The Shadow at the Gate

by Christopher Bunn

  Here, though, something else strove to creep in with the cold. The Dark. Levoreth shut her mind to it, strengthened with the memory of stone and the weight of earth. She wove her thoughts with the green of spring and the long, slow fall of autumn that finds its strength in its inexorable descent. But still, something fluttered against the edge of her mind.

  “Avert!” she said.

  Levoreth kicked at the bank of snow obscuring the cave mouth until the crust crumbled. The snow collapsed inward. Ice lined the walls of the interior. The cave was silent, but outside she could hear the wind moaning. It was dark inside but Levoreth did not need much light to see. What was sufficient for a cat or an owl was sufficient for her. A rough stairway was carved into the stone at the back of the cave. Whatever waited for her was at the top of those stairs. She began to climb.

  And the Dark reared alive. No more than a whisper on the edge of her thought.

  It battered at her.

  Shadow, deep and dark and heavy as stone.

  Thou wilt die.

  As all shall.

  All flesh is like grass.

  Withers and fades.

  Into the night without end.

  But the earth in her was heavier still. Immovable and fixed. Levoreth hunched her shoulders, staggered a little under the weight of the voice, and then trudged up the stairs. She did not know how long she climbed those stairs. It could have been only a few minutes. It could have been an hour. It could have been a day. She came to the top of the stairs. The darkness lightened to a gloom. Levoreth stood in an empty space carved from the rock. An eyrie. Above her head was a high ceiling of stone, sheathed in ice and stalactites. On all sides, however, openings like windows looked to the north and south and east and west. She moved to one of the windows, the one looking south, and found that the window was large enough to serve as a porch. She stood on the edge of the mountain. Snow blew and swirled around her. She gazed south, and stretching away before her, the peaks of the Morn range stood in all their lonely grandeur, some shining bright in sunlight, some shrouded in darkness and storm.

  And in the eyrie was the Dark. It was a memory only. Whatever had been here was now long gone. But the memory was alive and powerful.

  “Who were you?” said Levoreth.

  The thing lashed at her, striking at her mind with malice as sharp as shattered stone and as cold as ice. But she stood firmly and would not move. She could feel the mountain beneath her, heavy with sorrow and still remembering what it had been forced to harbor for so long.

  “Who were you?”

  A nobody. A nothing.

  The voice was sneering. A voice devoid of life. A voice as thin as the blade of a knife.

  “Who were you?”

  The thing thrashed on the edge of her mind but it could not escape. It had been in the eyrie for so long that it was rooted to that place.

  “Who were you?” said Levoreth. “Speak!”

  The rock beneath her shuddered with the force of her words. The mountain shook. Outside, ice shattered and a great mass of snow slid several feet down the face of the crag before pausing. But the pause was only for a second. The snow slid away then in earnest, roaring and billowing down the slope. In the bowl at the cave’s mouth, Swallowfoot and the wolves trembled.

  We were darkness, said the voice.

  We were a word, my brothers and I. We were a jewel that fell through the night sky. We fought wars in the dead lands. We laid waste to those who lived there and brought them to ruin. We were darkness, restless and hungering. Restless, old Mistress. So I left my brothers and came west across the great sea. I came hunting like a dog. I gazed over this land. I stood in the wind and rain, in the tempest and the storm, in the ice and the snow. Watching and waiting. I gazed from this mountain for a hundred years.

  “I know you,” said Levoreth, shivering. “We fought you in distant lands. Before the land of Corvalea fell into darkness. Three brothers. The three sceadus.”

  Aye, sneered the voice. And what else do you hide in your memory? I shall tell you one of mine. I saw the wind one day. I saw the wind one day, stretching his wings from this eyrie. This was his home, as it is mine now. He went flying to and fro in his careless way, as he was wont to do, and a thought settled in my mind that I would be the one to catch him as he fell. I fed his curiosity with a dream. I drew him east. East from the mountains and across the great waste beyond, to the farthest shore where another sea laps. And he came to the sand of the shore so that he might set his hand on the jewel that sparkled there. But there was no jewel to be had. There was only my knife. And there he did die. On my knife. Such a sweet memory.

  “You are a liar,” spat Levoreth, “as you and your kind always have been. Your knife did prove his end, but he did not die there. He fled you, did he not? He fled, with your knife in his side, and the Dark has been searching for the blade ever since.”

  And find it we shall, old Mistress. The dogs are sniffing along the scent. We shall find it and the wind shall be ours.

  No. Someone else found it first, thought Levoreth to herself tiredly. She could see Jute’s frightened face in her mind. Someone else found it first and you’ll have to kill him. You’ll have to kill the wind again.

  “You are only a memory, a curse on this place. Where did your true self go? Where is the sceadu?”

  I am only a memory from my past, said the voice. When I left this place, my future began. I am only the past. I cannot tell you, old hag.

  “But you know. I can feel it in your voice. Tell me.”

  The thing sought to escape. It tried to hide in the old, fading memories of the past, in what Levoreth had forgotten, in what she wished to forget, but she caught it and held it. And the thing told her. It told her in pictures that flooded her mind. It told her in hatred and darkness and ancient malice that had spied upon Tormay for so long.

  My lord sleeps in Daghoron, said the voice, dying away. But I serve another. There is another and he stands in the shadows. We will rule Tormay. We will destroy as we have always destroyed. And then the voice was gone, whirled away in a fit of laughter that vanished on the wind. Levoreth released the memory and stood staring blindly. She felt old and tired, unutterably weary.

  “Another,” she said to herself in a daze. “I do serve another.”

  Snow was falling when Levoreth emerged from the cave. The wolves were huddled around Swallowfoot to keep him warm. The snow lay across the wolves so that they were only little hills and mounds under it. One of the hills shook itself and cascaded away to reveal a furry snout, ears, and eyes.

  The mountain shook, Mistress, said the old wolf.

  “The mountain?” Levoreth said, her mind blank. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  The other wolves emerged from the snow, sneezing and snuffling and shaking the snow from their coats. Swallowfoot levered himself up. Levoreth ran her fingers through his mane, breaking the ice free and warming him with her touch. She swung herself up.

  “Let us go,” she said. “A storm is coming.”

  Above them, the wind blew around the mountaintop, moaning in and out of the eyrie. It sounded forlorn, as if it were searching for an old friend who had gone away and was no longer there.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  THE STONE TOWER

  Severan was right in his guess that they had already passed north of Lastane, for early that morning they topped a rise and looked down upon a river gleaming in the sunlight. Willows grew in thickets along the water’s edge, and through the dark arms of their branches they could see the gliding flow.

  “A river!” said Jute. “Let’s go fishing.”

  “The south fork of the Ciele,” said Ronan. “We’ve traveled farther than I’d hoped.”

  “There,” said Severan. “What did I tell you? We’ll reach the coast road and be in Harlech in no time. The road’s safe this far north; I’d wager my neck on it.”

  “Still many a mile to go,” said the hawk, “but fresh fish for breakfast would do me no harm.”
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  “I didn’t think hawks fished,” said Jute. “The seagulls and the pelicans do. I used to love watching them diving in the bay. I thought you hunted mice and rabbits and such.”

  “Hawks don’t hunt mice. At any rate, when you’ve lived as many years as I have, you learn many things. Among them, a taste for fish. Even the taste of rabbit grows bland after a while.”

  “I’ve seen fisherhawks,” said Ronan. “In the lakes north of Dolan.”

  “Aye.” The hawk chuckled. “A rough-winged sort. They have a fondness for eels and they claim to speak with the giants.”

  “Giants,” said Severan. “I’ve never met anyone who has spoken with a giant, let alone seen one. What language do these fisherhawks use when they speak with giants?”

  But the hawk did not answer, for he had launched himself from Jute’s shoulder and swung steadily away from them into the sky.

  “Dratted bird,” said Severan. “I know. I know—you needn’t look at me like that, Jute. Your hawk is probably the oldest and wisest creature I’ve ever had the fortune to meet, but he has a habit of ending conversations right when they get interesting.”

  When they reached the river, they found the hawk perched on top of a rock at the water’s edge, busily devouring a fish.

  “Trout,” said the hawk through a mouthful. “Plenty more, if you’re hungry.”

  “I think I’ll have some of Ronan’s excellent stale bread,” said Severan, turning pale. “That is, if there is any more.”

  “Pity we don’t have a pole and a line,” said Jute.

  They came to a road an hour after they forded the river. It was more like a carter’s track, being just two worn ruts in the grass. It led north and south.

  “The coast road,” said Ronan. “I can smell the sea.”

  The others could not, and the hawk eyed him thoughtfully for a while but did not say anything. Being on the coast road put Severan in excellent spirits. He was familiar with the surrounding lands, for he had spent many years in the northern coast duchies.

  “You’re from Harlech, aren’t you?” said Jute.

  “Originally.” Severan shrugged. “I have an old house there. I told you before, didn’t I? It belonged to my father and his before him. High on the headlands past Lannaslech. More of a cottage than a proper house. It looks down upon the sea. I daresay it would make an excellent hideaway for you, eh?”

  “Perhaps,” said the hawk. “We shall see.”

  “A house,” said Jute. “That sounds wonderful. I’ve always wanted to live in house.”

  “Thule, however, is where I spent more years. It’s similar to Harlech in many ways. Neither has any real cities, just villages and small towns. The duke of Thule himself lives in a simple house out in the countryside. He’s a good man, and famous for his hospitality.”

  “But it was the Stone Tower that brought you to Thule, wasn’t it?” said the hawk. “Learning and magic and the pursuit of words?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’ve never seen this Stone Tower,” said Ronan. “I’ve never seen it, though I suppose there’s little in any duchy of Tormay I haven’t seen.”

  “Of course you haven’t seen it,” said Severan. “The Stone Tower’s hidden by powerful warding spells. Those who get too close and who have no business there find themselves turned about and heading south if they meant to go north or caught in bogs or walking right off cliffs. It’s not a place easily found.”

  Severan discoursed at length and with great enthusiasm about the Stone Tower. The others listened as they walked along the road, though it was doubtful the hawk listened much, as he spent most of his time flying overhead. When he was not flying, he perched on Jute’s shoulder with his head tucked underneath his wing.

  “One of the fellows two years senior to me, name of Feldmoru, discovered the third word for oak one day while reading Petersilie’s A Summer in Dolan. Petersilie’s writings were considered light stuff. After all, the book is a recounting of a summer he once spent in Dolan. Lots of detail of walks and suppers at country inns and some hilarious descriptions of the folks he met. There’s a superb bit about a gravedigger and an infestation of gophers.”

  “Then why was the book at the Stone Tower in the first place?” asked Ronan.

  “Because of who Petersilie was, don’t you know,” said Severan.

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t? Petersilie used to be the court wizard in Hearne. Hundreds of years ago. Back when it actually meant something. It was always considered odd that he had written something as frivolous as A Summer in Dolan. Until Feldmoru came along. Tall fellow with a drippy nose. I remember him well. And his nose. It made a dreadful noise when he blew it.”

  “Get on with the story,” said the hawk. He had been napping on Jute’s shoulder, but Severan’s voice had woken him.

  “It was the names of the people he wrote about, see? Petersilie made up names for them, on the surface because he was much too polite to use actual names, but he was using words from one of the older languages. If he was discussing a shepherd, he would have hidden sceap, which is the word for sheep, in the fellow’s name. Ansceap or Torsceapan or something like that. People are still analyzing that book and finding hidden words.”

  “That isn’t much of a story,” said Jute. “A proper story should have hideous creatures and horrible secrets, and a clever thief. Oh, and descriptions of lots of tasty meals.”

  “Nonsense,” said Severan. “It’s a wonderful story.”

  Jute had something more to say but was stopped by a shout from Ronan. He had quickened his pace in order to avoid Severan’s discourse on A Summer in Dolan and was farther up the road now, at the top of a hill.

  “The sea!” he called.

  They hurried up the rise after him. Past the sloping fields before them, bounded by the jagged line of cliffs that marked the edge of the land, was the sea. It was a shining line of light. They could hear the rolling boom of the surf and the faint, thin calls of the gulls. And everywhere there was the salt-smell of the sea.

  “Yes, well, that’s certainly the sea,” said Severan. “It’s cold and nasty in these parts. Only fools and fishermen venture out on it—though, down through the years, quite a few wizards have sailed west from the Stone Tower.”

  Ronan, who had begun to scowl at these words, looked interested.

  “What were they searching for?” he said.

  “Oh, many things. The end of the world, new lands, a place untouched by the Dark. Some of them were trying to find the anbeorun of the sea. But who knows what they really thought to find? Perhaps only a lost word? No one’s ever returned.”

  The road drew closer to the cliffs. As they walked along, they could see the waves below. There was a freshness in the air that was more than mere purity and light. Jute’s heart was glad within him and he watched the flight of the gulls as they swooped and dove across the face of the cliffs.

  He loved it here.

  Who? said Jute in his mind.

  The hawk’s eye gleamed in the sunlight.

  He who was before you. He often said that the meeting of water, sky, and earth along these coasts was a thing of mystery and beauty, and here in the cold of winter, that mystery became slow and still and clear to sight. He said it reminded him of an older place, when he had been young and that he no longer remembered with such clarity.

  I wish we could stop and go fishing. Climb down to the bottom of the cliffs. There must be crabs down there. We could catch them.

  “Off the road, quick!” said Ronan.

  “What? Why?”

  “Get off the road! Is there a way to say it clearer?”

  They tumbled off the road and into the bushes beside the road.

  “What is it?” said Severan. “Ouch. I fear I’ve chosen a briar to hide myself in.”

  “Hush,” said Ronan. “Someone’s coming along the road behind us.”

  “I hear it,” said the hawk. “A horse and rider, I think.”

>   When the source of the sound came into view, it was a horse-drawn cart. An old woman sat on the seat behind the horse, reins in her hands.

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Severan.

  He immediately bounded up from his hiding place and called to the carter.

  “Hi, there! I say, stop!”

  “What are you doing?” said Ronan.

  “It’s all right. I know her.”

  The carter reined her horse in. Severan scrambled up to the road, his face beaming.

  “It’s Cyrnel, isn’t it?” said Severan. He ducked a quick bow.

  “Aye, that’s me,” said the woman on the cart, looking at him warily. She fingered a loop of braided leather around her neck. “And you are?”

  “Oh, er, my name’s Severan. Do you, I mean, don’t you remember me?”

  “Sorry, friend.”

  “I was a student at the tower. You used to deliver vegetables there.”

  The woman’s face eased into a smile. Her hand released its hold on her necklace.

  “And still do. The students come and go at the tower, but I trot old Apple up there once a week with goods from our farm. The tower’s where I’m headed now. If you’re going that way, I’ll take you along.”

  “Oh? Thank you. My friends and I’ll gladly take you up on that offer.”

  “Your friends?”

  The woman smiled when Ronan and Jute emerged from the bushes. She eyed the hawk perched on Jute’s shoulder but said nothing.

  “We were hiding,” said Severan, turning a little red. “We weren’t sure who was coming along the road. There are strange things about these days.”

  “Oh, I never worry too much,” said Cyrnel. “If someone was foolish enough to rob me, why, they’d have the whole of the Stone Tower after them. They like their food, they do. Climb up.”