibb resisted an urge to throw the mixing bowl at her husband. He scowled at her from across the kitchen table.

“If I’d been home,” said Owain, “instead of haring across Tormay in search of phantoms, I would’ve been here.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. You would’ve taken me to the castle for the ball and we would’ve been dancing that night.”

They both glared at each other.

“I hate dancing,” he said.

“Yes, but you would’ve taken me anyway.” Sibb tried to smile.

“I’m going to have a word with the regent.”

“At least have some breakfast first.”

But the door had already slammed shut behind him. Sibb tried to focus on the bread dough in the mixing bowl. It just wasn’t right. Regardless of what had happened to poor Loy, the Gawinn household could surely stand to be happier. After all, Owain had returned, safe and sound, and little Fen was talking. At least, a few words here and there.

Despite both those blessings, the Gawinn household was not happy at all. Owain had been in a dreadful mood ever since he had returned. All the children had been having nightmares. Sibb had not told anyone, but she had been having nightmares as well. The servants crept around the house with long faces, and one of the maids dissolved into tears when asked to go down to the cellar to fetch a cask of herring. The three boys had removed several of the weapons from the hall and had taken to skulking about the garden, scaring the milkman and a poor old fisherman who had knocked on the back door to sell his haddock. Owain spanked them all soundly—Jonas more than the others, as he was oldest and should have known better—and sent them off crying to bed. Fen, despite having been woken from her silence, could hardly get three words out without bursting into tears. Not that anyone blamed her. At least they knew her name now. That was something.

Sibb punched the dough down in the bowl and tried not to cry.

Arodilac was standing outside the garden gate, his hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the morning chill.

“Let’s go,” said Owain.

“I haven’t slept all night,” said Arodilac.

“Get used to it. It's called night duty.”

“And I haven’t had any breakfast yet.”

Owain snorted at that and walked faster.

“I don’t see why I have to come as well,” said Arodilac.

“You’re coming, and that’s an order.”

They walked along for a while. Arodilac sulked in silence behind Owain. Somewhere up ahead, nearer to the castle, horse hooves clattered on the cobblestone street. The sound died away as if heading down into the city.

“You did well,” said Owain.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You didn’t lose your head. Combat, whether it’s on a staircase or on a battlefield, is a different thing from training in the Guard or tavern matches for money.”

“Tavern matches?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know what goes on at the Queen’s Head. I fought there plenty of times when I was your age. That thing that killed Loy, the hound, tell me again what you remember of it.”

Arodilac told him. Again, for the sixth time. He didn’t think that night would ever fade from his memory. No matter how long he lived.

“It was the horse that probably saved me,” Arodilac shuddered. “I can still hear it, my lord. It screamed. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever heard before. Otherwise, I would’ve still been upstairs. The thing would’ve come up right behind me. But I heard the horse dying. Loy went for Fen, and I went downstairs. I’m sorry about your banister.”

“It can be mended.”

“The thing wasn’t a real animal, my lord, not the way animals should be. When I came back up the stairs with your grandfather’s spear, I could see through the thing. Loy was trying to get away. There was nowhere to go, but he was still trying. It was between us, stalking him. I could see Loy through the beast. I could see right through it in spots like it was fading in and out of sight. There must’ve been magic in it, my lord.”

This part of the story had been worrying Owain ever since he had heard it the first time. He didn’t like magic. He hated it. No real soldier, in his opinion, should have anything to do with magic. There were enough problems on a battlefield as it were. Magic was a tricky, undependable sort of thing. And in an opponent it could mean for a bloody mess. Owain liked things that made sense, that he could get his hands on, see, and feel. Things he could kill with a sword and not worry about them popping back up like a child’s jack-in-the-box due to some cursed spell.