The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  “The sky,” said the hawk, and he launched free from Jute’s shoulder.

  They stood at the base of a huge oak tree growing at the bottom of a steep bank. Brambleberries grew there in profusion, thick with blueberries and sweetly scenting the air. Further down the valley, beyond a tasseled cornfield, the Rennet flowed. Far behind them, the walls of Hearne rose in the west, painted gold and white in the morning light.

  “We mustn’t rest here,” said Ronan.

  He shrugged his cloak closer around his shoulders and then strode down toward the river. The others followed him, so weary and so glad that they could not speak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  OLD FRIENDS IN THE LOME FOREST

  It began to rain again that morning.

  “Marvelous,” said Levoreth. “Drenched as well. What a dreadful day. I imagine it will get worse.”

  It was difficult to see clearly in any direction. Everything was gray and wet and muddy. She guessed that she was somewhere in the southeastern fringe of the Scarpe plain. She trudged along, her shoes squelching through the mud. After some time, however, the ground began to rise. It was a gentle rise, but a rise nonetheless.

  “There aren’t any hills on the Scarpe,” said Levoreth to herself. “At least, not here.”

  When she came to the top of the rise, she found herself looking down an incline toward a line of trees in the distance. Beyond them stretched a darker mass that vanished into the rain and the gloom. She had come much farther east than she had thought—right to the edge of the Lome forest. Levoreth shrugged, sighed, and then made her way down the slope. At least there would be some shelter. It was considerably drier under the trees. The rain pattered in the branches and drip-dropped down into the undergrowth. She sat on a fallen branch and did her best to clean the mud from her shoes with a handful of pine needles.

  “Drat,” she said.

  A squirrel peered out of a hole in a nearby oak and stared at her. It disappeared again before she could say anything, but then instantly reappeared with something clutched in its paws. Tail flying, it scampered down the tree and across the ground to her.

  A walnut? Levoreth smiled. Thank you, but I fear the shell too sturdy for my teeth.

  Undeterred, the squirrel popped the walnut into its mouth and bit down.

  Eat, eat.

  Oh, well. Many thanks.

  She picked out the shells and ate the nut. The squirrel hurried away and returned with another walnut.

  Your charity becomes you, little one, she said. But I fear a long winter approaches. You should husband your hoard more shrewdly.

  Nay, nay. Eat, eat.

  The squirrel brought her a third walnut.

  Do you wish something of me?

  Nay, nay.

  Surely, said Levoreth. Surely there is something.

  The squirrel blinked and then bobbed its head.

  Aye, Mistress.

  What is it? Speak, little one.

  The foxes, Mistress. The foxes come when we gather walnuts at the tree. They are quick and cruel and they’ve sharp, sharp teeth. Quick and cruel, Mistress. Can you bid them leave me and mine in peace? For we love the walnuts!

  Nay, she said gravely. This cannot be done, for I cannot bid a fox be untrue to his nature, just as I cannot bid you to cease loving walnuts.

  The squirrel retreated a few steps and hung its head.

  But come, she said, standing up. Let us go to your walnut tree, for perhaps we shall see a remedy for your trouble. Come.

  Instantly, the squirrel darted off a ways, stopped, ran back to her, and then dashed off again.

  Walnuts. Such a tree, Mistress. A giant of trees. My father’s father’s father and his father before him gathered nuts there. It is a family tree, Mistress. Perhaps a squirrel planted it long ago? Perhaps?

  Perhaps, she said, smiling despite her weariness.

  After some time they came to a clearing in the forest. The squirrel hopped up and down in excitement. In the middle of the clearing stood a walnut tree.

  See? See? Walnuts.

  I see, little one. But I also see that you must hurry across the ground to reach the tree. You cannot jump from the nearest tree to the walnut tree. It is surely too far.

  Aye, Mistress. Too far. Much too far. So we run across the ground and the foxes catch us. Such sharp teeth, Mistress.

  You must remain in the branches.

  We cannot. We cannot!

  The squirrel hopped about in frustration and then came close. It patted her foot and looked up at her.

  Come, said Levoreth. We will speak with the trees. It is in their power to help you.

  At the edge of the clearing stood an oak. Its branches reached up into the sky but none of them came near the walnut tree. Levoreth placed her hand on the trunk of the oak. It was an old tree, sleepy and preoccupied with memories and long, slow thoughts of water and sunlight.

  Peace to you, friend oak, she said.

  Earth, murmured the oak. Deep earth. Deep sky. Suspended between the two. I have grown into both. I shall grow into both.

  And you have. You shall.

  Aye, said the oak comfortably. I shall.

  It became aware of her then, and the bark seemed to shiver under her hand.

  Mistress of Mistresses. I remember you. When I was a sapling. When the forest was still young. Before men came to this land. Before the Dark came.

  Long years ago, said Levoreth.

  I have heard of the Dark, Mistress. I have heard of it whispered amidst the roots and rocks and in the deep earth.

  What have you heard?

  I have heard that the Dark has come to this land. That it has come here, for this is the last land.

  Aye, she said. This is the last land. The others fell under the Dark, long years ago.

  I have heard that a sceadu walks abroad. That it feeds on death to still its hunger. Fear is struck into the heart of the land like wood rot. I have no memory of such things, Mistress, for this land has ever been yours and your hand has kept it safe.

  Levoreth leaned her forehead against the tree trunk and closed her eyes. The squirrel crept closer, and she felt it anxiously patting her foot.

  My hand, oak, she said wearily. Mine and the hands of my sister and brothers. For earth is not alone, but stands with sea and wind and fire. The Dark shall not prevail. I promise you.

  Good, murmured the oak. Good.

  But Levoreth did not speak again for some time. The rain pattered down through the branches of the oak and dripped on her head. The wind sighed in the tree tops.

  I would have a favor of you, she said.

  Aye, that I shall. Anything of wood and root.

  Stretch out your branch to the walnut. Stretch out your branch so that the squirrels may run to and fro freely.

  Ahh, said the oak. The little walnut. I did not notice her. How fast the saplings grow. I sleep, I dream, and when I wake, a hundred years have gone by. Of squirrels I know nothing, but I shall stretch out my branch. For you, I shall do this thing.

  The oak quivered. Ever so slowly, one branch lowered and lengthened with a great many creaks and groans. The movement was almost imperceptible. The tip of it settled against the uppermost branch of the walnut tree.

  It is done, Mistress.

  I thank you.

  The squirrel hopped up and down in such excitement that it could not speak.

  It was raining even harder now. Within the clearing, the rain slashed down. Peering up through the branches, Levoreth could only see a gray, lowering darkness. She leaned against the oak’s trunk and tried to think. Her head ached and she was so tired that even curling up to sleep on the muddy ground seemed like a wonderful idea. She sank down to the ground, her back against the tree.

  Oh, Min, I no longer know what to do. The Dark has come to Tormay after all these long years, and all I can manage to do is make a squirrel happy. The Dark has come. What had I been thinking? That it would have stayed content beyond the sea? Content in the east an
d the endless night it brought to those lands? My heart aches, for I still remember the white towers of Corvalea. They haunt my dreams. All I wish to do is sleep.

  The squirrel shrieked. It shrieked and made a jump for Levoreth’s shoulder, bounding from there up into the branches of the oak.

  What—?

  And then she smelled them. She would have smelled them before but her mind was heavy with fatigue. The scent was masked by the rain and the damp rot of the undergrowth. The shapes materialized out of the gloom. The wolves. They came loping toward her out of the rain. Their fur gleamed with water. She only saw a few, perhaps half a dozen, but she was aware of them all, a full twoscore, standing silent in the trees around her. The squirrel chattered in fury and threw down acorns.

  Mistress of Mistresses.

  Drythen Wulf.

  We have come. You have bidden us, and we come.

  An acorn bounced off the wolf’s nose.

  Peace, little rat, said the wolf. My kind does not eat yours.

  Rat?

  A hail of acorns showered down.

  Peace!

  The squirrel muttered angrily from somewhere among the oak branches, but then fell silent.

  We have brought your messenger with us, said the wolf. The northern snows are no safe place for a cub. But we have guarded him for you, Mistress. Though, truth be told, it was most difficult to guard him from ourselves.

  The wolf’s jaws opened in a silent laugh.

  I thank you, Drythen Wulf, said Levoreth dryly, for not devouring my messenger.

  Out of the gloom, from under the dripping branches, the horse emerged. The wolves padded restlessly about him, but Swallowfoot ignored them, his ears and eyes on Levoreth.

  Mistress of Mistresses.

  The horse pushed his nose against her hand.

  You have brought the wolves to me.

  They thought to eat me at first, said the horse.

  The wolf laughed again.

  The thought crossed my mind, Mistress, said the wolf. The snows of the north have little to offer for the hunt. But a closer look at this skin and bones dissuaded us. There’s no flesh on him. Truth, Mistress, we could not have caught him. His stride is as fast as the wind.

  You put me in mind of another steed. Levoreth ran her hands through the horse’s mane. One that ran by my side, long years ago. I thank you for what you have done. My thoughts could not reach the wolves, but you went—as quick as thought, did you not?—and brought them here.

  Swallowfoot trembled under her touch. His memories flashed through her mind, flickering from sky to earth, slashed with wind and the drumming of galloping hooves. The vast plain of the Scarpe blurred by. Mountains rose far in the north. They loomed closer and closer. Ice and snow glittered on their slopes with an aching, blinding light. The sun hurried across the sky and plunged down in the west. Stars raced through the night.

  The light and the wind slowed, Mistress, said Swallowfoot. They slowed as I ran to catch them.

  Levoreth smiled.

  The wolves crowded around her, sitting under the shelter of the oak’s branches. Their eyes gleamed in the gloom, and, out of respect, the older ones did not look at her much, though the younger ones stared avidly. The great wolf stood before her, and at his side was his son, the cub Ehtan that she herself had named years ago.

  He has grown, has he not?

  Aye, said Levoreth. He is your shadow now. Faith, I can scarce tell you apart.

  He will lead the pack when I am gone, said the father proudly. He will bear my memory when I have gone to chase the sun.

  The rain dripped down from the leaves overhead.

  Now, Drythen Wulf, you must tell me your tale, for I have wondered for many days where your trail led you from the house of Ginan Bly.

  From that house of death it led us, said the wolf. North we went. North, sniffing along the trail of the Dark. Never has the pack hunted for a prey that it did not want to catch, but this quarry we sought with dread in our hearts.

  And to a mountain eyrie it led you?

  A peak towering over its brethren, mantled with ice and snow. The eyrie looked east and west, north and south. The wind rages there in strange fury, and it was all we could do resist its blast. Its blast is full of death and I think, in time, the wind will unmake that mountain.

  The young wolf Ehtan stirred.

  The wind’s voice spoke of murder, Mistress, he said hesitantly. Murder and loneliness and a terrible sorrow.

  Aye, she said. For its master was murdered by the Dark.

  We could not enter the eyrie, Mistress. A dread evil sleeps there, and though I set paw in the opening of that place three times, I could not pass the threshold. Fear is a stranger to the wolves, but I knew fear in that place.

  That is well, said Levoreth. I would not have had you step beyond that which you could do. I shall see this place for myself, then. The mountains are mine, and the Dark shall not deny me. Yet, first. . .

  She stopped here, thinking of the boy Jute. The wolves waited patiently around her in the damp and dripping rain. She shook her head, frowning. Jute would have to fare on his own. No, not on his own. He had the hawk.

  We go hunting, Drythen Wulf.

  And what shall be our prey? asked the old wolf, but the knowledge was already in his eyes.

  The Dark.

  After some time spent thinking moodily about wolves and other horrible animals that spent all their time trying to eat squirrels, the squirrel scrambled down a few branches and peered around suspiciously. But no one was there. The ground around the oak was crisscrossed with the tracks of wolves and one horse, but the forest was silent. The lady was gone as well. The squirrel scampered down to the ground and sadly sniffed its way around the oak.

  Mistress?

  There was no answer. The rain dripped down from the branches and leaves overhead. After a while, however, the squirrel remembered the walnut tree and the oak branch reaching across the clearing. This cheered the little animal immensely and it hurried away to tell its family the good news.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  DREAMING OF THE DARK

  He woke and lay staring at the ceiling. The morning was late and he never slept much in general, but the regent had thrown a party the night before that seemed to have never ended. It had been an attempt to raise spirits after the strange happenings at the ball the previous night. Not that it had been successful. Many of the regent’s guests had left already, making excuses such as the muddiness of the roads, or the corn harvest, or roofs that needed mending before the winter snows came. The duke and duchess of Dolan had been the first to leave, early the next morning after the ball. They had offered no excuses but left before the castle had even stirred to life. He had seen them leave. The duchess’ eyes had been red, as if she had spent the night weeping.

  It was raining again. He hated the rain. It somehow obscured what he saw and felt. A lightning storm was different. He understood lightning. The earth cringed under it. The earth shook and trees burned.

  Something stirred in the corner of the room.

  “Ah,” he said. “I was wondering when you’d manage to regain yourself. It was an interesting spectacle. Not too unpleasant, I presume?”

  “I endured. A little more blood, a few more deaths, and I will be well.”

  “I’m sure you can find what you need in this city. At any rate, I thought it best not to intervene. I am still not known in Tormay.”

  The other emerged from the shadows and stood at the foot of his bed. Its body was vague and insubstantial, as if formed of mist. The thin, white face seemed to hang in the air, and it stared back at him without expression.

  “I did not need your help,” said the creature. It spoke quietly with a voice that creaked and whispered as if from little use.

  “Do you bring news of the hunt?”

  “Nothing that will please you.”

  “Out with it, then,” said the man. He sat up and yawned.

  “The boy has fled the c
ity.”

  “You know this for sure?”

  “The winds have left Hearne. They came only to find him. They would leave only if he left as well. We have been thwarted. An unknown hand has entered the game and I cannot see it.”

  The man flung aside the bedcovers and got to his feet.

  “You lost him,” he said. “He’s only a boy. He won’t grow into who he is for a great many days yet. The blood on that knife was old and fading in power. Weeks, more likely. You had him within your grasp and you lost him.”

  “He is—” The creature paused, as if searching for the right word. “He is something more than lucky.”

  “Your hounds lost him as well, I daresay?”

  “They were lured out of the city. Eorde, I think. The old earthwitch. She is a cunning foe, once awakened. The hounds would have been no match for her. Doubtlessly, she destroyed them.”

  “Doubtlessly,” grunted the man, then he gave a bark of laughter. “Shadows, but I never thought that spell would last so long when I first wove it. The weave held for over three hundred years and even caught the anbeorun in its grasp.”

  “Sleep is a pretty thing, master,” said the other. “It has caught us many a tool. Nio Secganon has proven useful. He, also, almost had the boy within his grasp.”

  “The wihht,” said the man in fury. “Wihhts are made to be twitched like puppets, not allowed rein to run free. It came close, like you, did it not? But where’s the boy now, eh?”

  “What is lost can be found, master,” said the thin face hanging in the shadows.

  The man did not bother answering, but dressed quickly. He threw open the shutters, revealing a morning sky filled with clouds and rain.

  “Come,” he said. “I’ll tender my thanks to the regent and then we shall leave. Hearne no longer holds anything of interest for me, save pleasant memories of death.”

  He turned from the window and smiled. The pale light caught in his gold hair and burnished it into flame. And with that, Brond Gifernes, the duke of Mizra, strode from the room, with darkness crowding at his heels.