The Wicked Day (35 page)

The duke filled his wine glass. Candlelight gleamed on the surface of the wine and glimmered in its blood-red depths. “I don’t think you came calling on a snowy night for the sake of my hospitality. There’s death in your eyes. Not just Levoreth’s, I wager, but the death of many more people.”

“You’re right,” said Jute gently, feeling strangely old and sorry for the sad-looking man in front of him. He noticed that the duke’s hands, wrapped around the wine glass, were calloused and worn. His cuffs and collar were frayed, and a piece of straw was caught in his hair. “I think a great many people will die before all’s said and done. The Dark has come to Tormay.”

“The Dark? And what does that mean for me? What does that mean for Dolan?”

“Owain Gawinn has invoked the writ of sovereignty. He requests the duchies arm every able-bodied man of age and come to Hearne as swiftly as can be. For at the first thaw in the mountains, the Dark will come marching to Hearne.”

“And I fear the snow’s already thawing,” said the hawk.

“The writ of sovereignty?” The duke looked at Jute blankly. “That’s never been invoked to the best of my knowledge. Never. Not since the Midsummer War, and when was that? Three hundred years ago? Every able-bodied man of age? What in stone’s name is Gawinn thinking? I can’t just pull my shepherds and farmers in from the hills. Who’ll tend the sheep? Who’ll look to the fields? Besides, most of ‘em wouldn’t last a minute in battle.”

“The alternative is much worse,” said Jute. “If Hearne falls, then, one day, quite soon, the Dark will be at your doorstep.”

“Who are you?” said the duke angrily. “Who are you to walk into my hall with the snowflakes still melting on your shoulders and deliver such a ridiculous demand. You’re younger than most of my stable lads. And I’m to lead my people into battle on the strength of your words. Look at them. They’re simple folk. Happy with their lives, content with their work, their wives, and their children. They know nothing beyond the hills of Dolan. They don’t want to know anything beyond these hills. And yet you want me to take their staffs and hammers and shearing clippers away and give them swords.”

Jute did not say anything. The candles on the table guttered, the flames flickering and bending over like fingers pointing at him. The others sitting at the table continued their laughter and their boisterous conversation. Two serving girls bustled by with platters of roast goose. They plunked them down amidst a crash of crockery and spilled wine. Someone plunged a knife into a goose and loudly claimed victory. And yet there was only silence at the end of the table where the duke and Jute sat, with the hawk perched grim and thoughtful on the back of Jute’s chair and the ghost hovering behind them.

“I almost fear if I close my eyes," said the duke, his voice suddenly quiet, "I’ll open them to find myself standing at the edge of the world. Right on the top of the highest mountain of Morn, with nothing between myself and falling to my death except the wind. And you’re the boy who calls the wind.”

“I didn’t choose it,” said Jute fiercely, “but it’s mine now.”

“Aye,” said the duke. He shook his head and sighed. “Aye. I know. I don't envy you. Forgive me. Dolan is not the same these days. But, no matter. We’ll make your war ours as well.”

They left that same hour, though the duke offered them a place to stay the night. He stood at the door with light spilling out from behind him into the courtyard. His shadow stretched out before him, hand raised in farewell as Jute and the hawk drifted up into the sky. He was still standing there when Jute looked back down, a tiny figure limned by the light and motionless in the darkness.

“He’s a decent fellow,” said the ghost mournfully. “Can’t blame him for not wanting to march all his men off to die. Dying isn’t always pleasant, you know. We should’ve stayed the night. There were ghosts in that place. Sleeping, no doubt. But I could’ve woken them and had a nice chat.”

“We must return to Hearne,” said the hawk. "We've been gone long enough."

The snow tumbled down through the sky around them, nearly invisible in the darkness but obscuring anything that might be seen by virtue of the sheer number of flakes. Jute could not see a star in the sky. He couldn’t see the sky at all. They flew higher up, through the darkness and the wind and the sting of the snow. They flew in blindness, but somehow, Jute knew which direction they were going. Perhaps it was the taste of the wind in his mouth. Perhaps it was the smell of the air, or the dim awareness of the land sleeping in silence beneath the snow, so far and invisible below him.

They flew higher and broke through the darkness. The stars shone overhead, studding the night with their brilliance like gems thrown across the sky by a lavish hand. It was a purply black night of such softness that the stars sparkled harder and brighter in contrast. The moon floated by in a curve of pale light. Below, and all around them, the top of the clouds glimmered in an unending landscape of ghostly luminescence.

Jute drew in his breath at the sight.

“Amazing,” said the ghost. “Incredible. Never seen anything like it in my life. Or, er, in my death.”

“The other side of the sky,” said the hawk.

They skimmed along the top of the clouds, Jute in smiling delight and the hawk inscrutable beside him. In places, the clouds rose in towers of gray, slab upon slab of mist piled on each other in drifting disarray. In other places, the misty surface dropped away to reveal chasms and canyons. They flew over one such canyon and lightning exploded beneath them, white blinding light searing down somewhere far below to the accompaniment of a tremendous cracking shatter of thunder. The air smelled of hot iron. But though the light seared their eyes and they could not see for the brilliance of it, the night sky above them remained dark and serene and untouched.

“How much higher can we fly?” asked Jute. There was something in him that wanted to see more, to fly higher, to vanish into the sky.

“I’m not sure,” said the hawk. “My old master said one could fly as far as the stars themselves, but there’s danger in doing so, for the darkness grows deeper the further one goes. This is true, despite the brightness of the stars. There are silent places between the stars, lost in darkness, where the absence of light over countless centuries has left only the dark. I would not want to fly there.”

“But isn’t the house of dreams there as well?” said Jute, not put off by the hawk’s words. “Doesn’t it stand somewhere among the stars? I think I’d like to fly there and see that place.”

“It isn’t anywhere in particular—or, perhaps, it’s nowhere in general. One can’t fly there or walk there or find a ladder taller than the stars and climb there. The house of dreams is further north than north and farther than far. But it could also be quite close. Right around the next corner, as a matter of fact.”

“Obviously,” said the ghost from somewhere inside Jute’s cloak, “you can only get there by dying. I think that’s what you’re trying to say. Not that I should know. I still seem to be here in Tormay.”

They flew on through the night, with the moon drifting overhead across the trail of stars. The cloud tops sprawled around them, endless as the sea and, just like the sea, reflecting the moonlight back in one long swath of silver light stretching toward the invisible horizon. The stars glittered in the darkness and Jute thought he could hear the whisper of their speech as they gazed down. They had cold, clear voices, but the sounds they made seemed more akin to bells tolling from a distance rather than discernible speech. Music filled their tones, coloring it with the incomprehensible hues of starfire and time. The sounds belled through Jute’s mind and trembled in the wind.

Here is fire. Here is flame. Rejoice, o thou light!

I sing the passing years. Years and moments. Moments and years.

We are born of light. We are borne by light.

See, brothers, dost thou see?

Is there not a weariness of seeing, a weariness of sight?

True. . .

But can we ever close our eyes?

True. . .

We have only the light, and the light must see and see. . .

We will rejoice!

But the wind rushed and blew Jute and the hawk along their course under the night sky, murmuring to itself, and to them, that what stars thought was all well and good, but there was a war to fight. Battles to be won. The Dark to be defeated. And then, perhaps, could they go and topple some chimneypots?

“Here!” called the hawk, his words blowing back to Jute by the wind. “I think we're somewhere over the Rennet. We must head west. However, I would prefer flying lower to ascertain.”

“Here?” yelled the ghost. “What do you mean, here?”

“Would you mind not yelling in my ear?” said Jute. He had still been listening to the stars, and the sudden introduction of the ghost’s voice drowned out the delicate belling tones shivering in the distance.

“I’m not yelling in your ear. Oh, I suppose I am. Sorry. At any rate, you have two ears, don’t you? Don’t be so touchy.”

The hawk did not say anything more but dove down toward the clouds. Jute followed him, tucking his arms back against his sides and letting himself slip down the currents of the wind. Within seconds, he was plunged into a blindness of swirling gray vapor. The brilliance of the stars and the moon was gone. He was sorry of that. Snowflakes stung his face. He could not see the hawk any longer, but he could sense the bird with his mind, somewhere further below him.

“My eyes!” bawled the ghost. “I’m blind. I can’t see. Help, Jute! Help me!”

“Will you stop that? You’re yelling in my ear again. And if it makes you feel any better, I can’t see anything either. We’re flying through a cloud.”

“A cloud, you say? That reminds me of a lecture I once gave when I taught the first years. My lecture was titled ‘Similarities Between Cloud Formations and the Young Boy’s Mind.’ The audience was spellbound. You might not realize, but clouds drift. They drift, aimless, wandering, unfocused in their intent. Their material—as you well know, due to the fact that we’re currently flying through a cloud—is formless and airy. They contain little of anything except a few drops of water and perhaps a few pounds of lamb's wool. A boy’s mind is similar. It drifts, it wanders, the eyes gaze without focus. And, interestingly enough, if you grab a young boy about the neck and rattle his head around, water will dribble from his mouth. Just like rain.”

“Fascinating,” said Jute.

They broke through the bottom of the clouds then, diving down into a dark night. Jute saw the indistinct countryside far below him. The hawk was only a black spot in the darkness. Snow swirled down. The wind whistled in Jute’s ear.

“Goodness gracious me,” said the ghost. “Where are we now?”

The land fell away beneath them, down the slopes of the Rennet Valley. The valley, as they flew nearer, was a deep, complete darkness unbroken by even a single light. This was a peculiar thing, for the Rennet Valley was scattered with dozens of farmsteads, as well as quite a few villages along the banks of the river. Surely there should have been at least a few lights to break the darkness. A farmer milking his cows in the barn, with a lantern hung on the wall. A housewife putting up dough for the day’s baking. But there were no lights in the valley.

Jute angled down sharper and silently urged the wind onward. He reveled in the speed of their descent.

Quickly now. Faster.

The wind gathered up its breath and then let out a blast that blew Jute along in a howling rush. Snowflakes whizzed by. The hawk lurched and then righted himself.

“Careful!” he called. “The wind delights in such encouragement, particularly from you. Reining him in is another matter entirely.”

“Isn’t this the Rennet Valley?” said Jute.

“It is. I was right, but it's the easternmost reach. How odd. I'm afraid I misjudged our direction. We're still a great distance from Hearne.”

“There’s no light,” said Jute. “Shouldn’t there something? A shepherd’s fire? A lantern in a window?”

“Aye. And even a single candle so far below would be shining bright in such a night. But there’s only darkness. Something’s there. Something’s come to this valley, and I think it is our enemy. Listen. Can you hear the echoes on the wind? A murmuring and a rustling? The clank of armor? There’s an army below us, further to the west, I think. It marches in the darkness. They must have somehow made it through the Morns. I fear we have severely underestimated their resolve. This is a dreadful turn of events! We must reach Hearne as quickly as possible.”

“They march without lights,” said Jute. “A night without campfires, without warmth.”

He shivered despite the fact that the wind and the driving snow had as little effect on him as they would have had on an ice fox snug in its den. He shut his eyes and listened. At first, he heard nothing but the rushing song of the wind. It was a keening, moaning, howling blast, almost as if the wind played some strange whistling song through a pipe of many voices. Surely there was nothing to hear other than its tune. But then he heard something else. It was blurred and diminished by the wind and the distance, but a sound nonetheless. A sound of marching, the jingle of horses’ harnesses, the clatter of armor, of metal on metal. Oddly enough, however, there were no voices.

“And what does that mean?” asked the hawk, as if he had read Jute’s mind.

“Magic,” said Jute. “There’s something in the darkness below us, something other than an army of men. Something else. Almost as if—”