“You haven’t come across any strange deaths lately, have you?” said the duke.
“What do you mean with that?”
“One of my farmers was killed recently. In the northeast of the Mearh Dun, just up under the foothills of the Morns. He and his family. I thought it wolves when I first heard, for we had trouble with them several years back. With the way you travel about, I figured you might have heard something of the sort.”
“Can’t mistake wolf,” said Cullan. “They aren’t shy in how they step.”
“The manner of it’s a cursed puzzle. They were torn by beasts, but the bites were huge. Bigger than any wolf I’ve ever heard of. If it had only been those marks, then I might still have been convinced of wolves, but there were cuts as well—thin, deep thrusts as if made with a slender sword. Beast and man killing together.”
“Wolves never run with anything but wolves. No tracks for you to pick up?”
“A few signs, but we lost them quickly,” admitted the duke. “I’d have given much to have had you there.”
“Aye. Farrows don’t lose tracks.” Cullan smiled crookedly. “Though I wager you’d do as well if you were raised under the sky with no roof or walls withering your senses.”
“Then have you heard of any such killings?”
“Not exactly. Though we passed through Vo two months past and heard talk about something odd in Vomaro. Something had the folk there worried. But I didn’t bother for details.”
“I’ll have a word with Botrell when I get to Hearne. Perhaps he knows something. So you heard nothing of the matter in Vomaro itself?”
“We took the road to the east,” said Cullan. He squinted up at the sky. When he looked back down, his gray eyes had gone cold. “Farrows don’t go to Vomaro.”
Levoreth loved the Scarpe. The plain stretched away in every direction. It billowed like the sea, as her aunt had said, with the wind rippling the grasses in waves that rolled on toward the horizon. A sweet, dry scent perfumed the air, wafting from the tiny jona flowers blooming in the grass. A robin trilled through the air, and she answered it absentmindedly, whistling in her thoughts. The bird sang in response, telling of worms and the bright, yellow eye of the sun in the sky that sees all, and three eggs warm in her nest.
Levoreth wandered away from the encampment until the only sign of it was a trail of smoke rising into the sky. The earth was peaceful here, slumbering under the passing of years and the faithful return of the sun. She lay down, with the grasses whispering around her, and fell asleep. The sun was high in the sky when she awoke. Sitting next to her was a girl. She was chewing on a stalk of grass and staring at Levoreth with curious gray eyes. Her face was narrow and browned by the sun. Tangled black hair waved across her brow in the breeze.
“Do you always cry in your sleep?” asked the girl.
“I don’t think so,” said Levoreth. She stared at the girl’s face. Her heart ached, and she put her hand to her breast. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re the duke’s niece—Lady Levoreth—aren’t you? Mother said she dreamt about you.”
“No need to ‘lady’ me. What did she dream?”
“She wouldn’t tell,” said the girl cheerfully. “When I dream, I’m never sure if I’m asleep or awake. Mother says my eyes glaze when she talks to me, that I do it on purpose so I don’t remember what she’s said. But maybe that’s just me dreaming, or maybe that’s just me forgetting—I’m good at that.” She giggled and twirled the stalk of grass between her fingers.
“Have you forgotten your name also?”
“Oh.” She grinned. “I’m Giverny Farrow, Cullan’s daughter.” Her hands rose and drifted through the air, palms up and fingers stained with earth. “How do you know if what you see is in a dream or in a waking moment?”
“There’s more pain when you’re awake. You’ll learn that soon enough, if you haven’t already.”
“But you were crying in your sleep.”
“Dreams hurt sometimes. But not compared to waking life.” Levoreth sat up and plucked her own stalk of grass to chew.
“The wretched bay colt stood on my foot yesterday when I was brushing him. That hurt. Here, look.” And Giverny kicked off her sandal to display her foot.
“Ouch,” said Levoreth, admiring the blue-black bruise.
“He did it just to be spiteful,” said the girl, “because I’d been spending too much time with his sister. Father had the pair from Duke Lannaslech in Harlech—who is terribly stern and scary, even though he gave me an apple and the horses all love him and follow him about like dogs. They’re perfectly matched—twins, of course—but the filly is the sweetest colt you’ve ever seen.”
She ran out of breath at this point and lapsed into silence. The sun was perfectly warm and the breeze had subsided to a murmur. Levoreth closed her eyes and felt the Scarpe stretching around her in leagues and leagues of grasses and the light, redolent with the scent of flowers and pollen, laying like gold over it all. The nearness of the girl stirred a memory in her of another girl from a long time ago. The same blithe heart, the same gray eyes, so clear and free of guile, those same fluttering hands expressing every nuance of word and heart. Long ago. Another time and another place. And now those hands were silent and unmoving in her lap.
“That’s not what you meant, is it?” said Giverny.
“No. A colt can only kick you or step on you out of its foolishness. Or your own. That’s not such a dreadful sort of pain. It’s a thing that passes.”
Giverny nodded. She inched a bit closer and propped her chin in her hands.
“My brother ran away when I was three years old. I don’t remember what he looks like, though Mother says he looks like Father. She won’t talk about it much, but everyone knows the story.” Here, her voice fell into a sort of singsong tone, for she was telling a tale. Levoreth knew the story, had heard it sung by traveling bards more times than she could remember, but she did not stop the girl.
“Devnes Elloran, the only child of the duke of Vomaro, went riding with her attendants on the eastern shore of the lake. There, they were set upon by ogres. All were killed except for the lady, and she was carried off in great distress.”
Here, Giverny made a face. “If it had been me on a horse, no ogre would’ve caught me. The stupid cow obviously didn’t know how to ride.”
“Ogres are cunning,” said Levoreth. Her voice was mild. “Many wiser than Devnes Elloran have fallen into their hands before. Do not be so hard on her.”
“No, maybe not for that,” said the girl. “But for what she did later, she should’ve been boiled and eaten by those ogres!” She paused, frowning, and then continued. “The duke of Vomaro sent word throughout all the lands of Tormay, entreating men of valor to come to his castle at Lura. And they came there, from Hull and hilly Dolan, the coast of Thule, Vo, and Vomaro. Even the haughty lords of Harth came, though not a soul from Harlech—for they have never paid much attention to the rest of Tormay.”
“Your Duke Lannaslech,” said Levoreth.
“Yes,” said Giverny, grinning. “I’d imagine he’d say if she were silly enough to get caught, then she might well deserve an ogre dragging her off. He has a terribly cold voice—all deep and hard. Father never steals horses in Harlech.”
She sobered again. “My brother vanished one night, for the duke’s proclamation promised the hand of his daughter in marriage for the man who brought her back. He stole Father’s sword, so that he might walk with pride.” Her chin lifted. “All Farrows take to horse and reading the signs of the earth. And Declan was the best of our family—so I’ve been told. But his hands lent themselves best to war, as had his father—our father—before him. The sword and the bow and all those other wretched things that take life.”
Her own hands fluttered before her as if shaping the words.
“As the story goes, Declan found trace of the ogre trail on the moors south of Lome forest and tracked them through those woods for days. What he found there has never been tol
d, for neither he nor the Lady Devnes Elloran ever spoke of it. On a cold, wet day in March, Declan rode out of Lome forest with the Lady Devnes. And then—and then . . . ” Her voice trailed away.
“And then he was betrayed,” said Levoreth.
“Yes!” burst out the girl angrily. “I hate it! I hate it all! Oh, he was brave and foolish to run away and think that he could make his way in such a world. I love him for that, for I sometimes feel the same thing inside myself—to see what’s beyond the horizon and in far-off lands. I want to know more. I want to know more than just our wagons and our horses. But I hate him for leaving me not even a memory and Father and Mother growing old without him. Yet I hate that duke and his daughter even more for what they did. We Farrows no longer go to Vomaro, nor will we ever! May the Dark take them all!”
“Hush,” said Levoreth. “No one should ever wish such a thing, for our lives here are only a breath. That which follows after endures. May we all come safely to the house of dreams and so escape the grasp of the Dark.”
“Aye,” said Giverny sulkily. “Save the house of Elloran.”
“Child.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Then, her face averted, the girl said, “That’s what you meant about pain, yes?”
“Yes,” said Levoreth.
The sun was lowering in the west, down toward the horizon and, past that, the far-off sea. Purple stained the sky in the east, and there a single star gleamed. Levoreth shivered in spite of the warmth left by the sunlight. It would be cold in the Mountains of Morn tonight. She reached out with her thoughts across the leagues, toward the peaks. The silence within her mind was broken by the howl of a wolf pack. It welled up like a lament, rising from the flanks of the range to the north, where the mountains climb high into the sky with their heights of stone and ice.
Mistress of Mistresses.
Drythen Wulf.
We have hunted along the scent of the Dark.
Where has it brought you?
We ran north from the hills of the Mearh Dun, north across the fields of snow and up into the heights. We found an eyrie, long cold, but the Dark did abide here a while, for the stink is rooted in the rocks and has crept down into the bones of the mountain.
And from there?
The scent did not end there, Mistress.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she opened her eyes to the fading afternoon of the Scarpe. Giverny drew back.
“Are you well, Lady Levoreth?” she asked anxiously. “You had such a look on your face.”
“I’m fine. I was just thinking of an old friend.” She forced a smile.
They walked back together. The girl skipped along beside her, humming an old Thulian song and darting away now and then to collect flowers that caught her fancy. Levoreth knew the song and she sang the words as she walked along.
“On the heathered downs of Davos bay
where the river meets the sea
the fishers mend their broken nets
upon the sandy lea.”
“You know it,” said Giverny, surprised, twirling around. She smiled in delight. “My grandmother taught me that one when I was little. She said ‘The Girl of Davos Bay’ was one of the forgotten treasures of Thule.”
“Not yet forgotten,” said Levoreth. “Some things are never forgotten. Delo of Thule was the finest bard Tormay has ever known. They say his songs wove themselves into the coast of Thule. If you walk the cliffs there, you can hear his music in the sounds of the wind and the sea, and in the call of the gulls.” She continued singing.
“Blues and greens and shadows beneath—
the colors of the sea.
Breathe wind—blow the storm clouds hence
and bring my love home to me.”
A brindled old hound loped out to meet them as they approached the camp. It licked at Levoreth’s hand before pressing up against the girl’s knees.
“Gala, my love,” said Giverny, rubbing the dog’s head. “That’s Lady Levoreth Callas you just kissed. It isn’t every day you’re hobnobbing with the royalty of Tormay.”
“Nay, girl,” said Levoreth, laughing. “I darn my own socks.”
Mistress of Mistresses.
Gala Gavrinsdaughter. The blood of the wolves flows in your veins. I knew your grandmother well.
Aye. There are days when I hear my mountain-kin calling. The hound turned sad, brown eyes on Levoreth. Do you come for my little one?
Levoreth caught her breath sharply. The hound nosed at her palm and whined. Giverny whirled away to pounce on a clump of blue bonnets.
What do you speak of?
Your mark is on her. All the nyten, even the sly jackal and the poisoned serpent, all things living cannot help but love her of instinct within them. The earth protects her, though she has ever been headstrong and foolhardy, even as a tiny whelp. Fate has not touched her for the life of her people. Do you have some design for her days?
Levoreth quickened her pace angrily.
I am not Anue that I would stand in the house of dreams and shape the futures of men. Would you assign to me more might than is my due? Listen well, Gavrinsdaughter! I did not seek my lot in life, for though I am the Mistress of Mistresses, there are powers beyond me that, unseen and unsought, move me to my fate, just as they do you. We are all borne upon the wind blowing from the house of dreams.
The hound padded alongside her, head hanging low. Behind them, Giverny trailed, deaf to their speech.
You speak of legends beyond legends, but you are the only legend we know to be true, for we see you with our own eyes and feel your touch upon the earth. You are our bulwark against the Dark. Do not judge me too harshly, Lady. You are the stillpoint of my people. Can we not help but think the skeins of our fate hang from your hands?
The encampment bustled with people: women washing clothes, children carrying buckets of water to a trough set up just beyond the wagons, where a string of horses was picketed. A fire crackled under an iron pot suspended from two crossed pikes. Levoreth could smell sage and onions and the sweet meat of the roebuck. She inhaled—dried rosemary, wild carrots that must have been plucked from the Scarpe itself, and a sprinkling of pepper all the way from Harth and worth its weight in gold. On the far side of the camp, the Dolani men-at-arms had their own cook fire burning. Night was coming. The hound lingered nearby for a moment and then slunk off among the wagons. Giverny brushed past her and Levoreth found a single blue bonnet in her hand.
The flames from the fire in the center of the encampment flickered sparks up into the darkness. In the east, the moon gleamed a yellow so feeble it seemed the night was about to swallow it up forever. But the stars overhead shone brilliantly within the black expanse. They were like the gleams of countless jewels—some tinged with the ruby’s dark wine, others hinted at blue sapphire fire, yet even more gleamed with the incandescence of diamonds. As the darkness deepened, they burned all the brighter.
Someone handed Levoreth a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. She sat down and leaned back against a wagon wheel. The bowl was warm in her hands. Across the way, she could see the duke talking with Cullan Farrow and several old men. Horses, no doubt. Smoke curled up from the pipes in their hands. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, listening to the sounds of the night.
Children played at hide-and-seek among the tethered horses of the herd. Someone plucked a guitar, murmuring the words of an old Vornish love song. A mother crooned to her baby. The knitting needles of the duchess clacked quietly together. A young man-at-arms grumbled to the sergeant about having to eat their own food, as the old Farrow woman in charge of the cook pot had beckoned them over. The sergeant explained that their rations were good enough and that he’d break both his arms if he saw him laying a finger on the Farrow women.
Levoreth smiled. The Farrow women were famed through all the lands of Tormay for their beauty. But they were also renowned for their tempers and willingness to stick a knife in any who might offend. They wouldn’t be needing any sergeants to defend
their honor.
Lady.
Levoreth sighed. The hound lowered herself down beside her.
Gala Gavrinsdaughter.
The night is replete with sorrow. From three hearts it wells.
You would tell me, I think.
Aye. The mother of my little one. I have tasted her dreams ever since her firstborn went away. She is of the blood of Harlech, as you must know, Mistress of Mistresses. She dreams of shadows. Harlech dreams true, do they not?
And the second?
She is you, Lady. I can smell it in the change of season and the scent of the earth. I can—
You presume, hound.
The old dog flattened her head against the ground and was still.
And the third?
But the dog did not answer her and soon crept away into the darkness. Levoreth tasted the stew but it had gone cold. She got up, stiffly, and walked to the fire. Light flickered on the ring of wagons that encompassed it, gleaming on faces. A woman stooped over the cook pot. She straightened and turned. The promise of beauty and grace in the girl Giverny was fulfilled in her. A sheaf of silvering black hair was bound back from her head. Firelight pooled in her eyes.
“Lady Callas,” she said.
“I’m only her niece,” said Levoreth.
“Still a lady,” said the woman. “There’s old noble blood in your family line.” Her head tilted to one side, her face impassive.
“My stew’s gone cold.”
The woman took the bowl from her and refilled it.
“I am Rumer Farrow,” she said. “Giverny’s mother.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Giverny is all we have left these days, Cullan and I. Ever since our son went away. As you know. As everyone, all of Tormay, knows.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only resignation.
“She’ll be a great lady someday.”
Rumer touched her arm, as if to apologize. “But this I do not want for her. I would only wish her a quiet life, a man to love her just as mine loves me, children to grow up around her like young colts. This is all she needs. This is all anyone would ever need. Is not anything more than this only a burden and chasing of the wind?”
The Hawk And His Boy Page 21
