In the stall nearest her, an old man was currying a mare down with brushes strapped to his hands.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” she said.
The old man did not respond or look at her. The mare swung her heavy head around and blew her breath across the old man’s shoulders. He glanced up and saw Levoreth.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” she repeated.
He touched his ear with one brush, smiled apologetically and went back to his currying.
Mistress of Mistresses.
The mare’s liquid brown eyes gazed at her.
The old one has not the use of his ears, silly little hairless things that they are.
And she nibbled affectionately at the old man’s shirt. Her own ears flicked forward, attentive to Levoreth’s step. Wood creaked as horses leaned against the gates of their stalls. Hooves stamped on straw. She walked between the stalls and touched each silken nose. Thoughts came jumbled and fast at her. Memories poured into her mind, eagerly shared by the horses. Sunlight flooded across open fields. Speed and wind and the arc of the ever-present sky. Joy—fierce, irrepressible, and pounding through their veins like a heartbeat, like the staccato of hooves galloping upon the green earth. They wanted to show her, to run for her out under the sun. The older ones stood stock-still, but the younger ones kicked at the slats of their stalls.
“Peace, children,” she said.
What was he like? A foal pushed his head against her hand. Disapproving snorts came from his elders nearby.
“Who?”
Min the Morn! Your steed. The eldest of our kind.
She smiled and stroked the foal’s long brown ears.
“He was like the wind.”
The wind, the wind! The foal nickered. Would that I ran like the wind.
An old bay snorted. The wind calls to us these days, but we are of the earth. We are thine.
“Children, I would have one of you do something for me.”
Every ear in the stable flicked forward. Every liquid eye gleamed on her. The only sound to be heard was the whisper of the old man’s brushes on the hide of the mare. Levoreth plucked up a strand of straw and wound it around her finger.
“Who is the fastest here? Who is the fleetest of hoof and strongest of heart? For I need one who can run without ceasing, through day and night and back into day.”
The stable erupted into a clamoring torrent. Thoughts galloped through her mind, flickering in and out of colors and shapes and across an endless expanse of plain. Names jarred into her head like the beat of hooves pounding the ground, stuttered and shouted, each one louder than the last and each one trembling with excitement. Joy.
She could not help smiling.
Peace! The old bay stamped his heavy hoof. Peace!
“Thank you,” she said.
All here are fast, Mistress. The bay swiveled a wise eye at her. His mane was as smooth as silk under her hands. All here are fast, for our master has a rough understanding of the way of our folk. He is not a Farrow, but he spends his gold well in the pursuit of our kind. All here are fast, but there is one who is faster than all.
The bay snorted a sort of laugh. Aye, faster than all, though our master knows it not. He thinks that yon Seadale is the best of our lot, and we do nothing to dissuade him. But there, Mistress, in the furthest stall, stands one faster and, though I know not what you want, he will do it for you or his heart will fail in the trying, for there is good blood in him.
A chorus of apologetic assent pattered through her mind. The stable spoke softly now, and even though each head was fixed on her, turning as she walked to the last stall, there was no envy in their voices—pride and eagerness, yes, but it was for the horse who stood before her. He would run for her and he would run for the stable.
“How should I call you?”
S-S-Swallowfoot, Mistress. I am called Swallowfoot.
Swallowfoot ducked his head, abashed. He looked young to her, perhaps two years old at most. His body was a collection of sharp angles and overly long bones, all covered over with a tightly stretched hide of muddy brown.
“Can you run?”
Aye, Mistress. His head came up. My dam was Evana, she that was the steed of Declan Farrow—
“The steed of Declan Farrow?” she said.
She was the fleetest of our kin to run the plains. He did a little hop in place, all four hooves bunched together. Near fast as the wind, she was. She ran for her master and she always told me when I was a colt—“Listen well, Swallowfoot, for you are a child of the Farrows, though you know them not”—that I should wait until I found my own and then I would run and run and run!
“How did you come to this stable? You are far from the plains and the Farrows.” But, even as Levoreth spoke, she knew the answer.
The master of my dam was cruelly used in the south, in Vomaro. Swallowfoot spun around in his stall in excitement and anger. Cruelly used by evil men, for all men in Vomaro are evil! So said my dam. He was taken from her and she never saw him again. And there, in that green land which will be ever cursed by my blood, I was born to her after many lonely years.
“Perhaps good will come out of Vomaro someday,” she said, her voice gentle. She took hold of Swallowfoot’s head in both hands. The horse looked intently at her.
“You will run fast for me. You will run as fast as the wind, and there will come a time, long after we all are returned to dust, when the sons of men remember old days and they will speak of Min the Morn and they will speak of Swallowfoot.”
And then she whispered into the horse’s ear, whispering for a long while as the horse listened with steady eye and lowered head, and all the stable around stood silent. Behind her, at the end of the row of stalls, the door creaked open and she heard the heavy clip-clop of tired hooves. Someone cleared their throat. The sound was hesitant. She turned and Swallowfoot blew a warm breath of hay over her shoulder.
“Milady Callas.”
The Duke of Mizra stood holding the reins of a tall black. The horse’s coat was rimed with sweat drying white, and the horse stared at her with shining eyes. The duke dropped the reins, fumbling after them with awkward hands. He never recovered them, for the old man appeared, plucked the reins up from the straw and shuffled away, leading the tired horse behind him. The pair disappeared into one of the stalls and soon there came a tuneless crooning and the whisper of currycombs.
“Milord Gifernes,” she said.
“Please,” he said, ducking his head. “Call me Brond. I’ve never been fond of formality, all that bowing and scraping they’re enamored with in the south. It makes me want to yawn. I’d much rather be at horse hunting with the dogs than in court, with all the glitter and chattering talk—never know what people mean and if they mean what they say or if they’re just saying it because you’re a duke—though, it wouldn’t be half-bad if it was someone as pretty as you.”
Then, he turned red, as he realized what he had just said.
“Andolan is not known for its formality.”
Levoreth smiled and was not sure if she did so because of the duke’s words or because of memories of the little court that her uncle kept, open to everyone and beholden to none, with the town butcher stomping in to complain about the price of cattle and the little old priest wandering in unannounced and expecting lunch. She closed her eyes and saw children chasing chickens through the courtyard and her aunt sitting in the back garden, knitting with the wool spilling her lap in the sunlight. Her heart lurched.
“Lady Levoreth?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, opening her eyes. She shook her head.
“No, I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean to blunder in here and bother you—”
“It matters not,” she said, feeling tired and old. He looked even younger than Dolan Callas had been that day, six hundred years ago, when he had reined in his horse across the river Ciele and sat there staring stupidly at her. The expression on his face had been similar to how the duke of Mizra was looking now.
&
nbsp; “You aren’t bothering me. I miss our horses. My uncle keeps a large stable, near as large as this, and I find their company sorely lacking in the bustle of balls and dinners and receptions that Botrell has seen fit to inflict us with. These long faces aren’t the ones I know so well, but they’re a comfort still.”
The old bay leaned out and blew a warm breath of alfalfa at her.
Mistress of Mistresses.
The duke blinked. He glanced down. A dog had materialized out of the shadows. It pushed its head against his leg, almost like a cat, and then sat down.
“What a large dog,” said Levoreth. She spoke involuntarily, surprised, for there had been no awareness of the dog in her mind before it appeared.
How odd, she thought.
She stooped to the dog, though this was hardly necessary as, even sitting, the top of the dog’s head came easily to her waist. She let her awareness feather out.
“Careful,” said the duke. “I wouldn’t want your hand nipped. He’s a shy one and doesn’t like people much. His name is Holdfast.”
“I get along well with most animals.”
She stroked the dog’s massive head. The hair was a dirty brownish gray. The dog sat motionless and patient under her hand. For a split second her fingers paused, but then she forced herself to continue petting the beast. Her awareness recoiled back into her mind. There was nothing there. Nothing except for a strange monotone of thought muttered over and over. Find. Hunger, eat, food. Food, hunger, eat. Find. Eat.
Dogs were always chatty animals, forever gabbling about scents and cats and the best spot of sunlight for snoozing and whether or not that last bone had been buried properly. Every dog she had ever met was like that. Even the stupidest of beasts, even the tiny-minded squirrels and chipmunks, possessed a considerable range of thought. Impressions of light and space and color, memories of tree and nut and leaf, fear of foxes and hawks.
But this was scarcely a mind at all.
“Is he a hunting dog?”
She drew her hand back. The dog watched her with unblinking dark orange eyes, so dark that they almost seemed red in the lamplight.
“The best,” said the duke happily. “Never seen his equal. Why, I was just telling your uncle about a hunt we had a month back. I took Holdfast out for deer, and what does he do but run a stag to earth. He pulled the thing down by the neck. A full-grown stag, mind you, probably twice his weight. Once he gets his teeth in, he doesn’t let go.”
“Hence his name.”
“Yes.” The duke smiled down at the dog and then looked up at Levoreth. “And he holds fast to the trail as well. He doesn’t forget scents. Single-minded, sniffing along. Why, he’s been known to cut old sign he’s scented before, months before, and follow it down, no matter how faint.”
“Admirable.”
“Yes, isn’t he?” The duke beamed at the dog. “Go on. Say hello, Holdfast. Go on.”
The dog lumbered to its feet and sniffed at Levoreth’s hand. Its nose was cold. It blinked at her and then sat down.
“There, you’re friends.”
Levoreth forced a smile.
“I’m afraid I’m the sort that needs a longer acquaintance, milord.”
“Oh?” said the duke, and his eyes acquired such a speculative gleam that she ducked her head, murmured an apology about a headache, and hurried out of the stable before he could say something foolish that would have embarrassed them both.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
UNFORTUNATE EXPECTATIONS
Lena grew more and more restless as the day progressed. Perhaps it was the fact she was no longer locked up in the Goose and Gold and needing rescue, waiting helplessly for whatever was to be meted out at the hands of the Silentman’s men. Or perhaps it was that she did not trust anyone old enough to be an adult. To make matters worse, Ronan insisted that they both stay cooped up in his rooms until the evening.
“The best way we can help Jute,” he said, “is to stay out of sight for now.”
“I’m bored,” said Lena.
“It won’t do for you to be seen,” he said. You want me to help him, don’t you? As I told you before, I need to get out of Hearne myself. The Silentman’s about ready to hand me my head on a platter.” Ronan eyed the girl. It would not do to overplay his hand at this point. “I can smuggle Jute past the city walls when I leave tonight. It’s the least I can do.”
“Ain’t there a baker just down the street? I could nip out, lift a few pastries an’ be back before you’d count three.”
“No,” said Ronan. “And that’s final. There’s no telling who’d see you. Believe me, child, half this city is in the pay of the Silentman.” He was exaggerating, of course, but he wasn’t that far from the truth. “Why, I know Guardsmen who inform for the Guild. Men in the service of the Lord Captain of Hearne himself, who take the Silentman’s gold in exchange for turning a blind eye or whispering a bit of news to the right ears. Maids, merchants, sailors, apothecaries, old matrons stumping about with their baskets of veg. None of ‘em can be trusted. None of ‘em.”
“I ain’t afraid of the Guild,” said the little girl. “I can slink around this town quieter ‘n a cat.”
“It isn’t just the Guild,” said Ronan. “Nio Secganon will be sure to have heard of you by this time. Have you already forgotten what I told you? He’s a wizard of the worst sort. He has spells that can wander about the streets like breezes, listening and watching everything said and done in Hearne. Even the Silentman is afraid of him. Why, the Silentman almost refused to take the job Jute did, just for fear of Nio Secganon. We’re much safer to stay in until night.”
“Oh, all right,” said Lena.
She roamed about the rooms as restless as a kitten. There were only two rooms, Ronan’s sleeping chamber and a small alcove in which he kept a few chests and a wardrobe. He contented himself with a stick of oak and a knife, idly carving away at the wood.
“Hi!” she called from the alcove. “This wardrobe of yours is locked.”
“Yes,” he said, not really listening. A curl of wood dropped away from his blade. There was some semblance of a face emerging in the carving.
“Is it warded?”
“No.”
She fell silent and Ronan concentrated on the oak, thankful for the momentary quiet and wishing the hours would pass by more swiftly. With a bit of luck, all would be well by that evening. Then he would be gone; he would be quit of the city and its wretched stone streets and the Silentman like a spider in the middle of it all.
The cheekbones of the oak face gained definition. He had not set about the carving with any idea in mind, content to let his hands and the blade feel their way through the wood. But now her face stared up at him from the grain of the oak. He whittled her hair into a frame of waves. The regent’s ball. He had given his word to smuggle Liss into the regent’s castle for the ball and so take her out again, once she was content with whatever purpose compelled her there.
I won’t be able to leave tonight, then. Tomorrow night, after the ball. Shadow take the Silentman. He and those creatures he’s been trafficking with. I’d have been long gone if it weren’t for his greed.
He swore aloud. Blood welled from his thumb and slid along the knife blade.
“Got it,” called Lena from the alcove.
“Got what?” he said.
“Picked the lock, of course. What’s this, then—this what all the work gets done with?” She swaggered into the room carrying a sword.
“Give me that!”
The little girl jumped back, but the sword was so long and so heavy that she tripped over it and sprawled onto the floor. He snatched it away from her.
“Serves you right,” he said.
“Don’t have to be so snappish, cully,” she scowled, rubbing her elbow.
“This is no toy,” he said. His voice was gruff. He sat back down and laid the sword across his knees. Unconsciously, his hands drifted across the battered sheath and the leather-bound hilt, blackened with oil and ag
e.
“Well, if it’s no toy, then you must’ve done a fair bit with it. Shadows, you’re the Knife!”
“Was the Knife,” he corrected.
“Poof.” One small hand fluttered dismissively. “There ain’t no new one yet, so you’re about the best there is for now. So g’wan—tell us a story about that thing.”
“The only stories in this blade are about death,” he said. “A child like you shouldn’t be hearing such tales.”
“Oh, yes I should. The bloodier the better.”
Thoughtfully, he touched the iron guard on the haft. Under his fingertip he could feel a small nick. Lucky, that one. He’d be less a hand if this were any other blade. He had been careless that day.
“This was my father’s sword,” he said. “And his father’s before him. It’s been passed down within my family for generations.”
“It looks a rubbishy old thing,” said the little girl.
“Only a fool trusts to looks,” he said, scowling at her. “The Juggler should’ve taught you that. Now, be quiet or there’ll be no story.”
“Right you are, sorry.”
She crossed her legs, leaned her chin on her palms, and waited expectantly.
“I learned how to handle a sword from my father. I began when I was younger than you, scarcely able to lift the weapon I was given. But patience is the key to any learning, and as the years passed, what was once a burden and a painful duty became my nature. Never pick up a weapon, child, unless you seek to master it to such a degree that it becomes part of you.”
“Even if you’re gonna just grab a stick and whack some lug on the head?”
He took some bread and hard cheese from the chest and handed them to Lena.
“Here, occupy your mouth with this.”
“Thanks.”
“When I turned seventeen, my father gave—gave me this blade and I went to seek my fortune. Youth is foolish. Always. There’s no exception to that. I thought myself wise by virtue of my ability with my sword. I went to the mountains of Morn, to seek out some fearsome beast, to hunt down whatever terrible creatures of legend might exist and to defeat them in battle. My mind whirled with thoughts of gold and jewels, treasure beyond compare, but, truth be told, I was more dazzled with glory. Winning a name for myself so that men would be filled with awe, that stories would be told with reverence around tavern tables, that bards would sing of my deeds before noble lords and ladies.”
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