The Hawk And His Boy

by Christopher Bunn

  “Yes, yes,” broke in Gerade. “Your study is considerable, but my patience is not. So what about fire and wind? Speak, man, and bring some clarity to this confounded mosaic.”

  “Very well,” said Nio.

  But he would not speak a word until the other men retreated to the far corner of the room. They grumbled at this, but he was unmoved. His knowledge had come at a price and he was not inclined to share it. He first approached the small mosaic bordered with carved flame on the left-hand wall.

  “Brond, byrnan, sweodol, ond lig,” he said quietly. “Fyr.” The stones of the fire mosaic shifted slowly and then the dull color of them darkened. The music on the edge of his thoughts changed. The new melody sounded uncertain and ominous.

  Would it reveal a dragon? Nio’s pulse quickened. “Bael!”

  The stones adjusted themselves into darkness etched with darkness. Within the absence of color there was the suggestion of a face. A human face. No. Nearly human. There was something wrong with the eyes. Something slightly off. Unbidden, the memory of a sketch in an old book came to him. He gaped at the little mosaic in astonishment. But only for an instant.

  “Undon,” he said, and the image blurred somewhat until the face was no longer recognizable. The others hurried forward. From where they had been standing they had only been able to discern the stones’ movement rather than detail. They gawked at the little mosaic.

  “What is it?”

  “Were your words enough? You brought color to it. That’s more than we could do.”

  “I suppose those are eyes and something of a face, but it’s impossible to tell where it begins and leaves off. Perhaps there, right where that deeper shadow—”

  “You needn’t be so secretive about a few old words, Nio. Why, I’ll tell you the thirty-three curses of Magdis Gann in exchange, if you want.”

  “Much better than our efforts, but is that all you can do with fire?”

  “Yes,” said Nio.

  “Rather like a fire salamander, I’d say.”

  “What? Are you crazy? Who ever heard of a fire salamander with black scales?”

  “Perhaps a black dragon,” said Ablendan. “I read somewhere—I can’t remember where—that if the gefera of fire is a dragon then it must be a black dragon.”

  That gave them pause, and they all studied the image uneasily.

  “Why black? That doesn’t necessarily follow. Might as well be a red dragon. If there actually is such a kind.”

  “The worst of the lot, supposedly. A black dragon?”

  “I certainly hope not,” said Gerade. “Surely they’ve all died out or have fallen asleep. No one’s seen a dragon for five hundred years.”

  “Rubbish, Ablendan. Don’t believe everything you read.”

  “I can’t remember where I read it. Anyway, has anyone gone looking for dragons recently? I thought not, so it’s illogical to assume there aren’t any.”

  “Who’d be dumb enough to go looking? There might be some left, beyond the northern wastes, but the cold will keep them asleep.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “The seventh stricture of dragons states that the heart-flame of a dragon can be dimmed by nothing except death. Therefore, the cold would have no effect on them.”

  “Nonsense!”

  They might have continued arguing had Nio not shooed them back to their corner. He wanted to try some words on the wind mosaic. They complained, but they had no choice. Wizards and scholars were not fond of sharing hard-won knowledge. Basic knowledge, such as what was taught in the Stone Tower on the Thule coast, was shared freely. Anything beyond that was jealously guarded, kept to trade with others for a word here or a newly discovered thread of history there. All of the men in that room possessed knowledge unknown to the others. Though they grumbled at Nio, they understood and would have done the same had they been in his position.

  He gazed up at the lifeless mosaic of the wind. He was uneasy now, thinking of what stared down from the fire mosaic. So what lay behind this one? Something else just as disturbing? He knew only three words of the wind, surely not enough to bring much definition to the mosaic stones.

  “Fnaest, rodor, ond styrman,” he said.

  The tiny stones sprang into life, flowing around each other and lightening in hue. The little mosaic became a patch of blue sky from which a hawk’s head stared down. Black eyes and black feathers tinged with silver. Blurred, but clear enough to recognize. He was surprised that only three words could bring clarity to the wind mosaic, when six had barely done the same to the fire mosaic.

  Still, how could you measure the power of one word against another? Some scholars argued that the purer the form of the word in relation to the first language spoken, the more power it contained. Others said words gained power according to how they were used. Some maintained that certain words were influenced over the years by the Dark. Words that had been twisted into a mockery of their original intent. Power flooded through these words easily, but it was power that could only be used for evil. Such words were few and far between, and anyone who discovered one was bound by honor to destroy whatever clues, whatever writings or artifacts led them to the word.

  “A hawk,” said someone behind him. They had silently advanced while he had stood lost in thought.

  “Were you expecting a rooster?”

  “It makes perfect sense,” said Severan. “A hawk as the companion of the wind. You can see the storm’s cruelty in his eyes and the softness of the breeze in his feathers.”

  “Excellent,” said Gerade. “We’ve made some progress, despite the sea. This hawk, the wolf in the earth mosaic, and our mystery creature of fire. I’m puzzled about the wolf. The anbeorun of the earth, Eorde, has always been friendliest to the race of man. She’s always popping up in our history. There’s a decent amount known about her. Everything I’ve read, from Staer Gemyndes on down, suggests that her companion is the legendary horse Min the Morn.”

  “Perhaps the little mosaics don’t represent the four companions?”

  “What, are you saying a hawk would be the enemy of the wind? You, my friend, are stupider than you look.”

  “Enemy or companion. Those seem to be the only logical options.”

  “Staer Gemyndes must have got it wrong. Unbelievable!”

  Severan shook his head. “Even the wisest must be allowed the luxury of failure. Let’s see how the mosaic will work now, despite the lack of the sea.”

  Nio left them then, arguing about what pictures they should call forth, while the huge mosaic overhead swirled with the sound of their voices. He wanted to use the mosaic, but for that he would need the room to himself. He didn’t want the others to see what he was interested in. Particularly Severan. He wondered what their reaction would be if they found out he could bring the fire mosaic closer to clarity, and that he knew one word of the sea. One word.

  He trudged up the stairs and wove a wisp of fire from some moonlight. The flame lit him through the long hall as he picked his way around the blue tiles. The mosaic would find the boy and the box for him. He would return later—after all was quiet and the old fools were snoring in their beds. Let them dream of finding the lost book of Staer Gemyndes.

  When Nio reached his house, he stood a while in the entrance hall, dreading what waited him within the closet there. His mind was tired. He opened the door. The wihht stood within.

  “Go down to the cellar,” he said. “Wait there until I have further need of you.”

  Silently, the wihht obeyed him. As it shuffled past, the thing looked at him furtively with one sidelong glance. Nio went up to his room and cast himself onto his bed. He immediately fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE HAWK

  Jute woke in the gray light of morning. For a moment, he did not know where he was, but then memory flooded back in with the surge of the nearby surf. His clothes were cold and damp against his skin. Pebbles and sand grated beneath him. He sat up and then wished he hadn’t. The sky tilted
overhead. His head ached.

  Careful.

  Something moved at the edge of his sight. He turned to see and then scrambled backward, staring, until he was painfully stopped short by a boulder.

  Careful. The voice sounded amused. You have been through enough to kill most people. The hawk watched Jute with unblinking black eyes. His feathers were a glossy black. Around the eyes and the edge of the cruel ivory-colored beak, the feathers softened to silver.

  “You—you’re a hawk!” said Jute.

  A hawk. That will do well enough.

  “But birds don’t talk!” said the boy.

  To most people, no. We could not be bothered. You are different.

  “What do you mean?” The boy leaned forward without knowing it.

  Something akin to a sigh escaped the hawk’s beak.

  There are those fated to fly faster and higher. Those who have always held the sky in their hearts. Some who fly higher than others. And then there is you. You cut yourself on the knife, did you not?

  “I never meant to touch it,” said Jute.

  At that, the hawk’s wings unfurled with a whisper of feathers. A breeze fanned the boy’s face. Further down the beach, the surf rolled up the sand toward them.

  Do not speak so! Thank the wind, the sky, every star in the heavens. Blessed be the house of dreams that you touched the knife. Knowing what one was meant to do, or not meant to do—this knowledge is beyond the understanding of man, beyond the wizards, beyond you. Even you.

  “Who am I?” said the boy.

  The hawk sprang into the air with a beat of his wings.

  That will be learned one day at a time. Suffice it for now to stay alive. Walk softly, for things wake that should not have been disturbed. You would do well to avoid their attention. Above all else, listen.

  “Listen? To you?”

  To me, yes. Amusement, once more in the voice. Listen to the sky. Listen to the wind.

  The hawk mounted into the sky. Morning light gleamed on his feathers.

  For now, be content with staying alive, youngling.

  “Wait!” he called, but the hawk wheeled away into the blue and was lost in the sunlight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  STOLEN APPLES

  Arodilac Bridd was the orphaned nephew of the regent and his heir apparent, as Botrell had no offspring in evidence, or any other living relatives. Arodilac was sixteen, a gawky boy, teetering on the brink of manhood. His head was thatched with hair as yellow as straw, and guileless blue eyes blinked from his face. He had the thick wrists of a natural swordsman, but his hands were still awkward, and, at the moment, they were knocking over a mug of ale.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Arodilac.

  Across the table, Ronan hurriedly pushed his chair back. He mopped at his pants and thought about the Flessoray Islands. He had been there, once, when he had been young. His mother’s family came from the coast east of the islands. Older cousins of his had taken him out in a boat. The day had been cold and clear, with the light on the white sail and the wave tops so bright they had brought tears to his eyes. On the horizon, the islands rose remote, too far for a day’s outing. He had stared at their silhouettes with all the dreaming intent of boyhood. Even now, he still felt the longing. The pale sunlight of the north, serene and gleaming on the lonely sea. Solitude and peace. He sighed.

  “Tell me how it happened,” he said. “From the beginning. Don’t leave any details out, even if it means your honor at stake.”

  Arodilac fidgeted with a spoon, his face reddening.

  “Well, you see—it’s Ronan, isn’t it?—you see,” he said, “it’s not just my—”

  “Or if it’s her honor at stake,” interrupted Ronan. “I don’t care. I’m a thief and we don’t care about things like honor. All I care about is getting the job done and getting paid.”

  Arodilac glared at him for a moment from across the table and then turned to stare glumly out the window.

  They were seated in an anteroom in the servants’ quarters of the regent’s castle, the door locked and two Guardsmen standing outside to discourage any interest. It wasn’t proper for thieves and nobility to be seen together, though many nobles were adept at robbing their people and the odd thief or two managed to be noble on occasion.

  Ronan had never been inside the castle before. Normally, he would have been fascinated by the chance, attentive to every detail of how the remote and near-legendary ruler of Hearne lived. As far back as the history of the Thieves Guild reached, there had always been an unofficial truce between the Guild and the regents of Hearne. In return for not stealing from the castle and the families of the regents, the regents refrained from executing thieves except for the most grievous offenses.

  This day, however, Ronan would have rather been anywhere else. Anywhere else than sitting across from this slack-jawed idiot who probably didn’t even clothe himself and whose wit was evidently in reverse proportion to his family’s wealth. True, he would earn a lot of money for the job, but it was all he could do to sit there politely. Well, somewhat politely.

  Arodilac leaned forward, one elbow on a filled scone. Blackberry jam oozed out.

  “She’s like one of those, whatchamacallits,” he said.

  “That’s helpful information,” said Ronan.

  “Yes,” said the regent’s nephew. “One of those—what are they?—the tallish flowers with the single white bloom unfurling up, just like her graceful neck—what are they called? My mother used to grow them in her garden.”

  “Mustard grass? Deadly nightshade?”

  “Lilies. That’s what they are. White spring lilies. She’s like a slender, white spring lily. Lovely as the first day of spring—”

  “It usually rains on the first day of spring. A downpour.”

  “—and as graceful as the best filly the Farrows ever raised.”

  Ronan, whose eyes had been glazing over, jerked upright. He snorted.

  “So what you’re saying is she’s a flowerlike horse on a spring day.”

  “That’s it!” said Arodilac. “That’s her. Why, you said in half as many words what I couldn’t say in twice the amount. How did—”

  Ronan’s fist crashed down on the table.

  “Blast it all to the seven walls of Daghoron!” He cursed with all the fluency of a Thulian sailor waking up the morning after the first night home in port. His head was beginning to throb, which lent his words vigor. He had not joined the Guild for this.

  “What was that last bit?” asked the regent’s nephew. “The part about the jackass and the thingummy? Fascinating stuff—I must confess I’ve never—”

  Mugs and plates jumped as Ronan’s fist crashed down again on the table.

  “Never mind that,” he said. “What’s her name?!”

  “What?”

  “Her name!” said Ronan.

  Her name was Liss Galnes, and she was the daughter of Cypmann Galnes, a widower and merchant who, by virtue of his wit and his wealth, was the regent’s advisor on matters of trade. The Galnes family lived in a mansion in one of the more secluded streets of Highneck Rise, a stone house surrounded by a walled garden. Liss was an only child, and her father had kept her from the social circles of the court, judging that such a place was no fit environment for a child. This was a view he held privately, of course, for, although he entertained doubts regarding Nimman Botrell’s mental capabilities, he did not doubt the regent’s capacity for sudden and malicious judgment.

  Liss was raised mostly alone, except for her father, a few servants, and a succession of tutors. She learned needlepoint and the history of Hearne, although facts on this subject became sparse, of course, once one reached the Midsummer War and the reign of Dol Cynehad, the last king of Hearne. She learned to play the spinet and how to figure compound interest, though her father grumbled that compound interest was no suitable pastime for women. She read Harthian poetry in its original form—slowly and with much frowning, of course—and she learned how to run a household. She a
lso became an accomplished gardener and grew the best apples in all of Hearne. This was how Arodilac Bridd met her.

  “The best apples you’ve ever tasted,” said Arodilac.

  “Get on with your story,” said Ronan, gritting his teeth.

  Cypmann Galnes was in the habit of carrying fresh fruit with him wherever he went, said Arodilac. Even to the castle. The regent, who was given to three vices—horses, women, and food—availed himself of some fruit Galnes brought one day, and, after his appetite was piqued with an apple, inquired where the merchant found such delicacies.

  “In his garden, of course,” said Ronan, eyeing a pewter pitcher and wondering if beating Arodilac over the head with it would, in any way, speed up the storytelling.

  “In his garden,” echoed the youth. “And then, do you know what happened?”

  “No, but you’re going to tell me.”

  “Uncle pulled me aside after dinner, and said there was something he wanted me to get for him. He wanted apple pie for dessert, the next day, and the best apples were to be had from the garden of Cypmann Galnes. And if he didn’t have his apple pie, he’d be cross.”

  “So what’d you say?” asked Ronan, intrigued despite himself by this private side of the regent.

  “I told him that, once when I was small, Cypmann Galnes thrashed me for chucking pebbles at his horse.”

  “Rightly so. I would’ve done the same.”

  “He only laughed and told me to get some of those apples.”