The Wicked Day (33 page)

The chamberlain’s staff pointed once again.

Another petitioner fell forward on his face before the dais. A voice rose quavering, buoyed by hope. Supplication, veneration, and fear. The staff pointed again and again. Another petitioner, and then another, but still the crowd did not diminish. The mass of people around Declan were fixed, staring, and immobile. The temperature within the room crept higher and, far up on the wall, the sunlight slid across the marble with the shadows in pursuit. The day would soon be done. Another day gone. Another day closer to the spring thaw and the opening of the passes in the Morn Mountains.

Declan could not control his anger any longer. He shoved the elderly lady to one side, hard, because there was no space for her. Pushed past someone else, several someone elses, and was dimly aware of faces turning toward him in outrage. A hand plucked desperately at the back of his jacket—the steward, no doubt.

I’m the wrong sort for this, Declan thought dully to himself. I know swords and death and hunting, not words and courts and kings. His anger wearied him and he longed to be back out under the sky, away from walls and roofs and the crushing weight of this city. But then he was through the final ring of people that jealously encircled the front of the dais. Astonishment turned to outrage on the chamberlain’s face. The figures sitting on the dais rose, one and all, except for the king sitting on his throne, immovable.

“Guards!” called the chamberlain, but the guards were already leaping forward.

“I’m not a supplicant!” said Declan, his voice loud with fury. The guards’ hands closed on him, yanked him staggering back, but he spoke on. “I’m not a supplicant, nor one of your land! My name’s Declan Farrow. I come as an emissary of the Lord Captain of the Guard of Hearne, the Sword of the Regent of Hearne, and is this how I am treated? Made to kick my heels among your common folk and their whining of goats and cheating scales?”

The guards paused, for there was sudden doubt in the chamberlain’s eyes. Silence gripped the room. The king did not move on his throne, but his gaze fell on Declan. There was a remoteness in his eyes, something as distant as the long desert horizons, and though those vistas could burn with the day’s heat, they could be deadly cold in the dead of night, and so were the king’s eyes.

“Hearne is far from Damarkan these days,” said the king.

“Take him away,” said the chamberlain.

The guards renewed their hold on Declan.

“Wait!” said another voice. A man stood up from one of the lesser thrones on the dais. He was dressed in fine raiment, and on his head he bore a crown.

“Wait, my lord. I know this man as well as any can who have faced another across blades. We met in friendly battle and I deem him of utmost gentility and courtesy. Might we not hear his words on your sufferance and the good will you bear toward me?

The king bent his head. “On the good will I bear toward you, my son, and on this alone, for my patience wears thin this day.”

Eaomod, the prince of Harth, bowed to his father, and took again his seat.

“Speak your piece, man,” said the chamberlain.

“I have a letter here for you, your majesty, a letter from the Lord Captain of Hearne, Owain Gawinn.” Declan handed the roll of parchment to the chamberlain, who frowned, as if the touch of the thing would dirty his hands. “My Lord Gawinn requests the assistance of Harth, for when the winter snow melts in the passes of the Mountains of Morn, then through them will march an army under the command of the duke of Mizra to threaten all of Tormay.”

The king stirred on his throne.

“And what does Gawinn expect of Harth?” he said.

“The aid of your sword, your majesty, for if Hearne falls, then all the duchies will fall in succession. The duke of Mizra has gathered a mighty army and his purposes are orchestrated by the Dark.”

“The Dark!” The king’s voice was thick with contempt. “What do I care of the Dark, a tale for fools and idle women. And what do I care for Hearne? Did not the armies of Hearne bide their time during the Errant Wars when the blood of Harth ran freely in the desert, when death plucked the flower of this land? Where was Hearne then?”

Declan bowed his head. “Old times gone by, your Majesty. I would not think to understand the choices made by dead men, but I do know that death is coming to Tormay and we shall fall at its sword unless our hand is strengthened. The courage of Harth is known in the north, your Majesty, and we would be glad of it in these coming days, for winter will soon be at an end.”

“Harth has never had reason to doubt the friendship of Mizra. They have ever been courteous and mannered in their dealings with us. Harth has no reason to take up sword against them. No reason.”

There was finality in his words, a closing that fell on Declan’s shoulders like a heavy hand.

“Your Majesty,” said Declan, stepping forward and blind in his anger to the guards that also stepped forward. “Your Majesty, I have seen his troops, men that look like men but surely are something other, driven and drawn by magic. The Dark waits in that land and its eyes look to the west, to these duchies and the death it might bring them.”

“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 beneath. 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?”