“By wind and gale,” said Jute.
He did not know why he spoke the words. He was hardly aware he spoke them. No one heard them except himself, but instantly, there sprang up a wind, a howling wind that whipped through the air, dizzying and inexorable and joyous with being. It felt as if it blew straight through his body—he felt cold and empty inside. The woman in front of him swayed a step forward but did not fall.
It felt to Jute as if everything that was—as if the whole world—was caught up in the rush of the wind. That this was right. That this was the way things should be. The wind blew through him. It rushed forward, and color and line and shape blurred under its blast. The bear had tree branches for limbs now that threshed and swayed under the force of the blast, fraying into the red fur of the foxes, whose jaws grew among the briars and snapped and snarled and bit at wind and darkness alike. Stone encased the wolf in armor, shaped by the wind into shining planes. The man shouted with anger. His blade sang under the fury of the gale—a note rising up and up in shrieking pitch until the steel shattered into dust that blew away on the wind and sparkled under the light of the lamps above like falling stars. The woman called out in words that Jute could not understand and everything vanished. The man was gone. The oak and the briars and the beasts were gone. There was only the hall and the silent, staring assembly. And the wind.
The wind blew and howled. It groaned high overhead in the arches of the unseen ceiling. It set the chandeliers of lamps spinning and swaying so that everything was dappled with light that fled this way and that and would not be still. People staggered helplessly in the wind’s force and some fell, crawling on their hands and knees to find whatever shelter they could. A silver tray whirled by, followed by goblets that shattered into singing shards.
“Call back the wind, boy,” said the woman. Her face was tight with anger.
“I can’t,” said Jute. “I don’t know how.” A fierce gladness warmed him. He had done this. The wind blew because of him!
She slapped his face. Hard. He could feel the blood on his cheek from her cut palm.
“Call back the wind,” she said quietly.
“I-I don’t know how,” he stammered. He cowered away from the fury in her eyes.
For a moment she stared at him in disbelief, and then she sighed. Her eyes closed. A presence thrust its way into his mind. Shoved him roughly aside—inside—as if he were nothing. He could taste dirt in his mouth. And then the wind died and the presence was gone.
She opened her eyes and blinked.
“Sorry,” she said.
“What did you—?” He could not finish the sentence. He felt tears welling up.
“Come on,” she said briskly. “Time to go. No telling what’ll turn up next if we stay here. I’m afraid this night will be the talk of Tormay for the next five hundred years.”
She turned and walked off. Jute stumbled after her. The hall rustled into life around them. Faces stared in shock. People backed away. A babble of excited talk filled the air. They neared a wide arch that swept down in stairs to a hall below, filled with light and torches and the shouts of approaching soldiers. The crowd of nobles near the stairs shrank back. Some averted their eyes from the woman and Jute. Others stared greedily, whispering to their neighbors. An older lady emerged from the crowd. A man followed after her. They approached hesitantly.
“Levoreth,” said the lady.
“Aunt Melanor,” said the woman.
“No,” said the other, hesitant. “I’m not your aunt, am I? I never was.”
“No, you weren’t, my dear,” said Levoreth. “Rather, I’m the great-great grandmother of your husband, though I’m afraid I’ve left out about a dozen greats in there.” She gently touched the lady’s face. “We are still family. My blood will run in the veins of your children.”
“Children?”
“Yes. Twins. In the spring.”
Levoreth turned to the man. Her face warmed in a sudden smile.
“Uncle, take care of Dolan for me.”
He could not say anything, but took her hand and brought it to his lips. Tears sprang from his eyes.
“I must go away,” she said. “I can no longer hide in my hills. I’m known, now, for what I am. Soon all of Tormay will know and, with it, the Dark. The Dark has come to these lands and it won’t rest until it finds what it seeks.”
She kissed them both and they were silent. She strode away down the stairs without glancing back. Jute hurried after her.
“Lady,” he said, “who were they? Where are we going? And who was—what was that thing?” He paused and then added timidly, “Who are you?”
Levoreth did not answer.
Guards ran up the steps, their officer urging them on hoarsely, but they did not bother looking at the woman and the boy. They walked through another hall. Servants were gathered in clumps, whispering and glancing about them with frightened eyes. It seemed to Jute that he saw Lena peeking around a corner, but he was not sure. Tall doors swung open before them.
It was raining. Horses standing with their carriages stamped and steamed in the torchlight. A contingent of soldiers ran across the courtyard toward the castle steps. An old coachman huddled on his seat called down a question to Levoreth, but she did not stop. Jute had to run to keep up with her. Then they were past the castle gates and walking down through the night and rain, down through the quiet streets of Highneck Rise.
“Lady,” said Jute, but she interrupted him.
“Levoreth. For you, I am Levoreth. That’s all. No lady this or that.”
“Levoreth—”
“Hush. A ways more and then we’ll talk. There’s not much time, boy, but what time we have might be lost, and lost badly, if we stay too near the castle. No telling what’s been woken up by our little spat back there.” Levoreth shook her head ruefully. “No use crying over that. What’s out is out and that’s all there’s to it.”
She shut her mouth at that and would not speak anymore. Jute trotted along at her side. He thought he would burst from all the questions boiling up inside. He discovered that he was somehow very happy, despite having a lot of bruises and a nervous twitch that had him looking over his shoulder every few minutes in case something terrible was about to come charging out of the night.
Considering your astounding stupidity, you have certainly landed on your feet.
It was the hawk. He sounded relieved. And before Jute could even protest, he heard the rustle of wings, and there, in the rain with the moonlight shining on his wet feathers, was the hawk. He floated down and landed on Jute’s shoulder. Levoreth smiled.
Mistress of Mistresses.
“This is a strange night. Faces from the past, both good and evil, but it does my heart well to see you.”
The hawk bobbed his head.
As your face gladdens mine. I am beholden to you, Mistress. We are in your debt, this young dolt and I. Thank you for preserving him, for such a task this night would have been far beyond my powers. I cannot stand before a sceadu.
“Wait one minute!” said Jute, his face reddening. He no longer felt all that happy.
“You are not in my debt, old wing,” said Levoreth, ignoring Jute. “All this time I have known it my fate to be in Hearne this year, and who knows but it was for this night?”
No. I am in your debt and shall repay it fourfold someday. It is on my blood and the blood of this boy. So be it.
A long, wavering howl broke the stillness of the night. It rose and fell, and then was answered by another same cry.
“What in shadow’s name was that?” asked Jute.
“Do not speak by such a name,” said Levoreth. “That was a shadowhound.”
Another howl keened in the night sky. It seemed to come from somewhere further away in the city.
Three such hounds, I think.
Levoreth’s shoulders slumped.
“Have three such creatures ever been seen in Tormay?” she said. Her voice was weary. “We have been given a dreadful night.
I don’t want to think on what this means, but I fear there’s more evil here than a sceadu. But how can that be? The three sceadus were the lieutenants of Nokhoron Nozhan, and there were none mightier than they. We are faced with a peculiar mystery.”
The hawk unfurled its wings and launched into the air. Two powerful strokes and it was invisible against the night sky.
A sceadu, Mistress? A sceadu did kill my master.
“I’ll weep for thy master another day, old wing,” she said swiftly. “But for now take your youngling to safety. Keep him alive. Keep him alive so that he may grow in wisdom and power. Hide him in whatever nest you can find. No, I speak hastily. Go north, rather, north to the Duke of Lannaslech of Harlech and command him—command him in my name—to guard the boy, though he spend every drop of blood in his land and Harlech groans with death.”
You speak wisely, Mistress. And what of you?
“I’ll lead the creatures out of the city, for doubtless they have my scent. They’re drawn to power, even over blood. I’m weary this night, but I’ll lead them a chase to their deaths.”
“What do you mean?” said Jute, bewildered. “What’s to become of me?”
“What’s to become of you?” Levoreth echoed. She drew close and touched his face with her fingers. Her eyes were sad. “I don’t know your name, boy.”
“My name is Jute.”
“Jute. Know that I grieve for you. I would wish your road on none, but we cannot ordain our days. It is all dreamed beforehand in the house of dreams. Ours is merely to live it well and die. I’d hoped to explain more to you, but the hawk will do so when he sees fit.”
She bent down and kissed his brow. Her lips were cold and wet with rain.
“Never forget, Jute,” she said. “It is much easier to unleash the wind than it is to deny its power.” She touched his face again. “Fly well, little brother.”
Then she turned and ran. She ran fast, much faster than Jute had seen anything ever run before, as fast as a horse in full gallop, even faster. Her hair flew out behind her in a heavy, wet mass, almost like a horse’s mane. The brown of her dress looked like the sheen of a horse’s coat. She vanished into the night, but, even after she was gone, Jute seemed to hear the distant echo of horse’s hooves galloping in his mind.
Aye, you see wisely. Once, many years ago, lived a mighty horse and, together, those two kept watch over this land.
“But what of me?” said Jute, feeling rather sorry for himself.
What of you? You are a thief, are you not? Get over the nearest wall here and we shall find some nook in a rich man’s house to hide away for the night. The shadowhounds are on the scent of the lady and your skin’ll be safe for now.
Jute clambered over the nearest wall and discovered a garden surrounding a large manor. He found an unlocked window and crept along until he found a linen closet that, judging by the amount of dust in it, had not been used for some time. He curled up inside, sniffling and still feeling sorry for himself. Questions jumbled about in his mind, but he was asleep as soon as his head was pillowed on a pile of sheets. The day had been long and he was tired. Just before he fell asleep, however, he remembered the man with emerald eyes. He had meant to ask Levoreth about him.
The hawk perched on the peak of the roof and stared out into the night. Rain fell down. From the street beyond the wall came a faint noise. Something was prowling about, sniffing and growling to itself. The hawk tensed, but then, from far off in the city below, a howl bugled out across the night. It rose and then broke off into a series of excited bays. The scent had been caught. With a scramble and a snort, whatever it was sniffing about in the street padded away. Soon, everything was silent except for the rain tapping on rooftops. The hawk tucked his beak down against his breast, but he did not sleep.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
LEVORETH RUNS
The rain fell harder and faster than before. The gutters flowed like swollen streams and the cobblestones in some streets were ankle-deep. Levoreth did not mind. She was weary, true, but it was a weariness of mind rather than body. She kilted up her dress above her knees and ran through the night. Buildings blurred by, set with darkened windows and shut doors. Occasionally, though, light shone from a window. Sleep, city, she whispered. Sleep and do not wake. Keep your doors locked. Keep your children safe in their beds. Sleep until I have fled your walls and taken this evil with me.
A bay sounded far behind her, sharp and intent. Another one belled out somewhere on her right. The second was much closer. Levoreth splashed across a street and turned a corner. A shape lunged out of the darkness, mouth gaping with teeth. She swerved. Her hand lashed out, slapping at the air, and the creature skidded over the cobblestones and slammed against a wall. It scrambled to its feet, snarling and shaking its head.
She ran.
The gates of the city loomed before her. A light shone in a window of the Guard tower. Two soldiers leaned on their spears under the gaping archway of the gates. One puffed comfortably on a pipe, and the smoke curled up into the darkness and out into the rain. Immediately, she angled away from the gates. It wouldn’t do to lead the shadowhounds straight to the soldiers. They wouldn’t have time to see what had killed them until their throats were already ripped out.
Levoreth loped along the road below the wall, listening for the noises behind her. The beasts were close, but not too close. They seemed to run silently once they were within sight of prey. Her ears were sharper than a deer’s, however, and she could hear the pad of their paws and their panting. Three shadowhounds. It had been a long time since she had seen such a number. Hundreds of years.
No, whispered her memory to her. Nearly a thousand years ago. Remember? Long before you came to these shores. She stuffed the memory down into the back of her mind and ran on.
The stretch of wall before her looked deserted. The city Guard, apparently, were not dedicated enough to be out in such a night. Levoreth glanced back. Far down the street, spray flew as three dark shapes ran over the wet cobblestones.
She eyed the wall.
Perhaps forty feet high. Easy enough for a mountain cat. She filled her mind with a memory from the previous winter. She had hiked up into the mountains, up through the pine forests on the lower slopes of the Morn range, until she had come out onto the snow fields. They were silent, white expanses angling against the sky, complete and inviolate except for the occasional slab of rock jutting up. A pair of mountain cats appeared then, trotting on wedge-shaped paws across the snow’s crust. They were huge beasts, the male standing higher than her waist, and they had pressed their faces imperiously against her hands, demanding to have their ears scratched while they told her of snow and moonlight and the tasty goats that lived on the crags.
She leapt. And landed on top of the wall. A snarl hissed from her lips. Crouching on the wet stones, Levoreth looked down. A rank odor of decay wafted up to her. The beasts below hurled themselves against the wall. They scored the stone in bright gashes with their claws, but they could not leap high enough to reach the top. She waited and watched. The three shadowhounds paced back and forth. Their eyes stared up at her, red spots glowing like coals in the darkness. Then, it happened. The shadowhounds began to fade. Their forms grew insubstantial. The rain fell through them. One by one, they lumbered to the wall—it was more like they were fog drifting over the ground—and then disappeared into the stone.
Levoreth hurled herself off the other side of the wall and was running when she hit the ground. It was turf there, green and thick and soggy with rain, but her feet made no prints as she crossed it. Behind her, the muzzle of the first shadowhound emerged from the wall, moving slowly as if the stone was deep water that must be struggled through. Once clear of the wall, however, the beast regained solidity. In a moment, the two others had joined it. She did not look back again. She went east, down through the darkness of the Rennet Valley and along the river that flowed there. She could smell the cornfields. The rain splashed down on the surface of the river and the
patter of the drops blended with the murmur of the flow so that she seemed to hear its voice as she ran.
Down and down, west and west, murmured the river.
Aye, said a passing fish. We go, we go. We go to the sea. It blew a string of bubbles that floated up to the surface to be popped by raindrops.
Down from sky, snow, and ice, continued the river, not caring about the opinions of fish one way or the other.
Fog on the field, rain and mist.
Water wends its way.
Splutter, glug, splash, and spray.
Through stone and earth and clay.
In sun and moon and day.
Flies, interrupted a bullfrog. Flies, flies, flies.
Down and down—west and west.
“Flow to the sea, little river,” called Levoreth, “flow down and bid my sister look to her borders.” She was not certain, though, if the river understood her, for water was not her language and neither was it hers to command.
After a while, it stopped raining. The clouds unraveled and revealed the moon. A touch of gray far over the eastern horizon relieved the darkness and hinted of the morning to come. Her breath misted out behind her. The valley narrowed here, while the slope on the north side of the valley rose up steeply toward the plain beyond. A few lights shone in the distance on the river bend. A village. She could smell smoke in the air. Her mind caught at a stirring of life—a baker in the village setting out the dough to rise for the morning’s bread, a farmer yawning his way to the barn with milk pails in hand, and a young mother up with a colicky infant.
Levoreth turned her face to the north. It would be an evil morning for the villagers if she led the shadowhounds through their midst. She mounted up the valley slope. Heather and gorse grew there among the rocks. A few trees stood high on the valley wall like sentinels looking out across the plain stretching beyond. And then she had reached the plain itself—the Scarpe. The night wind swept across it, rich with the scent of heather and sweet grass and the perfume of the jona flowers. She breathed in, refreshed.
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