The Wicked Day (47 page)

“What do you mean, gone? I’m a ghost. I can just float right through the wall. Watch this.” The ghost bounded over to a wall and started blurring into it. Halfway in, however, with its head still visible, the ghost stopped. It pushed forward again, straining at the wall, and then sprang back.

“Blast it all,” said the ghost. “This isn’t supposed to happen. I’m a ghost.”

“What is it?” said Severan. “A binding of air? A renunciation of sentience by stone?”

“No,” groaned the ghost. “Worse. It’s a rejection of ghosts. I can’t believe it. Someone went to all the trouble to devise a spell that rejects ghosts. Do you know how difficult that is? And it conveniently works just as well on mice, rats, humans, and—well, everything.”

“You mean we’re trapped in here,” said Arodilac. His voice trembled.

“We’re going to die!” screamed the ghost. “We’re going to starve to death, wither into dried-out corpses, husks of desiccated flesh and bone. It’s going to be painful and we’ll go mad in the process, like crazed skunks—oh, wait. I’m already dead. The two of you are going to die and I’ll be left all alone. Captive forever. Marooned. All alone, with no one to talk to!”

“Hush,” said Severan. “Things don’t look good, I’ll grant that, but there’s always a way out. This trap was obviously built by a wizard, how many years ago, I wouldn’t care to guess, but he would’ve left a way out. There has to be. That’s the way wizards think. So we have to think in the same way.”

“I’m not a wizard,” said Arodilac, “but does this mean anything?”

“What?”

“The words on this pillar. At least, I think they’re words. I can’t read ‘em.”

Severan sent the wisps of light floating toward the pillar. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s something here. Second-kingdom era, I’d wager. You see that symbol? That means stone—no, earth. Earth under stone. Or is it earth over stone? I’ve never seen this exact rune before. Almost like an accent, or some sort of modifier. If the lines were straighter, it’d be similar to the old-kingdom symbol for anbeorun. Sort of a star with wavy rays radiating from the center. People used to carve those on the lintels of their homes in order to invoke the protection of the anbeorun. Though that hasn’t been done for hundreds of years.”

“As far as you know,” said the ghost. “Look here, the text is a binding of power. I’d stake my life on it, if I, er, well. . . now, if you’ll just move to one side, I’ll translate it for you. I used to teach classes on bindings at the Stone Tower. My lectures left my pupils spellbound.”

“If we weren’t trapped who knows how many feet underground in a chamber without doors or windows or even a crack in the wall, I might indulge your humor. But as it is, the more time we waste here, the fainter the wihht’s trail becomes. And who knows what he’s planning to do?”

“I suppose you’re assuming this is all my fault?” said the ghost.

“I don’t care who does it,” said Arodilac. “Just translate the blasted thing!”

Severan and the ghost argued their way through each symbol. The argument ranged from early kingdom dialects and ancient Harthian alphabet modifications to the finer points of grammatical construction in the mid-kingdom poetry of Dolan. Arodilac paced back and forth, having nothing to add to the discussion. He inspected the walls with the dimming light of his torch. The stones had been hewn by a master and fit together without a single gap. He placed his hand against the wall. The stone was cold. As he stood there, it seemed as if a slight sound drifted from the wall. It was quieter than the rustle of a feather, so quiet that he almost thought his mind was playing tricks. But no—there it was again. A whispering sort of groan. Arodilac could not understand what the voice was saying, but he could sense lamentation and anger. And curiosity. A curiosity focusing on the three in the room. But as he listened more, he made out a few words.

Poor me. Poor Beneka. Poor me.

Arodilac shuddered and stepped back from the wall. There was something strangely disturbing about that voice.

“Are you almost done?” he said to the others.

Severan frowned at him. “This isn’t easy. Whoever wrote this used an odd mix of ancient dialects, all shaped by the rules of old Dolani poetry. Difficult stuff to keep straight.”

“Does the name Beneka mean anything to you? Something in the wall keeps on whispering it. I can’t hear it all, but it sounds like ‘poor Beneka—poor me’ and then I don’t understand the rest of it.”

Severan’s eyebrows shot up. He hurried over to the wall and pressed his ear against the wall. He jumped back.

“Good grief! Good gracious me. Ghost! Quick! We need to finish the translation—we need to get out of here, now!”

“What do you think I’m doing?” said the ghost. “Twiddling my nonexistent thumbs?”

“Have you ever heard of the wizard Beneka the Quick?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t? Brr! A real nasty piece of work. Dropped out of studies from the Stone Tower, several years after the Midsummer War, apparently due to a pact she made with the Dark. She stole every book in the library of the duke of Hull. She drowned an entire village on the coast of Thule by calling up a storm. She kidnapped the son of the regent of Hearne and was later tracked down and captured by Dolani riders in the Morn Mountains.”

“Yes, yes—and hauled back to Hearne in chains, where she had her head chopped off. Well, I’m pretty sure her ghost is trapped in the walls of this chamber, and the spell holding her is fraying around the edges. This must be her tomb. Or her prison. Either is just as bad.”

“Stone and shadow!” said the ghost. “Why are we wasting time? She might get out while we’re sitting around and murder us all! Do you know how many people she killed? Now, listen. It says here: Something something sea, and, er, sky—no, wind—wind and fire will meet, um, here. Meet here, to—blast this!—to give—give some stupid thing that I’d like to kick into next week!—give something to the stars. Why in the name of all that’s dead would you want to give something to the stars? Let’s see. . . arrive here together to—well, that’s obviously saying something about doing something to the Dark. Blast it! I’ve forgotten my declensions. Well, this next bit here—”

“You’ve done an excellent job so far,” interrupted Severan, “but I think I’ve got a more precise interpretation. If you don’t mind?”

“Be my guest,” said the ghost grumpily, but it looked relieved and stepped to one side.

Severan stood in front of the pillar and cleared his throat. When he spoke, it was in a measured tone, rich with poetry, with words that fell gently into the silence. The words felt right, as if the stones had been shaped by them and recognized them as a memory from hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

“Sister sea, brothers mine

Meet me here to lend thy memory of stars

Gather here in concert to bind the Dark

Come here to chain she who dies not

Leave thy word here to seal this place.

By dust, by tear, by breath, by candle flame.

The key is turned, the door be locked,

By name, by full and honest name.”

Severan fell silent and the chamber was silent as well, but there was a sense of awakening in the shadows around them. Something waited in anticipation. The darkness watched. A whisper came to them, perhaps voiced aloud, perhaps in their minds. The voice was quiet, but there was an oddly unpleasant sort of eagerness in it as well.

Speak the name.

Speak the name and the door shall be unlocked.

The voice died away. They looked at each other. The torch in Arodilac’s hand guttered into smoke and died. The shadows crept closer, as if to listen to whatever might be said.

“Did you all, er, hear that?” said the ghost. The two others nodded.

“Beneka the Quick,” said Severan hesitantly. He cleared his throat and said it again, this time louder. They all looked around. The walls remained walls. No doors appeared.

“Not the right name,” said the ghost. “I was wondering about that. Most wizards have two different names. The name they’re given as a child and the name they take as a wizard. I daresay Beneka was her wizarding name. There’s another name associated with her. Now, if I can just remember. It was in a book I once read, or perhaps a lecture I gave? Or maybe it was in a book I wrote? Yes, that’s it.”

“The name!” said Severan.

“Oh, right. It was, um. . . aha! Her other name was—”

“Wait,” said Arodilac. “Don’t say it.”

“Why ever not? It’s on the tip of my tongue. Here, let me just say it, and—”

“What if it’s the wrong name? I mean, what if the inscription isn’t referring to this Beneka person?”

“Of course it is,” said the ghost. “The whole purpose of this place and the spell woven into this pillar is to lock her up until, well, until the end of time.”

“Yes, but what if the name in the inscription is the name of whoever locked Beneka up?”

“Good grief,” said Severan. “I think you’re right. But then, that means—that means that. . .”

“That means Beneka the Quick was speaking to us!” said the ghost.

“And I wonder what would happen if we spoke her true name?” said Arodilac. “Maybe another sort of door would open, a door we wouldn’t want open. So who, then, wrote the inscription?”

“Sister sea, brothers mine,” repeated Severan. “Meet me here.” He looked blank and scratched his head, but the ghost smiled.

“That’s simple enough,” said the ghost. “The anbeorun of the earth. Levoreth Callas.”

The air in the chamber stirred, breathing against them with the scent of green and growing things. Their hearts lightened and stone whispered behind them. They turned to see a door forming in the wall and, without hesitation, the three hurried through. Severan was last, almost stepping on Arodilac’s heels in his eagerness to leave that room. Something wept in the darkness behind him. The sound of a woman sobbing. He shivered and did not look back. The ground of the tunnel before them was scuffed with the marks of bootprints and the passing back and forth of many people. Several dozen yards further along, a torch burned on the wall.

“Do you suppose?” said Arodilac in some bewilderment. “Do you suppose the Guild uses this route, right through that wretched chamber?” He turned and gasped. “It’s gone!”

They all turned, then, and saw what he meant. Behind them, the tunnel corridor stretched out straight and serene into shadows broken here and there by other torches. There was no sign of the chamber door, even though they had only taken a few steps from it.

“These tunnels move,” said the ghost. “But we’ve the wihht’s trail again. It’s fainter now. Perhaps he knew we were following him and deliberately led us into that chamber? We’ve lost time, but this is the right direction. I’d stake my life on it.”

“Well done, ghost,” said Severan.

And then the way turned at right angles and turned once again, and they found themselves at a dead end. Not a dead end, for a ladder stood there, a ladder of stone steps cut into the wall. They looked at each other. Arodilac realized his hands were shaking. He took a deep breath. His sword felt oddly heavy on his back.

“He went up,” said the ghost.

They began to climb.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

THE BATTLE FOR HEARNE

The morning light was unable to break through the clouded sky. The stone walls were slick with frost. Ice floes bobbed in the Rennet River as it flowed along the edge of the city wall, hurrying toward the sea. The air smelled of iron and the first flakes of falling snow. Fog obscured the eastern reaches of the valley. Tatters and ribbons of the mist, blown by the wind, streamed up along the river toward Hearne. The wind came from far away that day, from far over the mountains, as if it fled whatever the day brought, as if it might cross the sea and find peace in the west. But there was no peace to be found that day.

“The mist hides them.”

Owain Gawinn stood on top of the wall by the tower gate. The dukes of Harlech, Hull, Thule, Dolan, and Vo stood by his side. Their aides and officers remained a courteous distance away farther down the stone walk. The wind whipped at them. The flags flying above the tower fluttered and snapped. The wall was lined with ranks of soldiers, archers mostly, huddled against the mortared stones to find some protection from the wind and the occasional snow. Down below in the courtyard of the Guard, bonfires burned in smoky flaring red. Owain shrugged his cloak closer around him. He turned to face the dukes.

“This could be a hard day for Hearne, my lords. Not just for Hearne, but for all of Tormay.”

“Perhaps it’ll be our death, Gawinn,” rumbled the duke of Thule, “but we’ll die in good company, and that’s not such a bad thing.”

“It’d be nice to see our unwanted company,” said someone else. “I don’t mind war, but I dislike the waiting about.”

“You shan’t have to wait much longer.”

Their heads turned as if one. Jute stood by the parapet a few feet down from Owain. No one had seen him arrive. His elbows were propped on the top of the stone wall and he gazed out across the valley, looking through the mist and the drizzling rain. He smiled at them and, to be truthful, none of them felt particularly reassured by the sight of him. He was only a boy. Just a boy. But then the hawk settled next to him in a flurry of wings. The wind blew past them with the scent of snow and then they all remembered quite well who this boy was.