“You speak truly,” returned Levoreth. She could not keep the harshness from her voice. “What more could anyone want? May all have such lives and find quiet deaths at their end, surrounded by loved ones and peace. Yet the Dark rises and men ride off to war. Lightning strikes where it will. Do we choose any of this? It chooses us and sweeps us along toward ends we can never see.”
The woman bowed her head and, when she raised it, there were tears in her eyes. “I am from Harlech, Lady. We dream true there, for the veil of the sky wears thin in Harlech. I can’t help but dream. I see my son’s face, my young Declan, returning to me, but of my daughter I see nothing but darkness and the silent earth.”
Giverny then appeared from the shadows and twined her arms around Rumer’s waist. They stood and looked at Levoreth—the daughter smiling and the mother staring mutely. Levoreth did not dream her own dreams that night. The ground whispered to her of Rumer’s sorrow, and she stirred uneasily on her pallet.
The duke of Dolan and his party stayed one more day with the Farrows and then left, with many plans voiced concerning colts and broodmares between Hennen and Cullan, until the duchess rolled her eyes and even Rumer laughed. The Farrows stood and waved goodbye until the vastness of the Scarpe swallowed them up in its horizon of grass, and they were gone.
“Fine people, fine people,” said the duke happily.
“To be honest, my dear,” remarked his wife, “they are pleasant. Rumer Farrow is a remarkable lady, and her father was the lord of Lannet in Harlech. I’d rather spend the next two weeks with them than having to survive Hearne and that insufferable sop Botrell.”
The duke was pleased and startled at this. He suggested that perhaps they should return, as he was beginning to regret not buying a certain broodmare Cullan had shown him.
“Certainly not,” said the duchess. “We’re going to Hearne and the fair and Levoreth will fall in love, and I shall be polite to Botrell. We’ll soon see the Farrows again, I’m sure. Perhaps they’ll come through Andolan later in the fall.”
“Oh, all right,” said her husband.
“Duty, my dear.”
“Hmmph.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
FALLING FROM GREAT HEIGHTS
That day, Jute fell from the tower that stood in the center of the university grounds.
The tower stood by itself in the middle of a courtyard. He trudged up the stairs, hoping for a good view of the city from the top. The steps creaked under his feet, old oak worn to a dark, satiny sheen. Up and up they went, until his face was wet with sweat. The stairs ended beneath a trap door, which he pushed up, and he found himself standing on a platform. Hearne stretched around him in a patchwork of minarets, spires with their weathervanes pointing for the west wind, and flat-topped roofs, colorful and flapping with drying laundry. Sunlight shone on brick and stone, thatch and slate, and the green copper roofs of the regent’s castle, perched on Highneck Rise. The castle rose up amidst the white stone villas of the nobility clustered on the heights. Its towers were the highest in Hearne, but the tower Jute stood upon was almost as high. Beyond the rooftops, the sea was a streak of blue under an even bluer sky.
A cloud drifted across the sun, and something creaked on the stairs far below him. At first, he thought he was imagining things. But then he heard it again. Wood creaking accompanied by an almost inaudible, wet sort of squish. The sounds came one after the other, climbing up the stairs. It was all he could do to clamp his chattering teeth together and remain silent. Hands trembling, he eased the trap door down and sat on it, thinking. Nothing at all came to mind except the desperate desire to jump up and down and scream.
“Hawk!” he said. “Please. Where are you?”
The cloud hiding the sun thickened and grew into a gray mass that obscured the entire sky. Rain began to fall. Jute scrambled over to the edge of the platform and looked down, hoping for ledges, handholds, anything. However, a master craftsman had his hand in the building. The stones of the tower had been fitted together with perfection. Jute leaned over and ran his fingers over the stone joints, and a groan of despair escaped his lips. They were impossibly smooth.
The trap door slammed open behind him. A stench of corruption filled the air, a stink of damp and rotting things. He had smelled the same odor before—in the cellar of Nio’s house. He did not even turn to look but threw himself out into space.
This is going to hurt. Much worse than any beating the Juggler gave. For only a second. Maybe less. I hope.
The cobblestone court rushed up toward him.
A last thought floated by.
One more day would have been nice.
And then the wind caught him.
Softer than silk.
Silent.
Something—a door—eased open inside his mind for a moment, and then, just as gently, closed again. The wind left him standing, bewildered and mouth hanging open, in the middle of the cobblestone court. Around him rose the walls of the university and before him loomed the tower. A damp snarl floated down from high above. He turned and ran.
Jute had no clear thought except that he needed to hide. Somewhere quiet and still. A small space. Small spaces are always safer, but he shivered in doubt and thought about the open expanses of the sky. Hurtling around a corner, he started down a flight of steps. A man hurried into view at the bottom and looked up. Severan. They both stopped, staring at each other.
“What happened, boy?” said the old man. “Was it only a ward that set the air in this place quivering? I’m running out of explanations for my fellow scholars!”
“I don’t know,” said Jute, his voice cracking. “You tell me—you’re a wizard, aren’t you?”
“A scholar,” said the old man. “Only a scholar. The true wizards all died many years ago. Come. We must talk.”
The boy followed him to what was obviously the old man’s rooms: a simple cell furnished with a writing desk, several cane chairs grouped around a banked brazier, and an iron-bound chest. Off to one side was a sleeping alcove. Severan stirred the brazier to glowing life.
“It’s here,” said the boy dully. “That thing. The wihht. It came for me. I was on top of the tower in the courtyard.”
The old man’s face turned pale. “And you escaped it for the second time? There’s more than luck at play here. Who are you, boy? You must trust me.”
“Why should I?” Jute’s hands curled into fists.
“I was Nio’s friend a very long time ago. He was a different man then. I don’t know him now. Listen, Jute. I understand why you don’t trust me completely. Hopefully in time you will. Perhaps if you understand more of what might happen. Scholars like myself are not just interested in the past. We’re interested in the future, in what might happen. In what might become. I think there are other things that might become interested in you. Not just Nio and his wihht.”
“What do you mean—other things?” asked the boy.
“When you broke into Nio’s house, you stepped beyond the everyday world of Hearne. An entire life can be lived in this city without awareness of the larger world behind and beyond it. Anyone who can live this way should thank fortune for such happiness. They’ll never face such a thing as you faced in Nio’s cellar. But even a wihht pales in comparison to the ancient powers that serve the Dark.”
“The Dark? Is there really such a thing as the Dark? I thought it was something made up, a bedtime story.”
“Rest assured, it isn’t a bedtime story.” Severan smiled somewhat. “Unless, of course, you want to give children nightmares. You might laugh, but there’s a great deal of truth to be found in bedtime stories and the like. You see, such tales don’t just spring up out of nothing. They weave themselves into being out of truth. A whisper in the countryside became gossip in a nearby village. Details were added in the local inn, influenced by candlelight and winter boredom and too many tankards of ale. Traders passing through took the local tales and carried them away to the cities. And as years followed upon years, the
stories worked their way into history, or into the delicious bedtime terrors mothers tell their children in hopes of securing their obedience. The very oldest of such stories, however, are as rare as pearls and, I think, even more valuable still.”
“What are those stories about?” asked Jute. He drew his knees up to his chin and the old man noticed, for the first time, that the boy’s eyes had a peculiar silvery sheen that gleamed in the light of the brazier.
“The very oldest ones are about four words and four mysterious creatures of immense power. Such power that the earth would shatter and reform itself at their bidding, that the wind and sea was theirs to command. The beasts and birds were their servants. They were the four anbeorun—the four stillpoints. It was said, though this has only been mentioned once in the single surviving copy of the Lurian Codex, that even the dragons would still their flame for them. The book that the wizard Staer Gemyndes wrote, the Gerecednes, surely contains even more knowledge of the anbeorun.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’d happily spend the rest of my life looking for that book.”
“There are no such things as dragons,” said Jute.
“Don’t be so quick to presume,” said Severan. “There are more terrible things than dragons that walk this earth.”
“I suppose so,” said the boy doubtfully. “But what does all of that have to do with the four words?”
“Patience. We’re coming to that. Most legends are rooted in fact, no matter how thin that fact might be when compared to the legend. Sometimes, the opposite is true. When the armies of Oruso Oran II sacked the city of Lascol, the plunder carried back to Harth included many books from the ducal library. Later, cataloguing the books, a court scribe discovered the memoirs of the wizard Sarcorlan.”
“How do you know this?”
“That scribe went on to become one of the greatest historians that Harth has ever known. And if Harth is known for anything, it’s known for a rigid attention to details, which has resulted in a highly efficient army, orderly cities, and marvelous historians. When I read the scribe’s account of the discovery, I journeyed to Harth to see the memoir for myself.”
Severan fumbled a ring of keys from his robe and unlocked the chest in the corner. He returned to his chair with a black book in his hands. He muttered a word over the thing and then opened it.
“Is that the memoir?” said Jute.
“Er, yes,” said the old man.
“You’re a thief?!”
“Do you think thievery is the sole right of thieves?”
“No,” said the boy, smiling. “It just seems a bit odd. Especially at your age.”
“You shouldn’t be so presumptuous. I, of course, don’t mind. A dragon might.” He turned over some pages. “Sarcorlan was never known for his humility, even on his deathbed. Listen to this, however, for his love of the truth was equal to his pride, as he remarks. ‘What I am about to relate is true, for I am Sarcorlan of Vomaro, and all of Tormay has never known a greater wizard than I. My latter years were spent in peace, living in the mountains east of the great forest. A village nearby saw to my wants, which were few.’”
Severan paused in his reading. “I think he’s referring to the Forest of Lome, which would have placed his village in the Morn Mountains east of Dolan, though I’m not completely certain. At any rate, there’s no village there now.” He turned back to the book and continued.
“In the spring after the fall of Ancalon, when the snows had melted in the mountain passes and the roads were open, a caravan of traders came east from Hull. I walked down to the village, as was my wont. The headman valued my presence when strangers came through, and thus we had a private agreement concerning such occasions. Three traders with their horses and pack-mules crested the ridge when I came to the inn. I cast a simple knowing on them, and they were as they appeared: tired traders and overworked, overloaded animals. Something else lingered in the knowing, however—a faint hint of power. Intrigued, I waited until they had arrived at the inn and set about unloading their goods. The whole village gathered around. There was the usual array of stock: knives, axe heads, Dolani wool, sea salt from Flessoray, spices, and a jumble of oddments spilling from a wooden chest.
“While the traders bickered with the villagers over the value of the local copper and opals, I cast a stronger knowing. This time, I felt a spark centered within the wooden chest. It was like nothing I had ever encountered before, and I am, mind you, Sarcorlan of Vomaro. At the bottom of the chest, tucked away in a small sack, I found the pearl. The trader to whom it belonged was reluctant to sell the thing, protesting that he would find a higher price in the markets of Mizra. I am not ashamed to say that I put a compulsion on him, for I gave him three fire opals for the stone, which was better than any price he would have received in Mizra. He did not know what he owned. I did him a favor to take it off his hands, for he was a fool to have been carrying such a thing.
“I did not ask him how he had obtained it, as the furtive look in his eyes proclaimed his association with the Thieves Guild. Still, to be sure, I probed his memory as he cheated Wan the Miller’s wife out of several lengths of homespun cloth. There was nothing of import within his mind—just the usual, brutish thoughts typical of most men. As I suspected, he had bought the stone among an assortment of stolen goods from a member of the Guild in Damarkan. A certain Jaro Gossan. Perhaps I shall have to visit Damarkan someday and find this man?
“For thirty days and thirty nights, I studied the pearl. That is, I think it was a pearl. It resembled one, but it was harder and heavier than any pearl should have been. In color, it was dark blue with wisps of green in it that drifted upon the surface of the blue, but only if I were not gazing at the thing. Power lay bound within the pearl, bound in some strange fashion that kept it, I think, sleeping. The peculiar thing about the binding enchantment was that it seemed to be one and the same with that which it bound—a balance I had never encountered before. Despite all my skill, however, I was unable to unlock the enchantment.
“Had it not been for my leaky roof, I would have never discovered the secret of the pearl. A storm arose in the night, and water dripped down onto my table as I sat staring at the pearl. Several drops splashed on the pearl, and it was then I heard the sound of the sea. The surge of surf. The crash of waves on rock. At that moment a geas took hold of me, compelling me up from my chair. I could not muster the necessary strength to fight the compulsion. If truth be told, I was curious enough to see the matter out and where I would go. Pearl in hand, I left my abode and set off into the night in a westerly direction. At first, the geas was content enough to allow me to walk, but after several hours it grew so strong that I took to the winds in the form of a gray kestrel, pearl clutched in one claw.
“I did not wonder at the time why I chose the form of a kestrel, but it made sense after I thought on the whole affair, days later. Gray kestrels are lovers of the sea and do their hunting over the deep. I flew west for two days, over the mountains and across the plain of Scarpe. I crossed the hills of the Mearh Dun and then turned north, following the cliffs along the coast of Thule to the country of Harlech. It was at the bay of Flessoray that the geas pulled me out to sea, toward the islands. The waves were white with foam and the sea looked a cold gray, gray to match the sky and the feathers in my wings. On the barren rocks of Lesser Tor, I settled to the sand and retook my human form. The geas was gentle on my mind, bidding me stand and wait. In my hand, however, the pearl warmed.
“A wind sprang up and whipped the waves into a frenzy of spray. And out of the breakers the girl walked. She was formed of water and foam and shadows. Her skin was shell white, and seaweed twined within her dark hair in glistening strands of purple. A garment of water flowed about her limbs. Her eyes were a blue so dark that I could not discern a pupil within them. It was the unlined face of a child, one who has just woken from slumber and blinks sleepily in the sunlight. But I would not presume to guess her age, for her body was formed of the sea and the sea has existed from the e
arliest days. She was more beautiful than anything I had ever seen in my life, yet I feared her greatly. She smiled at me and the geas vanished from my mind.
“‘Thank you for bringing back my name,’ she said, and her voice was like the sighing of the waves. She reached out one pale, foam-colored hand and I placed the pearl within her grasp. I could do nothing else. She smiled again and turned to go, but I found my voice and desperately called after her to wait. At the edge of the waves, she looked back.
“‘What is your name?’ I said. A frown crossed her face and an ominous calm fell on the sea. Later, thinking back, I realize that the tide had stilled, but I did not recognize it then, so intent was I on her face. She spoke then, and the word was in a language I had never heard nor have ever heard since. I was almost unmade in the sound of that single word she voiced. For in the uttering was all the power and form of the sea itself. The sea roared back in response, waves rising and pounding in an exuberant fury of existence on the shoreline. At my feet, the rocks trembled and instantly became roiling sea. The island was melting away. She had vanished. And my body was dissolving into water. I flung myself skyward, taking the form of a hawk and frantic to escape. It was all I could do to keep that shape, for the word she had spoken still battered and grasped at my being. I strove onward, east, and so arrived on the coast of Harlech, exhausted and spent.
“Never in my life have I been so near death. And not just death. This was unmaking and a way of power long denied to those of us who are wizards, for we cannot tamper with the fabric of life. To unravel one small portion might mean the unraveling of all.
“I made my way back home, still in hawk’s form. In my mind was the memory of the word she had spoken. I examined the remembrance. I was able to inscribe the barest hint of the word into good serviceable letters, but I soon discovered that if I delved into the memory deeper to retrieve the complete word, objects around me began to turn into water. Books, my furniture, my cooking pot, the clothes on my back, and, at one point, my entire left arm melted into a puddle of seawater before I was able to wrest it back into flesh.
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