“I have it!” he said. “Just the thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The well beneath the mosaic.”
But before he could say anything further, the hawk turned to stare at the door.
“Quiet,” said the bird.
A hush fell over the room. Severan hurried to the door, eased it open, and peered down the stairs. At first, there was only silence, but then, from far below, there came the quietest of sounds. Footsteps. Something was walking up the stairs.
“It could be anything,” said Gerade. “Perhaps the manifestation of a ward. A squirrel. There’s an infestation of squirrels in the observatorium roof. Right by that old walnut in the courtyard.”
“Hush.” Severan glared at him.
Jute crept up behind Severan and peeked down the stairway. His nose twitched. There was something familiar in the air. An odd scent. And then he knew. Jute spun away from the stairs, but there was nowhere to run. The room shrank around him. Ronan grabbed his arm.
“What’s the matter, boy?”
Jute flung the man’s grip off.
“He’s down there! The thing! From the basement in the house.” Jute backed away until there was no place to go. He felt the wall behind him.
“The wihht?” Severan looked a little pale. “Are you quite certain, Jute? If it made it this far, then it’s bound to possess magic of its own. We have Nio to thank for this, blast his soul.”
“I don’t fancy encountering this wihht fellow,” said Gerade. “Despite whatever academic profit might be gained from such a meeting. Quick. The other stairs. One leads down to the conservatory. The second leads to the great hall. And the third leads to the courtyard.”
“The conservatory,” said Severan. “That would be best. Hurry.”
He sprang to one of the doors and grasped the handle. But it would not turn. He tried the other two doors, without luck. He muttered a word, his eyes shut, and then wrenched his hand away with an exclamation of pain. The door shivered but did not open.
“They’re locked.” Severan’s face was blank with shock. “I don’t understand it. These doors were built without locks. They aren’t supposed to have wards, but there is something in the stone now that keeps them shut. Some sort of spell. The craft of it is beyond my knowledge. Our enemy, whoever he is, plays his hand well. I’m sorry, Jute. I am to blame.”
“If only we could fly,” said Jute, his voice trembling.
They turned as if one to the hawk.
“I couldn’t carry even the lightest of you in my claws,” said the hawk.
“Perhaps the boy could call the wind?” said Gerade.
“No,” said the hawk. “It would be your deaths once wakened, and such power, if let loose, will waken the Dark itself and it will come to this spot.”
“Let’s at least shut the other door,” said Severan. “The ward will keep the wihht at bay while we figure out what to do.”
But, to their dismay, they could not close the door. It shifted slightly in their hands but the air around it felt as if it had turned to stone. Ronan threw his weight against the door and the wood shuddered. Jute gave a cry of fear and clambered up onto one of the window sills. He pushed the casement open and would perhaps have jumped had not Adlig grabbed the back of his shirt.
“Best to stay and fight, boy,” said the old man. He smiled. “It makes the last moments worthwhile.”
“How much time do we have?” said Ronan. He strode to the window and looked out into the night.
“Not much,” said Severan. He and Gerade pushed against the door. It closed perhaps another inch, but it stayed open. There was a chill on the stairs. A greenish light grew, wavering up the walls toward them.
“Buy me a little time and we’ll be out of here safely enough,” said Ronan. He unslung his pack from under his cloak.
“What are you thinking?”
Ronan pointed out the window. “That other tower, there.”
“You must be joking,” said Adlig. “We have no wings and I’m no rabbit to leap such a distance. We’ll dash our brains out on the stones below.”
Ronan pulled a coil of rope from his pack. He turned to the hawk.
“Do you know knots?”
The hawk’s eye glinted. “Aye. Ages past, my master and I flew with the seafarers, coming west to Tormay, before this land was settled. They knew their knots.”
“Just a knot that’ll hold; that’s all we need.”
The hawk grasped the free end of the rope in his claws and took off from the window in a silent flex of wings. Ronan leaned through the window, paying the rope out as the bird flew. His face was taut.
“Quickly!” said Severan from the door.
“We’re going as quickly as we can,” said Ronan. The rope slid between his hands. He could see the hawk settle on the roof of the tower opposite them, a little below the height of their window.
“He’s there,” he said. But the pearl hanging inside his shirt flared with heat. He turned. “Close that door!” he said. The pearl was as hot as a flame. Something was near.
“We’re trying.” Sweat ran down Severan’s forehead. The door was halfway closed now, but the green light beyond it brightened. Shadows leapt up in the room, thrown on the wall, wavering and tinged with green. The air seemed oddly cold. There was a dark figure on the stairs.
“Well now, Severan,” said a thin voice. “Is this the reception given to an old friend?”
Severan froze. The figure took another step up.
“Nio!” he said.
The figure paused.
“Aye, that was my name once. Once.” Teeth shone in a smile. “It’s a good name. I’ve tasted many names, but that one is good. And fresh. Many interesting memories. But it’s no longer my name.” The green light deepened, and the shadows grew into darkness. The lamp burning on the table dimmed. The figure took another step up.
“That is your name,” said Severan fiercely. “His face is yours. His voice is yours. You were once my friend and no friend of the Dark.” Beside him, Gerade shoved against the door with all his might, his lips moving silently. Sweat ran down his face.
“We’re almost there.” Ronan grabbed Jute by one arm and hoisted him upon the windowsill. “Another heartbeat and the knot’ll be tied.”
The thing on the stairway laughed and the flame in the lamp went out. Darkness filled the room. The air became chill and their breath misted. A stench of rotting things filled the air. The door swung open wide.
“The lamp,” said Severan frantically. “Light the lamp!”
“Jute.” said Ronan.
Ronan shoved him out the window. Jute’s legs flailed. He cried out, but the man’s hand was clamped in the back of his shirt.
“Grab the rope,” said Ronan.
Jute grabbed the rope and he found himself sliding away from the casement. The night rushed by him. The rope burned between his hands. Feathers brushed against his face and the hawk whirled away up into the sky on silent wings.
Hold lightly, fledgling.
Behind him, a voice called out, repeating one word over and over. Light flared in the tower window.
The lamp hissed back to life under Adlig’s hands, but the flame only guttered uncertainly. He called out again, uttering a word that rang harshly within the room. Fire leapt up and the room was bright with light. The table smoked with the heat. The old man stumbled away, flame dripping from his fingers. But the door slammed shut, and there was a howl of fury from the stairs. The ward in the door whispered into life. Gerade leapt to Adlig’s side and beat out the flames.
“Old man!” said Ronan. “Get ready. The boy’s almost at the other side.”
He was braced with one foot up against the window sill. The rope sang taut against the stone.
“My thanks, Gerade,” gasped Adlig. “Three years I worked to learn that word and still I only spoke the first syllable now. I fear the complete word too much.”
“You fear it rightly.”
�
�Hurry,” said Severan. “The ward won’t hold much longer.”
The door trembled and the wood groaned.
The rope slackened in Ronan’s hand.
“All right,” he said. “Next.”
Gerade clambered up onto the sill and stepped out into the night. Soon he was just a dark figure receding away toward the lower tower below. A tremendous blow shook the door and beyond it, they could hear a snarling voice. The lamp dimmed.
“Next,” said Ronan, winding another loop around his arm. “Quickly!”
“Adlig,” said Severan. “You go. Hurry now.”
The old man held up his hands. They were blistered by the fire.
“I can’t hold onto that rope,” he said. “I can’t hold onto anything, least of all my life. I’ll stay behind to brace the rope for the last trip. Go on now.”
“But the wihht will take you!”
“Not if there’s nothing of me left.” The lampflame reflected in Adlig’s eyes. He smiled crookedly.
“Thank you, old friend,” said Severan. He turned and stepped through the window. The rope sang tight under his weight. Ronan leaned back against the pull of it. A dreadful whine filled the room.
“What is that?” said Ronan.
“The ward’s unraveling,” said Adlig.
Tendrils of what looked like smoke curled up from the door. But it was not smoke. It was darkness. The lamp on the table was almost out. Adlig crossed to the table in quick steps. He muttered something under his breath and the lamp flared up, but only for an instant. He winced and staggered back. Ronan reached out and steadied the old man. Adlig’s flesh was hot to the touch.
“He’s close now,” said the old man.
“Come,” said Ronan. “The rope’s free now.”
Adlig shook his head. “Tie the rope around my waist and I’ll brace you.”
Ronan stared at him for a second and then shrugged.
“Wedge yourself against the window frame,” he said. “Let the stone bear my weight.”
Ronan stepped out onto the casement. He glanced back. The door trembled. A blot of darkness abruptly welled up in its middle, bleeding shadow that crept down the wood.
“Go,” said the old man.
The rope tautened under Ronan’s weight and he was gone into the night. Adlig gasped at the pain of it, for the rope yanked him hard against the window frame and he could barely move. He could not breathe. It was cold in the room. The heat and pain of the blisters on his hands increased. There was a noise behind him. He turned as best as he could, turning just his head, his jaw scraping against the stone. The wihht stood behind him. The lamp was out.
“Old fool,” it said, reaching for him.
Adlig spoke one word. The complete word.
The room surged with light. The scent of dried grass burning under the summer sun. The breath of fire. The char of wood and the slow collapse of steel in the forge. The glaring eye of the sun staring down, engulfing everything. The wihht stood motionless within the wash of light, its darkness inviolate and pure black against the contrast of white.
“Old fool,” it said again. “You think such a word can consume me?”
“No,” said Adlig. His hair whisked into flame. He could feel the heat of the stone floor underfoot through his shoes. His lungs burned as he took a breath. “But it can me.”
The wihht snarled in anger and lunged forward, but it was too late.
Adlig spoke the word again and the room dissolved into white fire.
Ronan was perhaps halfway along the rope when it happened. His hands were looped around the rope, his body dangling down. The courtyard below was shrouded in darkness, but every once in a while, moonlight glanced through the clouds and he could see it shining on the stones far beneath.
“Hold on, old man,” he said. “Just a few more seconds. Hold on.”
But then the rope abruptly gave way and he was falling, the rope clenched in his hands. The night whistled past his ears. He flailed desperately at the fluttering rope, twisting his arm around it, once, twice. That was all he had time for. He did not even have time to shout. The wall rushed toward him out of the night. Moonlight shone on stone.
And then the world ended.
Ronan came to consciousness slowly. He was first aware of heat somewhere. Where was it? Oh yes, a tiny spot of warmth burning against his chest. It seemed reassuring, and he thought that there was some significance to the thing, but he could not remember what. And then the warmth spread to his whole body as his thoughts struggled to awake. The warmth was no longer reassuring; it was just pain flaring through his flesh. He could taste blood in his mouth. He tried to spit but could not manage to open his mouth. Something definitely was wrong. His left arm hurt horribly. It felt stretched.
No. Yanked.
His left arm was being yanked. His shoulder felt like it was being wrenched out of its socket. Stone scraped down the length of his body. The pain made him open his eyes. He was dangling against the side of the tower the hawk had tied the rope to. The rope dangled slack against his face, but there was a tremendous tightness around his left forearm. He could not feel his left hand. He looked up and saw that the rope was tightly wound around his forearm. His hand was numb and lifeless. Just then, his whole body rose, the stonewall scraping painfully against him. He bit his tongue so he would not cry out. He was not sure how long it took because he seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. The pearl underneath his shirt pulsed. He tried to concentrate on the feel of the thing so that his mind was taken off the pain. He closed his eyes. He felt hands grasping him, pulling him up, and then there was the feel of slate tile underneath.
Someone hissed out loud.
“It’s a wonder he held on.”
“He didn’t,” said someone else. The voice sounded like Severan’s. “The rope’s tangled around his arm. Gently now. It looks like it burned through his skin.”
There was silence for a while. Something scraped against his arm. He gasped.
“Careful,” said Severan.
“Look. The end of the rope is charred through.”
Someone sighed.
“Better that then be taken by the wihht.”
“Poor Adlig.”
Ronan felt someone touch his face.
“Here,” said Severan. “In the strictures of healing, as compiled by Eald Gelaeran—he wrote that when we were still students, do you remember, Gerade?”
“And then he promptly locked the book away in his library.”
“Yes, but several of the students from the fourth form broke in one night. We all gathered around and read what we could. In the strictures of healing, the first step is the naming of blood, bone, and flesh. Reaffirmation of being.”
“Hurry, master wizard,” said the hawk. “What little safety we’ve found on this roof shall be soon stolen by time.”
“The strictures can’t be hurried,” said Severan somewhat stiffly.
There was a pause, and then Severan spoke again.
“Blod. Ban. Flaesc.”
There was a brief silence and then someone cleared their throat.
“It’s not working,” said Severan. “I don’t understand. Perhaps I mispronounced them?”
“Something’s standing in the window,” said Jute.
“Grief and stone,” said Gerade. “The boy’s right. Are those eyes?”
With an effort, Ronan opened his own eyes. He was lying on his back on the roof of the tower opposite the library tower. Severan, Gerade and Jute were kneeling around him. However, they were all looking away, staring with horrified faces across the courtyard. He turned his head to look. The library tower rose up black against the night sky. Moonlight etched the vertical edge of stone and the one window at the top. Within the deeper darkness of the window, two points of pale light gleamed down at them. The points of light winked once, as if blinking, and then abruptly went out.
“Haste now,” said the hawk. “Thankfully the abomination cannot fly, for the Dark does not have th
e wind yet, but it will be quick eneough. We must be away. Try your spell again, old man.”
“It isn’t a spell,” said Severan. “The naming of blood, bone, and flesh is an affirmation of life, the proper construction of how a body is knit together.” He cleared his throat and hunched over Ronan. “Blod. Ban. Flaesc! Now, how do you feel?”
“Never worse,” said Ronan, his voice barely audible.
“You hit the wall hard,” said Gerade. “It’s a wonder you didn’t burst like a ripe melon.”
“I don’t understand,” said Severan unhappily. “There’s something resisting the words. His body won’t accept the naming.”
The hawk’s claws grated on the slate roof. His head bobbed down and Ronan felt the brush of feathers against his neck. The hawk hissed in wonder.
“Little doubt, old man,” he said. “An older word has laid claim to this one. It blocks your efforts.”
“What then?” said Severan in astonishment.
The hawk did not answer him. High overhead, the moon broke through the clouds and the night sky was revealed stretching away to whatever lay on its other side. Stars shone. Ronan felt the hawk’s cold beak touch his ear.
“The sea, the sea,” whispered the hawk. “Brim ond mere.”
The tide surged in Ronan’s blood. His heart quickened. He tasted salt in his mouth, though it was not the taste of blood, but of seawater. The west pulled at him. He felt his bones shifting, knitting, healing. There was a deeper tide, further out, past the tide, running past the horizon, down below the fathoms in the silence. It called to him and promised peace.
“Careful,” said the hawk. “Where did you find that necklace?”
“A trinket,” said Ronan. “From long ago. I don’t remember.”
He sat up. They all gaped at him.
“We’d better get off this roof,” said Ronan.
Severan looked as if he were about to ask a question, but he seemed to think better of it. The hawk fell silent and sat on Jute’s shoulder. Once, Ronan caught the bird staring at him with a speculative look in his black eyes. He said nothing. He could taste seawater in his mouth.
The Shadow at the Gate Page 34
