I could look for a lifetime and find no end to this. But I would find desolation. Who am I to stand here and live?
And in desperation he wished for a small place so he might creep away into it, close the door, and pretend his little room was the only world that was.
Light glimmered by his side.
The hawk.
Do you wish death upon yourself? What brings you to this place?
I do not know. Take me from here!
I cannot. We stand before the gates of Daghoron.
He felt the hawk’s wing brush along his arm.
Know you not the words of Staer Gemyndes, with which he began the Gerecednes?“Deep within the darkness, further e’en the void, Nokhoron Nozhan built himself a fortress of night.”
I am only a boy. I know nothing of such things.
If men forget such things, then all that is will surely pass away.
The shadow deepened. And moved, ever so slightly. As if that which cast it was beginning to wake. Nightmares stirring from their sleep. Shivering with hunger.
We must be away. Now!
I cannot! You said this yourself!
Not true. I only said I could not take you away by myself.
Then how?
Look down!
He looked down and could not breathe. There was nothing below him except the dizzying emptiness of sky. The hawk hovered next to him on outstretched wings. And he fell, plunging down into the nothingness, his mouth stretched wide in a scream and his arms flailing at the air. Darkness rushed past him like water.
Aye. There was satisfaction in the hawk’s voice. Fear serves its purpose at times.
Jute awoke and rose from his bed. He opened the window and stood amazed. The university and the city were gone. Below, a plain lay gloomy under a moon colored ivory like bone. Far beneath the window, something gibbered. The thing turned and shambled alongside the tower. The boy rushed to the door and eased it open. Below him, up a winding stair, there came to him the creak of a turning handle. Footsteps shuffled up the stairs. A smell of decay and damp things assailed him and he stumbled away from the door. There was only the window.
He threw himself from it.
And awoke, again, in his bed. Sweating and shivering. A candle burned on the table. Severan sat there and watched him.
“You don’t sleep well,” he said.
“No,” said the boy, but he was glad to see the old man, and he knew he dreamt no longer. There was bread and cheese on the table. Jute rose and ate.
“Have you ever heard of a place called Daghoron?” asked the boy.
Severan shook his head and helped himself to a hunk of bread. But it seemed to the boy that the old man avoided his gaze.
“Or someone named Staer Gemyndes?”
The old man froze.
“Where did you hear that name?”
“In my dream. Someone spoke it.”
“Who?” said Severan.
“I don’t know.”
“Staer Gemyndes was the court wizard of Siglan Cynehad, the first king of Tormay. It is said that Staer Gemyndes wrote a book called the Gerecednes at the end of his life—a book that speaks of those events which brought Siglan Cynehad to Tormay, centuries ago. For the king did not come as a conqueror, as most scholars assume, or an adventurer out to win fame and glory for an older homeland. No, he came with his people—all those who are our own forefathers—fleeing some terrible doom. And in that book it is written of these matters. It’s said that in the book are the answers to so many questions! But the book’s been lost for hundreds of years, and we know only a little.”
“And this book is one of the things you hope to find here in the ruins? You told me that before, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Severan. But he would not say anything more on the matter and did not ask again where the boy had heard such names.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE WIHHT IS GIVEN A TASK
“The Guild,” said Nio. “The Guild and this fellow they call the Knife. Ronan of Aum. Both of them made-up names that tell us nothing of the man, other than his vaunted position in the Guild and his own arrogance.”
He was pacing back and forth in the library. The wihht stood silently. Only its eyes moved, slowly shifting back and forth to keep its gaze on Nio.
“I want you to find the Court of the Guild, the court of the so-called Silentman. It’s somewhere in this city, that’s obvious, and I’ve heard enough rumor to guess it’s underground. A cellar, tunnels, something like that. Find one of these thieves and squeeze the truth out of him!”
“Is it permitted to then end his life?”
“What? Yes, yes—whatever you want. I don’t care. Just keep it quiet, d’you hear? The last thing we need is the attention of the Lord Captain of Hearne and his men. And if you hear or see anything of the boy Jute, find him too.”
“I remember his taste,” said the wihht.
“If you catch him, bring the miserable rat to me. I’ll wring his neck myself. Mind you, the Guild’s more important now, not that guttersnipe. Find me a key that’ll get us into the Guild, and I don’t care how many bones you break along the way.”
“Ah,” said the wihht.
Nio stalked to the window and stared out. Water streaked down the glass. It was raining again. The street below was virtually empty. One solitary figure hurried by, shoulders bent and head hunched against the rain. It was a miserable day. Most of the city would be holed up like rats in their houses, Guild and non-Guild alike. The wihht would have a more difficult job of it.
“Concentrate on the inns,” he said. “They’ll be crowded, no doubt.”
“And the man called the Knife?”
“I daresay you’ll have an easier time finding the Gerecednes than that man. Find me my key. And I don’t care if it’s a key made of metal or one of flesh and bones.”
The door closed silently behind the wihht.
Nio flung himself down in a chair and picked up a book. A Concise History of Harlech, written by some long-dead Thulian duke with aspirations of being a scholar. It was a short and concise book. There was little to know about Harlech, for they did not give up their secrets easily and they were not fond of strangers.
Travel in Harlech is not advisable in the winter due to the harshness of the climate, the frequency of wolves, and the peculiar fact that the roads and paths seem to rearrange themselves at will, particularly for the misfortune of visitors. The towns are few and the inns, while excellent and well-appointed, exist more for local traffic, rather than for travelers from afar. Furthermore, those who live in Harlech tend to be inhospitable unless some happy twist of fate has given one a reason to form an acquaintance, for if they give their friendship, they will remain so until death. If their enmity has been aroused, however, one would be advised to stay far away from Harlech, for they are implacable and feared in all of Tormay for their skill in battle.
Nio tossed the book aside. It made for dull reading. Particularly on a day like today. He got up and again went to the window. Rain. The drops ran down the glass and blurred his sight.
He still remembered her name. Cyrnel. Cyrnel, the farmer’s daughter. For several years after he left the Stone Tower, he had purposed to return. To return once he had made a name and a fortune for himself. He would have rode up on a fine horse to the admiring glances of the students. The teachers would have invited him in to hear his tales. And then he would have ridden off south along the coast to the little valley and the farmer’s daughter who lived there.
She was probably married and fat now. She probably even had grandchildren by now. He could not remember her face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
STILL WAITING FOR GOLD
The Silentman received the return of Arodilac Bridd’s ring with pleasure.
“Well done, Ronan,” he said, tossing him a purse of coin. “Our client, the regent, will be pleased.”
He was sitting on his stone throne, raised by a dais several steps up from the
floor. As usual, his face was blurred and his voice muted by an obscuring charm. His form was shrouded by a cloak of black silk. Standing to one side was the short figure of Dreccan Gor, advisor to the Silentman. Dreccan was known for his wisdom and feared almost as much as the Silentman himself, though this was largely due to the fact that the advisor also served as chief steward to the regent of Hearne. Such an unusual association served the Guild well, as it allowed the Silentman to always stay one step ahead of the regent.
“Easiest job I’ve ever done, my lord,” said Ronan.
The Silentman nodded and Ronan had the impression that the man was smiling. There was no way to tell through the blur. He had his suspicions about who the Silentman was, but no proof. Anyway, it was not healthy to voice such suspicions out loud.
“A question, my lord?” said Ronan.
The Silentman inclined his head.
“If I might step closer?”
Not that there was much chance of anyone overhearing them. The court was crowded and noisy with conversation and music. Besides, no one came near the Silentman unless bidden.
“Approach,” said the Silentman. Ronan stepped up onto the dais and lowered his voice.
“Is our client pleased with the chimney job?”
“You want your money, don’t you? The client is coming soon to collect. You know the rules of the Guild, Ronan. Satisfaction first for the client, and then you’ll get your gold. Don’t try my patience.”
Ronan bowed and retreated back down the steps.
The court was busy that night—petitioners with grievances and jobs, thieves being given instructions, a trio of musicians jangling through the latest court tunes in one corner. The place was full of torchlight and shadow and the radiance of a fire burning on the hearth halfway down the room’s length. A table sagged under the weight of its bounty: roast chicken, ham, breads and cheeses, cold sausage, kegs of ale, and baskets overflowing with fruit. All courtesy of the Silentman.
Ronan slouched against a pillar and chewed on a chicken leg. He fingered the purse in his pocket and added numbers in his head. He would have enough now, once the payment came through for the chimney job. Before the week was out, if the Silentman was to be trusted.
The chimney job.
The little girl. She had said the boy was alive. What had his name been? Jute. But that was impossible. No one survived a dose of lianol like that. Still, she had sounded certain.
Ronan shook his head. It was not possible.
We all have our jobs to do.
The boy stared up at him from within the chimney, falling backward. Vanishing down into darkness.
Just like himself.
Years and years of falling down into the darkness.
The stone ceiling seemed to be lowering. The lamplight swam in his eyes. The air was hot and stifling. Faces blurred by. Voices babbled around him. Ronan flung the half-eaten chicken away from him. His stomach clenched. Someone said something to him. He mumbled a reply, not knowing what the other had said or what he had said in return. He needed to get out.
The doors to the Court of the Guild swung shut behind him and he stood for a moment, breathing in and out and trying to quell the nausea inside. He looked up and down the stone passage. No one in sight. The place was silent. On the edge of his mind, however, he could hear the whisper of the ward that governed passage. It pushed its way into him, examined him, recognized him, and then retreated.
The first time Ronan had walked the underground passage as a novice member of the Guild, years ago, no one had bothered to explain the uniqueness of the ward guarding the passage. He had memorized the twists and turns and counted his steps. When he emerged once more into the sunlight, he retraced the way in his mind as he walked the streets of Hearne. But he found that the path only led him in a circle that meandered back to where he started. Later, it was explained to him that the ward guarding the passage was crafted to constantly manipulate the passage, forever shaping new routes beneath the city. It rearranged itself so that no one ever walked the same way to the Court of the Guild. The passage moved even as people walked within it, hurrying or slowing them on their way to the court. And for those who had no business with the Silentman? Why, they never found their way out of the passage. Ronan had come across such intruders before, but the rats always found the bodies first.
It didn’t matter what direction the passage chose. If you were walking away from the Court of the Guild, it would find an exit for you. The only trouble was, the ward spell was so powerful you could never be certain where you would find yourself when you exited. There were numerous places throughout Hearne the ward could choose from. It was irritating to emerge at the opposite end of the city from where you started.
Lamps burned on the wall every once in a while, but flames were so meager and the distances between them were always so great that most of the passage was plunged into gloom. Something scurried away in the shadows. A rat, most likely.
Scurrying away like himself.
Abruptly, the passage turned a corner and ended at some stairs.
“The stables on Willes Street,” said Ronan to himself, guessing.
At the top of the stairs was a wooden door. He opened it and shrugged. He was not in the stables, not that he had expected to be. He had never guessed right before. He was in the cellar of the Goose and Gold. He stepped through a door concealed within a wine barrel.
Something crashed and he heard a gasp.
“Now look what I’ve done!”
It was one of the serving girls. She crouched down onto the floor to pick up some pottery shards.
“Just filled it with ale, too.” She scowled at Ronan. “Gave me a turn, you did.”
“Sorry,” said Ronan. He shut the door behind him. It was built into a fake wine cask that sat at the end of a row of casks. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, it was impossible to detect the lines of the door.
The sky was clear and cold when he emerged from the Goose and Gold. The first few stars were emerging in the east. He breathed deeply and smelled the salt of the sea. That steadied him and he strode off, collar flipped up against the cold. He slept well that night and did not dream, even of the girl with poor Liss Galnes’s name.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A DEATH, A DELAY, AND A WEASEL
They would have left that day for Hearne, but just after breakfast a horseman came clattering into the courtyard of the castle in Andolan. He was only a boy, but by the expression on his face, he bore sorry news.
“Stone and shadow,” said the duke. “So that’s why he didn’t come.” He stared down at the ground for a moment and then forced himself to smile—albeit grimly—at the boy.
“My thanks for your kindness. Get yourself to the kitchen and have them feed you there.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said the boy. The duke turned away, striding toward the castle steps.
“You, lad!” he yelled at a passing man-at-arms. “Find Willen and have him attend me immediately!”
Levoreth and the duchess were in the sunroom adjoining the duchess’s rooms. It was a pleasant room suited for silence, and both women liked it for that reason. Melanor was knitting what looked like the beginnings of a blanket. Levoreth was curled up in a chair, intent on a book of poetry written by a long-dead Harlech lord. The door flew open with a crash.
“Hennen,” said the duchess, dropping a stitch. “There’s no need to be stamping about so.”
“Ginan Bly is dead. He, his wife, and their babe. Torn apart by wolves—right inside their house.”
“Wolves?” said Levoreth. Her voice was sharp.
“Oh, my dear,” said the duchess. Her face whitened. “She was so happy to have borne a child.”
“I’m riding north for Bly’s farm. Willen and a score of his men will be with me as well. A couple of his lads are good trackers. If there’s a trail to find, we’ll hunt down the brutes. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”
He turned to go.
&n
bsp; “But what about Hearne?” said his wife. “We were to set out this afternoon.”
“Hearne will have to wait.”
“It was not wolves that did this,” said Levoreth. But the door was already closing and the duke was gone.
She stared down blankly at the book in her lap. She flung her mind wide, ranging across the hills of the Mearh Dun toward the north and east. Earth and sky blurred through the speed of her thought. Dimly, she was aware of lives flickering by. Men, cattle, flocks of sheep scattered on the hills, dogs, rabbits in the heather, birds on the wing. Nowhere, however, could she sense wolves, even in the tangled weaving of old scents left from weeks past. Nothing. She pushed out farther, drifting up into the foothills of the Mountains of Morn.
“Levoreth!”
She blinked and looked up. Her aunt was looking at her.
“Are you all right? You had such an angry look on your face. I’ve never seen you so—”
“Ginan Bly was a good man,” said Levoreth.
“Yes, yes he was.” The duchess blinked back tears.
The duke and his men returned two days later, tired and gray-faced from the hard ride into the north. The duchess hurried down the castle steps to meet him, with Levoreth behind her. He swung down from the saddle and trudged over to his wife. Stubble covered his face and his eyes were bloodshot. His wife touched him gently, running a hand down his arm as if to reassure herself.
“It wasn’t wolves, was it?” said Levoreth. It was more a statement than a question.
“No,” said the duke. “No signs to track. Nothing at all. I’m half in mind not to go to Hearne now, but don’t fret, love—we’ll be going still. Ealu Fremman’s six sons have promised to ride the borders and there are no better trackers in this duchy than those boys. The best of the men’ll be staying on at the castle.” He shook his head. “Dolan is in good hands with them, but this is poor timing. Poor timing indeed.”
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