Ronan scowled, eyes gazing at some remembered vista. His hand traced the weave of leather wrapped around the sword’s haft.
“So were there?” said Lena.
“Were there what?”
“Wild animals. Wolves an’ bears an’ ogres an’ all.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. A sour smile crossed his face. “All the legends are true, though I wish they were not. It might give you a pleasant shiver to think about such beasts when you’re safe behind city walls, but I’d never willingly come to blows with a bear. And ogres are even worse.”
“You killed an ogre?” The little girl stared at him.
“Several,” he said. His voice was reluctant.
“What’re they like?”
“They look something like a man, but an unusually tall man gone fat, with no neck and huge flabby arms and hands like hams and fingers like sausages.”
“Poof,” she scoffed, stuffing a hunk of cheese into her mouth. “Fat people are slow as cold honey. I’d run circles around ogres.”
“No, you wouldn’t. They may be fat, but they’re enormously fast and strong. They’d grab you in a trice and I doubt you’d make more than a snack for ‘em. Just a bite or two, and they do like their meat fresh, though they aren’t choosy and’ll sup happily on a body gone rancid, bones and all, for they’ve got tremendous teeth. An ogre can crunch right through bone.”
This thought did not seem to disturb the little girl, for she bit down ferociously on the remaining crust of bread as if to prove that strong teeth did not belong only to ogres. Ronan drew the sword from its sheath. The blade gleamed a dull silver. He took a rag from his pocket and ran it down the edge.
“Three of them I killed with this,” Ronan said. “I think they were brothers, but family resemblance is difficult to discern in ogres. They lived in the Mountains of Morn, in a hideaway carved deep in the rock. I crept through the dark of those tunnels, feeling my way over the rusting armor and remains of those who had met their doom in that place.”
“Did you search the bodies?”
“Did I what?”
“All those dead warriors,” Lena said, flinging her arms out wide. “Allus gonna be good swoop on dead bodies.”
“They were a bit further along than just dead bodies. Skeletons—all of them. There usually isn’t much to be found on skeletons. Besides, I was there for ogres.”
“I woulda swooped the skeletons,” she said. “You never know.”
“The ogres had plenty of gold,” he said. “Even your exacting standards would’ve been satisfied.”
“Ah, that’s all right then.”
The sunlight was slanting through the windows, casting long shadows. It was close to dusk.
“We should be going,” said Ronan. “It’s near enough time. The moon’ll be rising soon.”
“But what about the rest of the story? You haven’t killed any ogres yet.”
“Later,” he said.
She grumbled at that, but cheered up once they stepped outside, for they had been cooped up in the two little rooms all day long. Ronan strapped the sword onto his back. It was nearly invisible under his cloak.
“Right. We’re off to see your Jute,” he said. “Stick close.”
Lena had a hard time keeping up with him, for his long legs covered the ground at such a pace that she was forced to almost run along beside him. They avoided the main thoroughfares of the city, but even the alleys and backstreets thronged with people. The Autumn Fair had begun in Hearne. Every intersection, no matter how small, had sprouted impromptu stalls and barrow carts manned by obsequious merchants. People moved through the cramped streets like water, slowing to swirl around vendors, eddying in the mouths of alleys, and pooling in the tiny squares that graced some of the intersections.
“Don’t do that,” said Ronan.
The little girl had palmed a muffin off a passing bakery cart. She took an enormous bite and nearly choked. Crumbs sprayed from her mouth as she struggled to chew and breathe at the same time.
“No telling whose eyes’ll be drawn if you get caught,” he continued, scowling at her. “And we can’t have that now. Keep your head down and don’t meet anyone’s eyes.”
“Ah, but I didn’t get caught,” she said.
It was dusk when Ronan and Lena came to the Mioja Square. Lamps on poles flared golden, standing on the street corners and amidst the peaks of the stalls that filled the square. The towers of the university loomed on the other side of the square, their walls luminous with the light of the setting sun. The square was crowded with people and the air clamored with the sound of voices. Ronan halted as they stood at the mouth of an alley, his hand on her shoulder.
“If I lose you in that crowd, there’ll be no finding you again.”
They made their way around the perimeter of the square until the outer wall of the university was visible at the end of the street. A contingent of city Guard stepped by smartly, pikes slanting on their blue and black jerkins. Ronan eyed them warily, wondering whether the erstwhile Knife of the Guild was known by face to the regent’s men, but the soldiers looked over him blankly and then were gone, swallowed up in the ceaseless flow of passersby.
“Now, where were you supposed to meet him?”
He spoke as casually as he could, but there must have been a touch of excitement in his voice, for the girl squinted at him before she answered.
“Down Weavers Street,” she said reluctantly. “In the alley.”
“The sooner we get him out of this city, the sooner he’ll be safe from the Guild. Won’t do to have him waiting out and be seen by some sharp-eyed gabber.”
Weavers Street was a crooked stretch of street where many of the Weavers Guild lived and worked and sold their wares. The street was made narrow by the stalls on either side, which displayed all kinds of tapestries, carpets, rugs, blankets, and gossamer-thin shawls woven in every hue the eye of man had ever seen. Apprentices caroled the merits of silk over wool or wool over silk and enticed passersby into shops with trays of hot tea. Lena led the way and she tugged at Ronan’s hand, impatiently threading her way through the crowd. She picked the pocket of a passing trader and looked back to see Ronan scowling at her. She grinned and turned down an alley so narrow that he would have walked by without even seeing the opening. The immense wall of the university rose up out of the encroaching night. He could hear the nearly imperceptible hum of wards woven deep within the stonework. There were so many different threads to them that it put his teeth on edge to hear their quiet discord.
Hearne had two places Ronan did not like being near for long. One was the regent’s castle on the cliffs above Highneck Rise. The other was the ruins of the old university. Both of them were so wound about with wards that if a person had any level of sensitivity to such things, the sheer number of weavings was bound to produce headaches or dizziness. Some people merely became sleepy. Ronan tended to become irritable, and life irritated him enough as it was.
“Here,” Lena said. “Right here.” The little girl bounced on her toes. The alley was gloomy with shadows, though the wall, high overhead, was still awash with the fading afternoon sun.
“Perhaps,” he said, “it’d be better if Jute didn’t see me at first. He might be alarmed. You’d better explain things to him.”
She wasn’t sure what to make of that, frowned at him, and then glanced up at the wall above her. When she looked back, Ronan had vanished and, though she peered here and there about the alley, the man was nowhere to be seen. She settled on top of a crate and waited. The trader’s purse afforded some diversion. Besides the expected handful of silver, it also contained a tiny copper box engraved with grooves that wove endlessly about each other. The box rattled when she shook it, but, try as she might, Lena could not figure out how to open the thing.
“You’ll never manage it that way.”
She looked up. Jute was grinning at her.
“Jute!” she said, delighted.
“Here,” he said. “Let me h
ave a go.”
He held the little box loosely in his hands, not even looking at it. His eyes seemed to glaze. The lid of the box sprang open with a click. An opal gleamed inside.
“How’d you do that?” she said.
“Simple. I beat the ward. See all the lines squiggling all over the place? That’s the ward. This comes from Vomaro, I think.”
“A bad ward?” Her hand drifted up unconsciously to touch the scar on her face.
“Course not,” he said. “The ward keeps it locked, that’s all. To open it you have to not think about it. Forget you’re even holding the box and it’ll open right up.”
“So why don’t the silly thing just open in your pocket any old time?”
“You have to be holding it.”
“Ah.”
They smiled at each other—the little girl perched on the rickety slats of the wooden crate, the boy rocking on his heels, his hands jammed in his pockets. He seemed taller to her, as if he had grown in her absence or as if she hadn’t seen him for a long time—years, instead of a mere handful of days.
“Any scuttle going around on that Nio?” he said, glancing down the alley. It was darker now, and several stars were visible overhead, past the dark edge of the university wall and the houses lining the other side of the alley.
She opened her mouth, thinking of the old man who now ran the Juggler’s children. His wrinkled face. His withered mouth. Some questions shouldn’t be asked. There had almost been a note of apology in his voice when he had whispered through the keyhole. And there, over Jute’s shoulder, she saw the face of Ronan materialize out of the darkness.
“Jute,” she faltered, bewildered and no longer sure. The man was so silent. The boy turned too late, his eyes widening. In that brief moment, he wheeled on her, his face outraged.
“Lena!” he said. There was such a wealth of hurt and bewilderment in his voice that she would have done anything in the world to have not heard him speak her name like that, to be able to take back what she had done.
The folds of the man’s cloak whirled around the boy and he was gone, vanished from before her eyes, and there was only the man standing before her. She hurled herself at him, furious, her fingers crooked into claws. The tears in her eyes conspired against her; he was only a blur, but she felt his hand on her head, holding her away so that her blows flailed through the air or landed on his unyielding iron arm.
“Lena.”
He said it kindly, and that only served to make her cry harder and scrabble at the strength of his hand. He said it again, but she did not let up in her efforts. She could not. There was nothing else left for her to do. He sighed and did not say her name again, and a sudden, sharp blow on the back of her head caused her to pitch forward on her face. She blacked out for a moment. She could feel the cobbles under her cheek and she heard footsteps hurrying away.
Lena got to her feet. It was beginning to rain. She wiped her nose on her sleeve and, squinting down the alley, saw the tall shape of a man vanishing into the crowds of Mioja Square. She made off down the alley after the man, dizzy and staggering, but hands clenched at her side.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
HOME TO HEARNE
Owain Gawinn was satisfied. Well, he was reasonably satisfied. After leaving the village of Lower Wen, he and his men had rode northwest, back up into Vo. They had not learned anything else after hearing Binny’s tale. None of the villages they encountered had anything to say about the strange incidents plaguing the duchies. Most people had heard of the killings, true, but they had nothing substantial to say. Some thought them the work of bandits. Others declared that ogres must be abroad in the land again, pointing out that it had only been fourteen years since the duke of Vomaro’s daughter, Devnes Elloran, had been carried off by ogres. Still others claimed it was the work of wizards needing blood for their spells.
Regardless, Owain was reasonably satisfied. Between Binny’s story and the footprints that he and Hoon had seen, he now had something to go on. The mystery had a face. The regent would be forced to take him seriously. More influence would be brought to bear. More gold would be pried loose from Botrell’s coffers. More soldiers could be trained. Perhaps several parties could be sent out to scout across the duchies? With Botrell’s word behind him, maybe he could even muster support from the duchies.
The Farrows. The best trackers in all of Tormay.
“Hoon,” he called.
The little man urged his horse up.
“You think the Farrows would be willing to lend a hand?” said Owain.
“With our friend an’ his two beasties?”
“Aye.”
“Mebbe so. Never met 'em myself. Folks say they be pleasant enough. Real trouble you’d have is finding ‘em in the first place. Farrows are elusive. Howsomever, I reckon if you put word out, they’ll hear sooner’n later.”
“Think a Farrow could cut the sign of our friend and track him?”
“I reckon so. Back home in the mountains, they tell some tales about Cullan Farrow. About how he tracked a big timberwolf right over the mountains an’ out into the eastern wastes until the wolf just got so damned tired of being follered that he up an’ heads to Cullan’s campfire, plops down an’ says ‘All right, Farrow, you got me.’ Course, there’s allus his son, Declan, but they say the lad done vanished for good. Fourteen years back now.”
“Now that’s a man I’d have in the Guard,” said Owain. “I don’t know about how he treated Devnes Elloran—if there’s any truth in the songs, he’s got a wicked streak in him as wide as the Rennet River—but anyone who could track an ogre trail, months old, right into their lair and then cut ‘em down by himself. . .” He shook his head in admiration. “I wish I’d been there to see him fight.”
“Well, I heard tell you’ve had some fights yourself, in your time.”
Owain grinned.
“Still some time left,” he said.
And with that pleasant thought in mind, he turned his horse to the west.
“Lads!” he shouted. “We ride for home and Hearne!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
HUNGER AND THE WIHHT
Nio woke in the late afternoon, with the sunlight already fading behind the shuttered windows. His dream returned to him in a rush. It seemed as if the fortress loomed unseen behind the paltry reality of his room. If he were only to close his eyes and then open them, the walls would be gone to reveal the stone fastness standing within its unending night sky. Surely that terrible place was the deeper truth than his shabby bedroom. However, when he shut his eyes and then opened them again—chiding himself for being a fool and yet half believing there was a certain wisdom in being a fool—there was only the walls of his bedroom, grimy with neglect and gloomy with shadow.
Nio lit a candle and went downstairs. It had been a long time since he had eaten, but he was not hungry. He did not think he would ever be hungry again. The word stirred in his mouth, and it was meat and drink to him.
The fifth name of darkness.
He marveled at the simplicity of the word. Surely such a sound was self-evident in the shape of shadows, in the creeping dusk, and in the blackness of those rare night skies in which there are no stars. He whispered the word out loud. Instantly, everything around him—the walls, the stone tile of the floor, the copper handles and hinges and keyholes, the mirror reflecting candlelight and his gaunt face—everything began to unravel into shadow. Wood splintered into shadow. The stone underfoot softened. The candle in his hand melted and darkness dripped down his fingers. The mirror reflected nothing except shadow, was shadow.
He laughed aloud. For a moment, he allowed the change to continue, marveling in it and wondering if, left unchecked, it would spread outwards like the ripples caused by a stone thrown into water, until all of Hearne was plunged into darkness. But then he spoke the true names of wood and stone, of glass and copper, forcing his will into the sounds until the original appearance of the hall reasserted itself.
The wihht was waiting
at the foot of the stairs when Nio unlocked the cellar door. He was no longer concerned by the thing. It was remarkable how closely it resembled a man. In height and face the wihht could have been his brother. This was probably due to the few drops of blood he had given the creature.
“There’s something I need you to do,” Nio said.
The wihht did not answer.
“We go to the university ruins this night. I’ll introduce you to an old friend of mine. There’ll be mutual profit in the acquaintance—he, in adding to his already considerable knowledge and experience, and you, due to your own particular needs.”
The wihht smiled.
It was twilight when they left the house. The wihht was cloaked and hooded. It no longer walked in the awkward fashion it had when Nio had first created it. The wihht strode along beside him, head down and silent. He could smell the sour must of the thing, but it wasn’t much worse than any poor city dweller who never bathed unless it was by chance of getting caught in the rain. Or perhaps he was merely getting used to the creature’s scent.
The streets were busy. They grew more crowded as they neared Mioja Square at the center of the city. Lamps burned along the edge of the square and at intervals throughout the sprawl of carts and tents. The people thronged under the flickering lights. Water shot up from the fountain in the middle of the square and gleamed with firelight. A cheerful babble of conversation, of vendors hawking their wares, of musicians plying their craft in the ale tents blended together into a surging clamor. Under it all, Nio could sense the countless threads of wards humming in wary readiness, guarding a rich merchant here, another there, woven about the tent of a jeweler, spelled into a nobleman’s purse, silver whorls hammered into the hilt of a soldier’s prized sword.
“Fortunes!” called a boy from the mouth of a tent. “Fortunes told! Fortunes!”
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