The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  Jute scowled at Ronan. The man walked a few paces in front of him. His head was turning from side to side and, every once in a while, his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword.

  The hawk’s claws flexed on Jute’s shoulder.

  This man does not deal in magic, but he listens. Perhaps better than you. For now. There is a familiarity to him, a scent I have known from long ago. But surely my memory is from hundreds and hundreds years past, and this man cannot have lived more than three decades. How strange.

  An evil scent, I suppose, grumbled Jute inside his mind.

  No, not evil.

  He tried to kill me! He left me for dead in that house!

  Whatever he did before is done. And though he tried to kill you, he did not. You are the better for it.

  And then he kidnapped me and handed me over to the Silentman!

  Which would not have happened had you kept safely within these walls. But even disobedience can be turned to good, for there are always greater dreams at work that we cannot see. Within these dreams sleep the smaller reaches of our own dreams.

  Jute did not understand this and spent some time thinking about the hawk’s words. But no matter how he turned them back and forth, they made no sense to him.

  Severan stopped at the end of a corridor that opened into a courtyard. The ground was covered with blue and black tiles in a pattern that confused the eye. The old man squatted down and touched one of the tiles with his finger.

  “This is a trap,” said Jute. He stared at the tiles with distaste.

  “Aye,” said Severan, smiling. “You’ve been in rooms like this before, haven’t you? But we’ve turned the ward here to our own uses. It guards for us now. No one can go where we go without crossing this courtyard, and once entered, it’s no small feat to escape these tiles.”

  “Wards.” Ronan spat to one side and hitched up his sword. “I don’t care for spells and trickery. Give me an honest blade and as long as there’s breath left in my body, I’ll meet any foe, wizard or not.”

  “I’d expect no less from you, for I think I know your name.”

  “Names don’t mean much these days.”

  “A matter of perspective. Ronan of Aum, isn’t it?”

  “Aye.”

  “And Aum a ruin, haunted by jackals and hoot owls. It’s been three hundred years since the men of Harth marched north to burn its gates and break down its walls. A lonely place to come from. A place of death. I think, sir, you have another name as well.”

  There is no telling what Ronan might have said at that point. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone else spoke first.

  “Time for talk later, old man.” The voice rustled, creaking and quiet, as if little used. “Time enough later.”

  Jute had never heard the hawk speak out loud before. His voice was similar to how the bird spoke within his mind, but it was odd to hear him with his ears. The sound felt like sunlight and a hot sky and the wind lazing through it all. Of the three, however, Severan was the only one who showed no surprise.

  “My apologies, master hawk,” said Severan.

  “Something seeks to open the outer door,” the bird said. “Whoever set those shadows afoot in the city. Your ward won’t hold forever against it. Can you not smell the fear in the air? These ruins remember. They remember the day when Scuadimnes opened the door into the darkness.”

  “Talking monkeys from Harth and now hawks as well?” said Ronan. “I smell nothing except dust of this place.”

  “As if you should speak,” said Jute angrily.

  “Peace, boy,” said the hawk. “I remember you now, assassin. I remember you when you were but a child. You broke your father’s ash bow, hunting rabbits.”

  Ronan’s face turned pale.

  “Quickly now,” said the hawk.

  Severan muttered a few words and the color of the courtyard tiles dulled. They hurried across, under an arch on whose peak perched a stone gargoyle.

  “He’ll watch for us,” said Severan.

  Behind them, stone grated against stone, as if the gargoyle had settled itself more comfortably to wait for whatever might come. After a short time, they came to a door at the end of a corridor. Stone faces lined the walls.

  “The forgotten luminaries of this place,” said Severan, not bothering to glance at the sculptures. “The founders, the first council, those who began to record knowledge and the histories of men. I doubt there’s any man alive who knows all their names.”

  “No man, aye,” said the hawk.

  “And him?” asked Jute. He looked uneasily at the stone face over the door at the end of the corridor. The face was by itself. The nearest faces were a good five paces away on either side back down the corridor. There was something odd about the face. It was too thin. The skull was too narrow. The stone of the thing was scorched dark.

  “Scuadimnes,” said the hawk.

  “Foro,” said Severan to the door.

  “Someone should take an axe to him,” said Ronan.

  Severan smiled sourly. “You would be unpleasantly surprised if you tried such a thing. Scuadimnes wove a ward into the stone that, as far as anyone can tell, merely serves to guard his likeness. There are no hidden secrets in the face. The ward guards his pride, and there has never been any secret to that. People have attempted the destruction of the stone out of hatred of Scuadimnes. The result has always been death.”

  “By fire?” said Jute.

  “Always by fire.”

  The door closed behind them and they found themselves climbing stairs.

  “Watch where you step,” said Severan.

  “Where are you taking us?” said Ronan, frowning. “I’ve lost my sense of bearing in this place, and with all the wards buzzing and whispering, I’ll be lucky to last the hour without my head splitting open.”

  “The tower of the library. We’ve gathered there all the books we’ve found in these ruins, and it is no small collection. My friends are there already, searching for answers to the questions posed by this day. We will consult on what is best to be done with Jute.”

  “I don’t think you want to be caught in a tower today,” said the hawk. “I have wings, but you do not.”

  “We’ll be safe there a while.” Severan waved his hand in dismissal. “While there’s only one stairway leading up to the tower, there are three other stairways that lead down. Another of Bevan’s tricks. Stairs that can only be walked down, and not up. The tower is not a dead end to be trapped in. Besides, the wards in this place weave together in such confusion that I daresay the best tracker in Tormay would lose our trail.”

  The stairs were marble, cracked in places, missing in others, so that they had to step over gaping holes. The walls rose up with them, sheer on either side, toward such a height that Jute could not see the ceiling. For all he knew, the walls might have been built right up and up until the sky itself was the ceiling. It was dark on the stairs. Jute turned to look back down the steps. He had the uncomfortable feeling that something was down there, just out of sight.

  We are alone here. For the present.

  Then why is the back of my neck prickling like someone is watching?

  The hawk shifted his weight on Jute’s shoulder.

  Because you are feeling the unease of this place. Something sniffs outside the walls, and old memories wake here within.

  What is it? What is outside?

  But the hawk did not answer him.

  The stairs ended at a blank stone wall. Jute could not see the top of it. The stone was scorched by fire. Severan placed both hands on the wall and closed his eyes.

  “An accursed key, old man,” said the hawk, his voice sharp.

  The wall dissolved in front of them. Stairs rose up beyond in darkness, but light glimmered on the marble steps.

  “You’re a mind reader as well,” said Severan.

  “Your thoughts shouted the name aloud,” said the hawk. “It would be well not to do such a thing again. These ruins bear ill memories of his na
me.”

  “There’s no other key,” said Severan. “There’s no other way to get into the library.”

  The stairs climbed up through a night without moon or stars. Jute reached his hand out and tried to touch the wall on his right, but there was nothing. Surely there was a wall. His hand trailed through the air. He leaned even farther and a hand closed on the back of his shirt, pulling him back toward the middle of the stairs.

  “Careful,” said Ronan from behind him.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Severan. “It’s a long way to fall.”

  “How long?”

  “No one knows.”

  The stairs ended and a door opened into the library. The room was octagonal in shape. Books lined the majority of the walls on all sides, from floor to ceiling, and there were lamps glowing in the gloom. Four windows looked out of the room, set opposite and at angles to each other like the cardinal points of a compass. Between each window was a door. Stars shone outside in the night sky.

  “It can’t be night already,” said Jute in astonishment.

  “Time behaves oddly on the stairs,” said Severan. “We’ve been climbing all day.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS

  Two old men came out of the shadows in the room, silent and staring. It seemed that they looked at the hawk perched on Jute’s shoulder, but then he realized that both of them were staring shyly at him. He shuffled his feet and looked down at the floor.

  “Is this the boy you spoke of?” said one.

  “Later,” said Severan. “Have you learned anything about the shadow creatures roaming the streets? Or the spell muttering its way through this city?”

  “The wihhts, you mean,” said one of the two old men.

  The hawk stirred but did not say anything.

  “The wihhts?” said Ronan.

  He stood near the door, so motionless in his drab cloak that neither of the two old men had even seen him enter the room. They eyed him curiously, but their attention remained on Jute.

  “They’re wihhts, but they aren’t wihhts,” said the old man.

  “If they aren’t wihhts, then they can’t be wihhts, Gerade,” said Severan.

  “There is a similarity,” said Gerade. “A similarity in how they’re woven into being, I think.” He picked up a book from the table. “I found this book tucked away in the back of the fifth volume of Blostma’s Treatises on Flowers—the fifth volume deals with decorative varieties, you remember—such tedious writing that none of us had bothered to open it until now.”

  He flipped a few pages in the book.

  “Here it is. Apparently, this is the journal of an assistant professor of Naming at the University, and he—”

  “An assistant professor at the University?” Severan looked startled.

  “Yes,” said Gerade. “I haven’t figured out his name yet. Probably a wise choice, in light of—”

  “So he was alive during the wizards’ war?”

  “Of course. Hence the pertinence,” said Gerade. “What he wrote seems to have bearing on those wretched creatures roaming the city. Now, where was I? Here we are.”

  Gerade began to read.

  “Later that night, those on watch in the lower tunnels reported a strange whisper in the stones around them. It was confirmed in all of the lower tunnels, from the passage that runs the length of the north side to the labyrinth underneath the southern buildings. In the water tunnel, however, from the east wall to the well under the seeing room—which we are in the process of stopping up for other reasons—there was no sound except for the noise of the rushing water. The reasons for this are unclear, but I think it due to the natural unease between water and darkness.

  “The whisper droned several words, over and over again. The sound was so quiet it was first only heard by a student who had fallen asleep with his head resting against a wall. He awoke screaming, for there was evil in the words and they had worked their way into his mind. It took three men to subdue him.

  “We were unable to determine the exact nature of the words, for they were old and of strange forms that had little in common with the grammars in the library. Besides, we were hampered by the loss of the books Scuadimnes had stolen. The only determination we could make concerned the nature of the spell. It was similar to the weavings that go into the making of a wihht. Also, one of the words drew its meaning from darkness, from dimnes.”

  Jute watched the moon vanish outside the window as clouds drifted across the stars. He was tired and hungry. He did not care about names and words and whether something was a wihht or not. To tell the truth, at that moment he did not care about explanations and what the hawk would tell him—if he ever would, which was highly suspect. All he wanted was some bread and cheese and somewhere to sleep.

  Severan sighed.

  “Dimnes. Scuadimnes. He never tried to hide his nature, did he?”

  Gerade continued reading.

  “Our knowledge in this matter is not enough to combat the spell. The council is convinced that if the words could be unraveled, their unmaking would also prove the unmaking of the terrible army that batters against our walls. For when these abominations are cut down, they bleed darkness. Their darkness is the same that infuses the words muttering through the stones underfoot. But we have no time to research this, for more and more of us die with every passing hour.”

  Gerade stopped reading. “It’s a variation of the same word, isn’t it? Not exactly the same, but reasonably similar to dimnes. I heard it this morning. Even Adlig heard it, deaf as he is.”

  “I’m not deaf.”

  “But there was another word in the air this morning. Swefn. We don’t know what it means.”

  “It means dream,” said the hawk. “Those creatures are woven out of shadows and dreams.”

  “Swefn,” said Adlig. “I’ve never heard that word before. Thank you.”

  “Those things in your book,” said Ronan. “They bled darkness?”

  “They did, and this was also mentioned in other histories of the wizards’ war. Sarcorlan of Vomaro’s text on the kings of Hearne, as well as—”

  “Save the recitation,” said Ronan. Gerade turned red and shut his mouth. “The creatures outside bleed a strange dark substance that seemed to disappear into the air. They sound like those in your histories.”

  “I daresay we won’t come any closer to an answer if the council themselves were not able to,” said Adlig. “Surely there’s no one alive today who possesses more knowledge than they. But this presents quite an amazing opportunity. Perhaps there’s some study we can attempt of these creatures? Could one of them be captured?”

  “Spare me from scholars and wizards,” said the hawk. “You spend your lives in talk while time steals the days, one by one, like gold from your unresisting hands. Come, we have a grave problem set before us, and these wretched shadows creeping about the city are a paltry trouble in comparison.”

  Gerade and Adlig blushed like guilty children at the hawk’s words, though Severan nodded his head. Jute sat down, leaned against a bookcase and thought about sausages. His head bent forward and he fell asleep. A snore escaped him. Everyone turned to look.

  “You speak of the boy, lord hawk,” said Gerade.

  “Aye,” said the hawk.

  “He is the. . . he is the—?”

  “He is the anbeorun Windan,” said the hawk, sighing somewhat.

  “The wind lord! Severan said as much, but how could we believe him? He’s just a boy. He’s so young.”

  “My old master is dead,” said the hawk.

  Lamplight gathered in the bird’s black eyes and he stared at Jute, but his focus seemed far away as if he looked through the sleeping boy and saw someone else. He rustled his wings and then, with an effort, continued speaking. “The name of the wind is waking in this young one, but it does not waken easily or quickly. The wind will not be in his grasp for many days or even weeks, and I think the Dark knows this. It seeks h
is life.”

  “Could such a thing happen?” said Gerade, his face pale. “Has such an evil ever come upon one of the anbeorun? There’s no mention of such a thing in any of the histories. The anbeorun have always defended us against the Dark. If the Dark ensnared the wind lord, then what would stop death from coming to the lands of Tormay?”

  “Sorrow would come to the world,” said Adlig.

  “Aye,” said the hawk. “It would be the beginning of sorrows.”

  “What can be done?”

  “We must hide the boy, of course,” said Severan. He looked around the room. “We have no other choice.”

  “If we do this,” said Gerade, “surely the Dark will come for us as well.”

  Adlig snorted. “Death comes sooner or later. I’ve heard it creeping along my trail these past years. Might as well come sooner, for all I care. Never took you for a coward, Gerade.”

  “I merely think it prudent to consider all potential outcomes. It’s the sensible thing to do.”

  “Rubbish. Stop talking like a pompous scholar.”

  “We’re scholars and, as such, we’d be remiss not to consider all the angles. Perhaps we should form a committee to report back on all history relevant to the situation? The political ramifications should be analyzed as well. The Regent might want a say in this. And the duchies.”

  Severan’s fist crashed down on the table. Everyone jumped. Jute woke up with a start.

  “We hide him. We’ll worry about the consequences later.”

  “First,” said the hawk, “we must get him out of the city.”

  “Why?” said Gerade. “What better place to hide than in these ruins? It’s a labyrinth in here. Besides, there are more wards guarding these walls than can be found in all of Tormay.”

  “He must be taken out of the city,” said the hawk. “I don’t trust these ruins.”

  “If it must be done, then it can be done,” said Severan. “But I don’t think he’d get two steps with all those shadow creatures outside.”

  “I doubt we’d be able to fight our way through them.” Ronan tapped the hilt of his sword thoughtfully.

  There were many more suggestions. Some bad, some worse than bad. But then Adlig pounded his fist on the table and crowed with delight. His eyes gleamed.