CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
THE SORROW OF THE EARTH
A wind blew across the plain from the east. A strange half-light filled the sky. Dark clouds hurried across the face of the sun.
The wind bears an evil scent, Mistress, said the big wolf. The same scent we tracked into the mountains.
Aye.
Swallowfoot had been galloping for hours. His pace did not slacken. Levoreth felt the horse’s heart pounding beneath her. The wolves streamed out around them like a ragged drapery of shadow rushing in their wake.
The sceadu. They were riding in pursuit of the sceadu. A voice inside her mind whispered uneasily. What if the boy had not unleashed the wind in the regent’s castle? What would have happened then? Would she have been able to stand alone before the sceadu? She might very well have died. Doubt crept into her mind. She had not killed it in the regent’s castle, even with the boy’s help. What would happen here?
Somewhere far off on her left, a wolf howled.
The trail is struck, said the big wolf. It leads south across the plain. A company of men and a terrible evil. They smell of death.
Levoreth brought Swallowfoot to a halt with a touch of her mind. The horse shuddered beneath her, blowing and stamping on the grass. The wolves milled around them. Far away on the horizon, she thought she saw a smudge of smoke staining the sky. She could feel the sorrow in the earth. It sighed in the ground and the grass bent over in sadness.
“I’m sorry,” Levoreth whispered. “I’m too late for you.”
Mistress?
We will follow, said Levoreth grimly. We will follow and many of your pack will die this day, for we hunt a sceadu.
The wolf bowed his head.
So be it.
The plain rushed away on either side of them. Before them were the scent and track of their quarry. Grass lay trampled by the passage of many horse hooves. The stench of the Dark lay heavy on the track.
They travel not overly fast. I think their horses are weary.
Aye, Drythen Wulf, said Levoreth. It will not be long now.
The wolf pack ran all through the morning and into midday. Even though the sun was surely overhead, the day was as gloomy as if it was already twilight. But the wolves and Swallowfoot were not disheartened, for Levoreth called aloud to them as they ran, naming them one by one so that they knew she held each of them close within her mind. They topped a rise and there, far below on the plain, was a dark and moving mass of horses and men. Levoreth could feel the drum of galloping hooves echoing and pounding within the earth. Even from such a distance she saw a white face turn back toward her from the middle of that company, and she saw the girl’s brown hair blowing in the wind. But by the girl’s side rode a dark figure.
“Giverny!”
The scream tore from Levoreth’s throat. It was unbidden and unchecked. The earth quaked at her cry. Below them, the company of horses was thrown into confusion. Riders were tossed from their saddle. The wolves around her stumbled and fell. Only Swallowfoot stood sure-footed beneath on the tremoring ground.
Mistress! Keep us in your care!
The great wolf lay flat on the ground. His son Ehtan sprawled beyond him. The wolves stared at her, their eyes flashing wide in panic.
I would split the earth! she raged. I would split the earth to save this youngling’s life! Get up! Get up and kill!
The pack rose and rushed howling down the rise and across the blowing grasses. The men struggled to regain their mounts. The dark figure in their midst called out in a dreadful voice. Thunder crashed overhead in answer to him. Lightning fell in the east, drawing closer. The horsemen wheeled around, cursing and whipping at their mounts. The wolves fell on them like a terrible wave, and at the crest of the wave rode Levoreth. The horsemen reeled back before them. They were pulled down by the jaws of the wolves. Swallowfoot lashed out with his hooves. Over the clash of weapons and the screaming of the horses, Levoreth’s voice keened in fury. A helmeted face dissolved into blood and ruin before her. An arrow hissed by her ear and she kicked free from Swallowfoot’s back to land beside the old wolf.
Mistress! he snarled, his jaws streaked with blood, and then he lunged forward to rip a horse down by its neck.
Levoreth stamped on the earth and it shook and split around her. The wolves leapt over the chasms, but horses and riders tumbled down into the depths. A man swung an axe at her, but she snapped her fingers and the weapon collapsed into a handful of withered flowers. The man cursed and she saw the Dark glaring from his eyes, and then that was gone in a blur of wolf fangs and Swallowfoot’s hooves. She ran forward. The wolves surged on either side. But the day’s gloom deepened, and out of the darkness emerged the figure of a man. He was cloaked in a deeper darkness that seethed and flowed about his body like living shadow. From one hand curved a sword. The other held a knife, and on its handle a stone shone in blood-red color.
Bicce wulf!
His voice rang inside Levoreth’s mind like stone on stone. She staggered under the blow.
Well met, once again, Mistress of Mistresses.
His teeth flashed in the gloom. They were sharper than his sword. Around him, the horsemen rose up. Spears flew in the darkness. Somewhere on her right, a wolf howled as it died.
I killed you!
Nay, Mistress. Blurred, like shadow fouled with the light. Unraveled like a rotten weave. But the wind is not with you this time.
Her fingers stabbed at the air. The earth shuddered. She called out, her voice hoarse. The grass thickened into brambles as gray and as hard as stone. They thrust their way up into the air. Iron thorns clutched and stabbed at the horsemen. But the sword flashed and fell amidst the brambles. The blade whistled through the air at her. A wolf flung itself into the blow and fell. She saw scarlet coursing over black fur. The knife in his other hand slid toward her.
Swallowfoot. The horse blotted out her sight, rearing up before her. Tall, magnificent, mane flying, and neighing in fury. But then he was gone. The dark figure stepped over the horse’s body. And then the sword fell again. Sunlight glanced through a rent in the clouds. The blade fell along the angle of the light. And the light slowed. The blade fell slower than a feather. Light gathered on its edge and flowed down, hanging forever from its point in one gleaming drop.
It will fall. The thought floated through Levoreth’s mind, slower than the light. All things fall. Someday.
The sunlight was gone.
And the blade kept falling.
It lanced straight toward her chest. But her flesh was as hard as oak, her body wavered into branches and deep roots. The sceadu could not wrench his blade free. The sword was imprisoned within the heartwood of herself. The sceadu could not let go, and branches grew out around him. The sword shattered in a clear, bell-like tone. Levoreth felt the earth waiting beneath her, heavy and expectant. The knife in his other blurred toward her. The stone in its hilt burned red with malevolence. Her heart faltered, for her memory was caught by the stone, striving to remember. Despite this, the branches caught and held his wrist. He could not break free, though he twisted and thrashed. Shadows fluttered like rags before her. She heard a wailing cry that faded into nothingness. A mist wavered away across the ground. The horsemen fled with it, but one of the riders checked in flight and the mist rose to settle behind him on the saddle. And then they were all away with a thunder of galloping hooves and the snarls of the wolves in pursuit.
But as the riders fled, the misty form turned in the saddle. Something went whipping through the air, tumbling end over end. The red stone blazed in the heart of the darkness. She remembered now, while time slowed around her. On the slopes of the mountains of Ranuin. In the silent snows. Nokhoron Nozhan took his sword in hand and did cut his side. Three drops of blood fell to the ground. And there lay blood no longer, but three gems that did burn with scarlet fire. To the sceadus he gave each a stone. In the stones was the incandescence of Nokhoron Nozhan’s malice.
Levoreth blinked, and the knife slammed into
her just below her breast. She could not breathe with the pain of it.
All things fall.
Even me.
Levoreth opened her eyes to find herself gazing up at a clear blue sky. The sunlight was warm on her face. The big wolf stared down at her. He whined. She tried to touch his muzzle but she could not lift her hand.
Where is the girl? Does she still live?
She is here, Mistress, said the wolf.
Two wolves gently urged Giverny forward, nudging her with their noses and their heavy shoulders. The girl stumbled to Levoreth’s side and knelt down. Her face was white and streaked with tears.
“Lady Callas,” said Giverny. Her cold fingers closed on Levoreth’s hand.
“Just Levoreth, girl. Help me sit up.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The girl’s voice trembled.
“Help me, Giverny.”
Levoreth must have passed out then, for when she opened her eyes again, she was sitting up in Giverny’s arms. Her body felt numb. It felt as if she were slowly turning into stone. Before her, past the huddled forms of the dead, the plain stretched out green under the sunlight. A breeze blew by and the grass rippled along its path. Levoreth smiled.
“How beautiful it is here.”
Mistress of Mistresses.
Drythen Wulf. I thank you.
Your thanks are not needed, Mistress. Does the sun thank the candle for the radiance it sheds?
But the wolf hung his great head and would not meet her eyes.
What troubles you, old friend?
My son.
On the ground, beside his sire, lay the body of the young wolf Ehtan. The black fur was matted with blood and the silver eyes were closed. Beyond him sprawled the larger bulk of Swallowfoot.
The old wolf raised his head.
Can you give him his life back, Mistress?
Levoreth looked away past the wolf, gazing past the grass and the horizon. Four days’ journey over the horizon would bring her to Dolan. To the river Ciele and the hills of the Mearh Dun. To the cemetery behind the church in Andolan filled with sunlight and the scent of roses and the bees buzzing at their work.
The wolf waited patiently.
I shall.
The wolf’s eyes flared in hope.
I shall, Drythen Wulf, but not a life such as yours. Not a life you would know. Your cub will never lead the pack. He shall never run with the pack again.
Is this a life? said the wolf dully. You do not speak of a wolf.
He shall run with the guardian of the earth. He shall wander the world for many long years, even after you and your cubs have gone to chase the sun. He shall pass into legend. He shall be the shadow of the Mistress of Mistresses.
The old wolf stared at her, and then he bowed his head.
“Pull me closer, Giverny. Pull me closer to the dead wolf.”
“Lady,” stammered Giverny.
“Do it.”
The pain of it made Levoreth almost lose consciousness. Her vision swam. She closed her eyes. Her fingers brushed the wolf’s fur. Her mind drifted. The wolf was gone. Only cooling flesh and bone and fur remained. Her mind pushed farther. Farther west, toward the edge of sea and sky. Farther and past. And there, across the blue, she saw two figures running fast toward the light. Side by side. A wolf and a horse.
Wait, she called.
The wolf paused and turned, but Swallowfoot galloped on until he diminished and faded into the light.
Wait. Your time here is not done.
Across the distance, the wolf gazed back at her.
A task awaits you. Return.
I go to chase the sun, Mistress, said the wolf. It is a better thing.
Aye, she said. But another time. Another place.
The wolf was silent.
Return.
Levoreth felt movement under her hand. She opened her eyes. The young wolf struggled to his feet. He nosed at her hand. Awareness sparked in his eyes. Around him, the other wolves backed away.
“Giverny.”
The sunlight was dimming. It was certainly only midday, but surely the light was dimming. Levoreth blinked. She struggled to keep her eyes open.
“Giverny. You must do a last thing for me.”
“What is it?” The girl’s voice trembled.
“Pull out the knife.”
“What?”
Giverny’s face hovered over her own, but it was lost in darkness and Levoreth could not distinguish her features.
“Pull out the knife.”
“Levoreth—I can’t!”
“You must,” said Levoreth gently. “It is a hard thing, child, but it must be done.”
Even though she spoke softly, all the weight of the earth was in her voice and Giverny could not deny her. The wolf Ehtan loomed behind Giverny, his silver eyes expressionless. He did not blink when the knife came free. The stone in the handle no longer shone vibrant red, but was dull and clouded, as if with age and sudden heat.
“Now,” gasped Levoreth. “Give me the knife.”
It was the last of her strength. She closed her fingers on Giverny’s hand. The blade sliced across the girl’s palm. She cried out.
“I’m sorry,” said Levoreth. “Don’t forget that, Giverny. I’m sorry, for I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all you. We didn’t realize, when we chose so long ago.”
“What do you mean?” said Giverny.
But Levoreth did not hear her. The sun passed its zenith and fell toward the west. Giverny laid Levoreth back down on the grass. The older woman smiled.
“Ehtan shall watch over you until your time is full.”
“Who is Ehtan?” said the other, her face bewildered.
“Listen to him, for the memory of the earth is in him now. He shall guard your way from the Dark, for it shall be many days before you find your strength. He will be your shadow, your right hand, and your comforter. Do not be afraid.”
Levoreth smiled again, though her eyes no longer saw the sky overhead or the girl’s frightened face or the watchful eyes of the wolf Ehtan. Beneath her, the earth pressed up against her back.
“Now,” she said. “Let the memory of Levoreth Callas fade, for I have done what I was meant to do.”
She shivered within Giverny’s arms. Her features blurred. And then there was nothing at all in the girl’s grasp, only the dry earth crumbling down into the grass. Giverny stood, weeping. The wolf Ehtan brushed her hand with his nose.
Mistress of Mistresses.
The voice was soft inside her mind. It had a deep, rough quality to it, comforting and oddly familiar.
“Who said that?” said Giverny.
The wolf’s silver eyes gazed up into her own.
You are the Mistress of Mistresses.
And then other voices joined his.
Mistress of Mistresses.
The wolves around her bowed their heads. She walked through their midst, her steps slow and halting. Ehtan followed at her heels. A breeze blew by her, paused as if startled, and then whirled away.
Next spring, poppies grew there that had never been seen before on the Scarpe or, for that matter, anywhere in Tormay. Their petals were red as blood. In the years afterward, the flowers bloomed further and further across the Scarpe and were later found flourishing throughout the hills of Dolan. It is said that the scent of those flowers brings healing and guards against the Dark, but that is only an old tale from long ago.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
JUTE’S CHOICE
The townsfolk of Ortran received them with no fanfare and little surprise. They did not seem interested at the sight of the hawk riding on Jute’s shoulder. They ignored the ghosts. They were a quiet, reserved people. They were mostly fishermen, with a few vintners who grew a hardy grape on straggling vines that clung to the rocky slopes beyond the town. The single inn of the town perched on top of the cliff. Its windows looked west, across the bay and over the cliffs that fronted the sea. The last light of the departed sun gleamed on the
sea.
“Fish stew,” said the innkeeper. And then, inspired to further eloquence, he added, “Halibut.” But when he returned to their table, it was more than fish stew. It was loaves of fresh bread, butter, and a crock of pickled onions. The stew arrived in a pot that breathed out a steam of fish and potatoes.
“Ahh,” said Severan. “Thulish hospitality. Silent but ample.”
They were silent as well for a while as they did justice to the stew. Jute yawned over his bowl. The ghost drifted around the room, inspecting the whalebone carvings hanging on the walls. The hawk fidgeted on the back of Jute’s chair.
“We must leave early in the morning for Harlech,” said the hawk. “I’d prefer to leave now, but I think a night’s sleep would do you well. These are kindly folk in this town and I’d not want their misfortune on my conscience if we tarry. The Dark will come sniffing, sooner or later, and this is no place to defend, though the sea laps at their doorstep.”
“Is Harlech so safe, master hawk?” said Ronan. “They might be better with the sword and have some strange legends told of them, but there are fewer of them than in other duchies. Besides, what can men do against the Dark?”
“Strange,” said Jute’s ghost, seating itself in the empty chair next to the boy. “I seem to remember reading peculiar things about Harlech. All in one book. A very old book. For the life of me, perhaps I should say for the death of me, I can’t remember.”
The hawk chuckled.
“There’s more to Harlech than meets the eye, Ronan, though I daresay they themselves might have forgotten. But the Dark hasn’t forgotten. No, the men of Harlech are more than just ordinary men, just as you are more than a thief. They come of an old people.”
“A failed thief,” said Ronan lightly. “That’s what I am.”
“If I may say something,” said Severan. “This is excellent stew. Not that that was what I wanted to say. Ablendan and I have been discussing the schoolboys. I trust they’re all safe in their rooms and not out wandering the village.”
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