The Wicked Day (34 page)

“What could be worse than a sceadu?” said Jute, stirring restlessly on his chair. “If they were the first creations of—of. . .”

“Nokhoron Nozhan,” said the hawk.

“If they were his first creations, what could be worse?”

“History has known men who were just as evil,” said the hawk. “Individuals who sold their souls to the Dark and received great power in return. But the sceadus were terrible beings. They came from a time when the world was still young. The lord of darkness himself rode across the plains of Ranuin. His army marched behind him, unnumbered and endless. The earth shook with their passage. At his side were the sceadus. They were beautiful to look at, for they were born of starfire and the ancient tongue of the skies. But they were the lords of death, of dark magic and horror, and there was no evil that they would not do for their master. Nothing was more powerful than the sceadus, nothing save the lord of darkness himself. But Nokhoron Nozhan sleeps now in his fortress of night, as he has for hundreds of years.”

“But the question isn’t answered,” said the duke. “Who is our enemy?” A shadow crossed his weathered face. “My ancestors came west because of a great darkness that came to power in the far east. East and across a vast ocean, so I was told, though the stories fray more and more each time they are told. A terrible darkness, and I think there were sceadus, somehow, in the tales.”

“We’re missing something obvious,” said the hawk.

They sat for some time in silence. The ghost stared thoughtfully at the last slice of ham on the platter. Snow drifted down outside the window. A woman came and took the dishes from their table. The whisper of her footsteps faded away.

“My son Rane’s wife,” said the duke. “She’ll rule here in my absence, for Rane and I shall ride south. She’d prefer to go to war with us, but she will have to stay and see to it that her seven sons do not fill this place with bear cubs and fox kits while we’re gone, or run off to pester the ice giants. They’re young still and do not yet fully understand wisdom, their grandfather’s affection, or why one should not bother giants.” He smiled a bit at this.

The moor was deep in snow when they left the manor of Lannaslech. They flew up into a dark gray sky, even though it was only midday. The ghost mumbled disconsolately to itself, somewhere in the folds of Jute’s cloak.

“A fire on the hearth,” said Jute, looking back at the house. “Food on the table and snow outside. I can’t imagine anything nicer.”

“You’ll have it someday, if you prefer, when this is all over. Didn’t Severan offer you his home? It’s not far from here, further out on the headlands and beside the sea.”

“When will all of this be over?”

“Things do end,” said the hawk. “At least, most things do. I daresay you’ll be an old man someday, with your feet on the hearth, a good supper in your belly, and smoking a pipe. These days will just be memories for you and the wind to talk over.”

“And you,” said Jute. “You’ll be perched on a chair back, telling us what we’ve forgotten.”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Hours later, the hills of the Mearh Dun rose beneath them, huddled and sleeping beneath the snow. Smoke trailed from the chimney of a shepherd’s hut tucked down in a valley. Light shone from the barn beside the hut. Jute could smell the warm scent of sheep on the wind. Sheep bedding down for the night. An old collie dreaming by the fire and the sharper, contented scent of pipe smoke. They flew on. The wind was soundless around them, for it could not exceed their speed.

“I remember something about Dolan,” said the ghost, his voice near Jute’s ear. “This is the duchy of Dolan, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the hawk. “From the hills of the Mearh Dun south to the Lome Forest. It’s a beautiful land. A land of golden summers that linger long into the fall. It is a quiet duchy and they raise excellent horses.”

“That’s what it was,” said the ghost. “It was the story of a horse. I think I wrote it down one day. I daresay I wrote quite a bit back then, when I was still alive. A giant of a horse who could run as fast as the wind. His name was Min the Morn. His mane was as dark as night and his eyes shone with starlight from the house of dreams. He had hooves as hard as iron. When he came to this land, there were no hills here, no valleys or dells. There was only a level plain. But Min the Morn galloped across the plain, and the hammer of his hooves broke the earth and that was how the hills and valleys of the Mearh Dun came to be. At least, that’s how I’ve heard the story. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Perfectly true,” said the hawk.

They came to the town of Andolan, spiraling down through the falling snowflakes. Towers and chimneys and roofs rose up to meet them. They landed with a crunch of snow underfoot, standing in a street that opened into a small square. A castle loomed in the darkness beyond the square. It was a castle—of that there was no doubt, with its two towers rising above the roofs around it—but it was small in comparison to the regent’s castle in Hearne. Small and shabby. Lights shone in its windows.

“Andolan,” said the hawk in a pleased voice. “It’s been many years since I’ve been here. They’re good folks. Our friend Declan would be known well here. At least, his family would, for the duke of Dolan held the Farrows in high esteem.”

“Why’s that?” said Jute.

“Horses.”

An archway opened through the castle wall into a courtyard deep in snow. However, there were several well-cleared paths connecting the castle with the archway, as well as a low-roofed building on one side of the courtyard.

“Stables, I imagine,” said Jute, sniffing the air.

A boy exited the stable at that point, well-bundled up against the cold. He scuffed along the snowy path toward the castle and cast a curious eye at them, more at the hawk than Jute.

“Dinner’s on, I s’pose,” he said.

They followed him into the castle. The place bloomed with light and warmth. Fires burned on hearths and candles glowed in every hodgepodge manner of stand and chandelier. A cheerful confusion of conversation filled the air. Banging and clattering of pots and pans came from somewhere down a hallway. Most important of all, there was a wonderful smell of roasting meat.

“This way,” said the boy, noticing the ghost for the first time. His eyes widened.

A brighter wash of light leapt up before them. An enormous fire crackled on an enormous hearth. Tables and their benches groaned under the weight of food and diner alike. To Jute’s appreciative eye, it was not unlike an inn filled with cheerful patrons, but larger than any he’d ever seen and decorated with gorgeous old tapestries on the walls, painted portraits hung cluttered between the tapestries, and weapons arranged like fantastic sprays of iron flowers on whatever bare spots of wall were left.

“Welcome to the house of Hennen Callas.”

Jute turned to find an elderly man smiling at him.

“Thank you,” said Jute. “My name’s Jute.”

“I am Radean, steward of Lord and Lady Callas. You are welcome.” His eyes drifted to the hawk on Jute’s shoulder. “You and your hawk. Ah, your ghost as well. Come, let me find you a place. No one, traveler or stranger, is ever turned away from this table.”

Jute found himself wedged in between a fat man and an extremely old man as bent and as withered as late summer grass. A blur of faces lined the table opposite him, cheerful, loud, and bent in enjoyment over their plates and the platters passing up and down the table. A plate appeared in front of him, as if by magic, piled high with food. Someone leaned over and poured hot ale into his mug.

“Set to, laddie,” said the fat man. “You’re nothing but bone. If the wind comes up, you’ll blow away.”

Ah, well
, said the hawk in Jute’s mind.
A few minutes delay won’t be trouble. The Callases are famous for their hospitality. Is that duck on your plate?

“Here,” said the fat man, who seemed disturbed by Jute’s skinny frame. “Try some of the parsnip casserole. And this cheese. The roast mutton’s nice with mint sauce. The mint sauce is crucial. That’ll fatten you up.”

“Er, thanks.”

“Nice mutton, that!” bawled the old man. He downed his mug of ale and slammed it onto the table. “That were my sheep. Slaughtered three yearlings fer tonight. Ain’t no one raises sheep like us Hyrdes. Best sheepherders in Dolan, we are. Look now, sonny, you don’t need no mint sauce to gussy it. This here mutton can stand alone.”

“The mint sauce is vital,” said the fat man somewhat tensely.

“You have mint sauce for brains.”

“I’ll ignore your manners, Cordan Hyrde,” said the fat man, “as it’s doubtless an excess of manure fumes have addled your wits. See here, boy: the sharpness of the mint undergirds the pungency of the mutton. It’ll delight your mouth. Try it. You’ll be astounded.”

“The only thing pungent around here’s your breath!”

“I’ll try it both ways,” said Jute, looking around nervously. To his amazement, no one else at the table was paying the altercation any attention. There were several other conversations being conducted at equal or even higher volumes.

“Hyrdes the best sheepherders in Dolan? Bah! You aren’t fit to herd pigs.”

“You call yourself a cobbler?” said the old man. “Wynn the torturer is what they should call you. Buy from Wynn if’n you enjoy screaming every time you take a step. The last time I wore one of your boots I couldn’t walk for a week.”

“My boots are works of art,” said the fat man. “Your feet should be so lucky.”

“Art?” spluttered the other. “My sheep can—!”

“Gentlemen, I trust you are enjoying your dinners? Excellent mutton, Hyrde. Can’t say I’ve had better. By the way, Wynn, my wife enthuses about those slippers you made her. And who’s our guest? You’re welcome, young sir. You and your hawk.”

“Er, well,” said the fat man.

Jute turned. A tall man with gray hair stood there, a cup of wine in his hand. When he saw Jute's face, the man’s eyes widened slightly and then he nodded.

“If you’d do me the honor of joining my wife and me at our table,” he said, speaking more quietly this time. “You and your hawk.”

“And ghost,” said the ghost somewhat peevishly.

“Of course,” said the tall man.

At the far end of the hall, a table sat on a raised dais. A chair was added for Jute, and faces along the table turned to him, politely curious.

“Allow me to introduce. . .” The tall man looked at Jute in question.

“My name is Jute.”

Faces smiled and nodded and mouthed their own names, but Jute did not listen. His attention was caught by a lady sitting opposite him. After one quick glance at him, she turned her gaze to her plate, her face white and her lips compressed. The tall man sat down in the chair beside her.

The duke and duchess
, said the hawk in Jute’s mind.
Hennen and Melanor Callas.

Conversations resumed around the table. Jute was aware of bits and pieces of talk—the price of wool in Vo, the carp in the river that had almost dragged in Vyan Sol’s dog, an upcoming wedding—but he was even more painfully aware of the duchess across the table. The fork in her hand trembled, rattling against her plate.

“My dear?” said the duke, but his eyes were on Jute. “I remember you,” he said, nodding. His voice was low enough that no one at the table heard him except for his wife, Jute, and the hawk. “You were at the regent’s ball. When—when the darkness stood before Levoreth.”

“Our Levoreth,” said the duchess in a choked sort of voice. She looked up at Jute. “She was our Levoreth. Do you understand? She was our family.”

“I understand,” said Jute quietly.

“She was the heart of Dolan,” said the hawk in an even quieter voice. He sounded sad and subdued. “She was here before the people came, before they came from the east. She loved this land even then. But she loved it even more when your towns and villages were established. She loved the life you brought.”

“I miss her,” said the duchess, staring in some bewilderment at the hawk. “Is she. . . is she. . .?”

“Is she dead?” said the duke, finishing the words his wife could not speak.

Jute did not answer, but his face spoke plainly enough.

“I thought as much.” The duchess blinked. “I’ve had very bad dreams recently. If you don’t mind, please excuse me, I think I will—pardon me.” She got up from her chair, tried to smile at Jute, failed, and then hurried away.

“You will have twins in the spring,” said the hawk. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The duke drained his glass of wine. “A boy and a girl. She told us. I think we’ll name the girl Levoreth.” He stared glassily in front of him, not seeing Jute or the hawk any longer, not hearing the cheerful hubbub of conversation that filled the room. “There’s always been a Levoreth in Dolan, and there always will be, by shadow.”

“Not by shadow, I trust,” said the hawk.

“No, not by shadow,” said the duke. His gaze focused on the hawk. “There are old stories told about you in Dolan, master hawk. Stories that were old even when my grandfather was a child. There’s only one talking hawk in all of Tormay, is there not?”

“That speaks the language of man, yes.”

“The hawk and the boy who calls the wind.”

“And me,” mumbled the ghost. “The ghost. I wonder if I’ll be remembered some day?”