The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  “A husk, perhaps,” said the hawk. “A creature of the Dark, perhaps the wihht himself now? Wihhts have the ability to take on the likeness of people they eat. They’re dreadful things, and this particular wihht is quite powerful. Your Botrell was a nasty sort of person, no doubt, but I don’t think he deserved the death he found.”

  “Not only that, but he was the Silentman.” Owain shook his head in disbelief. “The Silentman. I always wondered whether someone from the Highneck Rise district was the Silentman. One of the lords of court, or one of the older families. But the regent? I never imagined such a thing. I can hardly believe it now.”

  “Irrelevant,” said the hawk. “Except to prove the point that humans are capable of tremendous greed and folly. What’s important is the Dark’s attempts to capture Jute. Intrigue has failed them, and I daresay the Dark has been forced to realize this long before the wihht’s latest attempt. When intrigue fails, war is the next chapter to be played in the game. I fear, captain, that your Hearne will be the first battleground.”

  “I don’t doubt you, master hawk,” said Owain. “I am the Captain of Hearne and my first priority is to defend this city. Let war come. We’ll be ready. I can’t foresee what’ll happen with the regent, though, with the thing wearing his face. I’ll have to keep a watch on him so that he doesn’t compromise Hearne’s safety.”

  “Keep watch, but don’t get too near him,” said the hawk. “There are wihhts and there are wihhts. This one is full of dark magic. I’m sure there’s a key to his destruction, but I don’t know what it is. I wouldn’t want you dead at his hands. You must live, for you are the strength of Hearne now. This city must not fall. If Hearne falls, then the duchies will fall as well, one by one. Tormay will become a wasteland of darkness and death. Harlech might stand until the end, but then they will fall as well. Only Jute and the sea will be left. This cannot happen. There’s no strength apart, only together. The duchies must lend you their strength.”

  “You’re a comforting sort, master hawk,” said Owain dryly. “I can’t leave this city now. Someone else will have to make my request to the dukes. But we have no writ of sovereignty.”

  “When’s the last time anyone’s seen this writ thing you speak of?” asked Declan.

  “About three hundred years ago.”

  “Then forge the blasted thing. I reckon most of the dukes are smart enough to figure what’s what, without needing some fancy piece of paper with the regent’s signature on it. Well, maybe not Vomaro.”

  The door flung open and Bordeall strode in.

  “My pardon, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to them. “Captain, pardon my interruption, but the rat’s out of the trap.”

  “What? The word’s out about the regent?”

  “The regent? What do you mean? No, we broke the fellow young Bridd nabbed this morning. You were right. He’s Guild. That milksop Posle recognized him, turned whiter than a bucket of goat's milk. Varden batted the fellow about, has a knack for that sort of thing, and the man started talking. The Guild knows all about you and the theft. They’re figuring to take you today.”

  “Let them try,” said Owain. “I’m in no mood to fool about with a mob of purse-cutters.”

  “They’ve some good swordsmen in that lot,” said Declan mildly.

  “I’d welcome the chance to test their skill.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay in Hearne. Stay and keep a hand on things before the Guild complicates this mess.” It was Jute who had spoken, standing by the window and gazing down at the morning bustle in the street running alongside the wall. Traders urged their oxen in through the gate, whips cracking. Cartwheels creaked and clattered across the cobblestones.

  “We’ll go,” he said. “Hawk, Declan, and I. We’ll go for you. To the duchies.”

  The hawk tilted his head at the boy. It was difficult to tell, but it seemed as if the bird was smiling.

  “We can travel fast,” said Jute. “Besides, we are responsible. For all of them.”

  He whispered the last sentence so that no one heard except the hawk. He turned back to the window and looked down. The street was crowded and bright with sunlight, cheerful, busy with life. A cart full of apples rolled by, a boy not much older than himself perched on the seat and dangling a willow stick over the back of a pair of donkeys in the traces.

  Aye. We are responsible for them. The hawk’s voice sounded gentle in his mind. I think the wind is waking more fully in you. You are becoming the anbeorun in truth.

  “I agree,” said Declan. “We can ride fast. Give us letters of introduction. There’s no duke in Tormay that’ll easily ignore the demands of the Lord Captain of Hearne.”

  Owain slammed his fist down on his desk. “Bordeall, saddle the fastest horses in the stables for them. Eight mounts. We’ll send some Guardsmen with you.”

  “No,” said Declan. “Maybe with the boy, but I can ride faster alone.”

  “One horse only.” The hawk hopped onto the desk and settled his wings. “One horse for Declan.”

  “But what about Jute?”

  “He’ll fly,” said the hawk.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  HULL AND THULE

  They stood on the top of the tower at the gate. It was the highest structure in Hearne, other than the main tower in the university ruins, not counting the Highneck Rise district and the castle, which were higher merely by virtue of being built on the cliffs and slopes of the city’s north side. The trapdoor clanged shut behind them and they were alone: the hawk, the boy, and the ghost. The sky trembled with a pale blue light that spoke of the coming winter and the cold heights above the clouds. The ghost wandered about the top of the tower, muttering to itself.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to fly,” said Jute. “I do. I don’t think there’s anything more I want in the whole world.”

  He stared down at the ground. A hodgepodge of houses pushed up against the wall of the Guard compound. He could see down into a tiny yard shared by several of the houses. A woman stood at a clothesline, hanging up linens. They waved gently in the breeze. Several children ran about in the shelter of the yard. He could hear the sound of their laughter. He looked away, back to the sky and the north.

  “It’s what I want,” said Jute. “But I’ve never flown before. All I can do is float a few inches above the ground and then fall flat on my face. Or I can fall off buildings and get caught by the wind. I don’t call either of those flying.”

  “Chickens fly better,” said the ghost.

  “You’re right,” said the hawk. “You haven’t flown yet. But becoming the anbeorun is not about flying, and I think you’ve finally begun to understand that.”

  “How do you know the dukes will listen to me? They’re dukes.”

  “You forget who you are, Jute. You’re no longer the street urchin, thieving to live. You’ve become something more. Someone who can see into the past, shape the future, and stand against the Dark. Any duke would gladly honor you.”

  Jute moved restlessly, leaning on the parapet and staring down again at the children in the yard.

  “I still feel as heavy as a body should,” he said.

  “Regardless, you have changed. You’re no longer one of them.” The hawk nodded at the children far below. “But you’re responsible for them. That is the purpose of the anbeorun. That’s why they chose to stay, so long ago.”

  “What did they give up?”

  The hawk laughed at that, an odd, chirruping sound. “There are no words in this language to properly answer your question. They put aside the true heights for this sky. They turned their backs on the light for this humble sun. They gave up much, yet they gained much as well.” He sidestepped a few feet away on the parapet and spread his wings. “Come. Time does not wait, so we must fly.”

  The hawk launched himself off the tower, beating his wings until he mounted higher into the sky. Jute put his hand up to shade his face. The hawk diminished to a dark speck against the blue.

  I can’
t fly.

  You can. And must. And shall.

  So Jute flung himself from the tower, because he was tired of waiting and wondering, tired of the weight of his body and looking to the sky. He wondered if the children in the yard near the foot of the tower were looking up at that moment, watching. But then he forgot all that, because when he flung himself from the tower, he flew. The wind chuckled, lifted him, and became something else. Became almost like a liquid that he could slide through. His mind caught hold of it and he hurtled forward. He sliced through the air, his hair rippling back from his forehead, with arms, hands, and fingers spread wide with the wind running through them like strands of water. He flew further and higher until the sky was as cold as ice around him and the earth was a distant patchwork of greens and browns and grays and the swath of the sea was a deep blue on his left that stretched away almost as far as the sky.

  “You’re flying!” yelled the ghost. It sounded like it was perched on Jute’s back, but he was not sure. He could not see the ghost. “You’re flying. And about time, if I may say so.”

  The hawk slid into place beside him. His outstretched wing almost touched his fingertips.

  North.

  I’m flying!

  Ribbons of clouds streamed past them. They flew blind in gray mist, water shooting past them in a hundred thousand stinging droplets. And then burst up into the purity of the clear blue sky. Blinding light. Sunlight shone on the bird’s feathers. Glossy black like wet stone. The air was clean and cold and scarcely seemed breathable, so thin was it.

  Of course. We were ever waiting for you. The sky, the wind, and me.

  They flew up the coast of Hull. The sun shone on the sea flashing below them, shining on the spray crashing against the rocks. The smell of salt filled the air. Far out to sea, a ketch beat its way north. Its sails were taut and bellied with wind, as white as a gull’s wings. But soon it was only a speck on the horizon behind them, for the hawk and the boy flew as fast as the wind.

  It seemed as if his flesh frayed into nothingness as he flew, faded into the insubstantiality of air and then back again to plain, normal flesh. He could look through his hands; he could note the faint outlines of them but then see right through their blur to the sky and earth beyond. The change did not disturb him. It felt right. It was right. He laughed out loud.

  The wind, said the hawk in his mind. You are the wind.

  They neared the town of Lastane in a driving, slashing rain. The sky had gone gray and the sun was lost high in its own solitude of light, somewhere beyond the clouds. Jute could smell woodsmoke in the rain and he was aware that he was hungry and cold and wet. The hawk chuckled.

  Old things, fledgling. Old needs. As you grow and learn, you shall discover that such complaints of the flesh need be no longer heeded. My old master once wandered north, beyond the abode of the ice giants, and tarried with the winds there, talking of snow and ice and the frozen night. A full year and more, he was, and did not taste food or sleep or warmth.

  Well, I’m not him, and I’d like a bite to eat.

  Lastane was much smaller than Hearne. It huddled in shades of gray stone at the mouth of a river that rushed out into the sea, turning the bay there into a roiling mass of muddy water. Further out, waves crashed against a breakwater guarding the bay. The tallest roof in Lastane belonged to an old manor perched on a rise overlooking the wharfs. Smaller houses crowded up against it, as if its taller eaves would somehow protect them from the rain and weather. Smoke streamed up from chimneys, whipped away by the wind into the gray sky.

  The manor, said the hawk.

  Why, that isn’t a castle at all.

  Most of the dukes are nothing at all like the regent, said the hawk in some amusement.

  They came to rest on the steps of the manor, blurring down out of the rain and in a swirl of wind that flung raindrops so hard against the front door that it sounded like the pounding of dozens of tiny fists. Jute walked up the steps, the hawk balancing on his shoulders. The door opened and the doorkeeper looked out.

  “Can I be helping you, lad?” he said.

  Maernes. Duke Maernes.

  “I have a message for Duke Maernes.”

  “Very well,” said the man mildly. “He’s just finishing lunch. Come in. You look as if you’ve taken a plunge into the sea.”

  The doorkeeper let Jute in, closed the door against the rain, and disappeared. It was warm inside. He was standing in a hall. He wasn’t sure how a duke’s house should look. Whatever it should look like, he would not have imagined it would look like this. A pair of worn hip boots stood in comfortable collapse in one corner, a fishing pole and wicker bag leaning alongside them. A pegged board ran the length of one wall, sporting an assortment of walking sticks, umbrellas, and cloaks. On the opposite wall hung a painting of an old woman. She looked out on the shabby room with good humor, her gray hair wound around her head, her blue eyes snapping with life.

  “My wife, Maeve.”

  Jute turned to see an old man standing in one of the doorways. He was thickset and sturdy and as gray as the stone of the town. He limped forward and stood beside Jute. They both inspected the painting.

  “She looks nice,” said Jute, not sure what to say.

  “Aye, she was. Nicest thing ever happened to me. Caught a cold one winter, three years back. The wind blows off the sea something fierce. Nothing can stand before it. That was the end of my duchess.” He shook his head and smiled. “Still, we had our years and I’m nothing but grateful. Tush, lad, I’m an old gander to be maundering on like this. What’ve you to say? Are the yellowfin running again off the cliffs?”

  “No, sir. It’s not that. I’ve come—”

  “You look familiar, lad.” The old duke stared at him. His eyes flicked to the hawk and widened, as if he had just seen him for the first time. “And a black hawk. Now that’s a rare sight. Only one I’ve seen before.”

  “Sir, I’ve a message from Owain Gawinn,” said Jute, stumbling a bit on the words. “He invokes the writ of sovereignty. He bids the duchies remember their old allegiance to Hearne and send what soldiers they can.”

  “A black hawk,” said the duke, still gazing at the hawk and looking as if he had not heard a word Jute had said. “Now I remember. Not twenty years old I was. Hadn’t been duke but a few months. Wind been blowing out of the east all fall, and then one day it changes. He came walking into town with a black hawk on his shoulder. The wind lord.” His gaze switched back to Jute. “I remember you now. You were at the ball. With Lady Callas. When the wind arose.”

  “He is the wind,” said the hawk. “He is the guardian of the wind.” His voice sounded harsh in the quiet hall.

  The duke did not say anything for a while, but then he nodded slowly.

  “I should’ve known. There was a different feel to the rain this morning, and I could tell the land was waiting for you, lad. I know my duchy well, well enough to tell when one of the anbeorun come calling at my door. You do us honor.” But the duke sighed as he said the words.

  They left shortly after that, with the old duke standing in the cold rain at the top of the steps. But even before they had lifted above the roofs, with the wind rushing to meet them, the duke stumped back into his house, voice raised. Hull would ride south to Hearne. Old allegiances would be honored on the strength of Owain Gawinn’s word. And on the strength of the word of the guardian of the wind. It was only until they were high above the clouds that Jute realized he had forgotten about lunch. It didn’t matter. He no longer felt hungry.

  The weather grew worse as they flew farther north. The sky darkened to nearly black, blowing with snow and towering with clouds. The air was so cold that it seemed he would surely die from it, that his lungs would freeze with the next breath. But this did not happen, of course. The cold merely blew through him and he found it was no better or worse than sunlight on a summer day. Jute discovered that he delighted in the fierceness of the sky. The blasts and blows of the wind, the splinters of ice arrowing down
through the gloom, the clouds boiling and massing together on the howling currents of the wind, the snow lashing against his face in shattered bits of flakes. The height and depth of it all. It was beautiful, marvelous, enthralling. He could stay up in the sky forever. Flying north through the storms. Learning the different voices of the winds until they were as familiar as his own. Forgetting the earth.

  Aye. It would be easy enough. The hawk shot past him, snowflakes tumbling from the tips of his wings. And that is a danger.

  Far below them, the coast road meandered along the cliffs above the sea. The Scarpe plain stretched away into the distance, looking just as vast as the sea itself. They passed over a valley opening out onto a rocky beach and a bay beyond.

  “Look,” said the ghost. “The Stone Tower! Except. . . except. . .”

  Except there was no Stone Tower.

  Jute could not see a single sign of the tower. The cliff where the tower had stood appeared bare and lifeless, falling away to the meadow below—the meadow that they had run through toward the boats and the sea, with the wihht coming after them like a black cloud blowing along the shore.

  “It’s gone,” said the ghost. “It should be right there. Right against the cliff. Past the eucalyptus trees. Er, you don’t mind if we stop and look about, do you?”

  “We don’t have the time,” said the hawk.

  “Sorry,” said Jute.

  “Never mind,” said the ghost sadly. “It was only my home. That’s all. Nothing important.”

  Further north, they veered inland. The Scarpe plain rose up to a series of hills, rough with brambly scrub and broken by outcroppings of stone. The hills ascended in leaps and bounds until they leveled out into a moor. It was a wild, lonely-looking country. They were well into Thule by now, according to the hawk, the duchy that lay between Hull to the south and Harlech to the north. They flew over a herd of cattle strung out across the moor, dotted between the occasional pool of water, oblivious to the rain and the snow, heads down, grazing on the withered grass.