The Shadow at the Gate (71 page)

“It was in the scent of the grass and in the voice of the wind yesterday, but I was blind to it. The clouds were hurrying across the sky to conceal the sight. When we reached the battlefield, then I was forced to recognize what I had been willfully blind to. I’ve not known such sorrow since the day my old master the wind was murdered. But the earth didn’t die alone. Someone was by her side. Your sister, Farrow. Do you remember the dagger Jute found on that battlefield?”

“The one with the ugly stone in its handle?” said Jute. “For the life of me, I still can’t remember where I’ve seen something like that before.”

“But it was the life of you,” said the hawk. “Think back to the knife you stole from Nio’s house. A knife with a gemstone in its hilt.”

Jute’s eyes widened. “The same stone?”

“Rather, both pieces of the same stone. They are sister stones. You saw them as lifeless gems, cracked and worthless. But they were ancient things. Nokhoron Nozhan himself gave three stones to his three servants, the sceadus. Long ago. Centuries ago, high on the mountains of Ranuin. They were supposedly as large as a man’s fist. Sharp-edged and burning with fire. Three stones born from three drops of his own blood, full of his malice. Enough malice to take the life of the anbeorun themselves. Barely enough. And now, like the knife that Jute stole, whatever power was stolen by that stone is now gone. Gone with your sister, I think.”

The hawk looked at Declan. “I do not know what design Levoreth Callas had in this as she died, but I doubt it a mistake your sister was there at that moment. I’d wager everything I know, the earth waits to be born anew in your sister, just as the wind stirs within our Jute here. You’ve lost your sister, but Tormay will soon gain a powerful protector against the Dark. If, and only if, the girl can survive long enough for the winter inside her to turn to spring. I can do nothing but try to find her while keeping this fledgling safe as well, for the wind and the earth were brother and sister long ago, before the stars fell, before the ancient wars when the world was still young. Both must live or all shall die. And I gave my word to her, I did,” But these last few words the hawk spoke quietly, as if only to himself.

Declan’s hand clenched on the hilt of his sword. His face was white.

“I’ve lost all my family,” he said. “But now I must lose my sister as well? My loss for Tormay’s gain? I’ve lost enough already.”

The hawk did not answer. Declan turned without another word and strode away. The others followed him in silence, and all around them across the plain, the wind mourned as it blew through the grasses.

They hurried along through the day. The sun gleamed across the sky, silvering through the blowing clouds. The light felt chilled from the wind and the spattering rain. The cold of the day worked its way into Jute’s bones until he could not tell where the warmth of his body ended and the cold air surrounding him began.

Just so
, said the hawk.
That’s the first step if you would learn to fly.

I’d rather have some hot stew
, said Jute. But then he thought better of it, for he did wish to fly. He imagined it would be a lot less tiring than stumbling across the ground, forever trying to keep up with Declan.

I know about flying
, said the hawk,
but I cannot cook stew.

What do you mean by the first step?

It took Jute a while to get the hawk back into a better mood. But after a great deal of flattery and declarations of admiration for birds in general and hawks specifically, the hawk relented. He explained that the first step in learning how to fly was to forget about one’s self and assume that one was part of the sky.

Which, of course, is not true
, said the hawk.
The sky is the sky, and you are you. But thinking otherwise helps, all the same.

Why should it?

Because it convinces you to forget about yourself. There’s nothing more disconcerting than remembering that you’re made of all too solid flesh, particularly when you’re high in the sky. Start thinking like that and you’ll convince yourself to drop like a stone.

Does that happen to birds?

Birds?
The hawk snorted in amusement.
Of course not. We have wings.

The second step in learning to fly was keeping hold of the wind. This, according to the hawk, was not unlike keeping hold of the yarn while knitting. The hawk confided that he had never done any knitting himself, as his claws were not suited for it, but he imagined the two were similar.

“And then what?” panted Jute out loud. “Declan, slow down!”

“What, what?” said the ghost from inside his knapsack. “What do you mean bellowing like that while I’m asleep?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Immaterial, my dear boy. Immaterial, just as I am.” The ghost appeared and drifted along beside him. It examined him with interest. “You look wan. Pale and sweating. Do you suffer from fever? Your frequent gasping for breath might signify something serious. Consumption, perhaps? It could prove fatal.”

“What’s the third step?”

“The third step,” said the hawk, “is just that. A step. You step off the ground.”

“That’s ridiculous. I can’t step off the ground. What would I be stepping onto?”

“Take hold of the wind and step off the ground.”

“Ah,” said the ghost. “Learning how to fly, eh? Flying is for birds, not boys. You’re much too heavy. You’ll get up there and then fall like a stone. That’ll be the end of you. Just a smear on the ground. Interesting way to die, though. I suppose most people who die don’t perish due to attempting to fly. Well, carry on, then.”

“Oh, be quiet,” said Jute.

He made no progress as the afternoon wore on, but the one good side effect of the endeavor was that it diverted his mind from the fatiguing pace Declan set. The hawk coasted overhead on outstretched wings, calling down advice to Jute. The ghost drifted next to him and spent its time listing all the people it knew who had died of falling from heights. The list was long, and the ghost explained the deaths in gruesome detail.

“I remember reading an interesting case,” said the ghost cheerfully. “A self-educated wizard who lived in a village in the Morn Mountains, east of Andolan. His name, as far as I recollect, was. . . er. . . hmm. Ah, yes. His name was Dillo. He owned two old books of magic his grandmother had traded off an illiterate peddler. He knew how to read and he had those books—a dangerous combination. He learned how to mend iron pots with just a word, and he learned how to grow the sweetest corn in all of Tormay. If Dillo had stuck to iron pots and growing corn, he would’ve had a peaceful life. Dull, yes, but peaceful.”

The hawk continued to encourage Jute and pretended to ignore the ghost’s ramblings. It must be pointed out, however, that the hawk had nothing more specific to say about learning to fly than what he had already said, except for one last bit of advice.

“What do you mean, it’ll just happen?” said Jute. “That’s no help.”

“It’ll happen. Trust me.”

“Besides all the trifling whatnot of corn-growing and pot-mending and weaving wards to fend off chilblains, gophers, root blight, and mothers-in-law, Dillo only managed to learn two legitimate spells of power,” said the ghost, eyeing Jute and the hawk sternly, for they did not seem to be paying proper attention to his story.

“The first was a spell that divided time. An elegant idea, but difficult in execution. The essential idea is that any measure of time—whether it be an hour, a minute, or even a second—can be divided in half, and then one of those halves divided again, and so on. Take a second, for example. Divide it in half. Divide one of those halves in half. Divide one of those halves in half. You see what I mean, eh? It leaves you, of course, with the fact that there are an infinite number of halves to be traveled through before you get to the next second. Therefore, you’d never arrive at the next second. Brilliant, eh?”

No one bothered answering. Jute was concentrating on the wind. What did one do if the wind died away? His feet were still touching the ground and felt depressingly heavy. The hawk was muttering under his breath and gliding along beside Jute on motionless wings. Far ahead of them, Declan turned and frowned. He did not say anything, however, but slackened his pace.

“Stop concentrating so hard,” said the hawk.

“I can’t help it.”

“The second spell,” continued the ghost, “was, of course, a flying spell. Now, in my opinion, flying spells should never be attempted unless by those with an exceedingly superb education, such as myself, or any number of students I’ve taught over the years. Such spells always involve the wind and the wind’s a tricky, sly sort of thing. Oh, I don’t doubt Dillo managed to get a few feet above the ground—more than can be said for you, young Jute—to waver about like a weathervane and impress the chickens and his wife. I’m sure I could’ve done the same and better in my day. But one afternoon, Dillo got the idea into his head that what this flying thing needed was some stiff encouragement—the proverbial leap of faith. So he climbed up to the falls behind the village and leapt off the cliff there.”

The ghost paused here and looked at them expectantly. Jute took the bait. He could not help himself.

“What happened? Did he fly?”

“Ah, no,” said the ghost happily. “No, he didn’t. I’m sad to say he dropped like a rock. Plunged straight down. Dillo would’ve hit the bottom if it weren’t for the other spell. The spell that divided time. I daresay he must’ve been frantic, screaming and hollering and trying to figure any way out of his own foolishness. That was when he got the bright idea to divide time. If he could only slow time down, then he would have more time to start flying and not end up a smear on the rocks below. About ten feet short of those rocks, Dillo divided time. And time kept on dividing.”

“What do you mean?” said Jute. “What happened?”

“What I mean,” said the ghost, “is that Dillo cast his last spell a little too effectively. Sheer terror can do that for you. If you go to the falls above that town, you’ll see the skeleton of poor Dillo hanging in the air about ten feet above the rocks, for time’s still happily dividing away at that particular spot.”

“That’s absurd,” said the hawk, unable to keep his beak shut any longer. “Of all the ridiculous stories you’ve told, that’s the most ridiculous story yet. Time can’t be stopped.”

“I don’t tell ridiculous stories,” said the ghost. “I tell only serious stories that illustrate the wisdom gained from years as a professor.”

“Will you all pipe down?”

It was Declan. He stalked back toward them.

“Traveling with a herd of bleating sheep would be quieter than you lot.” He scowled and even the hawk looked abashed at his rebuke. “The light’s failing and there’s no telling what the night’ll bring. We don’t need your caterwauling catching the attention of whatever’s out there. By the way, Jute?”

“What?”

“You’re floating.”

Jute looked down and felt his stomach lurch. He was floating about a foot above the ground. His arms shot out in order to catch hold of something, anything. He overbalanced and fell flat on his face. He heard the ghost and Declan laughing and the chuckle of the hawk. And somewhere off in the distance, perhaps in his mind, he heard the airy laugh of the wind.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

ANOTHER USE FOR DEAD DEER

The duke of Mizra’s party camped that evening on the edge of the forest. The trees loomed in the twilight like an impenetrable swath of darkness. A hundred yards away, the Rennet River flowed west toward Hearne and the sea. The water shone with moonlight, and the liquid sound of its passage was the loudest thing to be heard, for the duke’s men set up camp in silence. Several fires soon were burning and the shapes of tents heaved themselves up from the ground. The duke of Mizra sat in a chair by the fire before his tent. He stared into the flames. They flickered before him, gaining color and definition as the evening grew darker. Fire needed the darkness in order for its true color to be revealed.

“My lord?”

It was one of the chamberlain’s assistants. A son of a minor lord. The duke could never remember their names. They all looked the same to him. Pale, blurred faces with short lives that guttered out like candles.

“My lord?”

“What is it?”

Brond made an effort to stretch his face into the semblance of a smile. A grimace.

“The hunters have brought back deer and geese, milord. Would you prefer one or the other for supper?”

“Both will do.”

The boy bowed and vanished back into the twilight.

Not that he needed food. Once, he had once gone without food or water for a year and it had not affected him in any way. But eating was still one of several small pleasures that life afforded him. Particularly fresh meat.

Brond stared out at the forest. Not many people knew why it was called the Forest of Lome these days, but he did. He remembered. A dragon had lived there once. A dragon named Lome. The creature had lived in a cave in a spire of rock in the middle of the forest. The spire was still there, but the dragon had been dead for hundreds of years. Killed by a young man named Dolan Callas, who had later gone on to found the duchy of Dolan in the north. The forest had grown dark and thick since the death of the dragon. Brond scowled, remembering the heat of the dragon’s breath and the flames. The old trees in the forest remembered too, and he no longer went into the forest if he could help it.