The Shadow at the Gate (13 page)

A laugh went up, but Dwaes ignored the jibe. He knew he had the attention of those around him. More faces turned and eyes gleamed avidly in the candlelight. It was a shabby, mean story that Levoreth knew well. Probably even better than Dwaes. She selected an apple from a basket offered to her by a servant and began peeling it. The skin fell in unbroken curls from the blade of her knife. She had heard the story for the first time the same summer it had occurred, for the horses would talk of nothing else for days, snorting in disapproval. They behaved grumpily with the grooms for weeks, for the Farrows were legendary among their kind and beloved in the dim way that horses love. And it was precisely because of such stories, such behavior, that Levoreth preferred the company of her four-footed folk to that of humans.

“I am only a distant relation of the house of Elloran,” said Dwaes modestly. “My mother being something of a cousin to the duke—”

“Your whole duchy are something of cousins to the duke,” said someone, but Dwaes flapped one hand in easy dismissal.

“—and as such, my family spent a great deal of time at the court in Lura. I knew Lady Devnes Elloran, the duke’s daughter, rather well, as we shared the same tutor when I stayed with them. She’s a true beauty, as all Vomaronish women are, of course, but unusually so, with hair the color of wheat and—”

“Get to the story!” said a fat little man from across the table. He was evidently well in his cups, judging by his flushed face and the scarlet stain of wine across his surcoat.

“Aye, the story,” said another.

“And more wine here!”

A quartet, hidden somewhere off in the shadows shrouding the reaches of the hall, launched into an air. The flute trilled over sonorous strings and cheerfully told the story of lost love. Levoreth heard a roar of laughter go up from the far end of the table where the regent sat. The ache in her head increased. The apple fell apart into four sections under her knife. She considered ramming the blade into Dwaes’s leg but discarded the idea, as it would only have meant more and louder noise from him.

“The story,” said Dwaes, a bit off stride, “does not carry its full weight unless one comprehends the true beauty and virtue of Lady Devnes Elloran—as all Vomaronish women are, of course, beautiful and virtuous—”

“More wine!”

“Aye!” bawled the fat little drunk. “Summat like Thulish cattle, I’d say!”

Dwaes reddened but chose to ignore this, as the rest of his audience was still intact.

“In early May, Lady Devnes went riding with her attendants and several brave men-at-arms along the eastern shore of Lake Maro, as some are wont to do, for there the late spring flowers grow in a profusion that cannot be found elsewhere. While she and her maids were picking flowers, a party of ogres came rushing from the woods and fell upon them! The men-at-arms were hacked to pieces and the maids ravished so that only one survived, and she to die before the week was out. Unhappily, Lady Devnes was carried off, the ogres leaving the one poor maid to totter back to Lura with word of their demand.”

“Wasn’t the lady ravished too?” called someone raucously.

“Of course not,” said Dwaes. “Ogres love gold more than anything else, and the duke’s daughter was worth her weight in gold to them. Untouched. They’re clever brutes and knew what they were doing. When her father, the duke of Elloran, heard the news, he sent word to all the duchies of Tormay, begging the aid of any lord brave enough to track the ogres and bring back his daughter unharmed, for he feared the ogres would not bother to release his child even if he delivered them their demanded price. Lords and princelings came from all across Tormay, eager to win fame, honor, and much more, for the duke had promised Devnes in marriage and the duchy of Vomaro at his death to whoever brought her back, for she was his only child.”

“Two of my nephews,” said old Duke Maernes of Hull grimly, “fools that they were, went haring off to Vomaro when they heard the news. I thought the girl already dead. Besides, only an idiot would seek an ogre in its own stronghold.”

“Your nephews,” said Dwaes, “did not fare so well.”

“Aye,” said the duke. “Fools, both of them. Dead fools.”

“Like many others. It was a grim, sad summer, with every manor and castle in Vomaro flying their mourning flags. And then, on midsummer’s day, the Farrow lad came riding on his black horse. Right up to the duke’s door, as calm as you’d please, and with coarse and common speech declared he’d come to try his hand at the quest. Oh, the duke knew of the Farrows, and he knew the great iron sword strapped on the whelp’s back. He knew who it belonged to. Desperate for his daughter, he would’ve sent forth anyone who desired. The duke provisioned the young scoundrel, and Declan Farrow rode out in the company of two others undertaking the same quest.

“The trail was cold, but Farrow lad picked up trace of it west of the Lome Forest and so followed it with his two companions. I must confess, though he proved to be a damnable scoundrel, he could track the most clever of the woodland animals. Step by step, he made his way through the shadows of Lome Forest until he came to the foothills of the Morn Mountains. There, the trail climbed up into the snowy peaks.”

Those at the table near him were silent, eyes fixed on him. They knew the best was yet to come. Levoreth finished her apple and thought morosely about the girl Giverny. The anger on her thin face. She would learn in time.

“The ogres’ hideaway was built into the face of a cliff. It could not be approached save by a wicker basket raised up and down on an iron chain. But Declan Farrow climbed the cliff in the night and then lowered the basket so that the other two might come up with him. The mouth of the lair yawned before them, stinking of ogre and darker than the night itself. They ventured in and found themselves looking down into an open hall. A long table was crowded about with ogres, tearing at their meal of mutton and who knows what else. Judging the brutes full of meat and ale and thus slow on their feet, Declan desired to fall on them immediately and try luck and their swords. But his two companions, being of more cautious mind, counseled biding their time until sleep had overtaken the ogres. In his pride, though, the youth scorned them and leapt down into the hall, sword drawn. Fired by his zeal, the two others followed and soon battle was joined. The crows heard the din for miles and came flying to sup on the blood and carnage thereafter.

“Keep to the facts, Dwaes,” someone hooted. “Some silkpants bard you’re not.”

“These are the facts,” said Dwaes coldly. “His two companions lived to tell the tale and they are beyond reproach, as I’m sure many of you know them or their families—Iord Werian, the second son of the house of Londweard, whose father is the warden of the Eastern Marches of Vo, and Flyg Galaestan, one of the grand-nephews of the duke of Thule.”

“A noble name does not guarantee noble blood,” said old Maernes. He inclined his head to Levoreth. “Though noble blood can bring about a noble name, as was evidenced in your own family’s ancestry, Lady Levoreth.”

“Tell the rest!”

“Aye—get to the good bits!”

The good bits. Levoreth frowned down at her plate. She could feel old Maernes’ gaze on her from across the table. She wasn’t sure, but she thought there had been a speculative gleam in his eyes. Older people. It was the older people that must be treated warily, and she was forgetting that. They were the ones who might have met her before and possibly held memories of a different Levoreth. Next to her, Dwaes droned on, his voice filled with lazy malice. And envy, she thought to herself. He’s envious of what Declan Farrow did, for he could never do such a thing. Not many could.

And then Levoreth almost forgot her headache and irritability in a memory that flooded into her mind. Maernes—a young Maernes—not yet the duke of Hull and visiting Andolan for a week of hunting in the hills. When she had been another Levoreth—which one had she been then?—oh yes, the former great-aunt of Hennen Callas. Maernes had chased her around the kitchen table in the castle, cornered her and kissed her for all of two seconds before she had crowned him with an iron pan. She grinned involuntarily and glanced up. Maernes was still looking at her, and she dropped her eyes.

“—of course,” Dwaes was saying, “Lady Devnes fainted with joy to be rescued from her cell. Not that the ogres had harmed in her any way. On the contrary, she maintained they’d been the best of hosts, outside of their deplorable cooking and the rather rough manner they’d had with the rest of her party.”

“More wine!”

“Get to the good part, you long-winded Vomaronish bit of twaddle!”

“Aye, you sainted donkey!”

Dwaes majestically forged ahead.

“On their journey back to Vomaro they reached an inn on the road leading through the pass from Mizra to the Rennet valley. It was a lonely place, far from any town. There, while his two exhausted companions lay in deep sleep, the scoundrel did his deed. Inflamed by the beauty of the girl and maddened, no doubt, by close proximity to one of such noble blood, he forced his way into her room that night and had his evil way.”

There were exclamations of horror around him and people leaned in closer.

“The next morning, the Lady Devnes kept her silence, for the black gaze of the false Declan Farrow was ever on her. She said not a word of what had happened, but bided her time as they journeyed on. The gates of Lura were flung open wide to greet them! The townsfolk cheered at the sight of her, for was she not their duke’s only daughter? Trumpets blared their brassy call from the duke’s castle. Her father hurried out to meet them, unable to contain his joy. And there, before that great assembly, with tears on her face, she brought her accusation against her rescuer. He said not a word in his defense, but stood as still as a statue. The soldiers took him and he gave no resistance, though he was dragged out into the courtyard, stretched from a post and flayed his back until the blood streamed on the white marble paving. Still, he spoke no word, as if struck dumb. They tossed the wretch into the dungeon to wait the judgment of Duke Elloran. For my lord is a careful, brooding type and he brings such same traits to his rulings—”

“Aye,” bawled the little fat man, “just as he broods over which dish to jab his fork into next!” To better demonstrate his point, the fat man plunged his own fork into a roast chicken and heaved it triumphantly back to his plate. He glanced up and caught Levoreth’s chilly gaze on him. This was a mistake on her part, for whenever she happened to again look his way, she found him winking lustfully at her.

“—but that next morning, when the guards unlocked the scoundrel’s cell to have him out for hanging. . .” Here, Dwaes paused and took a sip of wine.

“And then?” prompted someone further down the table. Faces leaned in, expectant.

“And then,” said Levoreth tonelessly, “they found an empty cell. He had escaped. The great iron sword had been stolen from the guardsroom. The duke put a reward on the lad’s head. The girl was found to be with child and her father married her off to some unknown third cousin who was witless enough to put up with raising another’s whelp. End of story.”

Dwaes choked on his wine. The faces around them glared at Levoreth. The duke of Hull smiled at her from across the table. The little fat man winked at her again, mouth chewing vigorously on chicken. She pushed her chair back and left. Her headache was getting worse. Vaguely, she was aware of people rising behind her, of someone following for several steps, away from the long table and the lights and voices and merriment. Old Maernes, the duke of Hull, she thought. Pity, he’s remembering. There’s no place to hide from people’s memories. Except in death. But even then they remember for a time.

She returned to her room and stood for a while, irresolute, in front of a mirror.

“What would you do if you were me?” she said. The girl in the mirror regarded her gravely and said nothing. Levoreth attempted a smile and her counterpart seemed to wince painfully. They both sighed in unison.

“I worry about her. The young Farrow girl. Giverny. It won’t be easy for her.”

Her headache was diminishing. Perhaps being away from the noise and clutter of the banquet was healing enough. She put on a cloak and went out onto the balcony. The rain clouds had passed and the night sky stretched overhead, speckled with stars and the watchful moon. It was chilly, so she twitched the cloak closed at her neck.

She then climbed out onto the roof.

Her room was high up under the eaves. A buttress slanted down along her balcony, complete with a sad-looking stone gargoyle perched at its tip. She patted the gargoyle on the head and then walked up the buttress until she was up on the roof. From there, a few minutes’ climb brought her to the highest peak of the castle. She sat down and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then frowned.

But then the first cat appeared, popping up over a peak further down the roof. It was a little gray thing with brilliant blue eyes. Just short of her foot, the cat stopped, plomped down on its haunches, and began to wash. She could not help smiling. The cat licked her hand once and then resumed its bath. Several other cats padded forward. They settled around her. Others appeared. A chorus of purring rose and fell.

 
The city sprawled around them. The heights of Highneck Rise sloped down into the shadowed streets. Lights twinkled warmly in windows. The scent of smoke and the day’s rain was in the air. West, not a mile away, the sea glimmered with moonlight.