The Shadow at the Gate (55 page)

“Aye, that was him,” said the hawk. “But do not look so deeply into the past, for there are other things there, and they would find you of great interest. Do you not see, fledgling? I scarce can believe it myself. I am too old and weary for such things. One of those four have fallen and you have stepped into his place.”

“How can I do such a thing?” said Jute.

“Yes, how?” echoed Severan, looking just as shocked as the boy.

“The how of the matter is done.”

“But how? It was that wretched knife, wasn’t it?”

“Aye,” said the hawk. “It was the knife that killed the wind. In taking his life, the knife drew his essence into itself so that the next blood drawn by the blade would, in turn, receive that essence and so become the next wind. No one knew that such a thing could happen. Perhaps this was of Anue’s design, but who can know his mind?”

“The wind,” breathed Severan. “It’s like something out of a strange tale, a fantastic book no one ever believed, up until now.”

“I’m only a boy,” said Jute in dismay. He did not understand, but was only conscious of a great horror. His hand ached. “I’m a thief. I’m not the wind. I steal purses and apples and coins from the pockets of fat merchants. It’s what I’m good at.”

“You may say what you will. The important thing now is keeping you alive long enough so you grow in strength and understanding. The Dark would like nothing more than to find you and cut your throat. The longer you stay alive, the more difficult it will be for that to happen.”

“Then we’d better start moving again, and fast, instead of standing here gossiping like a gaggle of old women.”

It was Ronan. He had been standing behind them for some time, but no one had heard him approach.

“There’s something out there,” he said. “Something wrong. The Dark, or whatever wives’ tale you prefer. Something strange. It’s near, but it doesn’t seem to be aware of us. It’s hunting someone else. But I’m afraid it might scent us.”

“Is it safe enough to continue north?” asked Severan.

“For the moment.”

“Perhaps if we veer somewhat west as well,” said the old man. “We aren’t so far from the sea, are we? The coast road would be close, and there are only a few small villages until Lastane. We might already be north of Lastane. If so, there aren’t hardly half a dozen villages north of Lastane until Harlech. We’d be quite safe.”

Ronan frowned, considering.

“It’d do us well to have a hot meal and a proper sleep at an inn,” continued Severan.

“Yes, please,” said Jute.

“Very well,” said Ronan. He glanced at the hawk, but the bird said nothing.

Across the blowing grasses they went, with the sky turning darker by the minute. This time, however, they angled away toward the west, and the last bit of light in the sky glowed there in evidence of the sun hurrying over the sea. The thunder muttered nearer as if it was a hound growling along their trail.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

FAMILIAR TRACKS

Jute and Severan topped a rise and found themselves gazing down a long slope that fell away to the level plain. High overhead, the hawk teetered from side to side in the sullen sky. The wind rushed by, muttering to itself in words that almost seemed intelligible to Jute. He thought he heard it murmur of the north and stones and the cold. The grass rippled in its passing and pointed north. North. Go north.

Good
, said the hawk with satisfaction in Jute’s mind.
Your ears are opening. North is where we are going, and north is where we shall stay. There’s safety in the north. The Dark doesn’t like Harlech. It never has, for it cannot get a foothold there. It tried. Once, a long time ago. A man without a name went there and built a tower, but it was thrown down.

Below them, a ways off, Jute saw the dark figure of Ronan standing in the grass. He did not move but seemed to be staring down at the ground.

“Maybe he’s found some animal tracks,” said Severan. He stopped to groan and rub at the small of his back. “A nice, sizzling roast for supper sounds marvelous.”

When they reached Ronan, he was pacing back and forth, still intent on the ground. He did not look up.

“Deer tracks, I hope?” said Severan.

“Hardly,” said the other.

“Well, I wouldn’t mind a rabbit. Do rabbits even leave tracks? They seem so small, so light, but they’re still tasty.”

“They’re horse tracks. Horse and wagons. Some people on foot.” Ronan frowned and rubbed a withered blade of grass between his fingers. “Two days ago, I think. Heading south by east. Probably toward Dolan. But we’re heading north.” He shrugged and then mumbled so only Jute heard him. “No account of ours.”

“North. Let’s get this wretched journey over with.” Severan started off briskly through the waving grass.

“He’s going east,” said the hawk after a moment.

“He’ll figure it out when he glances around. Come on, Jute. We’re a long ways from Harlech yet.”

They walked along in silence through the late afternoon, aside from Severan grumbling to himself every now and then. He had made a fair distance before bothering to look around, congratulating himself on his stamina that kept him so far ahead. But when he glanced back, the two others were already dark shapes trudging away toward the horizon. He had stumbled after them, puffing and blowing. They had had the grace not to say anything, though the hawk had chuckled out loud.

Are you going to ride on my shoulder all day?
asked Jute in his mind.

If you care to remember
, said the hawk,
I have been flying for most of the day. At any rate, I enjoy seeing things from down here. It’s fascinating to observe from a man’s point of view. For a while, at least.

I will learn how to fly, won’t I?

Do birds have wings? Of course.

Well, then, how about now?

I don’t think so.

Why not?

The hawk clucked in irritation, sounding like (in Jute’s estimation) nothing more than a pompous old hen.
Flying, my overeager fledgling, is not quickly learned. It is painful, for it invariably involves a great deal of falling from heights. This grassy earth is soft enough, but it’ll feel like rock when you come hurtling down.

I could stay low. Just a few feet off the ground.

The real danger is not in falling. The real danger is the Dark. When learning to fly—when learning any sort of thing that involves a great deal of, hmm, you might call it magic or power (though both words do little justice to what goes on)—the process can be messy. We shall wait until we reach Harlech. Harlech is safe. Er, safer.

Messy?
Jute looked at the hawk in confusion.
What do you mean? Is it messy like eating a peach?

No. It’s messy in that it scatters power here and there, like cupping your hands around a candle but having the light escape between your fingers. And when that happens, it can be seen. Things take notice.

Things?

Things. Creatures. The Dark.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

SMEDE GETS TOO GREEDY

Smede opened the curtains and was surprised to find there was still daylight outside. Twilight, more likely, but it was still daylight of sorts. He had had the curtains made years ago. Time and moths had nibbled holes in the wool, but the folds were so thick that they let no light in once the curtains were drawn. Smede rarely ever opened the curtains, and when he did, it was usually only to see if it was raining or to dislodge the dead bodies of moths that got lost among the folds and never found their way out. He enjoyed seeing them drift down to the floor.

It was not that he actually disliked sunlight. It was that, as the years had gone by, he had grown to consider sunlight fickle. One moment it could be shining brightly, and the next moment it could be sulking behind a cloud. It was not sufficient for his work. He needed a dependable source of light. Candles. Candles were best. He could sit for hours at his desk, scribbling his way through the Guild accounts with a nice fat candle perched on the desk, next to his ledger. Candlelight made wet ink glisten beautifully. And it lent a wonderful glow to gold. But gold on its own glowed enough to be seen in the dark.

“It’s the only reliable light there is,” Smede said aloud. He took a last disapproving look at the sunlight and the blue sky outside, just visible in slices and wedges past the chimneys and rooftops, and then whisked the curtains closed. There was work to be done and he didn’t need to fritter away his time staring out the window. He sat back down at his desk. But no matter how hard he tried, Smede could not concentrate. The numbers before him refused to add up. In a fit of temper, he jabbed his pen so hard against the paper that the nib snapped and flicked ink at his face.

“Bother.”

A large chest sat in the corner. Smede’s eyes wandered over to it.

“Not that I’d think of doing anything like that,” he said to himself. “Mustn’t even think of it. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Three fifties and naught point seven two percent compounded weekly for six weeks is—blast this pen. Nine twenty-eight, carry the remainder. I wonder if he’ll come back?”

Smede shuddered and looked everywhere in the room except for the chest.

“Mustn’t think of that. Three point seventy-five percent is too low. Four percent would be much more suitable for any merchant. The Silentman is too soft on ‘em. That leaves nine two five point three —no—nine two five point two eight. Perhaps he’ll never come back? He might be dead.”

If truth be told, Smede had a habit of talking to himself. This was born out of a life lived mostly in solitude, a life lived in the sole company of ledgers and candlelight and stacks of gold piled on his counting desk. Smede didn’t notice when his thought became speech and his speech became thought. It was a habit that could have been broken by a rigorous regimen of spending one hour a day drinking ale in any pub. The habit, however, had been getting worse over the last several months.

“Yes, he might be dead. Drat this pen. But then the Silentman’ll be free and clear. And all that gold. He’s got it hidden away, hidden like his face. May the shadow take his black heart. It’s our gold. But he doesn’t know he’s dead, does he? No, he doesn’t.”

And with these perplexing words, Smede found himself standing at the chest. The ward woven into its wood buzzed once in warning and then relaxed at his touch. He opened the lid.

“He might not be dead and he might not. He certainly looked dead. But the Silentman doesn’t know that.”

The chest was empty except for one thing. At the bottom lay a folded black cloak.

“The Silentman doesn’t know everything, does he? No, he doesn’t.”

Smede settled the cloak around his shoulders. It did not look like much. It was just a shabby old cloak.

“It’s our gold,” he said. “It’s ours and I’m doing him a favor by getting it back. Of course, he might be dead, so I’ll have to keep the gold for him. I’ll keep it safe. I’ve always been good, haven’t I? I’ve always done the dirty work.”

Smede drew the cloak’s hood over his head. Instantly, his face disappeared into shadow. It was peculiar. A mirror hung upon the wall and surely reflected enough light from the candle to see within the hood, but where Smede’s face should have been there was only shadow. He twitched at the hood to settle it more comfortably, snuffed out the candle and then touched the mirror. The glass shimmered and Smede stepped through, leaving the room silent and empty behind him.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

A FAILED GAMBLE

Dreccan Gor’s stomach ached.

It must have been something he had eaten for supper. Perhaps the roast lamb with mint sauce. Or the cream of flounder soup. Though the cheese soufflé hadn’t been as light as it should have been. It had become a chore by the time he had worked his way to the last slice. Normally, the cook spun soufflés as light as summer clouds.

Dreccan turned uneasily on his bed. Perhaps it had been that last handful of grapes? Yes. He shouldn’t have had the grapes. He should have exercised more willpower and said no. Dreccan groaned and rubbed his stomach. A glass of vinegar. That would do the trick. First thing in the morning, he would have a glass of vinegar to settle his stomach. And then perhaps three or four eggs scrambled with some of that lovely spicy sausage from Vomaro. And maybe some fried mushrooms.

Dreccan groaned again.

“You sleep uneasily, human.”

The voice came from somewhere in the room. Somewhere in the darkness near his bed. His skin crawled.

“Who’s there?”

But Dreccan didn’t need to ask. He knew the voice. A figure stood in the moonlight that shone through the window. The creature’s servant. Twin points of light gleamed at him from within the thing’s hood.

“What do you want?” Gor’s voice shook.

“You have something of ours. You and your thief master. We want it back.”