The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  After a suspicious look around the alley—he was alone except for a little gray cat washing itself in a pool of sunlight—he climbed back up the wall. He swung over the eave and lay for a moment on the edge of the slate tiles. The noise of the day and the memory of the crowd drained from his mind, displaced by the slow warmth of the sunlight and the silence of the sky. And then, when he was still within, he walked across the roof and the slate tiles remained slate tiles.

  The copper pipe remained a copper pipe, for that was all it had ever been. He tried not to think about how he was going to get back up to his window as he clambered up the pipe, but it was no good to put off the problem off much longer. A fair amount of Mioja Square was visible from where he was and he marveled at how small it had all become. There was an odd enjoyment in seeing the crowd drifting about, eddies of people as tiny as ants all a variety of color but no longer short and tall and fat and thin. They were all tiny. Remote. He wondered if that’s how it always was for the hawk—a constant remoteness that never necessitated involvement on its part except for whenever it wanted to fall from the heights and then climb back up with its prey.

  Rabbits, probably.

  Jute stood a while on the ledge under his window, running a disconsolate hand over the stonework of the wall. It was different up here as opposed to the wall below. Different masons, he thought gloomily. Whoever had fashioned the upper walls had a skill he’d never seen before. Each stone was fitted into its mates as close as heartbeats falling one after the other. There were no gaps. Every stone had been hewn to a flat, smooth face. The wall was unclimbable. If only he could fly.

  “What in the name of the accursed darkness do you think you’re doing?”

  Startled, he stared up at the window ledge. Severan’s wispy gray head leaned out. The old man glared down at him.

  After some furious words back and forth, they decided upon the idea of sheets knotted together. It started to rain, but the overhang of the roof protected Jute. Severan let down the makeshift rope and Jute clambered up in a trice.

  “You,” said the old man, “are a lackwit. Of all the things to do, you have to go wandering through the city, smack in the middle of the Autumn Fair.”

  “I did not!” protested Jute.

  “Then why’s there honey smeared all over your lying face? I don’t recollect seeing any bees in these ruins.”

  The boy wiped at his cheek and then reddened as his hand came away sticky.

  “I was bored,” he said.

  “You were bored?” said Severan. He threw his hands up in the air, and then sighed. “Look, Jute. We’ve decided—the other scholars and I—that we’re going to finish our work here in one more month. We’ve yet to find what we hoped would be here, but perhaps the book never existed in the first place, or maybe it was taken away during the war. Some of the wizards escaped, you know. A precious few, but some did. At any rate, one more month and then we’ll pack it in.”

  “So you’ll be leaving?” Panic gripped Jute. He clenched his jaw and hoped that he would not cry.

  “Aye, but you’ve no cause to worry. None of us are from this city. I come from the north myself, from Harlech. They’re a secretive folk there and keep to themselves. They wouldn’t bother noticing one more boy.”

  “You mean, I could come with you?”

  “If you wish. I’ve a cottage up on the coast of Lannaslech. That’s the land of the duke of Harlech himself. Right where the cliffs reach the sea. It’s a homely place with enough quiet to give a man space to think, not like this noisy city. The cottage was old before my time. Stone walls and a big chimney, for the winters are cold in the north.”

  He smiled, more to himself than at Jute.

  “Summers are beautiful there. The moon flowers will be blooming still, I think, and I hate to be missing them. Stone and sky and sea and a fire on the hearth—the four stillpoints of the world. You remember what I read you from the memoir of Sarcorlan?”

  Jute nodded, wondering what a moon flower was.

  “The Guild never comes to Harlech. No one would know you there, and you’d be more than welcome.”

  “Thank you,” said the boy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE SPELL AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS

  “Rain and more rain,” said Levoreth.

  She plopped down onto a window seat and gazed out. Rain streaked down the glass. Mist obscured most of the view out across the city. Here and there, however, roofs and spires were visible like islands of brick and stone and slate in an ocean of gray.

  “Nothing a coach and a good umbrella can’t deal with,” said her aunt.

  “Are you serious?”

  “My dear, you know me better than that. Get your coat on.”

  “This is weather for frogs and fishes.”

  “Don’t be uncouth. I was having tea with Lady Blyscan, Rudu Blyscan’s wife, and she told me of a splendid little dress shop down in the city. Just off the main square—what is that place called?”

  “Mioja Square.”

  “She bought a lovely watered silk there yesterday for a pittance. Harthian, I think. They have such gorgeous silks.”

  “I’m sleepy,” said Levoreth. “I think I’ll take a nap.”

  “Nonsense. All you seem to do these days is sleep. Are you sick? You look healthy to me—”

  “I’m not sick.”

  “—though, my great-grandmother Ella dropped dead at age thirty-one. In perfect health. My great-grandfather was inconsolable. Lost his head and promptly ran off with that dreadful Narnessy woman. They fought like cats and dogs for forty-nine years.”

  “And were perfectly happy,” said Levoreth.

  “What’s that?” said her aunt.

  “Oh, er, weren’t they rather happy?”

  “Perhaps they were. Get your coat. We have a coach waiting.”

  It was strange. Ever since they had arrived in Hearne, Levoreth felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. Even when she woke up in the morning, all she wanted to do was go back to sleep. Levoreth buttoned her coat up and suppressed a yawn. A coach harnessed to two horses waited at the bottom of the steps. A footman half-hidden by an enormous umbrella hurried forward. The driver huddled on top of the coach box, the reins dripping in his hands.

  “Come, my dear,” said her aunt.

  One of the horses swung its head around to gaze at them.

  Mistress of Mistresses.

  I’m sorry, she said in her mind. It’s cold and wet and you should be warm in your stable.

  Ah, well, said the horse. Some things cannot be helped. Besides, it is our honor, Mistress.

  It was dry inside the coach.

  “That’s better,” said her aunt. She rapped on the ceiling with her knuckles.

  The coach lurched away. Levoreth closed her eyes. The swaying motion of the coach was quite restful. That, and the sound of the rain thrumming on the roof and the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves, was enough to put anyone to sleep. She yawned.

  “Levoreth, you don’t have to take the duke of Mizra seriously. That is, if you don’t want to.”

  “What’s that?” Levoreth came wide awake.

  “My dear, your uncle and I have no intention of manipulating you into marriage.” The duchess leaned forward and patted her niece’s knee. “It’s just that, well, you’re getting older and we worry about you sometime. Marriage can be wonderful with the right person. Mind you, I don’t subscribe to this silly idea that marriage must be made only for love, but it can be equally dreadful with the wrong person. So if the duke of Mizra at first strikes you wrong, all I’m saying is that you shouldn’t dismiss him. However, if after a while he still doesn’t seem right—not that you must fall in love with him, my dear—then smile and walk on.”

  “Did you marry for love, Aunt?”

  “Of course not. I chose to fall in love after we were married, and only when I was sure Hennen loved me. It makes things easier if you wait. It gives you the upper hand. You’re laughing at me.”

&
nbsp; “Perhaps,” said Levoreth, smiling.

  The coach creaked to a stop and the door opened. Rain dripped off the footman’s nose. He unfurled the umbrella with a flourish and held it aloft.

  “Thank you,” said the duchess.

  “Milady,” said the footman, bowing deeply but still managing to keep the umbrella over the duchess’ head.

  “Will you be waiting outside for us?” asked Levoreth.

  “Er,” said the footman.

  “Of course,” said the duchess.

  “There’s a good inn down the street,” said Levoreth. She dropped a gold piece in the footman’s hand. “Wait there. See that the horses have some oats. We’ll send someone to fetch you when we’re ready. Have some ale yourself.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  The footman ushered them to the door of the shop and then backed away, bowing. He was young and the niece of the duke of Dolan was beautiful. Everyone thought so in the servants’ hall.

  The duchess shook her head.

  “Sometimes, Levoreth, you are much too nice.”

  The dress shop was alive with light. Lamps hung from the ceiling and their glow reflected from mirrors of all sizes hung on walls and propped in corners. The proprietor appeared out of nowhere, bowing and smiling and bowing again.

  “Welcome, maladies. Welcome. Tea?”

  “That’d be nice,” said the duchess, already drifting toward a flowing blue silk.

  “Tea!” called the proprietor.

  He clapped his hands together and a small girl hurried up with a silver pot. A second girl, even smaller, followed with a tray of mugs. Steam and cinnamon filled the air. Levoreth found herself holding a mug of tea. A third girl, the smallest of the three, peered up at her from beneath a plate of cookies.

  “Gingersnap?” said the little girl.

  “Yes, thanks,” said Levoreth. She took two.

  “My daughters,” said the proprietor. “Now, back to work, my dears. Nimble fingers, you see.” He bowed to the duchess. “Little fingers make little stitches. They take after their mother.”

  “You don’t say. This blue silk, do you have it in green?”

  “Milady has excellent taste. This comes from the loom of the best weaver in Damarkan, Avila Avilan herself. I’m devastated, but I do not have it in green. Purple, scarlet, blue. If I may say so, this blue does marvels with your eyes, milady.”

  “Pity,” sniffed the duchess. “Why is it so difficult to find a good green?”

  “The dye’s been rare this last year,” said the proprietor.

  “And why’s that?”

  “I don’t know, milady.” The proprietor spread his hands in apology.

  “Because the yarrow crop in Vomaro has failed for the last three years,” said Levoreth to herself. “Too many gophers.”

  “What’s that, my dear?” said the duchess.

  “Nothing.”

  “You look good in green, Levoreth, but this brown velvet damask would go splendidly with your hair—“

  “Absolutely, milady,” said the proprietor. “Absolutely.”

  “—though brown is a difficult color, difficult to pin down into a proper tone, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly,” said the proprietor. “But if it’s brown you desire, perhaps milady would consider this silk as well? A lovely, rich earth tone, I might say. Finest Harthian silk.”

  “It is rather nice. Levoreth, my dear, what about a silk instead?”

  “If you don’t mind, Aunt,” said Levoreth, “I’m going for a walk. It is a bit stuffy in here. I’ll take this umbrella.”

  “But this silk would go perfectly with your—”

  “Fine. Buy it. I’ll wear it.”

  Before the duchess could say anything else, Levoreth stepped out the door. She discovered she had crushed a gingersnap in her hand. She flung the crumbs into the gutter. The rain was still falling. It drummed on top of the umbrella and dripped down in front of her nose. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Something was not right.

  A yawn escaped her lips. The sensation of wanting to fall asleep was even stronger now. Stronger than it had been in the castle up on Highneck Rise. But she was not tired. She knew she was not. Yet here she was, about to fall asleep on her feet. She stumbled and stepped into a puddle.

  “Drat!”

  Her stocking felt cold and clammy against her skin. It was horrid, but the sensation cleared her head of any thought of sleep. And in that moment, she felt a gentle push against her mind. The sensation was as imperceptible as the push a blade of grass will exert when growing up beneath a rock. Just as imperceptible, but much stronger.

  Instantly, Levoreth filled her mind with the memory of earth and stone. The earth settled her, and she felt the depth and the weight of the dark roots of mountains. Stone rose up within her mind into a wall. She could taste earth in her mouth. She could feel the city huddled around her in the dark and the cold and falling rain. Rain thrummed on top of the umbrella. Her knuckles whitened on the umbrella handle. And then the sensation came again. It was like a worm—a cold, soft worm. It crept across the stone shielding her. The touch pressed against the rock as if it sought entrance.

  Levoreth shuddered.

  Realization stirred in her mind. She knew this touch. It was the cause of her sleepiness, of her forgetfulness. For so many years. The thing was ancient. It was born of the Dark, a spell of some unfamiliar, powerful sort. Of this, she was sure. And now that she recognized its touch, it would never enter her mind again.

  Never.

  She blinked. Her head swung from side to side like a dog’s, sniffing at the air. A growl escaped her lips. The spell was here. Somewhere in the city.

  She glanced back at the dress shop. Light spilled from the window into the falling rain. Beyond the shop, the street opened up into Mioja Square. The gloom and the rain obscured the square, but here and there, she could see lamplight shining from the stalls of the more intrepid merchants. Few people were out in such weather, though, and the afternoon was rapidly turning into evening.

  Twilight.

  Perfect time for hunting.

  Something glinted in her eyes. Her pupils seemed to flare green.

  Levoreth strode off down the street, heading deeper into the city. The street grew narrower and the buildings began to look shabbier. Windows were shuttered against the approaching night.

  There.

  The sensation was coming from the southwest.

  She turned a corner. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air.

  The sensation was getting stronger. It wasn’t like a worm anymore. It was more like the finger of a dead man trailing against her skin. Gentle, but hard, with bone under the cold flesh. It stank of death.

  She shoved back against it with her mind.

  And the finger recoiled.

  It vanished.

  Instantly, she flung her thoughts wide, hunting through the silence and the darkness that exists on the edge of the mind. She was dimly aware of countless lives flickering in the darkness. Tiny stars gleaming in the night. Thoughts floated by, blind to her, but they were only the lives of Hearne’s people, heedless of the danger that lurked within their city.

  How long had the spell been in existence?

  Her thoughts raced through the darkness. Nothing. Another thousand lives flashed by. Candle flames. But their lives would be counted as nothing if such a spell were allowed to continue. How many generations had already spent their lives in sleep under the spell?

  Sleep possesses three doors. The first door opens from the day. We walk through into sleep. The second door opens on the other side of sleep into the morning. We walk through into the morning.

  And the third door?

  The third door opens into darkness. And if a sleeper stayed lost in sleep for too long, then the door would open and the Dark would come in.

  Then, just when Levoreth was about to give up, she stiffened. A scent lingered in the darkness, far out on the edge of her thoughts. Al
most due south now. The scent was faint but unmistakable. The stench of the Dark.

  Her eyes flared green.

  She ran. Her skirts whipped around her legs, sodden with water. She splashed across a street and darted down an alley. The cobblestones were slick, but she ran sure-footedly, vaulting over garbage piles and dodging around corners. The twilight had deepened into night. The clouds were thickening and the sky was gone. A wind arose, slashing the rain down sideways.

  The touch of the spell wriggled frantically in her thoughts, desperate to escape her, but it could not. She held to the scent as surely as a bloodhound, as surely as a wolf tracking its kill across the snow. She furled the umbrella without slowing and tucked it under one arm. Her hair whipped free from its pins, heavy with water.

  A couple of men—fishermen, by the smell of them—hurried up the street toward her, their heads bent down under the rain. She ran by, and they did not see her. It seemed she ran in a world of silence, a world of darkness and blurred stone and light hiding secure behind shutters. The rain lashed against her face and she smelt woodsmoke cooling in the air. Somewhere in front of her, somewhere in the city and not far away now, was the spell.

  Abruptly, she stopped running.

  Before her, a street made its crooked way into the evening. Several doors down was an inn. Light streamed from its windows. She could hear laughter and the sound of voices coming from the inn. The street seemed all the colder and darker because of the cheeriness of the sound and the light. Past the inn, however, and on the other side of the street, was a house.

  The house was wedged between what looked like a warehouse on one side and a second house on the other. It was shabby and tall, three stories in total, with a sharply pitched roof underneath the chimneys teetering up into the sky. Every window was shuttered and dark. It looked like an empty house, a house that had not been lived in for many years. A dead house.

  But the house was not dead. It was alive.

  A ward buzzed on the edges of her mind. It was woven about the house. Her thoughts feathered around it, touching and tasting and smelling. The ward was old. Hundreds of years old. It listened to her, coiled as tight as a snake ready to strike. Behind the ward crouched the house. Within the house was the spell. It stank of malice and ancient intent and death.