The expedition had been certainly well worth the trouble. It was a beginning. It had yielded another thread, a thread to be followed in patience until the mystery had been unwound. Botrell would be forced to give the problem his attention now.
His horse’s ears again perked up, listening for something. Owain eased back in the saddle. His mount slowed and then halted. Then, he heard the sound of hooves clip-clopping and a figure emerged into view in the moonlight. The horse and rider drew closer.
“Just passing this way myself,” said Hoon.
“Oh?” said Owain, trying not to wonder what business Hoon could possibly have in the Highneck Rise neighborhood, let alone why his horse was not being groomed and watered back at the tower stables along with the rest of the company’s mounts.
“Got a bit of n’understanding with a girl,” said Hoon. He winked. “Works as a cook for one o’ these rich laybouts.”
“Ah,” said Owain, wondering why he felt embarrassed at this revelation while Hoon, as far as he could tell, seemed perfectly unembarrassed.
“Been thinkin’ ‘bout nothing but her mutton pie for the last week.”
“Oh,” said Owain. He was at a complete loss for words and would not have said anything past that single utterance, but Hoon raised his hand for silence.
“Hist!”
The little tracker reined his mount in and Owain did the same. Hoon pointed at the horses’ ears. Both pairs were upright and rigid and oriented ahead. Hoon stroked the neck of his horse.
“They’re not liking what they hear,” said Hoon. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”
“We’re near my home,” said Owain. “Just around the next bend.”
He did not wait for any further talk, but urged his horse into a gallop. He could hear Hoon following swiftly behind. And then he heard the first sound of screaming before he rounded the corner. His mouth went dry. The horse slowed, shuddering under him, but he cursed it and whipped at it with the reins until it shot forward. The screaming grew louder. His house blazed with lights from every window. Servants ran to and fro, shouting. Torches burned and sparks rose in the night air. Owain savagely hauled on the bit, yanking his horse to a halt and kicking his boots free from the stirrups. His steed whinnied a terrible, high-pitched squeal and he heard it blunder against the hedge and then gallop away down the street. The cobblestones in front of the gate were slick with blood. What looked like the body of a horse lay mangled to one side of the gate. Owain did not remember drawing his sword, but it was there in his hand. He ran through the garden. The front door was open and his steward, Ognien, stood there with a torch in one hand and a pike in the other. Several of the other men of the household crouched ready behind him, all with weapons in their hands.
“My lord,” said the steward, his face grim.
“What’s happened here?” said Owain.
“We’ve sent for the regent’s doctor,” said the steward, “and for the Guard as well. Your return is timely, my lord.”
“Around the side,” said Hoon.
He pulled at Owain’s arm, but the captain flung him off with a snarl.
“Come!” said Hoon.
There, around the side of the house, among the crushed rose bushes, they found the body of Loy the Hullman. He held a great spear in his arms. The flaming torchlight outlined his broken corpse. The ground was sharp with shattered glass.
“Owain!” Sibb was in his arms, sobbing and gripping his neck. Behind her, he caught sight of the white face of the regent’s nephew, Arodilac Bridd.
“Sibb! What in shadow’s name has happened here?”
She could not answer him, so hard was she crying.
“My lord!”
It was Hoon. The tracker was crouched on the ground by the dead Hullman.
“My lord,” he said again. There was such a terrible urgency in his voice that Owain put aside his wife and went toward him.
“Look here.”
Owain snatched a torch away from a servant and raised it high.
“The tracks are the same, my lord,” said Hoon. “While we were gone, our murderin’ beastie’s been here.”
Sibb’s grip tightened on her husband.
“Her name is Fen,” she said, barely audible through her tears.
“She speaks,” said Owain, startled.
“Now she does,” said his wife. “Now she does.” But her gaze was fixed on the crumpled form of the dead Hullman.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
WAITING IN THE FOG
Ronan woke up. For a moment, he could not remember where he was. He sat up in bed. His hand was clenched tightly into a fist. With an effort, he relaxed his fingers. A blue pearl and a strand of hair lay in his palm. He remembered and sighed. Somehow, the strand of hair had woven itself about the pearl so that the gem was held within the web of hair. The strand was securely knotted in a loop. Ronan settled the loop around his neck. Instantly, the necklace tugged at him. It was an impatient, almost exasperated tug. He couldn’t tell if it was in his mind or merely pressure against his skin.
The boy!
Ronan jumped to his feet. What had he been thinking, sleeping the night away? Less than a minute later, he was hurrying down the staircase into the courtyard behind his rooms. He didn’t bother setting the ward spelled into the door. He knew he wouldn’t be back. Not ever again.
The morning fog was oddly thick, and his breath misted in the cold air. Summer was certainly gone. Ronan shrugged his cloak around his shoulders and strode off. His sword was a comforting weight on his back. The leather bag from the old cook hung at his side. He reached over his shoulder, eased the sword free an inch from its scabbard, and then let it slide back in. The steel whispered in satisfaction against the leather.
The necklace pulled at him. No, it yanked at him. The fine line of it burned against his skin. The urgency was even stronger, but there was something else as well. Fear. It was then that Ronan heard footsteps. He could not tell from which direction the sound came. First, it seemed the steps shuffled along off to the right, and then the sound came from the left. He touched the haft of his sword. The metal was full of memories of blood. It murmured reassurance to him of the frailty of all flesh. That all flesh would fail, and this steel would help some along the way. But even with that comfort, his heart faltered. Ronan turned and hurried away.
The fog began to unravel. He stood on the outskirts of Mioja Square. He turned and stared into the fog. The street was empty except for the mist drifting across the cobblestones and over the roofs and ghosting around gutterspouts. He shivered and plunged into the labyrinth of the square. Canvas hung heavy with the fog’s dew and the gay colors brought to life by night and torchlight were nowhere to be seen. Everything was grimy and gray. The cobblestones underfoot were slimed with mud and the debris of the past weeks.
None of the stalls were open yet—at least, none of those that he passed by. He heard snoring behind the canvas and leather and greasy wool blankets drawn down over the stalls. He saw no one. It was decidedly strange. This was a fair day, and surely it was time to get ready, to inventory goods and finish all the tasks that must be done before the morning onslaught of buyers.
Ronan paused. He had been down this row of stalls before. Surely he had. That tent of blue wool looked familiar. He could not see over the stalls. Their tops were a great deal taller than him. Perhaps down this path to the left? But here was another path to the right, skirting around a heap of garbage. A dog growled at him in warning as he passed the garbage, but then he noticed the animal was looking past him. The necklace tugged at him.
Get to the other side of the square. Now.
Ronan turned. Something moved far back down the row of stalls—a ripple in the air, as if he were looking through water that had been disturbed. He held his breath. The fog was advancing. It spread over the stalls, sliding down greasy tent slopes and reaching around ropes and poles. It flowed toward him as if propelled by a breeze. Perhaps that had been it. The wind eddying the fog. The
dog growled again and slunk away.
The necklace pulled at him again. This time it was stronger than before. There was an urgency in the feel of it, as if it were becoming alarmed. Ronan ran through a passage canopied with awnings that sagged and dripped with water. The path twisted, and then, after a dozen yards, there were no more stalls and he was at the foot of some stairs. Stairs that climbed up into the fog. He was at the ruins of the university. The necklace tugged him up the steps. At the top of the steps, the fog was almost nonexistent. The vast walls rising before him stood like an island in a dirty gray lake out of which poked the peaks and tent poles of the stalls in the square below.
Hinges creaked. The necklace shivered warning. His sword felt heavy on his back. In the shadows, past some double doors chained with rusted links, stood a man. He was motionless, his back to Ronan, his hands flat on a small door just to one side of the double doors. He looked as if he would push the door down rather than swing it open.
“Good morning to you, sir,” said Ronan.
The man turned. He had a thin, dark face that looked at Ronan without expression. His eyes seemed the only living thing about him, as if the man’s face was merely a mask they peered through. Recognition sparked in his eyes, though Ronan was sure he had never seen the fellow before. The pearl hanging on Ronan’s chest pulsed cold. Even though the pearl was hidden beneath Ronan’s shirt, the man’s eyes flicked straight down to it. He flinched and hurried away, down the steps and into the fog. For a while, Ronan could hear the shuffling footsteps, and he knew that it was the same shuffle that had followed him earlier through the streets.
The necklace no longer pulled at Ronan. He prowled about the porch. The huge double doors would never be opened by anyone other than a blacksmith with tools and flame. The chains wound about it were thicker than his wrist. He examined the little door hidden off to one side. He could hear the ward whispering in it and knew it was beyond his skill. After a while, it began to rain, and he settled down in the shadows behind the columns with his cloak drawn about him. Like the necklace, Ronan waited.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
THE REALITY OF DREAMS
It was a dreadful, howling noise. It yanked Jute out of sleep quicker than the Juggler kicking his ribs. He sat up and knocked his head against the bottom of a shelf. Linens cascaded down around him. The maid screamed again. The scream must have given her an opportunity to collect her thoughts, because it was then she remembered the broom in her hands. She gave another howl. This time there was a warlike sound to her yell. The broom whistled through the air and knocked the last shreds of sleep from Jute’s head. He tumbled out of the closet and sprinted down the hall.
“Help! Help!” shrieked the maid. “Thieves! Robbers! Murderers!”
Jute had only a vague recollection of how to get out of the house. Actually, it was a proper manor, with hallways and doors and rooms opening into other rooms into other, endless rooms. If he had the time, he would have exited the manor in a leisurely fashion, collecting a few small objects along the way. It was a lovely place, but Jute wasn’t able to appreciate any of it properly. It seemed that with every corner he turned or door he tried, another servant popped out and tried to grab him.
Kindly stop playing about and come outside.
“I’m not playing!” said Jute, dodging a red-faced footman.
“Here now!” bawled the footman.
Two kitchen boys rushed at Jute, hallooing joyously and waving baking paddles over their heads. A stout man waddled along at the rear, shouting threats that seemed directed equally at both the boys and Jute. He yanked an enormous vase over as he ran by. It went down with a crash and he heard the kitchen boys trip over themselves as they tried to avoid the shards.
That’ll serve ‘em, thought Jute.
As if in answer, a baking paddle whizzed by his head. Jute leapt down the hall and through a set of doors before he had time to take another breath. Morning light filled his eyes. He heard the rustle of the hawk’s wings in the air. Someone shouted nearby, but he did not pause to look. He pelted across a lawn and around trees and blundered through a hedge. The garden wall rose up before him: weathered stone spidered with cracks for handholds. Jute clambered up to the top. A gardener brandishing a rake ran down the lawn, followed by the two kitchen boys. Jute waved cheerfully to them, but then, at that moment, something odd happened.
The gardener stumbled into a walk, stopped, and abruptly sat down. His head slumped and he began to snore. Behind him, the two kitchen boys toppled over onto the grass. One turned over to pillow his head on his arm. The hawk fluttered down and settled on Jute’s shoulder. The bird’s head turned this way and that, as if he were trying to hear something.
Evil awakes.
“What do you mean?” said Jute, looking around uneasily.
Look down into the city, said the hawk in his mind. Someone has been whispering through the night. Old words of power. Someone has fed an old, evil spell with fresh blood. Nudged it into a design of fresh purpose. And now it falls hard on the city.
Highneck Rise was like an island rising up out of a gray sea that lay thick and still, without advantage of wave to stir its depths. Fog lay all around them. The only sign of the city below was a single tower like a skeletal hand reaching up out of the water.
“That’s the tower in the old university,” said Jute. He shivered. “I fell from there.”
Aye.
“What is the spell? What is it doing?”
The hawk did not answer, but the nervous pressure of his claws set Jute hurrying down the street. Down toward the city below. It was odd. The sun was rising, but where was the early bustle of the morning, of tradesmen on their deliveries, of servants going about their chores?
They came to a corner where the road curved around a fountain. Water murmured and flowed from a stone urn. An old man sat there on a bench. Jute slowed at the sight of him, for the hawk’s claws had tightened again as if the bird saw menace in the aged frame.
“He’s asleep,” said Jute.
No. It is the spell.
The old man’s head rested on his chest. A snore rasped in the air.
“You see? He’s just sleeping.”
Despite his own words, Jute tiptoed past the old man. The hawk seemed to chuckle inside his mind.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” said Jute. “What happened last night? Who was she?”
Levoreth’s face formed in Jute’s mind as if in answer to his question. But there was an indistinctness to it. The face was a jumble of earth. Stone molded with damp clay, two gray pebbles pressed in as eyes, a bundle of green vines woven about the head to serve as hair. And yet it seemed alive, filled with breath and purpose. The gray pebbles stared back at him.
You see more clearly now. But we will speak of her later. This is not the time for conversation.
“I’m not taking another step until you tell me what’s going on.”
Stubborn boy. Must I contend with you the rest of my days?
Something dealt Jute a blow on the back of his head. A wing. Feathers as hard as a blast of wind.
We must leave this city as swiftly as possible. The longer you stay here the sooner death will find you. The lady did not draw forth all the poison with her. Something remains within the walls. The telling of who you are will be long, and we simply do not have time.
The weight was gone from his shoulder. With one stroke of his wings, the hawk mounted up into the air. Soon, he was only a speck in the sky that, turning toward the east and the rising sun, became silvered with light until it blurred away into nothingness. There was only sky.
“Wait!”
Get to the gates and then gone. There is sorcery in the air and it compels all to fall asleep. Yet, as they sleep, the Dark is stirring awake.
Jute suddenly heard a noise. It was a soft sort of creak. Apart from the sudden catch of his breath, it was the only sound he could hear. Just ahead, the street descended toward the sprawl of the city below.
Down into the fog, and Jute was standing on the edge of it. The creaking sound was coming closer. Jute dashed across the street and crouched behind a tree. He held his breath. A shape began to appear in the fog. It was a hulking mass, as tall as it was wide, creaking on and on as if an endless sigh. But then, just as Jute was about to scream and climb the tree, the thing emerged fully from the fog. It was a cart piled with fresh bread, pulled by a donkey. A baker’s lad slept on the cart’s seat, head nodding and reins straggling from his hands. The donkey ambled along. As the cart passed by, Jute sidled out and snatched a loaf of bread.
You should not take another man’s labor.
“Says who?” said Jute, his mouth stuffed with bread. He turned to watch the cart crawl up the street. Odd. First the old man drowsing by the fountain, and then the baker’s lad.
I think this spell does not affect animals. And with humans, this is something different than sleep. Whatever it is, the whole city lies in thrall, between slumber and waking, where the mind is dangerously open in dreams. And through these dreams comes the Dark. What a strange sorcery. I have never seen such in all my years. An odd similarity with the principle of weaving wihhts. . . Run, boy! Into the fog and out of this accursed city. They draw near!
Jute ran.
Right as he plunged into the fog, a figure rose up out of the gray gloom. It reached for him with long hands and even longer fingers. Its mouth snarled open in a face that had no other features. Jute dodged too late. The hands reached for his throat. But at that moment, a blurring arrow of feathers pierced the fog and struck the dark face. The figure staggered back with a shriek.
Run!
The Shadow at the Gate Page 31
