The Hawk And His Boy (24 page)

On that evening, she had wrapped herself in a cloak and slipped out of the town. A full moon was rising, and its light shone on the snow. Her breath steamed in the air. For half an hour she trudged through the snow before stopping. She stood on a hill, bare of anything except the snow and her footprints. In every direction there were only the rolling slopes of the Mearh Dun. There was not a cottage or tree in sight. She stood and listened to the land.

Then she had heard them, far to the north. She sent forth her thoughts and called. She subsided into silence, waiting in the cold, under the night and a scattering of stars like jewel shards and the moon with its pale eye.

They had come in a rush, shadows loping over the next hill, vanishing down into the divide and then hurtling up the hill she stood on. Snow flew through the air from their paws as the pack surged around her, a few daring to brush her hands with their cold noses. Tongues lolled and eyes flashed amber, blue, and polished as wet stone. They stilled their pacing and stood around her—near a hundred, she counted. A black wolf stalked forward. His eyes, gray as a winter sky, met hers, and then he dropped his head to nose at her palm.

Mistress of Mistresses.

“Drythen Wulf,” she said. “The Mountains of Morn are the home of your folk, not the Mearh Dun.”

Aye. You speak truth.

“What has brought you and yours west? Does your clan entire think to chase the sun?”

He had laughed at that, soundlessly, his yellowed teeth glistening and his eyes half closed. And then his head drooped, and a shiver ran through the watching pack.

Nay, Mistress. We have no heart for legends anymore. We have run away from our land.

We run
, echoed the pack. Their voices were doleful.

“What follows after you?”

But his head had drooped lower at her question. She knelt in the snow and took his shaggy head between her hands.

“Drythen Wulf, what follows after you?”

A sceadu, Mistress. A cursed shadow out of our ancient legends. The home of our ancestors has become a haunt of shadows and dread. The mountains are no longer ours. The deer took herself away, and the rock hare vanishes since summer’s sun. Our small ones dream of horrors and no longer wake, leaving us to chase the sun.
He trembled with anger. His teeth snapped shut on the air.

“Are you sure of this? It has been many hundreds of years since such a one has been seen in this realm. There were three of them from days of old.”

The wolf did not speak, but only gazed at her with his gray eyes. She nodded, then, in acceptance of his words. The pack waited in silence around her.

“The Mearh Dun cannot be your home. Your coming has brought great distress to its folk. They are a gentle people and unused to the ways of the wolf.”

Are we not also your folk? Does the lady grow to love man more than her four-footed subjects? The nyten of mountain, hill, forest, and plain?

“Nay, nay,” she had said, vexed under the eyes of the wolf.

Would have us south, then, into the crowded plains of man and the desert beyond? The north will not have us. Giants walk there in the fields of ice, beyond the realm of man, and they have never been friendly to our folk. Should we run west, into the great sea?

“I would not have you anywhere except the land that bears you love, the Mountains of Morn.”

We cannot, Mistress. Unless
—and here the wolf paused, unsure at his own daring—
unless we have your company to search out the sceadu and make it safe for our little ones.

And so was struck the deal that brought Levoreth east from Andolan, bargained under the night sky and far from the sleeping town. The pack bore witness and the wolf brought forth a gawky-legged pup with his own black fur and eyes as silver as moonlight on the sea. It padded about her feet and licked her hand.

My own whelp, Mistress of Mistresses. I would have you name him, for someday he will lead the pack, after the sun has called me to the great chase.

She had named the pup Ehtan, after the great wolf that the Aro had bidden to hunt among the stars, tirelessly seeking after the Dark. She smiled and awoke in the stillness of the cemetery. The old priest was gone. The air was full of light and the sweetness of the rose bush.

“Aye,” she said aloud. “This is a place well-suited for sleep.” She stood up, somewhat stiffly, and lingered for a moment at the headstone of Dolan Callas before walking away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A PLACE CALLED DAGHORON

Jute slept poorly that night.

He dreamt of the darkness. This is a dangerous thing to do, for such dreams are opportunities for the Dark. To dream of the Dark is to bring yourself to its attention. Who knows what may happen then?

It was a night without stars. Cold and breathless. A shadow stretched past Jute out into the expanse of space. If I turn, Jute thought, will I see this thing that casts such a shadow? Or what if it already stands before me, far on the other end of this darkness? For everything is shadow here, and the darkness stands everywhere. It does not need light to cast the shadow of itself.

The shadow gained form as he watched. Battlements rose up. Spires soaring above and below and on either side. Towers and walls that climbed ever upward, dizzying. Endless. The façade was pitted with windows that gaped without glass or light inside.

I could look for a lifetime and find no end to this. But I would find desolation. Who am I to stand here and live?

And in desperation he wished for a small place so he might creep away into it, close the door, and pretend his little room was the only world that was.

Light glimmered by his side.

The hawk.

Do you wish death upon yourself? What brings you to this place?

I do not know. Take me from here!

I cannot. We stand before the gates of Daghoron.

He felt the hawk’s wing brush along his arm.

Know you not the words of Staer Gemyndes, with which he began the Gerecednes?“Deep within the darkness, further e’en the void, Nokhoron Nozhan built himself a fortress of night.”

I am only a boy. I know nothing of such things.

If men forget such things, then all that is will surely pass away.

The shadow deepened. And moved, ever so slightly. As if that which cast it was beginning to wake. Nightmares stirring from their sleep. Shivering with hunger.

We must be away. Now!

I cannot! You said this yourself!

Not true. I only said I could not take you away by myself.

Then how?

Look down!

He looked down and could not breathe. There was nothing below him except the dizzying emptiness of sky. The hawk hovered next to him on outstretched wings. And he fell, plunging down into the nothingness, his mouth stretched wide in a scream and his arms flailing at the air. Darkness rushed past him like water.

Aye.
There was satisfaction in the hawk’s voice.
Fear serves its purpose at times.

Jute awoke and rose from his bed. He opened the window and stood amazed. The university and the city were gone. Below, a plain lay gloomy under a moon colored ivory like bone. Far beneath the window, something gibbered. The thing turned and shambled alongside the tower. The boy rushed to the door and eased it open. Below him, up a winding stair, there came to him the creak of a turning handle. Footsteps shuffled up the stairs. A smell of decay and damp things assailed him and he stumbled away from the door. There was only the window.

He threw himself from it.

And awoke, again, in his bed. Sweating and shivering. A candle burned on the table. Severan sat there and watched him.

“You don’t sleep well,” he said.

“No,” said the boy, but he was glad to see the old man, and he knew he dreamt no longer. There was bread and cheese on the table. Jute rose and ate.

“Have you ever heard of a place called Daghoron?” asked the boy.

Severan shook his head and helped himself to a hunk of bread. But it seemed to the boy that the old man avoided his gaze.

“Or someone named Staer Gemyndes?”

The old man froze.

“Where did you hear that name?”

“In my dream. Someone spoke it.”

“Who?” said Severan.

“I don’t know.”

“Staer Gemyndes was the court wizard of Siglan Cynehad, the first king of Tormay. It is said that Staer Gemyndes wrote a book called the
Gerecednes
at the end of his life—a book that speaks of those events which brought Siglan Cynehad to Tormay, centuries ago. For the king did not come as a conqueror, as most scholars assume, or an adventurer out to win fame and glory for an older homeland. No, he came with his people—all those who are our own forefathers—fleeing some terrible doom. And in that book it is written of these matters. It’s said that in the book are the answers to so many questions! But the book’s been lost for hundreds of years, and we know only a little.”

“And this book is one of the things you hope to find here in the ruins? You told me that before, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Severan. But he would not say anything more on the matter and did not ask again where the boy had heard such names.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THE WIHHT IS GIVEN A TASK

“The Guild,” said Nio. “The Guild and this fellow they call the Knife. Ronan of Aum. Both of them made-up names that tell us nothing of the man, other than his vaunted position in the Guild and his own arrogance.”

He was pacing back and forth in the library. The wihht stood silently. Only its eyes moved, slowly shifting back and forth to keep its gaze on Nio.

“I want you to find the Court of the Guild, the court of the so-called Silentman. It’s somewhere in this city, that’s obvious, and I’ve heard enough rumor to guess it’s underground. A cellar, tunnels, something like that. Find one of these thieves and squeeze the truth out of him!”

“Is it permitted to then end his life?”

“What? Yes, yes—whatever you want. I don’t care. Just keep it quiet, d’you hear? The last thing we need is the attention of the Lord Captain of Hearne and his men. And if you hear or see anything of the boy Jute, find him too.”

“I remember his taste,” said the wihht.

“If you catch him, bring the miserable rat to me. I’ll wring his neck myself. Mind you, the Guild’s more important now, not that guttersnipe. Find me a key that’ll get us into the Guild, and I don’t care how many bones you break along the way.”

“Ah,” said the wihht.

Nio stalked to the window and stared out. Water streaked down the glass. It was raining again. The street below was virtually empty. One solitary figure hurried by, shoulders bent and head hunched against the rain. It was a miserable day. Most of the city would be holed up like rats in their houses, Guild and non-Guild alike. The wihht would have a more difficult job of it.

“Concentrate on the inns,” he said. “They’ll be crowded, no doubt.”

“And the man called the Knife?”

“I daresay you’ll have an easier time finding the
Gerecednes
than that man. Find me my key. And I don’t care if it’s a key made of metal or one of flesh and bones.”

The door closed silently behind the wihht.

Nio flung himself down in a chair and picked up a book.
A Concise History of Harlech
, written by some long-dead Thulian duke with aspirations of being a scholar. It was a short and concise book. There was little to know about Harlech, for they did not give up their secrets easily and they were not fond of strangers.

Travel in Harlech is not advisable in the winter due to the harshness of the climate, the frequency of wolves, and the peculiar fact that the roads and paths seem to rearrange themselves at will, particularly for the misfortune of visitors. The towns are few and the inns, while excellent and well-appointed, exist more for local traffic, rather than for travelers from afar. Furthermore, those who live in Harlech tend to be inhospitable unless some happy twist of fate has given one a reason to form an acquaintance, for if they give their friendship, they will remain so until death. If their enmity has been aroused, however, one would be advised to stay far away from Harlech, for they are implacable and feared in all of Tormay for their skill in battle.

Nio tossed the book aside. It made for dull reading. Particularly on a day like today. He got up and again went to the window. Rain. The drops ran down the glass and blurred his sight.

He still remembered her name. Cyrnel. Cyrnel, the farmer’s daughter. For several years after he left the Stone Tower, he had purposed to return. To return once he had made a name and a fortune for himself. He would have rode up on a fine horse to the admiring glances of the students. The teachers would have invited him in to hear his tales. And then he would have ridden off south along the coast to the little valley and the farmer’s daughter who lived there.