The Wicked Day

by Christopher Bunn

  “Tear it! How long have I been asleep? The moon’s up.” He buckled his belt on and strode to the door. “Sibb!” he yelled, flinging it open. “Sibb!”

  “Hush!”

  A shadow flew toward him down the hallway. The moonlight gilded Sibb’s face with silver. Tears shone in her eyes.

  “Hush,” she said. “You’ll wake the children.”

  Her hands touched his face.

  “How long have I been out?” His voice was low and urgent.

  “Nearly twenty-four hours,” said Sibb. “You wouldn’t wake up. Your body was as cold as ice. Your heartbeat slowed until I could no longer hear it.” Her hands trembled against the line of his jaw. “There was darkness in the room, even though I tied the curtains wide. There was sunlight outside in the rain and the wind, but there was only darkness in here.”

  “Were you,” he said, frowning, “were you just in here now, talking to me? I mean, while I was asleep?”

  She looked at him, confused. “No. I was with the children. They’ve been having nightmares again.”

  “How odd.” Owain shook his head. “I thought—well, no matter. I feel better now. Much better. How long have I been asleep? A day? No, don’t look like that, Sibb. I must get back to my men. You know that just as well as I do.”

  “Owain.”

  “You wouldn’t expect anything less of me.

  “No. Go, but come back to me.”

  He smiled. “I always will, Sibb.”

  She followed him down the stairs, down into the dim candlelight of the hall. He opened the door into the night and stopped, staring. A red glow burned in the darkness. Far across the city, across the rooftops, past the twinkling lights of homes and hearths, under the starlight stabbing down from the black night sky. A flickering red glow. Watchfires at the city wall. His heart skipped a beat, quickened. Three Guardsmen snapped to attention outside the gate, spears motionless and horses standing in sleepy patience.

  “Kiss me, Sibb.”

  She did, trying to smile, and then he was hurrying out the gate, his voice raised. A horse nickered in greeting. She heard the creak of saddles and then the quickening tattoo of hooves as the horsemen cantered down the road. Sibb stood there until the night settled back into quiet. Tears slid down her face, but she made no sound. The house was silent around her when she shut the door. Moonlight slanted through the hallway. Something crunched under her foot. A leaf of seaweed, still wet and cold in her hand. She marveled at it, wondering. The thing smelled of the sea, and for a moment, her heart was comforted.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE NAME OF THE GHOST

  The tunnel seemed like one long, endless stretch of night. A night in which the seconds slowed into minutes, the minutes into hours, and the hours into days. Their torchlight fell on stones and dust and cobwebs, but everywhere, around and about them, waited the shadows. The shadows walked on their heels and retreated before their advance in slow and grudging step.

  “Surely,” said the duke of Harlech, his voice weary, “we’ve walked to the sea.”

  Jute managed a smile. “Not yet.”

  The men of Harlech were silent, even through the long hours. Jute sometimes heard them whisper among themselves, but that was the exception to their closed and quiet faces. They made no noise as they walked. They were all alike, those men, tall and lean, moving like cats in the shadows behind him. Perhaps the north was a forge of ice that hammered everyone into the same semblance? The cold and the stony ground, the unrelenting winters, and the icy sea—they all conspired to bear the same children: children with ice in their blood, steel in their bones, the feel of the earth in their hearts. They grew up into men shaped by the wind.

  “Hello,” said the ghost. “What’s that?”

  “What’s what?” said Jute.

  The ghost materialized and drifted over to the wall. It stood there, gazing at the carvings on the face of the rock. Jute couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. This section of passage looked precisely the same as that which they had been passing through for the past several hours. The same carvings. The same dust. The duke coughed politely behind them.

  “Ghost,” said Jute urgently, “we don’t have time to be deciphering old runes or whatever it is you’re doing. We need to hurry.”

  “I think we should take a look at this,” said the ghost.

  It sounded oddly solemn, and a shiver ran down Jute’s neck. He stepped forward, holding his torch high. The light illuminated the stone wall of the tunnel. There was nothing different about the wall. The stone was worked with carvings, true, but they looked no different from any other stretch of wall.

  “Perhaps it’d be wise to continue,” said the duke politely. “I doubt our enemy has altered his intentions in any way.”

  The ghost ignored him. It lifted its hand. Torchlight shone on the translucent edges of its fingers. It touched the wall.

  “Here,” said the ghost.

  And Jute, peering closer, caught by the melancholy in the ghost’s voice, saw something. A single rune. It was carved within the curve of a rose vine, hidden within a profusion of stone flowers and dusty thorns. One character. There was nothing complicated or strange about the lines of the rune, but it somehow held his eye. He immediately knew he had to know the meaning of it. Despite the urgency of the moment. Despite their need to escape the sceadu.

  “What is it?” said Lannaslech. The duke stepped up beside Jute and stared at the wall. The wavering torchlight deepened the shadows in the grooves of the carved stone relief. Behind them, the other men waited in patient silence.

  “This rune,” said Jute. His finger wavered over the character. For some reason, he could not bring himself to touch it.

  “I am not unversed in languages,” said the duke, his voice quiet. “The members of my family, despite our devotion to the hunt and the art of war, are also given to study the history of words. It has always been our love, ever since Harlech was settled by my forefathers. The men of Harlech have certain obligations to the past. This rune, I think, is from the time of Siglan Cynehad, the first king of Tormay.”

  “Then it’s very old?” said Jute.

  “More than three thousand years old. I thought I knew all the characters from that time, from the language they spoke then. Mind you, what men speak has changed greatly from then to now. But this character is very strange. Due to its composition, it belongs in that alphabet of runes. Of that I have no doubt, but I’ve never seen this one. I wonder if there’s a man alive who would know its meaning?”

  “You’re right,” said the ghost. “No one alive, but I’m dead and I know.”

  “What?” said the duke, astonished at the ghost’s words. “How’s that possible?”

  “Because it’s my name.”

  Jute stared at the ghost. There was an odd silence in the shadows around them. An expectant hush in the stone and dust. The carvings high on the walls, just out of reach of the torchlight, seemed to be moving closer, inching across the stone so that they could see and hear better. The ghost sighed.

  “I’d forgotten,” it said, “but now I remember. I carved that so very long ago. I had forgotten. I wonder what else I’ve forgotten?”

  No one said anything, until Rane, who had been edging closer, spoke.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name,” said the ghost, whispering more to itself than to the others, “my name was Staer Gemyndes. Yes, that was my name. I’d forgotten. I remember now.”

  At his words, the rune on the wall began to glow. A shiver ran down Jute’s neck.

  “Staer Gemyndes,” said the duke, his jaw dropping. “But that’s impossible. The advisor of Siglan Cynehad. The most powerful wizard ever known in history! He died thousands of years ago. How can it be? You? A mere ghost? I’ve nothing against ghosts, and you strike me as being an excellent fellow, but—Staer Gemyndes?”

  “I know,” said the ghost, sounding embarrassed. “It hardly seems plausible. It’s been so long, thou
sands of years, did you say? I’ve forgotten most of who I am. I only remembered the name when I saw the rune on the wall. I’m very sorry. I wish my memory was a bit sharper.”

  “Even I know who you are,” said Jute. He touched the rune in amazement. It felt warm. “Staer Gemyndes! Just wait until—”

  But Jute didn’t finish his sentence. As soon as he said the name, his fingers against the carving, the wall moved. It didn’t just move. It vanished, revealing a shallow alcove. Within the alcove was a shelf, and on the shelf was a book. The ghost made a pleased sound.

  “Ah, there it is. After all these years. How nice.”

  “What is that book?” said the duke, his voice shaking.

  Jute, hearing him, knew what the book was. He did not need the ghost to say anything. He could hear Severan’s voice whispering in his head. He could see the old man’s face bright with longing.

  “The Gerecednes,” said the ghost.

  “The Gerecednes!” The duke could barely manage to speak the word.

  “Yes,” said the ghost, sounding embarrassed. “I should’ve never written the thing. I’m remembering more now. Yes, that’s it. I hid the book here during the construction of the university. It was becoming much too dangerous to keep the thing. The Dark was determined to get its hands on it, and I was tired of evading murder at all hours of the night. All for the sake of that book. It wouldn’t have been safe to leave it in the university library, though the professors begged and pleaded with me. I couldn’t destroy the thing—there was too much power in it—so I hid it here and then went north. I suppose that was when I founded the Stone Tower. I was rather tired of Hearne by that time.”

  “But this is fantastic,” said Jute, his eyes shining. “Severan will be delighted. Don’t you know he’s spent his entire life trying to find this book?”

  “Did you say Severan?” said the duke.

  “That would be a bad idea,” said the ghost, looking alarmed. “For one thing, this book’ll draw the Dark like iron to a magnet. At least, once it’s taken off the shelf. I wove a very powerful spell into the shelf that masks the book, but once removed—ah—I’m afraid you’d have a disaster on your hands. They want what’s inside, don’t you know? It’s all coming back to me. That’s why that villain Scuadimnes came to the university in the first place. He was trying to find the Gerecednes. It’s not a book you just pick up and read, mind you. Most people wouldn’t be able to resist picking the thing up. Once you open the book, however, you can’t help but read the whole thing. It would take more than a hundred years to finish. Perhaps several hundred years. Maybe even more than that.”

  “What? It’s that long? It doesn’t look at all thick.”

  “It’s not that,” said the ghost. “Something happened when I wrote it. I can’t remember exactly why. Perhaps it was due to the fact that the words I used were so old. They’re almost the original language. At least, close enough to be dangerous. They don’t behave the same way your modern words do, particularly when there's a lot of 'em together. They contain more truth. Once you start reading, you’re caught. And, while you’re reading, time slows down, er, rather dramatically. I suppose I should’ve just written in a different language. Not to mention the fact that some of those words are dreadfully powerful.”

  “Hadn’t we better get a move on?” said Rane, frowning. He looked back down the tunnel, past the torchlight, as if he could somehow see through the shadows and into the distance. “The longer we stay here, the closer our enemy gets. I don’t fancy another run-in with that hound and its master.”

  “Perfect!” said Jute.

  “There’s nothing perfect about it. How do you fight something that keeps on disappearing into nothing?”

  “Not that,” said Jute. “Don’t you see? If this book truly draws the Dark, why don’t we simply leave it lying on the floor here? Along comes our sceadu, he picks it up, and there! You’ve got him. He’ll be reading for hundreds and hundreds of years. He'll be trapped. That is, if you’re telling the truth, ghost.”

  The ghost looked at him coldly. “Of course I’m telling the truth.”

  After some heated discussion, they decided to try it. However, the ghost suggested that the entire group proceed a good way down the tunnel first. “It wouldn’t do,” it said, “to have one of you develop a sudden urge to pick the blasted book up.” The duke volunteered to move the book from the shelf to the floor.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said slowly.

  They waited for him further down the tunnel, a few minutes walk. The men stood in silence. The torchlight shone on their weary faces. Rane gnawed at his lip, staring back into the darkness.

  “He’s taking too long,” said the ghost suddenly. “Much too long. I’m very sorry.”

  “I’ll go back,” said Jute.

  “No! Wait!” said the ghost, but Jute was already gone.

  Jute hurried back through the passage, holding his torch high. Sweat trickled down his neck. The shadows were changing around him. They were full of menace, watching and waiting. The only sounds he could hear were the whisper of his footsteps and his heart pulsing in his blood. But somewhere beyond that, too quiet to be heard, he knew there was something else. The sceadu. Silently ghosting along through the blackness. Not needing light. Eyes blindly turning toward Jute, wherever he was. Getting closer. After a minute, he saw the duke of Harlech. The old man was standing in the middle of the passageway. He could see the book in the man’s hands.

  “Sir!” he said, his voice low and urgent. “Sir! Are you all right? We need to leave.”

  The duke did not answer. Jute stepped in front of him and saw that his eyes were fixed on the book on his hands. The book was closed, but the duke was staring at the cover. It was then that Jute heard something whispering on the edge of his mind. The book. The voice was quiet and conversational, not unlike the ghost’s voice. A pleasant voice. But there was sorrow in it as well, as if it looked back over hundreds of years and found more to regret than to rejoice over. The voice spoke in words that blurred into colors and distance, into images that slowly gained clarity in Jute’s mind. He stopped, caught by the voice and what he could suddenly see.

  An ocean under the rising sun with light blazing on the water, shimmering in the blue depths, bursting across the sky, burning away the purple darkness of the fleeing night. A hundred ships in flight. West, always west. Sails ragged and patched, bellied out, full with the wind. The water surging white with foam against every prow. Dolphins, slick and silver, dancing between the boundary of sea and sky. Smiling their toothy grins as if to confirm the blessing of the Lady of the Sea. But there had been no land in sight for six weeks. The drinking water barrels were half empty. The bread was almost gone.

  We hoped, whispered the voice in Jute’s mind.

  We could only hope.

  The nights with a thousand thousand stars drifting in their courses above us. Shining like a thousand thousand lamps. They reflected on the darkness of the sea. Both were equally lovely, for both were equally true, like a word and the reality it describes. Night after night turned into day, and day after day turned into night. And on the last day, the wind brought us to a new land. The barren shores. Stone and dust and the hard desert light. We burned our ships under that fierce light, a light so fierce and bright that the flames leaping from the ship timbers roared up toward the sun. A reflection, like the stars drifting upon the ocean of night.

  Again, the wind pointed west. Across the wastelands toward a green and pleasant land. Tormay. To a land unknown. To a land promised in dreams. The wind carried its scent across the miles and days. The dark was not there.

  The dark.

  The dark was not there yet.

  With a shudder, Jute came out of his reverie. The duke still stood motionless in front of him, the book in his hands. Further down the corridor, right at the edge of Jute’s sight, the shadows trembled. He could smell something foul in the air. Something approaching.

  “Sir,” said Jute. �
�You must put down the book. Now.”

  But the duke did not respond, and the darkness in the corridor drew closer. Jute could hear the sound of footsteps. He wrenched the book from the duke’s hands and the man trembled. He blinked. His hand fell on his sword, but then he came awake.

  “Was I?” said the duke, but he could not finish.

  “Yes,” said Jute. “Quickly. We have only a few seconds or we’re lost.”

  Jute placed the book on the floor in the middle of the corridor and then, grasping Lannaslech’s arm, urged the old man away. They only made it a few steps before a voice spoke behind them.

  “Are you going to run forever, Jute?”

  The sceadu’s voice was quiet. He moved out of the shadows and into the edge of Jute’s torchlight. The expressionless eyes stared at the boy and the old duke. Jute could hear Lannaslech breathing shallowly beside him. The shadowhound crouched at the sceadu’s feet, a blot of darkness with the barest hint of a dog’s form. There were other things behind them, things in the shadows; they did not move, but simply waited.

  “No,” said Jute, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “I was never running. I was just waiting for the right time.”

  “And this is the right time?” The sceadu’s head tilted to one side, as if he sought to examine Jute from a different angle. He took a step forward. The air seemed to have gone cold in the passageway. “Death is not a difficult thing. It’s an easy thing, as quick as a passing thought. That’s how I’ve always found it. Tell me, Jute. Shall I set my beast free, or shall it be the sword?”

  The shadowhound heaved itself to its feet as if in anticipation. For a dreadful moment, Jute froze. The shadowhound. He had not considered it. Presumably, it would not stop to consider a book lying on the floor. It would simply leap for his throat, and that would be the end.

  The duke’s sword rang free from its sheath.

  “I don’t doubt you let your dog do your fighting,” he drawled, his voice contemptuous. “In Harlech, only the men ride to war.”