The Shadow at the Gate (72 page)

He felt a shift in the air behind him. A sudden chill in the breeze.

“You were unsuccessful,” he said, not bothering to turn.

“The bitch wolf intervened.”

The voice was quiet and thin, so quiet that Brond had to strain his ears to hear. He saw what looked like a disturbance in the air, a bending of the light. It drew closer.

“Again, she defeated you,” he said. “Despite the strength I lent you.”

“She’s dead.”

The duke stared at the fire and did not answer. “Dead,” he said to himself, almost in disbelief. After a while, he grimaced and then shook his head, as if clearing an unwanted thought from his mind. “But you didn’t secure the means of her death.”

“No. It was all I could do to keep myself alive. I was forced to kill the remainder of your soldiers and their horses. Even they were barely enough to sustain me.”

“Do you know where the girl is?”

“I don’t know. Wandering the plain. She was mute as stone when I took her. Even when I slaughtered her father and mother before her eyes, she did not cry out.”

“An old, proud line,” said the duke. “But she’ll bend, she will. The Dark has been dreaming of her. We need to find her.”

“I must go,” said the sceadu. “My death is upon me unless I can feed. There’s a village not far from here, on the banks of the river.”

“You’ll stay and tell your tale,” said the duke, and though the sceadu strove to evade him, he caught at the few thin strands of life left and bent the thing to his will. It told him its story, of the death and fire it had brought to the Farrows, of the silent, white-faced girl and the galloping ride back across the plain. It spoke of the onslaught of the wolves, of the death that they had brought to the duke’s men, and of the broken earth.

“Two shards of my jewel, set in two knives,” said the sceadu. “I’ve carried them for countless years. They were my heart. That’s how I slew the wind, and it did for the wolf as well. But my heart is diminished now. I have little left.”

“I would’ve given much to have that knife.” The duke’s voice was quiet, but it trembled with anger. “First the wind and now this. I’m not sure whether to praise or curse you.”

“I would’ve had it,” said the sceadu, “but my life was running through my fingers and now it’s nearly gone.”

“Then go,” said the duke.

He turned back to the fire, but his eyes did not see the flames. He saw her again, smiling and moving lightly across the ballroom floor in the regent’s castle. Had she known? He could still feel her beauty like an old wound in his memory. There had been an echo in her eyes of starfire and impossible distance and the silence of the house of dreams. With a snarl, he forced the memory from his mind. Finding the sceadu’s knife and the girl were the important things now. Just as important as finding that accursed thief boy. A thought came to him. He stood up and paced back and forth. The fire crackled and sent sparks up into the night.

Of course!

No wonder the Dark wanted the girl. No wonder his dreams had been troubled with her face. He had puzzled over that for days. But the Dark had known what the future held for her. Brond smiled, his teeth bared. There would be no need to find the sceadu’s knife now. Only the girl. And after her, if it was possible, the boy. With the two of them, he could rule the world.

“But how to catch her?” the duke said out loud. “My poor hounds are gone, and the sceadu will be no use to me for days. If I don’t act now, she might wander far away.”

He snapped his fingers and the fire roared up in response.

“Boy!” he shouted.

The chamberlain’s assistant came running out of the darkness, wiping his hands on his apron.

“My lord?”

“Has the deer been gutted and cleaned already?”

“Yes, my lord,” said the boy. “It’s roasting on the spit now with the geese. Your supper shall—”

“Never mind that,” said the duke. “Bring me the skeleton and hide.”

“B-but the offal’s been buried.”

“Dig it up.”

“Aye, my lord.”

In no time, the boy returned with his arms piled high with a dirty mess of hide and bones. The duke took it from him and the boy stood there, gaping, until Brond snarled at him. The duke strode away from the camp and the firelight. The darkness of the plain settled around him, waiting. The hide was already in tatters. He slashed it into three piles with his knife. He snapped the bones into pieces. The skull shattered under his boot. He scattered the bone shards on the three piles and stood back.

Brond did not speak, but frowned, concentrating. The darkness crept closer and, high overhead, the moon hid itself behind a cloud. The piles of bone and hide twitched and then, abruptly, heaved themselves up on slender, gangly legs. Darkness wove in and out of the gaps of hide and attached itself to bone, weaving sinew and flesh from shadow. Shards of bone flashed in their mouths like teeth and a red light glinted where their eyes should have been.

“Listen well,” said the duke. “I’ve a task to be done.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

THE END OF THE HUNT

Giverny was not aware of the day passing by. She only knew a dull, heavy grief that blinded her senses. Her body worked on its own, without needing her thought. Her legs walked on, even while she saw nothing, and the sun neared its completion of the day.

She could not see or smell or hear what was around her—the Scarpe plain at twilight—but the senses of her memory were sharp. Unbearably sharp. She could smell oatmeal steaming over a fire. She saw her mother’s face intent over the fire, sweat gleaming on her brow from the heat. From somewhere close by, she could hear her father whistling to himself. The tuneless whistle meant he was whittling or braiding a halter or polishing a weapon, any number of things he did with his callused hands. And then she saw Levoreth’s face smiling before it dissolved into earth.

There is another way to mourn the dead.

The voice was deep. Giverny had heard it before inside her mind. It had a strange but reassuring sound to it. A furry sound. That was it.

The wolf.

The shock of the thought caused her to truly see. Beside her, so close she could have stretched out her hand to touch his fur, paced a wolf. His fur was black and his eyes were silver. She shivered away from him.

I would never hurt you.

“How can you speak inside my mind?” she said. “What are you?”

A wolf.

“Can all wolves speak like this?”

The wolf chuckled.

To you? Aye, all wolves can speak so.

The wolf opened his mouth and she glimpsed sharp white fangs.

“But if mindspeech troubles you,” he said, “I can speak out loud. And this, other wolves cannot do.”

Giverny was not sure what frightened her more—the sound of the wolf’s voice in her mind, or the sight of him speaking out loud. She could not answer the wolf for a while. She was shy of him. The wolf was content to pace in silence beside her. Far off on the horizon, the jagged line of mountains shone in the afternoon sun. The sun was dipping down in the west, and Giverny’s shadow wavered across the grass.

“What did you mean?” she said. “What did you mean about—about—”

“About mourning?” said the wolf, when Giverny could not finish her sentence. “When death comes to a wolf it is a gift, a good thing. The chance to chase the sun and join the great hunt which courses beyond the stars. Those who remain behind should not mourn such a thing. They should live joyously in honor of the departed.”

“I can’t live in joy,” faltered Giverny.

“Perhaps not now, but when time has passed? For now, the important thing is that you shall live. Only that. For if you die, then the Dark shall tighten its grasp upon this land.”

She did not understand what he meant. She was not sure if she wanted to understand.

“Who are you?” she said.

“I am the companion of the Mistress of Mistresses, her paw and her fang. I am the memory of the Earth. I am he who stands at the side of Eorde against the Dark.”

“And who am I?” said Giverny, her voice shaking.

“You are the Mistress of Mistresses. The guardian of the Earth and bulwark against the Dark.”

“No! That can’t be true. I’m just a girl.”

The wolf did not say anything, but he regarded her with his silver eyes. Giverny fell to her knees on the grass. The grass was cool and reassuring against her hands. Tears sprang from her eyes. She lay on the ground and pressed her face against the grass. And the earth spoke. She could hear it murmuring to her. Wordless impressions of stone and silence and peace. It spoke of mountains and forests and the dry and thirsty desert of the south. It spoke of trees and hills and rocks. It spoke of the animals that found their home in and on the earth. And it spoke her name.

Giverny did not know how long she lay there. When she sat up, the sun had set and there was only a purpling radiance on the horizon in the west. Stars pricked their way into life in the eastern sky, one by one, in faint points of promised brilliance. The wolf sat by her.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I fell asleep. But I don’t think I’m tired anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever be tired again.”

“Once,” said the wolf, “I used to be an ordinary wolf.”

“I know,” said Giverny.

The wolf nodded in a satisfied fashion, as if he had remembered something he had almost forgotten.

“My name,” he said, “is Ehtan.”

They made their way quickly then, for Giverny found that she could run along with a loping pace that did not tire her. Every time her foot struck the earth, it seemed as if life flowed up into her from the ground.

“We should journey east for now,” said Ehtan, running by her side. “We’re near the forest of Lome and that’s a friendly place for our kind. I do not want to be out on this plain at night, for I do not trust the sky. It’s for your safety. Consider that a seed needs careful nurture as it sprouts. It is only later, when it has become a tree, that it can withstand the storm. You are that seed and I fear that a storm draws near to Tormay, for the Dark is in this land. We must find safety for a while, and the forest shall give it.”

It was darker now. A cold wind rose out of the evening and brought with it the scent of rain and the smell of wood and leaves and the damp rot of the forest floor.

“We’re close,” said Ehtan. “Noses are better than eyes.”

And he was right. As they ran on into the night, Giverny felt her senses come alive, but none more so than her nose. A musky, peppery odor blew by, and with a thrill she realized she knew what it was. A fox. A fox intent on the hunt, and there was the scent of its prey—the sweet, warm smell of a frightened rabbit. She could smell the jona plant, stripped of its summer bloom by the weeks of cold weather. Grass and earth and stone and the faint whiffs of worms and beetles and grasshoppers. And beyond it all, the deep old damp of the forest.

The forest loomed up out of the dark. It was just in time, for the rain began to fall. The girl and the wolf paused under the cover of the trees at the forest’s edge and looked back. The leaves above them rustled and dripped with water. The light was failing and the darkness rolled across the plain toward them.

“What is it?” said Giverny. “I can feel unease in your mind. I can smell it.”

“I do not know yet. I might be imagining things.” The wolf’s teeth flashed in what looked like a smile. “You are my first and only charge and I am perhaps overly anxious of my duty. I wish the wind was blowing toward us.”

They made their way deeper into the forest. Besides the rain pattering on the leaves overhead, the place was silent to the ear. But Giverny was starting to discover there was another way to listen than with her ears. She turned to the wolf, delight on her face.

“Can all animals listen like this?”

“Listen like what?” said Ehtan.

“This murmuring in my thoughts! Oh, it’s not in my thoughts. Rather, it waits politely on the edge of my thoughts, waiting for me to turn to it, to choose to listen to it.”

“Most animals can, to a degree. But nothing such as what you are able to do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” said the wolf, “you are the Mistress of Mistresses.”

The wonder of being able to listen to the speech of animals was so great that, without realizing it, Giverny’s grief fell away. She would have walked straight into tree trunks and stumbled over bushes, so intent was she on listening, were it not for Ehtan patiently nudging her this way and that as they walked deeper into the forest.

A badger chiding her son.

Eat your supper now, there’s a good boy.

But I don’t like grubs.

They’re good for you. Don’t you want to grow up nice and strong? Besides, grubs’ll make your fur shiny smooth. See, your pa eats his grubs right up.

A mouse telling a bedtime story to his six children.

Once upon a time, there lived a mouse named Cheesetwig. He lived in a hole beneath an old willow tree. One day—