The Shadow at the Gate (66 page)

But as the riders fled, the misty form turned in the saddle. Something went whipping through the air, tumbling end over end. The red stone blazed in the heart of the darkness. She remembered now, while time slowed around her.
On the slopes of the mountains of Ranuin. In the silent snows. Nokhoron Nozhan took his sword in hand and did cut his side. Three drops of blood fell to the ground. And there lay blood no longer, but three gems that did burn with scarlet fire. To the sceadus he gave each a stone. In the stones was the incandescence of Nokhoron Nozhan’s malice.

Levoreth blinked, and the knife slammed into her just below her breast. She could not breathe with the pain of it.

All things fall.

Even me.

Levoreth opened her eyes to find herself gazing up at a clear blue sky. The sunlight was warm on her face. The big wolf stared down at her. He whined. She tried to touch his muzzle but she could not lift her hand.

Where is the girl? Does she still live?

She is here, Mistress
, said the wolf.

Two wolves gently urged Giverny forward, nudging her with their noses and their heavy shoulders. The girl stumbled to Levoreth’s side and knelt down. Her face was white and streaked with tears.

“Lady Callas,” said Giverny. Her cold fingers closed on Levoreth’s hand.

“Just Levoreth, girl. Help me sit up.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The girl’s voice trembled.

“Help me, Giverny.”

Levoreth must have passed out then, for when she opened her eyes again, she was sitting up in Giverny’s arms. Her body felt numb. It felt as if she were slowly turning into stone. Before her, past the huddled forms of the dead, the plain stretched out green under the sunlight. A breeze blew by and the grass rippled along its path. Levoreth smiled.

“How beautiful it is here.”

Mistress of Mistresses.

Drythen Wulf. I thank you.

Your thanks are not needed, Mistress. Does the sun thank the candle for the radiance it sheds?

But the wolf hung his great head and would not meet her eyes.

What troubles you, old friend?

My son.

On the ground, beside his sire, lay the body of the young wolf Ehtan. The black fur was matted with blood and the silver eyes were closed. Beyond him sprawled the larger bulk of Swallowfoot.

The old wolf raised his head.

Can you give him his life back, Mistress?

Levoreth looked away past the wolf, gazing past the grass and the horizon. Four days’ journey over the horizon would bring her to Dolan. To the river Ciele and the hills of the Mearh Dun. To the cemetery behind the church in Andolan filled with sunlight and the scent of roses and the bees buzzing at their work.

The wolf waited patiently.

I shall.

The wolf’s eyes flared in hope.

I shall, Drythen Wulf, but not a life such as yours. Not a life you would know. Your cub will never lead the pack. He shall never run with the pack again.

Is this a life?
said the wolf dully.
You do not speak of a wolf.

He shall run with the guardian of the earth. He shall wander the world for many long years, even after you and your cubs have gone to chase the sun. He shall pass into legend. He shall be the shadow of the Mistress of Mistresses.

The old wolf stared at her, and then he bowed his head.

“Pull me closer, Giverny. Pull me closer to the dead wolf.”

“Lady,” stammered Giverny.

“Do it.”

The pain of it made Levoreth almost lose consciousness. Her vision swam. She closed her eyes. Her fingers brushed the wolf’s fur. Her mind drifted. The wolf was gone. Only cooling flesh and bone and fur remained. Her mind pushed farther. Farther west, toward the edge of sea and sky. Farther and past. And there, across the blue, she saw two figures running fast toward the light. Side by side. A wolf and a horse.

Wait,
she called.

The wolf paused and turned, but Swallowfoot galloped on until he diminished and faded into the light.

Wait. Your time here is not done.

Across the distance, the wolf gazed back at her.

A task awaits you. Return.

I go to chase the sun, Mistress
, said the wolf.
It is a better thing.

Aye
, she said.
But another time. Another place.

The wolf was silent.

Return.

Levoreth felt movement under her hand. She opened her eyes. The young wolf struggled to his feet. He nosed at her hand. Awareness sparked in his eyes. Around him, the other wolves backed away.

“Giverny.”

The sunlight was dimming. It was certainly only midday, but surely the light was dimming. Levoreth blinked. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Giverny. You must do a last thing for me.”

“What is it?” The girl’s voice trembled.

“Pull out the knife.”

“What?”

Giverny’s face hovered over her own, but it was lost in darkness and Levoreth could not distinguish her features.

“Pull out the knife.”

“Levoreth—I can’t!”

“You must,” said Levoreth gently. “It is a hard thing, child, but it must be done.”

Even though she spoke softly, all the weight of the earth was in her voice and Giverny could not deny her. The wolf Ehtan loomed behind Giverny, his silver eyes expressionless. He did not blink when the knife came free. The stone in the handle no longer shone vibrant red, but was dull and clouded, as if with age and sudden heat.

“Now,” gasped Levoreth. “Give me the knife.”

It was the last of her strength. She closed her fingers on Giverny’s hand. The blade sliced across the girl’s palm. She cried out.

“I’m sorry,” said Levoreth. “Don’t forget that, Giverny. I’m sorry, for I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all you. We didn’t realize, when we chose so long ago.”

“What do you mean?” said Giverny.

But Levoreth did not hear her. The sun passed its zenith and fell toward the west. Giverny laid Levoreth back down on the grass. The older woman smiled.

“Ehtan shall watch over you until your time is full.”

“Who is Ehtan?” said the other, her face bewildered.

“Listen to him, for the memory of the earth is in him now. He shall guard your way from the Dark, for it shall be many days before you find your strength. He will be your shadow, your right hand, and your comforter. Do not be afraid.”

Levoreth smiled again, though her eyes no longer saw the sky overhead or the girl’s frightened face or the watchful eyes of the wolf Ehtan. Beneath her, the earth pressed up against her back.

“Now,” she said. “Let the memory of Levoreth Callas fade, for I have done what I was meant to do.”

She shivered within Giverny’s arms. Her features blurred. And then there was nothing at all in the girl’s grasp, only the dry earth crumbling down into the grass. Giverny stood, weeping. The wolf Ehtan brushed her hand with his nose.

Mistress of Mistresses.

The voice was soft inside her mind. It had a deep, rough quality to it, comforting and oddly familiar.

“Who said that?” said Giverny.

The wolf’s silver eyes gazed up into her own.

You are the Mistress of Mistresses.

And then other voices joined his.

Mistress of Mistresses.

The wolves around her bowed their heads. She walked through their midst, her steps slow and halting. Ehtan followed at her heels. A breeze blew by her, paused as if startled, and then whirled away.

Next spring, poppies grew there that had never been seen before on the Scarpe or, for that matter, anywhere in Tormay. Their petals were red as blood. In the years afterward, the flowers bloomed further and further across the Scarpe and were later found flourishing throughout the hills of Dolan. It is said that the scent of those flowers brings healing and guards against the Dark, but that is only an old tale from long ago.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

JUTE’S CHOICE

The townsfolk of Ortran received them with no fanfare and little surprise. They did not seem interested at the sight of the hawk riding on Jute’s shoulder. They ignored the ghosts. They were a quiet, reserved people. They were mostly fishermen, with a few vintners who grew a hardy grape on straggling vines that clung to the rocky slopes beyond the town. The single inn of the town perched on top of the cliff. Its windows looked west, across the bay and over the cliffs that fronted the sea. The last light of the departed sun gleamed on the sea.

“Fish stew,” said the innkeeper. And then, inspired to further eloquence, he added, “Halibut.” But when he returned to their table, it was more than fish stew. It was loaves of fresh bread, butter, and a crock of pickled onions. The stew arrived in a pot that breathed out a steam of fish and potatoes.

“Ahh,” said Severan. “Thulish hospitality. Silent but ample.”

They were silent as well for a while as they did justice to the stew. Jute yawned over his bowl. The ghost drifted around the room, inspecting the whalebone carvings hanging on the walls. The hawk fidgeted on the back of Jute’s chair.

“We must leave early in the morning for Harlech,” said the hawk. “I’d prefer to leave now, but I think a night’s sleep would do you well. These are kindly folk in this town and I’d not want their misfortune on my conscience if we tarry. The Dark will come sniffing, sooner or later, and this is no place to defend, though the sea laps at their doorstep.”

“Is Harlech so safe, master hawk?” said Ronan. “They might be better with the sword and have some strange legends told of them, but there are fewer of them than in other duchies. Besides, what can men do against the Dark?”

“Strange,” said Jute’s ghost, seating itself in the empty chair next to the boy. “I seem to remember reading peculiar things about Harlech. All in one book. A very old book. For the life of me, perhaps I should say for the death of me, I can’t remember.”

The hawk chuckled.

“There’s more to Harlech than meets the eye, Ronan, though I daresay they themselves might have forgotten. But the Dark hasn’t forgotten. No, the men of Harlech are more than just ordinary men, just as you are more than a thief. They come of an old people.”

“A failed thief,” said Ronan lightly. “That’s what I am.”

“If I may say something,” said Severan. “This is excellent stew. Not that that was what I wanted to say. Ablendan and I have been discussing the schoolboys. I trust they’re all safe in their rooms and not out wandering the village.”

“What was the name of that book?” said the ghost.

“Doubtless, we’ll have to save the village before the night’s out,” said Ablendan. “And there’s no scullery duty or stair-scrubbing or attic-dusting to punish the scoundrels.”

“We’ve decided,” continued Severan, “it would be best if Ablendan and I saw to the schoolboys.” He frowned down at his stew. “I don’t know who survived at the Stone Tower, but I can’t assume any of the other professors are left. We must at least see to it that the boys return safely to their families. Though I fear Lano’s family won’t appreciate his return, as he’ll be bringing a ghost to lodge.”

“What’s that?” said Jute’s ghost, startled out of its pondering.

“You won’t be going with us to Harlech?” said Jute.

“Oh, I shall,” said the ghost. “Never fear.”

“No,” said Severan. “I’m afraid not.”

“But what about your cottage? You were going to show me the ruins of the tower, you remember, the one the lords of Harlech destroyed. I wanted to see that.”

“Don’t scowl so, Jute,” said Severan. “You’ll see the ruins, and the haunted keep of Lannaslech and everything else. I’ll only be a month or so behind you.”

“A haunted keep?” said the ghost. “Brr. Sounds dreadful.”

“I don’t fancy shepherding the boys all over Tormay to their homes,” said Ablendan. “Why, there’s two that hail as far as Vomaro. A pox on duty.”

“We’ll leave in the morning,” said the hawk.

Severan nodded at Jute, but did not speak, and the boy did not trust his own voice to say anything in farewell.

They left before first light. A heavy fog lay about the town and Jute heard water dripping from the eaves as he woke in his bed. Ronan sat on the other bed, packing his knapsack. A second knapsack, bought from the innkeeper’s wife for Jute, waited bulging and ready beside it. A mug of hot ale steamed on the table. The ghost eyed the ale mournfully.

“As you’re both awake,” said the hawk. “We might as well leave. I’ve never liked fog.”

“It’s only the breath of the sea,” said Ronan.