Yes—definitely. Only the day before, but he had not sent the creature out then. He had given it no command. Anger flared within him. The wihht was his creation and, as such, was subservient to his will. His word was its law. Everything there was to be known about wihhts he knew, had read, had studied and committed to memory. The writings of Willan Run, Staer Gemyndes’ treatise on the seven orders of fashioned creatures, and the definitive Endebyrdnes of Gesceaft, written by the wizard Fynden Fram.
It was unthinkable for a wihht to make a choice of its own will. Unthinkable. Fram clearly said in his chapter on wihhts that “such creatures are physical manifestations of their maker’s will.” He had not willed the wihht to do anything yesterday, but the evidence of the door handle was unmistakable. It was as obvious as a footprint in the mud. Anger pushed hard at him, and he strode to the kitchen, to the stairs down into the basement and what waited there in the darkness. And yet, uneasiness wriggled like a worm in the back of his mind.
“Lig,” he said.
A sphere of light bloomed in his hand. The steps creaked underfoot. Moisture gleamed on the stone walls. The wihht stood silently, waiting—easy in its complete stillness as if it had been standing patiently and comfortable in that position for the last twenty-four hours. Nio remembered the final, whimpering cry of the Juggler and the wet, bubbling sounds of the wihht feeding, and the unease in his mind grew.
“You left this cellar last night,” said Nio. The creature said nothing in response, though a slightly puzzled expression crossed its face. The brow wrinkled into momentary furrows and then was once again smooth.
“You left this cellar without my command.” He watched it closely. Something sparked in the dull pupils. Still, it remained silent.
Furious, Nio muttered under his breath.
“Brond.”
The sphere of light grew in brilliance and heat. The wihht blinked and stepped backward.
“Where’d you go yesterday?” the man said. “I command you to tell me.”
“I went nowhere,” said the wihht, but its voice seemed stronger and clearer than the last time it had spoken with Nio. The unease inside the man’s mind quivered into something else. Fear. He clamped down on the feeling.
But how could the wihht’s voice have changed unless it had been strengthened somehow? Unless it had fed.
He let his mind drift out toward the wihht, searching for a spark of conscience that he could examine. His consciousness pushed forward, encountering nothing. He pushed a little farther. And felt something that was more than nothing—an absence of being, color, meaning, and form. The emptiness of it pulled at him like a lodestone pulls at iron. A smile drifted across the wihht’s face. Nio wrenched his mind back.
“I know you left the house. Don’t test my patience. I made you, and I can unmake you. Darkness and water woven together make your flesh, and those threads can be plucked apart and dispersed back into the shadows, back into the drains of this city.”
“More than that now,” said the wihht. There was cunning in the hoarse voice. “More than darkness and water in me now. There’s a bit of this and that. Blood and flesh. Not just yours.”
Wordless, Nio stared at the wihht. His hand ached with the remembrance of the blood he had given to the thing.
Given out of his own foolishness.
He backed away, and then quickly walked up the steps. When he reached the kitchen and the door closed behind him, he realized he had been holding his breath. He stared at the shut door. The thought crossed his mind of telling Severan, of confessing his stupidity. Perhaps he knew something about wihhts that he himself did not? No. That would not do.
He wove a binding on the door, working it down through the wood beams into the stone foundation of the house. Three times he sealed the weaving with his own true name. When he was done, he could hardly keep his eyes open, for the binding had been done with all of his will.
He trudged up to his bedchamber. As he fell asleep, a thought crossed his mind. Not just yours. That’s what the wihht had said. More than just his blood in the thing. Of course. He had witnessed the thing devour the Juggler and his two thugs. But had the thing meant more than that?
Not just yours to command. . .
CHAPTER FIVE
THE APPARENT BOREDOM OF DUTY
Ever since Arodilac could remember, his uncle had been telling him duty was honorable. Duty is the pursuit of the nobility. Nothing better than duty, my boy.
Duty, however, was boring.
He yawned.
By rights, he should have been allowed to go with Owain Gawinn. He had watched the troop clatter out the gate and canter away, down through the long, green reaches of the Rennet valley. He was seventeen—practically a man—and just as good a swordsman as any of Owain’s men. When he had complained to Bordeall, the old man had just handed him a spear and told him to patrol the wall. Tramp the length, up around to the northern tower, all the way down to the southern tower, and then back to the main gate tower.
That had diverted him for a while. The city crowded up to the wall with its labyrinth of stone and brick and shadows drawn by the morning sunlight angling down. On the other side of the wall was the rest of Tormay. The land stretched east for miles and miles through the cradle of the Rennet valley. On either side, the land rose up sharply. To the north, it rose up to the Scarpe plain. It was said that the Scarpe was the inland sea, for when the wind blew, the grasses billowed and rolled like waves of water, and the birds skimmed over the green as if they were gulls over the sea. South of the valley, the land climbed up into the rough, broken hills of the duchy of Vo.
Arodilac gazed out across the wall and imagined an army attacking up the valley. The corn and hay would be trampled underfoot and the green of the grasses blotted out by the silver and gray of armor. Flags waving in the wind. Horns bugling above the neigh of horses and the shouts of men. He would lead a last, desperate charge of cavalry from the gate, spears already dark with blood.
Smiling, he tripped over the spear he was carrying. Shadows, but the thing was heavy. He sighed and limped on. His feet were getting sore. He was bored.
So much for duty, he mumbled to himself. I wouldn’t mind it so much if it meant fighting someone. But not with this spear. Give me a good sword and I’m happy enough. I wonder if uncle would give me gold enough to buy a new sword? He’s been in a nasty mood lately. Perhaps I’d better try my hand at the Queen’s Head and win some gold there.
I wonder how Liss is doing?
With that melancholy thought in mind, he trudged along. The tower at the main gate was near enough. He’d kick off his boots and have some ale in the shade.
“Off to Gawinn’s house,” rumbled Bordeall.
“I went just yesterday. Besides, I’m tired.”
“Get going.”
“I fail to see what some little girl having nightmares has to do with being a member of the Guard. I’m a soldier, not a nanny.”
“Go. Now.”
“Oh, all right,” said Arodilac.
He did manage to sneak a tankard of ale in the guardhouse before leaving. The sergeant on watch took the spear and locked it in the armory. The man grinned at him. Oh, they had been polite when he had first joined the Guard. After all, he was the regent’s nephew. But that had worn off fast enough.
“Off to take care of babies?”
“Shut up,” said Arodilac.
It was a long walk from the main gate to the house of Owain Gawinn. The crowded streets didn’t make matters easier, and by the time he reached the garden wall behind the house, he was sweating and feeling sorry for himself.
A wooden gate opened through the stone wall and into a garden. The air smelled of herbs and the honeysuckle massed along the wall. Bees hummed as they darted from flower to flower. Three small boys were chasing each other around a patch of grass. The sun was high and the garden brimmed with light.
Not even a ward, thought Arodilac crossly to himself. You’d think the Lord Captain of Hearne
would have more sense that that. Particularly if I’m supposed to waste my time looking after his houseguests.
“Hullo,” said the eldest of the boys. He barely came up to Arodilac’s knee.
“Hullo,” said Arodilac. “Is your mother home?”
“Hullo,” said the middle of the boys.
“Do you like bees?” said the eldest boy.
“I’ll just let myself in,” said Arodilac.
“We have lots an’ lots, but they never sting us. Just never.”
“Just never,” echoed the smallest of the three boys. He smiled shyly.
“But they’ll probably sting you,” said the eldest boy generously.
Arodilac knocked on the back door and then stuck his head in. It was dark and cool inside.
“Hello? Mistress Gawinn? Hello?”
The three little boys pushed past his legs.
“We’ll find Mother,” said the eldest boy. They disappeared down the passage.
Soon, he heard the sound of skirts and footsteps and then Sibb Gawinn appeared. She wore an apron and her hands were white with flour.
“Arodilac,” she said, smiling, “you needn’t hover about the stoop like a stranger. Come in.”
He ducked his head in embarrassment. Not that she compared to Liss, but he thought Sibb Gawinn one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, almost as beautiful as the duke of Dolan’s niece—Levor-something or another. He’d caught a glimpse of her in the courtyard when the duke’s party had arrived.
“Just dropping by to check on the girl, ma’am,’ he said.
“Come in, then. She’s in the kitchen with Loy and my Magret. We’re baking bread.”
The big Hullman scowled at him when he walked into the kitchen, as if to say that he had things in hand, could watch over the foundling himself, thank you. Arodilac was in complete agreement, but that didn’t prevent him from scowling back.
Magret was perched on top of a stool next to the table, barely visible behind an apron many years too big for her. Flour rose around her in clouds as she pummeled a mountain of dough with her sharp little fists. Bread baked on the stone hearth. Arodilac’s stomach growled as he inhaled the warm scent. Magret giggled.
“I’ll have to speak to my husband about your rations,” said Sibb. “Here.” She sawed off a generous portion of a loaf and then sliced up a tomato to pile on top of the bread.
The foundling girl sat on top of the counter beside the hearth, knees drawn up to her chin and slender hands laced about her ankles. Her eyes shifted from Sibb to Loy and then back. Her face was expressionless.
“Hello,” said Arodilac, stepping in front of the girl. Her eyes focused momentarily on his. She frowned and then looked past him.
“Silent as ever.”
“Not at night.” Sibb handed him the sandwich. “Eat. Every night brings her nightmares and she wakes, screaming and crying. I’d take them on myself, if I could, the poor dear.”
“At least she’s safe enough here.”
Loy shook his head. A knife moved slowly in his hands—unwatched but deft—carving away curls of wood as he whittled a stick. His voice rumbled quietly.
“In Hull, they say that a man lives in two homes. One a house of wood and stone. The other a house of flesh and soul. She might be safe in the one, but not t’other.”
CHAPTER SIX
A DAY OUT
Jute woke up that morning desperately trying to remember his dream. He had been flying with the hawk. Soaring through a night sky without end. Thunder had been muttering in deep, sullen crescendos. Dark columns of clouds riven by white lightning. A storm gathering in the east and hurrying toward Hearne as if whipped along by the malice of some ancient sky god.
But he had been untouchable. He rode on the wind with the hawk soaring next to him. Stupefying speed. The air had rushed through him. His flesh frayed into wind, speed, moonlight. The hawk’s eye as black as night. Filled with the depths of the sky, glittering with stars, as if that single pupil was a portal that opened into a larger sky than the one through which they flew.
But he woke and the dream faded.
Jute was instantly depressed. Bored. He opened the shutters of his room and peered out. It had rained the night before. Far below, he could see the puddles on the street. It was early, but Mioja Square was already crowded. He could see quite a bit of the square, for it was just down the street that ran alongside this side of the university. He knew he was too high up for anyone to see him from the street below. Perhaps he might hit someone if he spit. There was a breeze blowing, however, and the wind blew his attempts back into the wall below him.
He was about to swing the shutters closed when he noticed a stone ledge just below his window. Well, not just below. It looked a good fifteen feet down from the sill. Still, what was fifteen feet? He had dropped further than that before. True, if he missed his footing on the ledge that meant there was another hundred feet or so to fall before his descent would be abruptly stopped by the roof of a lower story of the university.
He breakfasted on some bread and a sad-looking sausage and thought about the ledge. It looked like the ledge ran the length of the wall to the corner, at which point it met a copper drainpipe. That made the ledge doubly interesting. The copper drainpipes he had encountered in the past had usually proven to be helpful. He could recall a manor in the Highneck Rise district that had been guarded by wards on all of its doors and windows. They had been very good wards and, being much younger then, he had not had the skill to evade them with silence. But there had been a copper drainpipe climbing right up to the roof. The dormer windows of the attic had not been warded.
For the rest of the morning, he made a valiant effort to put the ledge from his mind. It wouldn’t do to think about such things. After all, if he ventured out into the streets of Hearne there was no telling who he might run into. He certainly didn’t want to end up in the clutches of the Juggler, or, even worse, Nio and that creature he kept in his cellar. No, he had best remain within the university ruins.
It was noon when he gave in.
He climbed out the window. The sun was high and the light felt warm on his skin. He lowered himself over the side, hanging onto the sill with his hands. Then, after taking a deep breath, he let go and dropped. It was ridiculously easy. The ledge was wider than it had looked from his window, particularly once he was standing on it. He grinned and looked up at the window above his head. And then he realized he had no way to climb back up. He ran his hand over the stone wall. He could not feel a single handhold.
“Shadows,” he muttered. But then he cheered up quickly enough, for he was a boy and part of what makes a boy is the faith that problems take care of themselves. At any rate, he didn’t have to worry about getting back inside until after he had climbed down and stretched his legs a bit. And that was that.
Jute made short work of the ledge. It was almost wide enough to walk along. The drainpipe was made of stout copper and the brackets were fixed to the walls with large bolts that had survived whatever weather the last several hundred years had thrown at them. In no time at all, he was shinnying down the pipe.
He was so pleased with himself that he made a dreadful mistake once he reached the roof below. It was a gentle slope of slate tiles. Jute figured on walking across the roof and then climbing down the wall to reach the alley below. The roof was fairly high and safe from casual eyes, but the wall would be another matter altogether. Not difficult to scale, of course, but it would have to be done unnoticed.
When he reached the middle of the roof, he began to sink. One moment the tiles were perfectly hard slate, and then the next instant they were like soft clay. He staggered, terrified, trying to grab onto something. There was only the roof. The wall was too far away. He fell forward on his knees and felt them sink into the tiles. Jute could hear a moist, sucking sound as if some horrible child was greedily devouring a peach. He looked down, half-expecting to see the gigantic mouth around his ankles. A scream gurgled up through his thr
oat but he bit down hard and the roof was silent except for the dreadful sucking sound of the tiles.
He was sinking faster now. A terrifying thought struck him. What was below? What was waiting in the darkness below the roof? His mind devised nightmarish creatures. Dozens of arms and claws and eyes on stalks, all craning upwards and ready to grab hold of his ankles to wrench him down into the dark and their feast. He could even hear their noisy hunger now, the clicking of claws and teeth clamoring in his mind. What a wretched, horrible noise!
Noise.
Noise is exactly what you don’t need.
Of course, Jute thought stupidly, feeling himself sink even further—he was almost up to his waist now. It’s just another ward.
Silence.
He leaned back and looked at the sky. A perfect blue arc spanned his sight. The sun shone down. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to open his mind to the silent watchfulness of the sky, the silence of the blue heights and the light that did not waver in the muteness of its descent. A window in his mind swung open and the light and the space flooded inside. The horror was gone, for there was no more room for such a thing in the midst of the silence. With a damp, disappointed sigh, the roof gave Jute up. Trembling, he rolled over onto his back and closed his eyes. He grinned shakily. He crawled across the tiles until he reached the edge, even though he knew the roof ward would not activate again. The wall under the roof’s overhang was simple enough. With no one in sight, he shinnied down a drainpipe to the cobblestones below. Grinning from ear to ear, he scampered down the street.
He was scarcely able to take in the delight of what lay before him—Mioja Square crowded and bustling with people. He had never seen so many people before. Flags fluttered in the breeze. Canopied stalls and barrows were jammed side by side. An incomprehensible hubbub came to the boy’s ears. He heard a bewildering mix of every accent of every duchy in Tormay, from Harlech in the north to Harth in the south, every village from the plains and forests, and the mountains of the Morn range. Anyone who had anything to sell, anyone who had the gold or desire to buy or be bought from, was in Hearne. All of Tormay was crowded into that immense square, jumbled and jostling and cheerful in the sunlight. At least, that’s the way it seemed to the boy.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 4
