The Shadow at the Gate (51 page)

What—?

And then she smelled them. She would have smelled them before but her mind was heavy with fatigue. The scent was masked by the rain and the damp rot of the undergrowth. The shapes materialized out of the gloom. The wolves. They came loping toward her out of the rain. Their fur gleamed with water. She only saw a few, perhaps half a dozen, but she was aware of them all, a full twoscore, standing silent in the trees around her. The squirrel chattered in fury and threw down acorns.

Mistress of Mistresses.

Drythen Wulf.

We have come. You have bidden us, and we come.

An acorn bounced off the wolf’s nose.

Peace, little rat,
said the wolf.
My kind does not eat yours.

Rat?

A hail of acorns showered down.

Peace!

The squirrel muttered angrily from somewhere among the oak branches, but then fell silent.

We have brought your messenger with us,
said the wolf.
The northern snows are no safe place for a cub. But we have guarded him for you, Mistress. Though, truth be told, it was most difficult to guard him from ourselves.

The wolf’s jaws opened in a silent laugh.

I thank you, Drythen Wulf,
said Levoreth dryly
, for not devouring my messenger.

Out of the gloom, from under the dripping branches, the horse emerged. The wolves padded restlessly about him, but Swallowfoot ignored them, his ears and eyes on Levoreth.

Mistress of Mistresses.

The horse pushed his nose against her hand.

You have brought the wolves to me.

They thought to eat me at first
, said the horse.

The wolf laughed again.

The thought crossed my mind, Mistress
, said the wolf.
The snows of the north have little to offer for the hunt. But a closer look at this skin and bones dissuaded us. There’s no flesh on him. Truth, Mistress, we could not have caught him. His stride is as fast as the wind.

You put me in mind of another steed.
Levoreth ran her hands through the horse’s mane.
One that ran by my side, long years ago. I thank you for what you have done. My thoughts could not reach the wolves, but you went—as quick as thought, did you not?—and brought them here.

Swallowfoot trembled under her touch. His memories flashed through her mind, flickering from sky to earth, slashed with wind and the drumming of galloping hooves. The vast plain of the Scarpe blurred by. Mountains rose far in the north. They loomed closer and closer. Ice and snow glittered on their slopes with an aching, blinding light. The sun hurried across the sky and plunged down in the west. Stars raced through the night.

The light and the wind slowed, Mistress
, said Swallowfoot.
They slowed as I ran to catch them.

Levoreth smiled.

The wolves crowded around her, sitting under the shelter of the oak’s branches. Their eyes gleamed in the gloom, and, out of respect, the older ones did not look at her much, though the younger ones stared avidly. The great wolf stood before her, and at his side was his son, the cub Ehtan that she herself had named years ago.

He has grown, has he not?

Aye,
said Levoreth
. He is your shadow now. Faith, I can scarce tell you apart.

He will lead the pack when I am gone
, said the father proudly.
He will bear my memory when I have gone to chase the sun.

The rain dripped down from the leaves overhead.

Now, Drythen Wulf, you must tell me your tale, for I have wondered for many days where your trail led you from the house of Ginan Bly.

From that house of death it led us
, said the wolf.
North we went. North, sniffing along the trail of the Dark. Never has the pack hunted for a prey that it did not want to catch, but this quarry we sought with dread in our hearts.

And to a mountain eyrie it led you?

A peak towering over its brethren, mantled with ice and snow. The eyrie looked east and west, north and south. The wind rages there in strange fury, and it was all we could do resist its blast. Its blast is full of death and I think, in time, the wind will unmake that mountain.

The young wolf Ehtan stirred.

The wind’s voice spoke of murder, Mistress
, he said hesitantly.
Murder and loneliness and a terrible sorrow.

Aye
, she said.
For its master was murdered by the Dark.

We could not enter the eyrie, Mistress. A dread evil sleeps there, and though I set paw in the opening of that place three times, I could not pass the threshold. Fear is a stranger to the wolves, but I knew fear in that place.

That is well
, said Levoreth.
I would not have had you step beyond that which you could do. I shall see this place for myself, then. The mountains are mine, and the Dark shall not deny me. Yet, first. . .

She stopped here, thinking of the boy Jute. The wolves waited patiently around her in the damp and dripping rain. She shook her head, frowning. Jute would have to fare on his own. No, not on his own. He had the hawk.

We go hunting, Drythen Wulf.

And what shall be our prey?
asked the old wolf, but the knowledge was already in his eyes.

The Dark.

After some time spent thinking moodily about wolves and other horrible animals that spent all their time trying to eat squirrels, the squirrel scrambled down a few branches and peered around suspiciously. But no one was there. The ground around the oak was crisscrossed with the tracks of wolves and one horse, but the forest was silent. The lady was gone as well. The squirrel scampered down to the ground and sadly sniffed its way around the oak.

Mistress?

There was no answer. The rain dripped down from the branches and leaves overhead. After a while, however, the squirrel remembered the walnut tree and the oak branch reaching across the clearing. This cheered the little animal immensely and it hurried away to tell its family the good news.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

DREAMING OF THE DARK

He woke and lay staring at the ceiling. The morning was late and he never slept much in general, but the regent had thrown a party the night before that seemed to have never ended. It had been an attempt to raise spirits after the strange happenings at the ball the previous night. Not that it had been successful. Many of the regent’s guests had left already, making excuses such as the muddiness of the roads, or the corn harvest, or roofs that needed mending before the winter snows came. The duke and duchess of Dolan had been the first to leave, early the next morning after the ball. They had offered no excuses but left before the castle had even stirred to life. He had seen them leave. The duchess’ eyes had been red, as if she had spent the night weeping.

It was raining again. He hated the rain. It somehow obscured what he saw and felt. A lightning storm was different. He understood lightning. The earth cringed under it. The earth shook and trees burned.

Something stirred in the corner of the room.

“Ah,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d manage to regain yourself. It was an interesting spectacle. Not too unpleasant, I presume?”

“I endured. A little more blood, a few more deaths, and I will be well.”

“I’m sure you can find what you need in this city. At any rate, I thought it best not to intervene. I am still not known in Tormay.”

The other emerged from the shadows and stood at the foot of his bed. Its body was vague and insubstantial, as if formed of mist. The thin, white face seemed to hang in the air, and it stared back at him without expression.

“I did not need your help,” said the creature. It spoke quietly with a voice that creaked and whispered as if from little use.

“Do you bring news of the hunt?”

“Nothing that will please you.”

“Out with it, then,” said the man. He sat up and yawned.

“The boy has fled the city.”

“You know this for sure?”

“The winds have left Hearne. They came only to find him. They would leave only if he left as well. We have been thwarted. An unknown hand has entered the game and I cannot see it.”

The man flung aside the bedcovers and got to his feet.

“You lost him,” he said. “He’s only a boy. He won’t grow into who he is for a great many days yet. The blood on that knife was old and fading in power. Weeks, more likely. You had him within your grasp and you lost him.”

“He is—” The creature paused, as if searching for the right word. “He is something more than lucky.”

“Your hounds lost him as well, I daresay?”

“They were lured out of the city. Eorde, I think. The old earthwitch. She is a cunning foe, once awakened. The hounds would have been no match for her. Doubtlessly, she destroyed them.”

“Doubtlessly,” grunted the man, then he gave a bark of laughter. “Shadows, but I never thought that spell would last so long when I first wove it. The weave held for over three hundred years and even caught the anbeorun in its grasp.”

“Sleep is a pretty thing, master,” said the other. “It has caught us many a tool. Nio Secganon has proven useful. He, also, almost had the boy within his grasp.”

“The wihht,” said the man in fury. “Wihhts are made to be twitched like puppets, not allowed rein to run free. It came close, like you, did it not? But where’s the boy now, eh?”

“What is lost can be found, master,” said the thin face hanging in the shadows.

The man did not bother answering, but dressed quickly. He threw open the shutters, revealing a morning sky filled with clouds and rain.

“Come,” he said. “I’ll tender my thanks to the regent and then we shall leave. Hearne no longer holds anything of interest for me, save pleasant memories of death.”

He turned from the window and smiled. The pale light caught in his gold hair and burnished it into flame. And with that, Brond Gifernes, the duke of Mizra, strode from the room, with darkness crowding at his heels.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

NORTH TO HARLECH

They decided to head north to Harlech. The city of Hearne was far behind them now, the walls and towers hidden beyond the rise and turn of the valley. Jute looked back several times as they walked along, remembering the darkness and horror under the city, but there was nothing to see anymore. The wihht. The wihht was gone. Surely gone.

He breathed in deeply, more easily. The morning was bright with sunlight glittering on the dew and the flashing flow of the river winding across the valley floor below them. The scent of grass and the damp earth filled the air. Swallows flew up from the willows along the river, drifted through the sky overhead and then were gone in a gust of wind.

North itself had never been in question. Jute had timidly mentioned the topic of south—perhaps Vo or Vomaro?—even though he knew nothing about the lands of Tormay outside of Hearne and was motivated only by the thought of a winter without snow. Both Ronan and Severan overruled him for various reasons.

“Vomaro,” said Ronan, “is fit only for half-witted, inbred sheep.”

“Oh?” Severan blinked several times as he considered this. “I’ve known some pleasant people in Vomaro. I once met a cobbler in Lura who, in the course of stitching boots and shoes and slippers over the years, discovered how to sew together time. He swept it out of the corners of his shop and then stitched it—upside down and inside out, of course—on the soles of his more expensive shoes. They never wore out.”

“We aren’t going to Vomaro,” said Ronan.

“Did I say we should?” said Severan. “The southern duchies are too populous. We need some place where there aren’t many people and they aren’t fond of talking. Somewhere north, I suppose.”

“Harlech,” said the hawk. He landed on Jute’s shoulder and furled his wings.

“I wouldn’t mind going to Harlech,” said Severan, “I’ve a cottage there, up on the coast. Have I mentioned that before? It belonged to my grandfather. But I think we should consider the Stone Tower in Thule. Quite a few wizards still live there, and they should be informed of what’s gone on. And the food! The Tower has a wonderful cook. Fish stews, mutton, and mushroom pies that’ll make your tongues sing, seed cakes. Er, what’s more, Ablendan is sure to have reached the Tower by now and he’ll be wondering what’s happened in his absence.”

“Who’s Ablendan?” asked both Jute and Ronan at the same time.

“A fellow scholar of mine. He rode to the Stone Tower with news of—of—well, of you,” concluded Severan somewhat lamely.