The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  It was easy enough to get off the roof. Ten feet below the roof, a balcony jutted out from the wall, banded by an iron railing. Ronan let himself down the rope and tied it off on the railing. One by one, they slid down onto the balcony.

  “Master hawk,” said Ronan.

  The hawk flew up onto the roof. A moment later, the rope came tumbling down. Ronan coiled it away into his pack.

  “Come,” said Severan. He opened the balcony door.

  “But where?” said Gerade.

  “We’ll try Adlig’s idea. The well under the mosaic. You know just as well as I do what he meant.”

  “But. . .”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  Gerade shrugged and said nothing.

  “What do you mean, the well?” asked Jute.

  Severan did not answer him. An archway at the bottom of the tower opened out into the courtyard beyond. The hawk floated up into the night and was gone.

  “Wait,” said Gerade. “We’ve surely beaten Nio—that thing—down, for the library stairs take much longer than their height, but maybe he did not come alone.”

  They stood in the shadow of the archway and listened to the night, but there were no sounds other than the labored breathing of the two older men.

  Hurry. Time will not wait for you.

  “The hawk says we’d better hurry it up,” said Jute.

  Severan nodded. “Let me go first. Gerade, you take the rear. Put up your sword, master thief. The wards of this place won’t be defeated by iron.”

  Severan walked with his head thrust forward and his eyes darting from side to side. They passed across the courtyard with the moonlight shining down. A breeze ushered them along a colonnade of pillars. The roof of black marble seemed to melt away into the night. They hurried down long hallways, through places that Jute did not recognize from his days of exploring the ruins. He followed Severan closely, and behind him came Ronan, frowning and sniffing uneasily at the air, his hands never straying far from the sword hilt at his shoulder.

  “It’s everywhere now,” said Gerade quietly. The old man glanced behind them. Light glimmered in his hand and it cast long beams back down the hallway. There was nothing there, only dust on the marble floor and their footprints in the dust.

  “The smell of the Dark,” he continued. “That’s what it is. It’s creeping through this place and it brings unease to everything it touches. Even the stones are unsettled by it. This place has a long memory and it’s still afraid. It remembers another time, centuries ago, when evil walked through these halls.”

  “Centuries should be enough time to forget,” said Ronan.

  “Not for stone.”

  The halls they crossed through were vast places, and the hawk soared overhead.

  What is to happen to me?

  Jute fixed his eyes on the hawk.

  That which is set before you, and only that, fledgling.

  That’s no help.

  Safety first. Safety and silence, for there’s much to be said and much for you to hear.

  I am the wind.

  It was more of a question than anything else. And when Jute said it, he found that he was more conscious than ever before of his tired body, his aching feet, the weight of dread and fear heavy on his shoulders. He glanced up wistfully at the hawk.

  Aye, you are the wind, said the hawk.

  Then I will fly!

  The surge of joy inside him was quickly dampened by the hawk’s words.

  Truth, you will, but not for a long time. Weeks, perhaps. It is no easy thing to be the anbeorun of the wind. The stillpoint of the wind. It is a burden, no less. I would wish such a path on no one.

  But I did not ask for any of this.

  We do not ask. We are given, and then it is our task to do well with that which is given. You have been given more than most, and so you must do more than well. Even though it brings you sorrow.

  “All I want to be is a thief,” said Jute to himself.

  “What?” said Ronan from behind him.

  “Nothing.”

  “Hush,” said Severan.

  He stopped in front of them. They were standing now just within an archway that opened into a hall lined with slender clerestory windows. Moonlight shone through the windows and revealed a tiled expanse of floor that gleamed blue and black and white.

  “This room’s heavily warded,” said Ronan.

  “Impressive,” said Severan. The old man nodded at him. “I doubt whether one in a thousand would be able to hear the sound of this ward. But it isn’t the ward that worries me. If you know its key, then it poses no danger. What worries me is that he was here.”

  “He?”

  “Nio Secganon. The wihht. There’s an echo of him here. A recent echo.” The old man smiled sadly. “We were friends once, he and I. Old friends. He’s easy to recognize.”

  The hawk settled onto Jute’s shoulder and folded its wings.

  “Time falls quickly, old man,” said the bird. “One grain at a time, but still it falls. We must make haste.”

  “I’m concerned, master hawk, that he left something here for us in surprise. He was one of the best students the Stone Tower ever saw, and now all that learning is given over to the Dark.”

  “Better the question before us than the Dark we know behind,” said the hawk. He launched himself into the hall with outspread wings.

  “Come on then.” Ronan stepped forward.

  “Careful,” said Gerade, catching him by his arm. “Don’t step on the blue tiles. If you do, run.” And with a mutter and a flick of his wrist, he plucked at the moonlight gilding the clerestory frames and sent it glimmering up over their heads. They could see plainly now and they stepped from white tile to black tile.

  “What does the ward do?” asked Ronan, once they had reached the doorway on the far side of the hall.

  “Wait a moment and you’ll see,” said Severan. “We’ll wake it and hopefully it’ll slow our unwelcome friend, for I fear he’ll come this way.”

  He took from his pocket a round stone and breathed on it. Then, after frowning and mumbling to himself a bit, Severan laid the stone down on a white tile. He snapped his fingers over the stone.

  “All right,” he said, straightening up. “Gan.”

  The stone quivered and then rolled away across the tile floor. Not two feet away, it came to a blue tile. Immediately, a vapor rose up out of the tile, thickening and gaining form until the shape of a massive beast stood on the tile. Its fur shone blue in the pale moonlight. The thing turned and saw them. Instantly, it lunged. Jute shrank back, but the beast came to an abrupt halt as if it had slammed against an invisible wall blocking the doorway. It backed away and sat down, staring at them with bright blue eyes. Beyond it, more beasts rose up out of the tiles in the wake of the rolling stone.

  Ronan raised one eyebrow. “I once tripped a ward that brought a sandcat to life. But a roomful of dogs?”

  “They’re wolves,” said Gerade stiffly. “Hunting wolves spelled into the stone by Lana Heopbremel of Thule, three hundred years ago.”

  “They’re the smallest wolves I’ve ever seen.”

  The hawk launched into the air with an exasperated snap of his wings. They hurried across the room and down a winding stair. Gerade opened his mouth to speak but Severan held his hand up for silence. The stairs ended in what looked to Jute like a dark empty space without windows. Severan walked away into the shadows and came back holding an oil lamp. Flint sparked in his hands and light filled the room. He pointed up at the ceiling silently. Jute stared up and his mouth fell open in surprise. There, on the ceiling, was an immense picture of the tower library. The room was empty and obscured with smoke. Flames flickered from the charred remains of books and from the smoldering table standing in the middle of the room.

  “That’s how he knew where we were,” said Severan grimly.

  At the sound of his voice, the picture swirled and was lost in a confusion of color and meaningless shapes. Jute realized tha
t the surface of the ceiling was made up of thousands of tiny stones, closely fitted together.

  “It’s a mosaic,” said Gerade, “a mosaic that shows what is spoken aloud in this room.”

  “And it’ll serve us well now,” said Severan. “Hush, and let it hear my voice.” He positioned himself squarely under the mosaic and then spoke.

  “The mosaic room in the university ruins.”

  The ceiling above them swirled and rearranged itself into new colors and shapes. Then, they found themselves staring up at a picture of themselves in the mosaic room.

  “The sealed well in the mosaic room.”

  The picture trembled and then seemed to slide over to one side, as if seen through the eyes of someone who had abruptly turned their head. The picture settled on a view of a wall at one side. A deep alcove was set within the wall.

  “Aha,” said Severan. “So that’s where it is.”

  The alcove was a dozen paces away to the right. The torchlight gleamed on a shroud of spiderweb draped down across the opening. Severan thrust the torch into the web. It caught fire and raveled the web away into nothing. The alcove had smoothly rounded stone walls that curved up to a domed ceiling. However, there was nothing there. The floor was made of flagstone, as perfectly fitted as the rest of the floor of the room.

  “Doesn’t look like much of a well, if you ask me,” said Jute.

  “Here,” said Severan. “Hold the torch and make yourself useful. Gerade, do you know any of the strictures of opening?”

  “Just the first and the second.”

  “Hmmph. I know those. Go and keep the mosaic occupied with Nio. Watch him.”

  Gerade hurried out into the larger room. They heard him muttering up at the ceiling. There was a brief silence and then he called back to them.

  “It seems confused with his name, almost as if—”

  “Did you use his full name?”

  “Of course. But I think the mosaic isn’t sure who he is.”

  “Well,” said Severan, pausing in his examination of the alcove floor. “I suppose that makes sense in terms of a wihht and how it incorporates portions of those it eats. The Nio that we knew is, probably, only partially in existence. What he is now is mostly wihht. Darkness and the darker parts of Nio woven together, as well as anyone else the thing’s eaten.”

  “Never mind. There he is now. He’s on a stairway. I can’t tell where. Um, he’s running. Down the stairs, of course.”

  The hawk rocked from side to side on Jute’s shoulder in agitation.

  “This is no time, old man,” he said, “for a discussion of the nature of wihhts. If you do not open that well, then we shall have a wihht in our midst, and a powerful one at that.”

  “Do you think I need a reminder?” grumbled Severan.

  “Between knowledge and action there is a divide,” said the hawk.

  “Fine!” Severan glared at the hawk and then scowled down at the floor. “Open. No, that’s not the right inflection. O-pen! Enter! Be opened! Unlock! Remove!”

  Nothing happened. The hawk sniffed audibly.

  “Here,” said Jute. “The stones are different in this spot. Look, right here.”

  Severan knelt next to him on the paving stones. The floor was grimy with dust and tattered spiderwebs. Jute ran his fingers along the stone, his nose almost touching the ground.

  “They look the same to me,” said Severan, wiping away dust with his sleeve.

  “You aren’t looking close enough,” said Jute. “These stones and these stones there are obviously not the same stones. They’re the same size and the same color and the same texture, but these stones here—see?—are exactly the same as each other.”

  “First you say they’re not the same, then you say they’re too similar,” said Severan. “What can you possibly mean? My eyes are too old.”

  “He’s halfway across the corridor leading from the south inner hall to the hall of the wolves,” called Gerade from beneath the mosaic. His voice sounded tense. “He’s not alone, either. There’re some of those shadow creatures with him.”

  The hawk settled onto the floor and brushed the floor clear of dust with one sweep of his wing. Everyone coughed and sneezed.

  “Look closer, man,” said the hawk. The torchlight caught in his black eyes. They shone as hard as polished marble. “Look closer. It does not matter if the rest of you die in this wretched room where there is no sky. But it matters greatly if this boy dies.”

  “Severan, he’s reached the hall of the wolves! He’s standing at the doorway. There are wolves everywhere, but he hasn’t crossed the threshold yet.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down Severan’s forehead, hung on the tip of his nose and then fell. A dark spot appeared on the stone below. Standing beside them, Ronan cleared his throat. They could hear the sound of his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword, but the man’s attention was not on them. His gaze was fixed on the top of the stairs leading down into the room.

  “What’s the difference between these stones, Jute?” said Severan.

  “It’s simple if—”

  “Maybe to you.”

  “—if you just look at these two stones—”

  “He’s entered the hall of the wolves. There's darkness around him like a cloud. The wolves are throwing themselves against it in a frenzy. Severan, he’s unmaking them! Blue light is dripping down the darkness and pooling on the floor. The tiles in the floors are cracking, one by one. He’s destroying the wards!”

  “—they’re the same color and shape as the rest of the stones, but they’re the exactly same as each other. All the stones between here and here. Exactly the same.”

  “Exactly the same,” said Severan. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered closer.

  “See, they’re all chipped on this edge here.”

  “Severan! He’s halfway across the hall!”

  The sword gleamed in Ronan’s hand. He strode out into the middle of the room.

  “Your blade will have no effect on him,” said Gerade. “He’s a wihht. Darkness and magic.”

  Ronan frowned at him. “I don’t intend to stand about while my throat is cut.”

  Above them, the mosaic dissolved into a confusion of color and shape at their words.

  “Nio Secganon,” said Gerade. Then, so quietly that Ronan wasn’t sure if he heard correctly, “Damn your black heart.”

  The tiny stones shifted in agitation. Then the colors slowly sharpened into discernible forms. Ronan found himself looking up at a picture of the hall of the wolves. But the picture moved. A dark shape walked across the hall, surrounded by shadows. Bright blue forms—wolves—made quick dashes at the shadows, but they had no discernible effect.

  “He’s almost at the door,” said Gerade. His voice trembled.

  “Even the darkness can feel the edge of iron,” said Ronan. “Didn’t the men of Harlech defeat the shadow that came out of the north? They fought with sword and spear.”

  “They did. But that was Harlech. Things are never what they seem in that land.”

  “That’s it,” said Severan in triumph from the alcove. “Things are never as they seem.”

  But, at that moment, a strange silence fell on the room. The air grew cold. The torchlight dimmed. High on the stairway, however, a green radiance shone from the open door. Darkness crept in its wake. The tiny stones of the mosaic trembled in agitation on the ceiling.

  “It’s an illusion!”

  “That’s not an illusion!” said Gerade. He stared up at the stairs.

  “An illusion,” said Severan again. “Of course.” He seemed to have forgotten the situation they were in, but stared down at the paving, mumbling to himself in abstraction. “Now, what’s the word?”

  “Old man,” said the hawk. “Our time is gone.”

  The hawk launched himself up into the air. Shadows sidled down the stairs. Behind them, the thin dark figure of a man descended. The air smelled of rot and damp. Ronan quickly moved to the foot of the stairs.
His sword blurred in the gloom. The shadows hissed and bled darkness. They rose up around him like waves. The hawk folded his wings and fell from the ceiling. Gerade dashed forward with light streaming from his hands. The shadows quailed and the figure high on the stairs paused.

  “Dyderung!” said Severan.

  The stone paving vanished. Jute pitched forward with a howl of terror, arms flailing madly at the air. He had a brief impression of darkness, of stone walls blurring by, of the air whistling past his ears. He hit water. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs. He choked on a mouthful of water and rose up and up, clawing toward the surface—where was it?—until the air broke cold on his face. He coughed and sputtered. Far above him, up through a shaft of stone, the darkness was relieved by a small square of light. A head appeared.

  “Look out below!” the head yelled down. “I’m coming down!” Severan (for that was who the head belonged to) levered himself out over the edge of the well.

  “Seal the opening behind you, old man!” said the hawk.

  “Severan!”

  The old man turned at the well. His eyes widened. Shadows spilled down the stairs and out into the middle of the mosaic room, their mouths gaping black holes. They eddied madly around Ronan and Gerade. The stones under their feet were slick with darkness. Light fluttered in tattered streams from Gerade’s hands. Ronan’s sword wavered in his grip. The shadows surged around them. Further up the stairs, the dark figure of the wihht descended. The hawk plunged down through the air. Shadows broke beneath him, wailing and yammering and bleeding darkness. But as the bird beat back up toward the mosaic far overhead, the shadows surged forward again. Still, Severan wavered at the well opening.

  “Seal the opening!” called the hawk. “Are you deaf and blind? Stay and die if you must, but the boy must not. Seal the well!”

  “Help us!” shouted Gerade.

  “There’s no help for you.”

  The voice whispered, but everyone heard it in the vast room. Even Jute, shivering in the bottom of the well, heard it. Movement ceased in the room. The shadows congealed into darkness. Ronan’s sword hung motionless in the air. Overhead, the mosaic abruptly went black. It seemed as if the ceiling vanished and they stood underneath a night sky without light of stars or moon. Severan’s eyes were fixed helplessly on the figure standing at the foot of the stairs. The darkness thickened around it. Vapor plumed in the air.