The Wicked Day (45 page)

“A little time,” repeated Jute. “I can feel them somehow, his army, marching west. Perhaps it’s the taste of the wind, or perhaps it’s the feel of him. He’s getting closer.”

“A little time or a lot of time. It doesn’t matter.” Severan shuddered. “The wihht knows one of the true names of darkness. Blast Nio! You remember what he did down under the university? That was the most powerful naming I’ve ever seen. Incredible! I mean,” he added hastily after both Jute and the hawk looked at him with surprised expressions, “truly horrific. Loathsome.”

“I think, Severan,” said the hawk, “you scholars sometimes forget that certain words are, in and of themselves, utterly evil. There is nothing admirable in what the creature did. And neither is there anything admirable in his knowledge.”

Jute shoved his hands in his pockets, thinking hard. His fingers closed on the tiny cold fragments of stone there. He looked up at the others.

“I have an idea,” he said. “It’s not an excellent idea, but it’s not a bad idea either. I’m afraid, though, that. . .” Here, his voice trailed off and he looked speculatively at the ghost.

“Oh?” said the ghost. “No. I know what you’re about to say. Send the ghost. He can’t be killed because he’s already dead. Besides, if he does get killed, it won’t matter because he doesn’t have any friends and no one will miss him. I’m not going.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Jute. “Of course we would miss you, but that’s beside the point. You aren’t going to get killed. And you won’t be going alone.”

“I won’t?”

“Severan is going as well.”

“I am?” said Severan.

“Yes, you are.”

Jute’s words carried the weight of the wind in them, the heavy, inexorable weight of the wind in all of its gentleness. The three others looked at him. He was only a boy of indeterminate age—perhaps fourteen years old?—standing in front of the fire. A thin boy with a shock of dark hair hanging over his forehead, his face thin and his gray eyes gazing back at them calmly. The flames traced a line of light along the edge of his form and, for a brief moment, it was as if starfire shone around him. There was something old in his eyes. Something impossibly old. The hawk nodded, partly in satisfaction and partly in sadness. The ghost said nothing. Severan leaned forward in his chair.

“All right, then,” he said. “What do you want us to do?”

And Jute told them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THROUGH THE TAPESTRY

“I can’t believe this,” said Arodilac.

He turned and glared at Severan and the ghost. The old man glared back at him. The ghost peered around Severan’s shoulder and winked at Arodilac.

“There’s a war going on,” said Arodilac, “and I should be on the wall with the rest of the Guard. Instead, I’m shepherding you two about while good men are dying in defense of this city.”

“I didn’t choose you,” said Severan. “Owain Gawinn did. Besides, if it’s any consolation, there’s an excellent chance we’ll wind up dead due to what we’re about to attempt.”

“Not me,” said the ghost cheerfully and much too loudly. “I’m already dead.”

“Shh. Keep your voice down.”

“All right for you to talk,” huffed the ghost. “You two can argue like cats, but when I try to say something—and I was being positive, mind you—you just tell me to pipe down. No doubt, it’s due to the fact that I’m a ghost. Ghosts aren’t accorded the same rights that you flesh-and-blooders have, and. . .”

“Hush,” said Arodilac.

“By the way,” said Severan to the ghost, “do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Jute mentioned to me, in strict confidence, of course, that your name was, uh, Staer Gemyndes.
The
Staer Gemyndes, you know, who wrote the
Gerecednes
.”

“He did?” said the ghost. “Who wrote the what? I forget a lot of things from day to day, my friend, and to be honest, I can’t even remember your name. Who are you again?”

"I assume you're trying to be humorous," grumbled Severan.

“Will you two please be quiet?” said Arodilac.

They were creeping along below the wall beside the castle’s kitchen garden. The wall on the castle side enclosed an acre of fruit trees, berry bushes, and vegetables. The other side of the wall was an overgrown rose garden, part of the estate of Tene Tiannes. That was the side where the three found themselves.

“As long as old Tiannes doesn’t let his dogs out, we’re fine,” said Arodilac. “I’ve snuck through this way dozens of times, and he only caught me once. His stable man gave me a thrashing, but I came back at night and put a badger in through his bedroom window, so it worked out fine.”

“Why’s that supposed to be reassuring?” said Severan. “That sounds like the beginning of a hundred years’ feud.”

Ivy and bramble vines grew over the wall like a waterfall of greenery. Even though the day was descending into twilight, there was enough light to see their goal. The stones of the wall beneath the ivy were crumbled in places. Arodilac began to climb.

“Easy enough for someone with young knees,” said Severan. He removed a bramble from his sleeve. “You forget that I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”

“You don’t see me complaining,” said the ghost. And with that, it faded somewhat and drifted through the wall.

“Staer Gemyndes? Hmmph.”

Severan began to climb. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his joints. He was old, but the decrepitude of his body was chiefly due to the years spent sitting at desks, hunched over books, reading and writing far into the night. Being a scholar might be good for the mind, but it did no favors to the body. He sighed and then winced as a thorn caught his hand. His brother Lannaslech was older than he but still able to ride a horse all day and handle himself well in a fight.

I should’ve read fewer books, Severan thought to himself. I do hope he’ll be all right. He and Rane. If they both die, I’ll have to move back into that cold manor and rule Harlech. Not that Harlech needs a ruler. I would do a terrible job as duke.

And Jute. Please let him choose wisely this day.

“Did you say something?” said Arodilac from on top of the wall.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

Descending the other side of the wall was quicker, mainly because Severan lost his grip and fell crashing down into a bush. This made a great deal of noise. Both the ghost and Arodilac scowled at him.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said.

They crouched in the shelter of some trees. The ground sloped up from where they were for about a hundred yards until it reached the castle. The space in between looked shabby. The lawns had obviously not been cut in a while. The sculpted bushes and hedges had grown shaggy. Roses and wisterias sagged from overgrown trellises.

“That’s odd,” said Arodilac.

“What?” said Severan. A headache was insinuating itself behind his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, but that did no good. A faint whispering buzz vibrated in his ears. Wards. Dozens of them. The castle was obviously rotten with them.

“Usually the place is streaming with light.”

It was true. The castle was dark. The stone walls were gloomy with twilight. But the windows were holes of dark shadow. Arodilac took a step backward into the shelter of the trees. He had the uncomfortable feeling that something was watching them from those windows.

“Oh, pooh,” said the ghost, deciding something had to be done to encourage the others. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. The wihht, or whatever is in there, might kill you both. But everyone has to die. I think my old pa used to say, why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? Besides, if you do wind up getting killed in some dreadful way, it isn’t such an ordeal once you’re dead. Looking back on it, you’ll wonder why you ever made such a fuss. Take it from me. I know.”

This encouragement was received in dubious silence from the other two.

“Are you sure this thing is new?” Severan held up his hand and squinted at a ring on his finger. It was a plain-looking band of silver.

“As of a month ago. My uncle’s steward gave me several when I, uh, lost my original ring. He forgot about ‘em when it was returned to me.”

“Maybe it’s keeping me from catching on fire or whatever nasty things the castle wards do, but I’m getting a splitting headache from all the buzzing and whispering in my ears. How many wards does this place have? Good grief. Your uncle must’ve been paranoid beyond understanding.”

“It should be all right. I wore it for weeks without any problems.” Arodilac paused and then continued hesitantly. “This needs to be done, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Severan. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the bag Jute had given him. He tried not to shiver. “It’ll work just fine.”

They crept across the grass, making their way from bush to tree to hedge, until they crouched beside the castle wall. A stone verandah jutted out several yards away. Arodilac shook his head.

“Normally,” he said. “there’d be guards patrolling the grounds. There’d be lights, activity, something. A page or two, sprinting down the road with messages for Lord Whatsit or Lady Whosis. But now, there’s nothing. It’s as if everyone’s left.”

“An excellent idea,” said the ghost. “Let’s leave now.”

Several bay windows looked out onto the verandah; with assistance from Arodilac’s knife, one of them swung open. The place was silent inside and there was a stale smell in the air. A faint light straggled in through the windows, but it was hardly strong enough to do more than gleam on the glass. They stood in a long hallway that stretched away into shadows on either side. Portraits of stern-faced soldiers and dapper nobility stared down from the walls. A flight of stairs climbed up into darkness at one end of the hallway.

“Is he even here?” whispered Severan. “Is anyone here?”

The ghost sniffed the air. “Oh, something’s here. Definitely. I just can’t tell whether it’s alive or somewhat alive. Or, for that matter, whether it’s human.”

They tiptoed down the hallway, past the stairs, and into a large anteroom. The ceiling soared above them. Carpet silenced the sound of their passing. A fireplace framed in marble huddled over cold ash. Another flight of stairs ascended to a balcony. A piano stood in one corner, its lid angled on an arm of silver-inlayed oak. Severan ran his finger across the wood. It was thick with dust.

The silence was heavy. The lightest and most innocent of silences is that of a baby sleeping. There is no guilt in such a silence, no regret, no sorrow, no awareness of evil. No anticipation of wickedness. As years pass, and as innocence fades with the accumulation of memories, the silence of a man can become something else. Something darker, tired, and wary. A house can behave in the same way. Wood remembers certain things. Stone has the longest memory.

“This place has some terrible memories,” said the ghost. “I have some dreadful ones of my own that I wish I could forget. Why do I forget all the good things? But the ones in this place? Brr!”

“Why do you always say things like that?” Severan could feel the skin on the back of his neck prickling. “It’s bad enough creeping around in here without you harping on about death and doom and all your other favorite topics. Were you like this when you were alive? I hope you realize you were the most famous wizard in all the history of Tormay.”

“I don’t harp,” said the ghost, stung at his words. “I observe. Ghosts have a nose for memories. After all, that’s primarily what we consist of. Mostly memory and a touch of magic. Regardless, something dreadful happened here. Recently.”

“Dreadful? How dreadful?” Arodilac couldn’t help asking.

The ghost sniffed the air, turning its head this way and that. “Oh, I’d say extremely dreadful. As far as I can tell, it involved a lot of people running around screaming unproductive things like ‘Help, Help!’ or ‘Save me!’ followed by those same people getting eaten. That’s the basic gist of it. I can smell it in the walls. The stones still echo with the screams. Stone doesn’t forget easily. But don’t look so concerned, young Arodilac; no one’s here anymore.”

“No one’s here? I thought you said there was someone here.”

“Yes, but he just left. About thirty seconds ago.”

“He?” Arodilac drew his sword. “Let’s get out of here and find him! That thing, the wihht, whatever my uncle is now.”

“Ah, but you’re mistaken.” The ghost pointed up the stairs. “He went through a door upstairs.”

“So he’s outside?”

“No. It isn’t a normal door he went through. He’s someplace else.”

“The five spells of Brimwell the Lame.” Severan nodded. “He built doors that allowed the user to pass through to distant places. He was a cripple and wasn’t one for getting about easily. If we find the door, we can find where the wihht went.”

They climbed the stairs, up into shadows that grew with every passing moment. The silence was no longer complete. Small noises insinuated themselves. The wind rattled at a windowpane. A clock ticked behind a locked door. Floorboards creaked beneath their feet.

“Here,” said Arodilac, his voice quiet. “This is the door to my uncle’s suite.”

The rooms were grander than anything Severan had ever seen. Ceilings arched up above marble pillars. Silk drapes framed windows looking out on the moonlit gardens below. Chandeliers hung cantilevered out from the walls, dangling dozens of candles, each in cups of crystal. Everywhere there was mahogany and ivory and gold. Mirrors reflected the trio as they stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. After a moment, the ghost pointed at another door on the far side of the room. They passed through into a dark room.