“You try my patience, messenger.”
“I have seen the truth, your Majesty.”
“Tell Gawinn he will not have a single man of mine! Not one. And you would do well to quit my city this day!”
The chamberlain’s staff slammed down on the floor. The guards moved in around Declan. Dimly, as if from a distance, he saw the prince of Harth rise from his seat. The crowd parted for the guards, and they marched him forward. He saw the steward struggling his way through the crowd but falling further and further behind, his arms gently waving as if those of a sea creature pushing futilely against the tide. The doors to the hall swung shut behind them and they were in the shadowy corridors that led away, through the palace and to the rest of the day waiting for Declan outside.
The day half gone, he thought dully to himself. I’ll be able to get a few miles behind me on the road north. These past days have been wasted. I wonder if Jute and the hawk would have had better luck here?
Sunlight flashed before them and the guards halted. Declan continued down the broad sweep of steps and turned his face up toward the sun, squinting. The captain of the guard at the gate strode toward him. Behind him, he heard the patter of feet.
“Sir!” gasped the steward. He coughed, trying to inhale and speak at the same time. His face was bright red, scandalized. Declan turned away from him, wondering where his sword was. His sword and his horse. That’s all he needed. “Sir! I’m shocked. I didn’t realize that, that. . .” The steward ended in a splutter.
“You would do well, my lord, to be on your way in haste,” said the captain. His voice was quiet.
“My things?” said Declan.
“If I may intrude?”
The voice came from further up the steps. The captain and the steward backed away, bowing. The prince of Harth’s face was set and pale beneath his dark skin, but he inclined his head to Declan.
“It is indeed an honor to see you again, Declan Farrow,” he said. “I treasure the memory of our match. Upon my return to Damarkan from the Autumn Fair, my old teacher, Lorcannan Nan, heard of our meeting. He guessed rightly as to who you were when I related the style of your sword-work.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss friendly sword-work,” said Declan, his voice tight. “I came to discuss war.”
The prince bowed his head in answer.
“I’m a simple man,” continued Declan. “I’m not given to the hysterias that women and cityfolk seem prone to. But the Dark is gathering on the border of Tormay, held back by only the winter snows. Of this I’m sure. Harth would’ve been a great help in the coming war. The northern duchies of Tormay will probably fall without your army’s aid. And then? Harth will fall alone.”
“I think I do not doubt your word,” said the prince. He paused, his throat working as if he tasted something bitter. “But I am a prince of Harth. As such, I must obey the word of the king.”
Declan turned and walked away.
“I must!” called the prince after him, his voice full of anger and shame. “Do you hear me, Farrow?”
Someone brought his horse. Declan did not see who it was, for his fury made him blind. He was only aware of the creak of the saddle under him, the heat of the sun overhead, and the huge gates opening and then closing behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HARLECH AND DOLAN
Early that next morning, after several hours’ flight, Jute and his two companions came to the old stone manor of Lannaslech, duke of Harlech. The day was bitterly cold, but Jute did not mind and neither did the hawk or the ghost. The snow lay on the ground and there was ice in the shadows. Past the manor and beyond the forest of pine standing hunched and crooked on the slope below, the sea heaved toward a sullen, gray horizon. A man stood at the top of the manor steps. He was old and gray but stood as straight as a sapling. He smiled at their approach and bent his head in greeting.
“Welcome,” he said. “You are welcome to my house.”
Breakfast waited for them on a table in a room, warm with a crackling hearth. The house held a contented, sleepy sort of hush, full of years and silence. Jute felt its peace seep into him along with the warmth of the fire. Snowflakes drifted down outside the window.
“Lannaslech,” said the hawk, settling on the back of a chair. “This is—”
“Jute,” said the duke, nodding. “Yes, I know. The wind has been whispering of little else all morning. And you have a ghost with you too, do you not? He is welcome. Come, have breakfast.”
“Oh, er, thank you,” said the ghost, appearing. “But I can’t eat. Ghosts can’t eat.”
“Yes, but you can still enjoy the enjoyment of others.”
They ate breakfast in a leisurely quiet, the old duke and the boy engrossed in their scones and jam, the hawk pecking politely at a slice of ham, and the ghost watching them all with melancholy appreciation.
“I have only one son,” said the duke, finishing the last bite of his scone. “One son that my Arlis bore me, and he is at your service, as is every man, woman, and child of this duchy. We have always served the anbeorun, we of Harlech. It is our lot. Whether it be by life, or by death, it is one and the same to us.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said Jute, discomfited at these words.
The duke smiled. “Death is not such a hard thing when it comes in its time. Everything must have its end. How much more precious it is when spent on the behalf of a noble cause. Or a person such as yourself.”
“Myself? Who am I?” Jute forked some ham onto his plate. “I'm still not sure. I opened a box, cut my hand on a knife, and everything changed. People I don’t know are trying to kill me, the Dark—I never gave two thoughts about the Dark before—is chasing me, and, on top of it all, I’m supposed to be the wind.”
“Which you are,” said the ghost.
“I never asked for any of this. I never wanted any of this. Though I suppose I’ve gotten used to some of it.”
“And greatly appreciate the company along the way, no doubt,” said the ghost.
“What we want and what we get are usually two different things,” said the duke. “When you reach my age, you look back and realize that, perhaps, they were the same all the time. And what has happened, whether it be a boy cutting his finger on a knife, the birth of a foal, the blossoming of a flower on the plain of Scarpe, will all one day be seen as blindingly important, woven together with countless other threads into something that can’t be seen now, from where we stand, but can be seen from some other vantage point.”
“From the house of dreams,” said the hawk.
“The house of dreams, aye,” nodded the duke. “I wish we could see what is seen from there. Perhaps, though, that would not be wise. No matter. Tell me what you’ve seen for yourselves. That’s what you’ve come for, is it not?”
They told him, in bits and pieces that gradually joined together into the whole. The hawk did a great deal of the talking, but Jute was the one who spoke of Ancalon, of the dark tower that stood there, of the strange captivity of Giverny Farrow, and of the duke of Mizra and his sceadu.
“The duke and his sceadu,” said the old duke, frowning. “I wonder greatly who this fellow is, this duke, this creature of the Dark. Have you considered, old wing, whether or not he’s human? The more powerful servants of the Dark change their guises easily, putting on and off faces and bodies at will. It would be better for us if we knew our enemy.”
“That question has occupied my mind ever since Jute fled the dark tower,” said the hawk. “I don’t know the answer. There are several possibilites, and none of them reassuring. I’m reasonably certain I know one of his guises, but that isn’t the same as knowing who he is. Or what he is.”
“And the guise? That might prove helpful.”
“Scuadimnes. The wizard who destroyed the university of Hearne.”
“And the monarchy.”
“Yes,” said the hawk. “I suspect Scuadimnes, as terrible as he was, was only a mask that covered the true face be
neath. The duke of Mizra made several remarks that hinted at this.”
“When I was new to my rule,” said Lannaslech, “three years after my father died, a stranger came to this land. You’ve heard the story, no doubt. A man without a name. He came to Harlech and built a tower without a door. A dark tower with a single window that looked out across the land. His will reached out, searching for the knots, the single thread, that would unravel the secrets of Harlech. I could feel his thirst for knowledge, a grasping and a clutching after the old words of power, seeking for the names that bind. Darkness fell on the land, and a dread took hold of my people. Harlech is not a small duchy, stretching from the mountains to the coast, but wherever I stood I could see the accursed tower. And so I summoned the lords of Harlech and we rode to the moor where the tower rose up into the dark sky. His will assailed us but we stood firm, for Harlech was our land, and her strength was ours. We pulled the tower down into ruin, but of him there was no trace. I have often considered whether that man was Scuadimnes, for even though all wizards share a similar thirst for knowledge, never has history mentioned one so willing to destroy for that which he might find. And the man in the tower sought to destroy Harlech. Perhaps simply for the sake of one word?”
“What could be worse than a sceadu?” said Jute, stirring restlessly on his chair. “If they were the first creations of—of. . .”
“Nokhoron Nozhan,” said the hawk.
“If they were his first creations, what could be worse?”
“History has known men who were just as evil,” said the hawk. “Individuals who sold their souls to the Dark and received great power in return. But the sceadus were terrible beings. They came from a time when the world was still young. The lord of darkness himself rode across the plains of Ranuin. His army marched behind him, unnumbered and endless. The earth shook with their passage. At his side were the sceadus. They were beautiful to look at, for they were born of starfire and the ancient tongue of the skies. But they were the lords of death, of dark magic and horror, and there was no evil that they would not do for their master. Nothing was more powerful than the sceadus, nothing save the lord of darkness himself. But Nokhoron Nozhan sleeps now in his fortress of night, as he has for hundreds of years.”
“But the question isn’t answered,” said the duke. “Who is our enemy?” A shadow crossed his weathered face. “My ancestors came west because of a great darkness that came to power in the far east. East and across a vast ocean, so I was told, though the stories fray more and more each time they are told. A terrible darkness, and I think there were sceadus, somehow, in the tales.”
“We’re missing something obvious,” said the hawk.
They sat for some time in silence. The ghost stared thoughtfully at the last slice of ham on the platter. Snow drifted down outside the window. A woman came and took the dishes from their table. The whisper of her footsteps faded away.
“My son Rane’s wife,” said the duke. “She’ll rule here in my absence, for Rane and I shall ride south. She’d prefer to go to war with us, but she will have to stay and see to it that her seven sons do not fill this place with bear cubs and fox kits while we’re gone, or run off to pester the ice giants. They’re young still and do not yet fully understand wisdom, their grandfather’s affection, or why one should not bother giants.” He smiled a bit at this.
The moor was deep in snow when they left the manor of Lannaslech. They flew up into a dark gray sky, even though it was only midday. The ghost mumbled disconsolately to itself, somewhere in the folds of Jute’s cloak.
“A fire on the hearth,” said Jute, looking back at the house. “Food on the table and snow outside. I can’t imagine anything nicer.”
“You’ll have it someday, if you prefer, when this is all over. Didn’t Severan offer you his home? It’s not far from here, further out on the headlands and beside the sea.”
“When will all of this be over?”
“Things do end,” said the hawk. “At least, most things do. I daresay you’ll be an old man someday, with your feet on the hearth, a good supper in your belly, and smoking a pipe. These days will just be memories for you and the wind to talk over.”
“And you,” said Jute. “You’ll be perched on a chair back, telling us what we’ve forgotten.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
Hours later, the hills of the Mearh Dun rose beneath them, huddled and sleeping beneath the snow. Smoke trailed from the chimney of a shepherd’s hut tucked down in a valley. Light shone from the barn beside the hut. Jute could smell the warm scent of sheep on the wind. Sheep bedding down for the night. An old collie dreaming by the fire and the sharper, contented scent of pipe smoke. They flew on. The wind was soundless around them, for it could not exceed their speed.
“I remember something about Dolan,” said the ghost, his voice near Jute’s ear. “This is the duchy of Dolan, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the hawk. “From the hills of the Mearh Dun south to the Lome Forest. It’s a beautiful land. A land of golden summers that linger long into the fall. It is a quiet duchy and they raise excellent horses.”
“That’s what it was,” said the ghost. “It was the story of a horse. I think I wrote it down one day. I daresay I wrote quite a bit back then, when I was still alive. A giant of a horse who could run as fast as the wind. His name was Min the Morn. His mane was as dark as night and his eyes shone with starlight from the house of dreams. He had hooves as hard as iron. When he came to this land, there were no hills here, no valleys or dells. There was only a level plain. But Min the Morn galloped across the plain, and the hammer of his hooves broke the earth and that was how the hills and valleys of the Mearh Dun came to be. At least, that’s how I’ve heard the story. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Perfectly true,” said the hawk.
They came to the town of Andolan, spiraling down through the falling snowflakes. Towers and chimneys and roofs rose up to meet them. They landed with a crunch of snow underfoot, standing in a street that opened into a small square. A castle loomed in the darkness beyond the square. It was a castle—of that there was no doubt, with its two towers rising above the roofs around it—but it was small in comparison to the regent’s castle in Hearne. Small and shabby. Lights shone in its windows.
“Andolan,” said the hawk in a pleased voice. “It’s been many years since I’ve been here. They’re good folks. Our friend Declan would be known well here. At least, his family would, for the duke of Dolan held the Farrows in high esteem.”
“Why’s that?” said Jute.
“Horses.”
An archway opened through the castle wall into a courtyard deep in snow. However, there were several well-cleared paths connecting the castle with the archway, as well as a low-roofed building on one side of the courtyard.
“Stables, I imagine,” said Jute, sniffing the air.
A boy exited the stable at that point, well-bundled up against the cold. He scuffed along the snowy path toward the castle and cast a curious eye at them, more at the hawk than Jute.
“Dinner’s on, I s’pose,” he said.
They followed him into the castle. The place bloomed with light and warmth. Fires burned on hearths and candles glowed in every hodgepodge manner of stand and chandelier. A cheerful confusion of conversation filled the air. Banging and clattering of pots and pans came from somewhere down a hallway. Most important of all, there was a wonderful smell of roasting meat.
“This way,” said the boy, noticing the ghost for the first time. His eyes widened.
A brighter wash of light leapt up before them. An enormous fire crackled on an enormous hearth. Tables and their benches groaned under the weight of food and diner alike. To Jute’s appreciative eye, it was not unlike an inn filled with cheerful patrons, but larger than any he’d ever seen and decorated with gorgeous old tapestries on the walls, painted portraits hung cluttered between the tapestries, and weapons arranged like fantastic sprays of iron flowers on whatever bare spots of wall were lef
t.
“Welcome to the house of Hennen Callas.”
Jute turned to find an elderly man smiling at him.
“Thank you,” said Jute. “My name’s Jute.”
“I am Radean, steward of Lord and Lady Callas. You are welcome.” His eyes drifted to the hawk on Jute’s shoulder. “You and your hawk. Ah, your ghost as well. Come, let me find you a place. No one, traveler or stranger, is ever turned away from this table.”
Jute found himself wedged in between a fat man and an extremely old man as bent and as withered as late summer grass. A blur of faces lined the table opposite him, cheerful, loud, and bent in enjoyment over their plates and the platters passing up and down the table. A plate appeared in front of him, as if by magic, piled high with food. Someone leaned over and poured hot ale into his mug.
“Set to, laddie,” said the fat man. “You’re nothing but bone. If the wind comes up, you’ll blow away.”
Ah, well, said the hawk in Jute’s mind. A few minutes delay won’t be trouble. The Callases are famous for their hospitality. Is that duck on your plate?
“Here,” said the fat man, who seemed disturbed by Jute’s skinny frame. “Try some of the parsnip casserole. And this cheese. The roast mutton’s nice with mint sauce. The mint sauce is crucial. That’ll fatten you up.”
“Er, thanks.”
“Nice mutton, that!” bawled the old man. He downed his mug of ale and slammed it onto the table. “That were my sheep. Slaughtered three yearlings fer tonight. Ain’t no one raises sheep like us Hyrdes. Best sheepherders in Dolan, we are. Look now, sonny, you don’t need no mint sauce to gussy it. This here mutton can stand alone.”
“The mint sauce is vital,” said the fat man somewhat tensely.
“You have mint sauce for brains.”
“I’ll ignore your manners, Cordan Hyrde,” said the fat man, “as it’s doubtless an excess of manure fumes have addled your wits. See here, boy: the sharpness of the mint undergirds the pungency of the mutton. It’ll delight your mouth. Try it. You’ll be astounded.”
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