The Wicked Day
Page 44
Declan had never felt at home within city walls before, but now it was even worse. The stone buildings and cobbled streets seemed foreign to him, as if made for a race that had never included him, and he found himself dreaming of wide-open spaces, of plains and mountains and lonely valleys, and always, of course, of the sea. Arodilac offered him a captaincy in Owain Gawinn’s Guard and, with it, a manor and lands north of the city. For a moment Declan’s heart leapt at the thought. To be part of the nobility. It was something he had dreamt of ever since he had been a boy, ever since he had stolen his father’s sword to ride south to Vomaro and glory. But he knew that it could never be. He thanked Arodilac for the offer and left Hearne the next day.
Declan rode back into the north, that is certain. Of the rest of his life, there is much disagreement, though all agree that the painted caravans of the Farrow clan were never again seen trundling about the duchies of Tormay. Declan was the last of that blood. Some historians say that he settled in Thule and lived peaceably to an old age. Others maintain that he wandered east, across the Mountains of Morn and into the great wastes, where he was killed by those nameless things that doubtless dwell there, creatures that serve the Dark and cannot abide the race of man.
Still others write that he made his way to the coast of Harlech and from there to the Flessoray Islands. One particular legend has it that Declan Farrow lived for several years on the westernmost island of Flessoray. Usually, the island only had inhabitants during the summer when fisherfolk from other islands came to gather mussels. It is said that he built a boat, no larger than a single-masted coracle, and sailed away into the west where no man has gone before. Declan Farrow was never seen again in Tormay. Story has it that he left his sword in a cave on the island, where it was found many years later by a young fisherboy. Whatever was Declan's fate, he never did sleep without dreaming of the sea. And of the girl who had once been named Liss Galnes.
Eaomod, the prince of Harth, reached his father’s court in Damarkan five days after the battle at the southern pass of the Morn Mountains. His steed died under him a day after leaving the battleground, its heart giving out from exhaustion. The prince continued on foot, walking through the days and nights across the stony landscape that comprises the terrain of the northernmost desert. When he arrived at the gates of Damarkan, he was so burnt by the sun and in such sorry straits that the city guards almost turned him back to the hovels of the poor that crowd up around that great city’s walls. But he convinced them otherwise, and they allowed him through. News of the prince’s arrival preceded him to his father’s court, and he entered the palace amidst a great throng that gaped and cheered and called out his name. Within the palace, however, the court waited: row upon row of silked and bejeweled lords and ladies, the counselors and pet wizards of the king, and the officers of the guard.
It is not clearly recorded what was said then, but it is known that the king rose from his throne, his face black with fury and his voice thundering. The prince, his son, stood before him silent. Some stories tell that the prince was then banished from his father’s court. These stories tell how he journeyed south, further even than any man had traveled before, and came to a far-off land of ice and snow where he founded a kingdom that, as far as anyone knows, still stands to this day.
Giverny Farrow disappeared from history. But she did not disappear from legend, for legend and history tend to be two very different things. Every duchy had their own stories about her and her wolf, stories of her protection and wisdom and blessing, stories of how she brought home a lost child or a lost lamb or how she routed a band of ogres. But as the centuries passed, these tales came to be believed only by children and the very wise. Of course, this did not hold true in Harlech and the north, for those people have a very long memory, and for them, history and legend tend to be the same thing.
What about the sceadu, standing in the darkness of the tunnels, deep within the earth? I’m afraid that his existence was forgotten by those who should have remembered. We can only hope that the book of the Gerecednes kept him spellbound for much longer than a hundred years. For even a hundred years tends to go by quite quickly. The ghost always did have a bad memory, so when he said a hundred years, we can only hope he meant a thousand years. At any rate, if the sceadu does finish reading the book someday, it’ll be someone else’s job to deal with him, and I don’t envy them at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
WHERE THE WIND WILL BLOW
On a cold, windy day in September, Giverny came walking along the heights of Lannaslech, where rock and sea and sky met in a sharp alliance that cut at the cloth of the heavens—or so the lords of Harlech have said of their sky since long ages past. The wolf Ehtan paced at her side. Far below them, at the foot of the cliffs, the sea rolled its relentless tide against the rocks, kicking up foam that misted in the air. Gulls wheeled in long, slow arcs across the sky. The girl stopped and sat on a rock to listen to their cries. She closed her eyes and turned her face up toward the pale sunlight. The wolf settled near her feet.
She spoke out loud, as was her wont, for she had not yet fallen into the easy use of spoken thought.
“I had a mother, once, though her face has faded in my mind. She hailed from this land. Did you know this, Ehtan? Sunlight, stone, and sea. And the wind over all. Harlech bears upon its cold coast the scars of each of the four stillpoints. The warmth of fire even in this thin sunlight. Stone and earth with my own marks upon them. Sister sea, restless in her sleep below. And do you hear? Listen. The whisper of my brother wind lingers in the sky here.”
You need not ever lose remembrance of your mother, for you resemble her greatly—in visage and character, for she died defending her clan.
“And what if I forget I had a mother? What then?”
The wolf did not answer.
“Perhaps a mother is a small thing to forget when each stone and tree, all the nyten that draw breath, near all Tormay, leave their remembrance within my mind and clamor for my attention.”
The wolf nipped her hand gently.
I will be your memory.
Sunlight gleamed and flashed on the sea far below them. A small gray warbler settled in a flurry of wings on the grass and whistled saucily at her. She whistled back, a long liquid trill of notes that soared in the air. The little bird hopped up and down in amazement.
Mistress of Mistresses!
But that was all the bird could manage. Overcome by its audacity, the warbler fluttered away into the air, wobbling at first and then gaining height until it was only a small speck skimming along the headland. Giverny laughed aloud. She whistled again and then sang.
“Blues and greens and shadows beneath—
the colors of the sea.
Breathe wind—blow the storm clouds hence
and bring my love home to me.
“Do you know this song and whence it came, memory mine? I feel it woven through the land here, like the earth breathed in and made it part of its own self. Yet I also know the song from some other, from she who was before me, Levoreth, for I remember her walking beside me and singing these words. It was on the Plain of Scarpe.”
Must I remember for you your songs and fripperies?
The girl laughed again. However, the wolf raised its great head, scenting the wind.
“What is it?” she said, sobering. “Does something draw near?”
Nay. It is that which is no longer here. Do you forget why we came to Harlech?
She scrambled to her feet, remembering. Further along the headland, toward its stony height that reached out over the sea, they came to the small cottage built up against the back of a massive rock. A name sprang to the girl’s mind, and she called out loud.
“Jute!”
There was no answer. The door was shut, but it opened easily enough for Giverny. Sunlight slanted in through the window on an empty room. Firewood sat neatly stacked by the hearth, though the wood was covered in cobwebs. Everywhere there was dust, and it stirred at her feet. There
was nothing else in the room, only lichen growing on the walls and over the stone sills. The wolf whined at the door but would not enter.
“Ehtan.” Her voice shook. “How long has it been?”
More than two hundred years have passed their way since we have stood at this door, Mistress of Mistresses. He who once lived here lives here no more. He has gone away. Who knows where and how, for he was the wind, and who can predict the wind?
Giverny wept a little, leaning on one of the sills and staring out across the headland until her tears blurred the earth and sky and sea into an endless blue, trembling and luminous with golden light. She stumbled outside and knelt on the verge of grass growing bravely on the cliff’s edge. The sky was fraying into that which lay beyond it. Light filled her eyes. The cold nose of the wolf pressed against her hand.
A breeze sprang up, blowing in off the sea and full of the salt air. The grass trembled at its touch. A shadow fell on the ground there as something swooped down out of the sky. Giverny wiped her eyes and found herself staring at Jute.
“Hello,” he said, grinning.
“Hello.”
“Why are you crying?”
“No reason at all,” said Giverny, smiling now.
A bird teetered down through the air on outstretched wings and settled onto Jute’s shoulder. It was a young storm kestrel. He had feathers as dark as night, and bright blue eyes that surveyed Giverny and the wolf with interest.
“Come,” said Jute, drifting up into the air. “There’s a storm in the Morns, there’s a fishing boat to rescue off Lastane, and it’s snowing in Damarkan—the first time in four hundred years! There’s so much to see.”
“And there’re twin foals about to be born in Andolan,” said Giverny, “and bears robbing an apple orchard in Lura, and a little boy in Hearne who can’t remember his way home.”
“That was me, once, wasn’t it?” said Jute.
They left the old cottage then. Giverny and the wolf walked at first, down along the cliffs, but then running as quick as thought, as quick as fading dreams. Jute and the kestrel swooped and dove through the air above them. The waves tumbled on the rocks below. The sky was full of light, full of the scent of the sea and the heather growing on the heights. The wind followed in their path for a while, laughing and chuckling to itself, as if eager to journey to wherever they went. After some time, though, it blew away to other places, for it was the wind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Jen Ballinger for copy-editing this book. Also, thanks to Josh Addessi for designing the cover, and Bryan Ballinger for drawing the map. I greatly appreciate the time and honesty of my test readers: Jaemen Kennedy, Frank Troya, Wayne and Jessica Collingwood, Scott Mathias, Dave Palshaw, Rob and Sandra Kammerzell, Daniel White, and the various long-suffering members of the Bunn family (David, Michael, Jodi, Benjamin, Micha, Megan and, of course, Jessica).
To those who have taken the time to read this trilogy, I hope it provided a few hours of enjoyment and dreaming for you. Thank you for visiting Tormay. I plan on traveling there again, one day, for I suspect there are a great many stories to be told of that land.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE