“Hush,” said Arodilac.
“By the way,” said Severan to the ghost, “do you mind if I ask you a few questions? Jute mentioned to me, in strict confidence, of course, that your name was, uh, Staer Gemyndes. The Staer Gemyndes, you know, who wrote the Gerecednes.”
“He did?” said the ghost. “Who wrote the what? I forget a lot of things from day to day, my friend, and to be honest, I can’t even remember your name. Who are you again?”
"I assume you're trying to be humorous," grumbled Severan.
“Will you two please be quiet?” said Arodilac.
They were creeping along below the wall beside the castle’s kitchen garden. The wall on the castle side enclosed an acre of fruit trees, berry bushes, and vegetables. The other side of the wall was an overgrown rose garden, part of the estate of Tene Tiannes. That was the side where the three found themselves.
“As long as old Tiannes doesn’t let his dogs out, we’re fine,” said Arodilac. “I’ve snuck through this way dozens of times, and he only caught me once. His stable man gave me a thrashing, but I came back at night and put a badger in through his bedroom window, so it worked out fine.”
“Why’s that supposed to be reassuring?” said Severan. “That sounds like the beginning of a hundred years’ feud.”
Ivy and bramble vines grew over the wall like a waterfall of greenery. Even though the day was descending into twilight, there was enough light to see their goal. The stones of the wall beneath the ivy were crumbled in places. Arodilac began to climb.
“Easy enough for someone with young knees,” said Severan. He removed a bramble from his sleeve. “You forget that I’m old enough to be your grandfather.”
“You don’t see me complaining,” said the ghost. And with that, it faded somewhat and drifted through the wall.
“Staer Gemyndes? Hmmph.”
Severan began to climb. He gritted his teeth against the pain in his joints. He was old, but the decrepitude of his body was chiefly due to the years spent sitting at desks, hunched over books, reading and writing far into the night. Being a scholar might be good for the mind, but it did no favors to the body. He sighed and then winced as a thorn caught his hand. His brother Lannaslech was older than he but still able to ride a horse all day and handle himself well in a fight.
I should’ve read fewer books, Severan thought to himself. I do hope he’ll be all right. He and Rane. If they both die, I’ll have to move back into that cold manor and rule Harlech. Not that Harlech needs a ruler. I would do a terrible job as duke.
And Jute. Please let him choose wisely this day.
“Did you say something?” said Arodilac from on top of the wall.
“No. At least, I don’t think so.”
Descending the other side of the wall was quicker, mainly because Severan lost his grip and fell crashing down into a bush. This made a great deal of noise. Both the ghost and Arodilac scowled at him.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said.
They crouched in the shelter of some trees. The ground sloped up from where they were for about a hundred yards until it reached the castle. The space in between looked shabby. The lawns had obviously not been cut in a while. The sculpted bushes and hedges had grown shaggy. Roses and wisterias sagged from overgrown trellises.
“That’s odd,” said Arodilac.
“What?” said Severan. A headache was insinuating itself behind his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, but that did no good. A faint whispering buzz vibrated in his ears. Wards. Dozens of them. The castle was obviously rotten with them.
“Usually the place is streaming with light.”
It was true. The castle was dark. The stone walls were gloomy with twilight. But the windows were holes of dark shadow. Arodilac took a step backward into the shelter of the trees. He had the uncomfortable feeling that something was watching them from those windows.
“Oh, pooh,” said the ghost, deciding something had to be done to encourage the others. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. The wihht, or whatever is in there, might kill you both. But everyone has to die. I think my old pa used to say, why put off until tomorrow what can be done today? Besides, if you do wind up getting killed in some dreadful way, it isn’t such an ordeal once you’re dead. Looking back on it, you’ll wonder why you ever made such a fuss. Take it from me. I know.”
This encouragement was received in dubious silence from the other two.
“Are you sure this thing is new?” Severan held up his hand and squinted at a ring on his finger. It was a plain-looking band of silver.
“As of a month ago. My uncle’s steward gave me several when I, uh, lost my original ring. He forgot about ‘em when it was returned to me.”
“Maybe it’s keeping me from catching on fire or whatever nasty things the castle wards do, but I’m getting a splitting headache from all the buzzing and whispering in my ears. How many wards does this place have? Good grief. Your uncle must’ve been paranoid beyond understanding.”
“It should be all right. I wore it for weeks without any problems.” Arodilac paused and then continued hesitantly. “This needs to be done, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Severan. He slipped his hand into his pocket and touched the bag Jute had given him. He tried not to shiver. “It’ll work just fine.”
They crept across the grass, making their way from bush to tree to hedge, until they crouched beside the castle wall. A stone verandah jutted out several yards away. Arodilac shook his head.
“Normally,” he said. “there’d be guards patrolling the grounds. There’d be lights, activity, something. A page or two, sprinting down the road with messages for Lord Whatsit or Lady Whosis. But now, there’s nothing. It’s as if everyone’s left.”
“An excellent idea,” said the ghost. “Let’s leave now.”
Several bay windows looked out onto the verandah; with assistance from Arodilac’s knife, one of them swung open. The place was silent inside and there was a stale smell in the air. A faint light straggled in through the windows, but it was hardly strong enough to do more than gleam on the glass. They stood in a long hallway that stretched away into shadows on either side. Portraits of stern-faced soldiers and dapper nobility stared down from the walls. A flight of stairs climbed up into darkness at one end of the hallway.
“Is he even here?” whispered Severan. “Is anyone here?”
The ghost sniffed the air. “Oh, something’s here. Definitely. I just can’t tell whether it’s alive or somewhat alive. Or, for that matter, whether it’s human.”
They tiptoed down the hallway, past the stairs, and into a large anteroom. The ceiling soared above them. Carpet silenced the sound of their passing. A fireplace framed in marble huddled over cold ash. Another flight of stairs ascended to a balcony. A piano stood in one corner, its lid angled on an arm of silver-inlayed oak. Severan ran his finger across the wood. It was thick with dust.
The silence was heavy. The lightest and most innocent of silences is that of a baby sleeping. There is no guilt in such a silence, no regret, no sorrow, no awareness of evil. No anticipation of wickedness. As years pass, and as innocence fades with the accumulation of memories, the silence of a man can become something else. Something darker, tired, and wary. A house can behave in the same way. Wood remembers certain things. Stone has the longest memory.
“This place has some terrible memories,” said the ghost. “I have some dreadful ones of my own that I wish I could forget. Why do I forget all the good things? But the ones in this place? Brr!”
“Why do you always say things like that?” Severan could feel the skin on the back of his neck prickling. “It’s bad enough creeping around in here without you harping on about death and doom and all your other favorite topics. Were you like this when you were alive? I hope you realize you were the most famous wizard in all the history of Tormay.”
“I don’t harp,” said the ghost, stung at his words. “I observe. Ghosts have a nose for memories. After all, that’s primarily what we consist
of. Mostly memory and a touch of magic. Regardless, something dreadful happened here. Recently.”
“Dreadful? How dreadful?” Arodilac couldn’t help asking.
The ghost sniffed the air, turning its head this way and that. “Oh, I’d say extremely dreadful. As far as I can tell, it involved a lot of people running around screaming unproductive things like ‘Help, Help!’ or ‘Save me!’ followed by those same people getting eaten. That’s the basic gist of it. I can smell it in the walls. The stones still echo with the screams. Stone doesn’t forget easily. But don’t look so concerned, young Arodilac; no one’s here anymore.”
“No one’s here? I thought you said there was someone here.”
“Yes, but he just left. About thirty seconds ago.”
“He?” Arodilac drew his sword. “Let’s get out of here and find him! That thing, the wihht, whatever my uncle is now.”
“Ah, but you’re mistaken.” The ghost pointed up the stairs. “He went through a door upstairs.”
“So he’s outside?”
“No. It isn’t a normal door he went through. He’s someplace else.”
“The five spells of Brimwell the Lame.” Severan nodded. “He built doors that allowed the user to pass through to distant places. He was a cripple and wasn’t one for getting about easily. If we find the door, we can find where the wihht went.”
They climbed the stairs, up into shadows that grew with every passing moment. The silence was no longer complete. Small noises insinuated themselves. The wind rattled at a windowpane. A clock ticked behind a locked door. Floorboards creaked beneath their feet.
“Here,” said Arodilac, his voice quiet. “This is the door to my uncle’s suite.”
The rooms were grander than anything Severan had ever seen. Ceilings arched up above marble pillars. Silk drapes framed windows looking out on the moonlit gardens below. Chandeliers hung cantilevered out from the walls, dangling dozens of candles, each in cups of crystal. Everywhere there was mahogany and ivory and gold. Mirrors reflected the trio as they stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. After a moment, the ghost pointed at another door on the far side of the room. They passed through into a dark room.
“Lig,” said Severan.
A wisp of light glimmered into being above his hand. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it drifting into the air. The light was insignificant, but it was enough to illumine the place. It was obviously a bedroom. The place smelled of dust and stale air and something else. The drapes were drawn across the windows. They looked like coffin shrouds. The ghost shivered.
“Here,” it said. “In here. He left a few minutes ago.”
“But where?” Arodilac looked around. “There aren’t any other doors out of here.”
“The doors of Brimwell the Lame don’t look like normal doors. Lig.” Severan sent another wisp of light scooting up to the ceiling. “They’re spells—extremely complicated spells, of course—anchored to a physical object not intended to leave its location. The object could be small, like a hairbrush, or large, like a. . .”
“Like a tapestry?” said Arodilac.
They all stared at the tapestry on the wall. It was enormous. The fabric was woven from silk and depicted an intricate scene of buildings and soldiers and townsfolk. A king sat on his throne in the top right corner. An army of skeletons marched with spears across the bottom of the tapestry, advancing on a large building of stone and towers. Tiny flames of red silk poured from windows.
“Good grief,” said Severan, peering closer. “That’s Dol Cynehad, the last king of Tormay. And that’s obviously the university. This must be a depiction of the Midsummer War. Priceless! I’ve never seen anything like this before. This needs to be studied. Look, there are some odd runes woven into the sides of these buildings. It almost looks like—”
“Dol Cynehad was very fond of onions,” interrupted the ghost. “And speaking of smells, this tapestry stinks of magic.”
“Onions? I suppose this might be what we’re looking for. Aha! Can you sense that? There’s a ward sleeping in the threads, but it isn’t pointed this way. It’s guarding somewhere else. Somewhere that is not this room. Yes. This is definitely what we’re looking for, but how does it activate?”
Severan prodded the tapestry with one finger. It didn’t feel unusual. It felt like a silk tapestry. He thought a moment, and then waved his hands in the air. Nothing happened.
“Open,” he commanded. “Vena.”
A wooden chest on a nearby table creaked open, but the tapestry did nothing.
“Stop that,” said the ghost. “You’re making my ears itch.”
“Perhaps the key to a spell like this has something to do with the person who uses it the most. In this case, your uncle.” Severan nodded at Arodilac.
“I could’ve told you that,” said the ghost.
“He never said anything about this to me.” Arodilac touched the tapestry. “To be honest, we didn’t get along all that well.”
“Wait. What did you just do?”
“Nothing,” said Arodilac. “What are you talking about?”
“The tapestry just moved.”
“Maybe it’s because he touched it,” said the ghost. “I’ve often noticed that things move if you touch them. For instance, if you touch a blade of grass, it will invariably move to some degree. This is due to the pressure of your finger. I know that’s probably a startling concept to someone with your lack of—”
“Staer Gemyndes or not, stop being a blockhead. The pattern in the tapestry moved. I saw it. The buildings shifted.”
“I didn’t do anything,” said Arodilac. “All I did was touch the thing. See?”
He touched the tapestry again. This time, they all saw it. The buildings woven into the design began to shift around. They slid away from the center of the tapestry until the center of the hanging was an oval of blue-black thread that rippled with shadows. Arodilac snatched his hand away.
“It’s alive! Did you see that?”
“It moved because of you. Is it because of who you are? A member of the Botrell family? That’s logical. But I’ve never heard of any spell attuned to people because of what family they belonged—what’s that you’re wearing?”
“That? Oh, that’s my ward ring. It’s. . .” Arodilac’s voice trailed off. He looked up, embarrassed. “My uncle had all the castle wards woven into it. He always said it was the match of his own ring.”
“That’s it.”
Arodilac placed his hand again on the tapestry. He was acutely aware of the ring on his finger now and he thought he felt it grow warm. The buildings slid away from the center. The king on his throne in the corner of the tapestry seemed to be staring down at them.
“I suppose one of you’ll have to go first,” he said. “If I go through, then you might be stuck here.”
“You’re probably right,” said Severan. “Ghost, how about you go first? You’re dead already, so you’ll be safe from whatever might be lurking on the other side. Perhaps you can distract it, or them, or whatever it is.”
“Safe? What do you mean, safe? I think I should go last, as I’m the oldest and have experienced more of life than the two of you put together. I don’t need any more experiences. So, go on. You’ll thank me later. You’ll find that difficulties are maturing. While you’re fighting off whatever monster is chewing on your ankle, just remember that it’s a learning experience. You can never place too high a value on education. Particularly the hands-on sort.”
“Look,” said Arodilac hastily. “Why don’t you go through together? The tapestry’s big enough.”
Severan reached out one cautious hand and touched the tapestry. It was definitely not silk anymore. It was more like a thick, greasy vapor. He could feel it clinging to his fingertips.
“Oh, very well,” he said. “Ghost, are you ready? On three. One, two, three!”
And then they were gone, both of them blurring into the tapestry and disappearing with a soft, wet sort of sound. It wasn’t a pleasa
nt thing. At least, it wasn’t pleasant for Arodilac. He didn’t like the sound of that noise. He didn’t like the way the tapestry seemed to pull at his hand, like it wanted to swallow him up. Most of all, however, he didn’t like being alone in that room. The wisps of light Severan had spelled into being were guttering out. Arodilac took a breath and stepped through the tapestry. His stomach plunged for a sickening moment. He couldn’t see a thing. He stumbled forward and then felt a hand grab hold of his arm.
“Steady,” said Severan.
Arodilac found himself standing on a flight of stone steps. There were stone walls on both sides and a low ceiling above his head. The steps led down into a passageway that disappeared into the dark. A torch burned in a sconce high on the wall. Behind him, at the top of the stairs, a gray wall shimmered.
“Where are we?” said Arodilac.
Severan shrugged. “I suppose somewhere in the Thieves Guild tunnels. I’ve never seen them before, but I’ve heard tales about the labyrinth the Guild has beneath the city. They use the tunnels to get quickly about the city. Some stories say the tunnels move, they rearrange themselves, though I’ve never seen proof of that sort of magic in anything I’ve read. The Silentman of the Guild is supposed to have his court hidden in the labyrinth. Mind you, the Guild didn’t build these tunnels, if that’s where we are. They’re supposed to be from Dol Cynehad’s reign.”
“Actually,” said the ghost, “the tunnels predate the founding of Hearne. But don’t get too excited. I can’t remember more than that. Moving tunnels. Wonderful. It’s like we’re in the belly of a snake.”
Arodilac took the torch from the wall and they advanced down the tunnel. The air was cold and still. Their footsteps echoed in whispers against the stone walls. The torch did not do much more than illuminate the ground around their feet and send their shadows wavering across the nearby walls.
“Lig,” said Severan, and a wisp of light rose into the air above his hand. He repeated the word and sent one of the lights floating several yards ahead of them. The other light retreated until it was well behind them. The darkness in the tunnel was so complete, however, that just past the edge of the light was a wall of utter black. It retreated before them and it advanced behind them. Severan opened the bag in his pocket and fished out a little stone.
The Wicked Day Page 34
