The Wicked Day: The Tormay Trilogy, #3

Books by Christopher Bunn

The Tormay Trilogy

The Hawk and His Boy

The Shadow at the Gate

The Wicked Day

A Storm in Tormay: The Complete Tormay Trilogy

Tales from Tormay

The Silver Girl

The Seal Whistle

The Fury Clock: Book One of the Infinite Wheel of Endless Chronicles

The Model Universe and Other Stories

The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories

Lovers and Lunatics

Short Stories

Ice and Fire

The Ocean Won’t Burn

Sparrow Falls

The Christmas Caper

Rosamonde

Polly Inch

The Girl Next Door

For Finn and Jesse

THE WICKED DAY

Chapter 1 SIBB ENCOURAGES THIEVERY

Chapter 2 OSTFALL

Chapter 3 A SATISFACTORY THEFT

Chapter 4 THE HOUSE OF STONE AND HUNGER

Chapter 5 FARMERS AND TRADERS

Chapter 6 ESCAPE ACROSS THE ICE

Chapter 7 ANCALON

Chapter 8 AWAY WITH THE WIND

Chapter 9 RECRUITING FOR THE GUARD

Chapter 10 CONVINCING OWAIN GAWINN

Chapter 11 A NARROW ESCAPE FOR SOME AND NOT FOR OTHERS

Chapter 12 RAISE THE DUCHIES

Chapter 13 HULL AND THULE

Chapter 14 A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER

Chapter 15 THE SHAME OF THE PRINCE

Chapter 16 HARLECH AND DOLAN

Chapter 17 AN OLD SCENT

Chapter 18 THE GAP OF LOME

Chapter 19 THE RESCUE OF HARLECH

Chapter 20 A KISS

Chapter 21 THE NAME OF THE GHOST

Chapter 22 THROUGH THE TAPESTRY

Chapter 23 THE BATTLE FOR HEARNE

Chapter 24 THE FISH BUTCHER’S ADVICE

Chapter 25 THE STRUGGLE IN THE HEIGHTS

Chapter 26 THE RIDER’S FATE

Chapter 27 LENA CAPTURED

Chapter 28 RESCUING PEOPLE IS A TIME-HONORED TRADITION

Chapter 29 WHAT FEN SAID

Chapter 30 THE FALL OF JUTE

Chapter 31 FAREWELLS

Chapter 32 ENDINGS

Chapter 33 WHERE THE WIND WILL BLOW

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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CHAPTER ONE

SIBB ENCOURAGES THIEVERY

Come in, come in, said Botrell.

Owain Gawinn entered the room and eyed the regent warily. He could remember only one other time when he had seen him in such a cheerful mood. That had been when Harl Nye of Vo had died from choking on a fishbone. Nye had owned the third best stable of horses in all of Tormay. Nye’s widow had sold the horses to the regent two weeks after her lord’s death.

Gawinn, my dear fellow. How are you?

Tolerable, said Owain.

Good, good. Glad to hear it. And how’s your lovely wife and the children? Er, you do have children, don’t you, Gawinn? I don’t know what we’d do without children. Can’t stand the little rotters myself, but that’s the way life is. A man’s big enough to see beyond his personal likes and dislikes. That’s me.

The regent smiled and gazed into the mirror. He swiveled around and eyed himself over his shoulder.

How d’you like this cloak, Gawinn? he said. Nice, isn’t it, the way it hangs. Splendid silk, just arrived from Harth. Sent courtesy of the prince as thanks for our hospitality.

I don't have an opinion on silk, my lord, said Owain coldly.

Oh, come now. We all know that boys play at soldiers only for the uniforms.

My lord?

Haha! Just a joke. You should see your face, Gawinn, you old prune. Ho there! You, boy! The regent hollered at the page standing in the anteroom. Where’s my breakfast?

Coming, my lord! And the page scuttled away.

Care for some breakfast, Gawinn?

I’ve already eaten, my lord—

Then eat again.

—and I must return to the barracks. New recruits. It’s for that reason I must speak with you. My lord, we’re sorely in need of—

Owain was abruptly shouldered aside by a procession of pages and footmen, led by a fat man with an enormous moustache. A white silk cloth fluttered out onto the table, cutlery appeared as if by magic, a candelabra winked into flame, and three covered platters were whisked forward, each borne aloft by a different footman. The regent sat down and rubbed his hands together.

No, he said. Whatever it is, Gawinn, the answer’s no. There isn’t a problem too great that can’t be answered by a sensible, straightforward, resounding no! Living like that is refreshing. I recommend it. Are you sure you won’t have a bite to eat? Ahh. What have we here, chamberlain? Smells delicious.

A quiche of quail eggs, m’lord, baked with a medley of tender wild mushrooms and Vomarone ham and imbued throughout with the fragrance of freshly bruised thyme, said the chamberlain. He stroked his moustache as he spoke and beamed at everyone in the room.

You haven’t heard what I was going to say, said Owain.

Mmm. Quail eggs. So light and fluffy. You can almost feel the promise of their little feathers tickling the palate. Delightful.

Owain gritted his teeth. My lord, it’s high time we increased the ranks of the Guard. My coffers are empty, the armory’s filled with old weapons, and the horses in our stable are even older.

Horses, eh? Nothing like an old horse for wisdom.

Furthermore, my lord, for the last time, I can’t stress enough the urgent situation our city finds itself in.

You’re casting a blight on my breakfast, Gawinn. A pall! The regent eyed Owain sourly and then turned his attention back to the next dish as the chamberlain whisked off the cover. What’s this?

Wild boar sausage, my lord. Roasted to a delightfully juicy crisp. Flanked by fresh potatoes sliced as thin as parchment and smothered in goat cheese and mountain-grown fennel.

Hmmph. Mountain-grown fennel? A likely story. And the last dish?

The chamberlain almost swooned at this question, but he recovered enough to twitch the cover off the third dish.

Crepes, m’lord, he trilled. Crepes teased into draperies as delicate as lady’s lace, drenched with clover honey, stuffed with the ripest of strawberries, and fried in butter.

This news seemed to cheer the regent up. The chamberlain backed away, bowing repeatedly. Behind him, the other footmen and pages bowed as well.

As I was saying, my lord, continued Owain doggedly. Hearne’s in a dire situation. Strange murders are taking place in the duchies. Whole villages slaughtered. It falls to Hearne to lead the defense of Tormay when more than one duchy is threatened by a common enemy. It falls to us, my lord.

The regent laid down his fork and glared at Owain.

What is it that you want?

Gold, my lord.

Well, you aren’t getting any, said the regent. And that’s final. Now, get out! My crepes are getting cold!

Owain felt his face turning red. The footmen and the pages were all staring at the floor. The chamberlain smirked at Owain and twirled his moustache. The regent returned his attention to the crepes and attacked them with his knife and fork.

Outside the castle, a groom was waiting with his horse at the bottom of the steps. Owain grabbed the reins from him and swung up onto the horse.

Gawinn! Just the man I wanted to see.

It was Dreccan Gor. He hurried across the cobblestones toward Owain.

What do you want, Gor?

I’ll need young Arodilac released from his duties all next week.

Why?

The duke of Vomaro’s paying us a visit. The regent would like his nephew to be available for the, uh, social niceties. Conversation, ladies to dance with, formal dinners, all that sort of thing.

No.

What? The fat little steward goggled up at Owain.

You heard me. Arodilac joined the Guard. A soldier he is, and he’ll do his duty, just like any other man. No time for prancing about in silks. Good day, Gor.

No, wait! said Dreccan, dancing to one side as Owain swung his horse around. Next week shall be important for Hearne’s future. Arodilac has other duties than marching to and fro on the walls. He’s the regent’s nephew, for shadow’s sake.

The answer’s no. And Owain urged his horse away.

There was small comfort in the exchange, but enough to make Owain smile grimly for a moment. Botrell would hear of it soon. But that didn’t matter. A Gawinn had always been the Captain of the Guard, and a Gawinn always would.

Owain idly considered why the duke of Vomaro was visiting Hearne. He had met the man once—a long time ago at one of those dreary dinners the regent was so fond of giving. An immense, fat man with a decidedly bitter wit. The dinner had not been pleasant. He had heard strange things about the court at Vomaro. Strange things that had occurred after the duke’s daughter had been rescued from the ogres who had kidnapped her. Much of it was obviously nonsense. But one never knew for sure.

The sun shone brightly, but it was a cold day. Autumn had arrived in Hearne, and surely winter was following closely behind. Leaves swirled in the horse’s wake, gold and scarlet and brown.

It was true. He had new recruits. But only three, and one of them old and toothless. The Guard was woefully undermanned. He’d be damned if the numbers didn’t increase. And soon.

He could hear Bordeall’s voice long before he reached the barracks. His voice and the clash of sword on sword. Good. The recruits would be sweating. Owain murmured to his horse and soothed it into a walk. The houses here by the city wall were narrow and tall, built jammed up against each other and, more than likely, jammed just as tightly inside with families and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins all living together, cheek by jowl. Hearne was bursting at the seams. At least down here on the flat. Perhaps it was time to consider building outside the city? Extending the walls? No regent had ever done that.

Must ya start yer shouting an’ clashing so early in the morning?

Owain turned in the saddle, startled.

What’s that? he said. Oh. Good morning, Missus Gorlan.

An old woman stumped along beside the horse.

Tain’t a good morning, she said. Before the sunup, yer lads out there, shoutin’ an’ bangin’ them swords together. It woke the baby. He’s colicky an’ it ain’t easy gettin’ him to sleep. We ain’t so fond o’ the Captain an’ his precious Guard in our house.

Yes, well, he said.

Ye keep yer lads quiet when honest folks are tryin’ to sleep, ya hear me?

Noted, madam, said Owain through clenched teeth.

The old woman shouted something else, but he nudged the horse along a bit faster and tried not to listen. Regents and old busybodies. The depressing thing about it was that Missus Gorlan was not the worst of the lot. One fat old cow who lived at the end of the street was forever urging her neighbors to complain to the regent about the barracks. Too much noise at night. Soldiers galloping their horses too quickly down the street. Too much light from the gate torches in the evening. Too much smell from the stables. Too much tax spent on the precious Guard. As if she knew. Complaining was a privilege enjoyed by complacent windbags. They didn’t know what lurked outside the city walls.

Owain turned in through the gate. The two soldiers on either side saluted, but he just frowned. A groom hurried up to lead the horse away.

Find Bridd, he said at a nearby soldier.

Yes, sir!

Owain stalked over to the edge of the drill ground and stood watching. A high wall ran around the perimeter, but it was not high enough to prevent the neighborhood children from climbing it. Several of the little wretches were perched on top at the moment. Out on the drill ground, Bordeall barked orders and criticism in a voice loud enough to rattle windows. The three recruits battered away with blunted swords at practice posts. Sweat gleamed on their faces, but the oldest man—a short, wrinkled fellow with a head as bald as a scrubbed potato—swung his sword with vigor, while the other two puffed and staggered about.

Keep your wrist in it! hollered Bordeall. What are you? Men or mice?

The three recruits surged forward at the posts with renewed vigor. Chips of wood flew. The little old man seemed to be hollering something as he swung his sword, but Owain could not make out the words.

Mice, more like.

Owain turned. Keep your tongue in your mouth, Bridd. That’ll be extra night duty for you.

Sorry, sir, said Arodilac.

The lad fidgeted unhappily next to Owain for a while. The children perched on top of the wall jeered and hooted at the three recruits. One of the children threw a well-aimed apple core. It bounced off the head of a recruit, and the man turned, swearing.

Back to the post! bellowed Bordeall. You let something like that distract you, an’ you’ll be dead your first battle!

Ya heard ‘im! yelled the apple-thrower. Back to yer post or yer dead! The other children screeched with laughter.

Sir, said Arodilac, looking outraged, would you like me to—

No, said Owain.

An attempt to deal with the children, regardless of how irritating they were, would end poorly. The children could drop down on the other side of the wall in a trice. Taking their parents to task, if they could even be found, would result in more hard feelings in the neighborhood. No. It would be more prudent to ignore the little wretches. Besides, it would do the recruits no harm to be laughed at.

Bridd.

Yes, sir?

I’m assigning you to oversee the watch duty of our new recruits, effective this Saturday.

Thank you, sir!

They’ll be rotating shifts as I won’t have three raw men on the wall at the same time. That means you must remain on active duty. You’ll bunk here at the barracks and I won’t tolerate slipping out to taverns or up to the castle, do you hear me?

Yessir! Thank you, sir!

Owain did not know what to say after this happy acquiescence. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this. Arodilac beamed at him.

That will be all.

Yessir!

He watched Arodilac march away. There was too much jauntiness in his walk. Owain frowned. Perhaps he had done the wrong thing. The three new recruits trooped past him, saluting raggedly. Bordeall strode over to Owain.

They’ll do, said Bordeall. Given enough time. That old feller, Posle, he’s an interesting one. Hasn’t got but three teeth in his head, but he’s as wiry as a weasel. Handled a weapon before, that’s certain. Not much grace, but he’s got strong wrists and some knack.

Bordeall, said Owain, would you know why Bridd would be happy to pull extra duty next week?

I do, said Bordeall. A rare grin split his face. The lads’ve been talking about it. Apparently, there’s some lord coming to Hearne with his daughter in tow. Bridd ain’t so keen to be caught, if you know what I mean.

That made sense. The duke of Vomaro. Only it probably wasn’t his daughter. The duke had only one daughter and she was married. Or had been. Perhaps there was a granddaughter?

Ah, said Owain, trying not to smile. Well, I don’t blame him. Now, Bordeall, he said, clearing his throat, I’d like to discuss something with you.

Of course, my lord.

They walked along as they talked and, without plan, they found themselves climbing the stairs behind the barracks up to the city wall. It was cold in the shadow of the wall, but the sunshine was warm at the top. The sky was pale with a thin, bright light. The fields were sun-beaten by the summer, the last stands of corn hammered into gold. The river wound away to disappear between the narrow divide of the gap at the far end of the valley.

Corn’ll be done in a few weeks, rumbled Bordeall. Seems a quieter, easier place outside the walls than inside. Most days.

Don’t you believe it, said Owain grimly. There’re things out there worse than nightmares. And the Guard’s in no condition to defend this city if it came to that. Oh, I can’t imagine we’d ever find ourselves in an all-out war. But lately I’ve been thinking about a cadre for fast actions. Swift response and quick, brutal fighting. Sturdy horses. Training for archery at the gallop. Do you think we can put together such a force?

That’s how the men of Harlech fight. But we don’t have the horses. Bordeall shook his head. The stable’s at half-strength, an’ most of the horses are old. We’ve no one handy enough to instruct, and I’ve my doubts as to how many of our men’d be suited for such fighting. It'd take months to train 'em up. Course, if we had the gold for it, we could hire away, but we’ve barely enough to pay the men and keep them in gear and housed. It comes down to gold. Plain and simple.

Gold! Owain spat over the wall.

Both men were silent for a while.

No luck, I take it, said Bordeall, with the regent?

None.

Well, said Bordeall, after a long and gloomy silence, perhaps there’s another way to find our gold.

What do you mean by that?

The Thieves Guild. Doubtless, they’ve plenty of coin, and they don’t pay tax. Maybe it’s time they start paying.

Owain returned home late that evening. A cold wind had arisen with the moon and it chased him through the streets. He hunched in the saddle and pulled his cloak tighter around his neck. A door banged open down the street and three men stumbled out of the light. He could hear them laughing and calling back. The tavern sign over their head swung drunkenly in the wind.

A load o’ herring, laughed one of the men. Can ya believe it? Lifted a load o’ herring!

The tavern door slammed shut and the men staggered down the street, arms around each other’s shoulders for support.

Reckon the ol’—the ol’ sh-shilentman’ll pay for fish? Fish! Here, fishy, fishy!

The three men dissolved into laughter again. They had almost drawn level with Owain, and one of the men looked up, squinting in the evening gloom.

Whassis? Whosis, eh?

Looky here, said another of the men. Moonlight glinted on a silver tooth in his sudden grin. We got ourselves a fancy-lookin’ feller. Hey there, feller! Hi! We’re poor folkses an’ we’re takin’ up a collection, shee, for other poor folkses.

Yesh, hiccupped the third man. We sez poor folkses cuz thash ush. He attempted to bow and fell flat on his face.

Gettup, said the first man. Gettup, I sez! Yer an embarrash—an embarrashment to all us poor folkses! Gotta keep yer chin up afore these rich folkses.

Which is you, said the second man, swaying on his feet and addressing himself to Owain’s horse. So hand over your purse, or I’ll stick ya, shee?

He produced a knife and waved it about in the air. The first man, who had almost succeeded in hoisting his fallen comrade to his feet, dropped his charge and plucked a club from his belt.

Yesh, he said, sidling forward. Or I’ll stick ya too!

A club, you fool, is a blunt weapon, said Owain coldly, and thus incapable of sticking, as you so claim. He kicked the man in the face and nudged his horse with his knee at the same time. The horse stepped forward and trampled the man with the knife. It was a warhorse and did not appreciate weapons being waved about under its muzzle.

Idiots, said Owain to himself.

But what the drunkards had been discussing stuck in his head. The Silentman. Someone had stolen a cargo of fish and attempted to sell it to the Silentman. To the Thieves Guild. His thoughts drifted back to Bordeall’s suggestion. Owain had been thinking of little else all day long. He had laughed off the suggestion at first, but he had been unable to get the idea out of his mind.

The Thieves Guild would have plenty of gold. It was what they did. They stole it. And the regent had always decreed a lax hand as far as the Guild was concerned. Anything short of murder was his policy. Anything short of murder, my dear Owain, and you needn’t waste your time following it up. After all, it’s a safe assumption that the Guild’s spending their money in Hearne, and that’s good, isn’t it? What if a window or two gets broken? It gives more business to the glaziers, and more business is what we need.

Owain scowled.

He had never liked the regent’s reasoning. But the regent’s word was law.

The lantern at the gate shone bright and clear in the night. He swung down from the horse. A servant took the horse’s reins and led it away. A few lights gleamed in the windows, but most of the house was dark. The front door swung open and he saw the silhouette of his wife in front of the light. He kissed her and she shut the door behind them, smiling.

Sibb, he said, frowning, but she stopped him with a hand at his mouth.

Not until you get some food in you, she said. I know that look. Not a word more.

He ate at the kitchen table. The house was quiet around them. Sibb lit a candle and placed it in the middle of the table. She propped her chin in her hands and gazed at him as he ate.

Well, said Owain, pushing the empty plate aside, I didn’t marry you for your cooking, but I would’ve eloped sooner had I known about this stew.

You forget, said Sibb. I was a dreadful cook then. My mother despaired of me. Don’t you remember the bread?

I always thought we could’ve made our fortunes by selling them as bricks. Or we could’ve changed the tactics of siege warfare forever with the introduction of the catapultable loaf.

Stop it!

A servant peeked in the kitchen and then tiptoed away, smiling. It was always good to see the master and mistress laughing.

Now, said Sibb, What’s on your mind?

Her husband frowned.

Gold is what’s on my mind.

My jewels, said Sibb promptly. I could sell them. I never wear them, anyway, and none of the girls are likely to care about that sort of thing. They’re more interested in horses and swords.

Owain laughed. I need a lot more than what your baubles could bring. The Guard’s in sad shape. We’re short of men, equipment, horses, but the regent won’t open his coffers for us. He’s adamant about it.

And yet you have an idea. I can hear it in your voice.

I do, though it’s not my idea. Bordeall suggested it, and even though my first inclination is to ignore his advice, I’m starting to think there might be something in it.

And the idea? she said patiently.

Bordeall wants to rob the Thieves Guild.

Night had arrived in completeness now, and nothing could be seen through the kitchen window other than a few splashes of moonlight on the rock wall in the garden. The candle on the table between them illumined the worn wood of the tabletop, the curve of the plate, and their faces. They stared at each other, both of them intent and frowning, for Sibb could scowl just as fiercely as her husband when her mind worried upon a matter.

The regent’s always discouraged the Guard from prosecuting the Guild. He seems to think they bring business to Hearne. Business enough to excuse their excesses.

Business? said Sibb angrily. The Guild brings the business of mending broken windows, of buying stronger wards to keep them out, mastiffs for the garden, and higher prices in the shops. That’s not business.

At least, it’s not the sort of business we should be proud of.

No, it isn’t.

Sibb pushed her chair back from the table. She returned with an apple and a knife. The fruit fell apart in neat sections under her hand.

Here, eat.

At any other time, said Owain, I’d grumble and obey the regent’s wishes without another thought, but there’s something strange in the air these days. Something dark has come to Hearne, even to this house. Maybe it’s gone for now, which is well, but I fear it’ll return in some unforeseen form. The Guard’s woefully undermanned and I’d like to build them up into a force more akin to what my father had when he was in command. But I can’t do it without gold.

Then steal it.

Sibb glared at him so fiercely that he had to smile.

In truth, my dear, I’d rather face a warrior on the field than you in your kitchen. A rolling-pin is a deadly weapon.

I’m serious. His wife leaned forward into the glow of the candle. Her eyes filled with light. Steal it! I detest the regent. I loathe him. He’s a spineless shadow of a man. If he can’t rule, then the ruling must be done for him. Why, only last week, Marta, our old charwoman, told me her son was beaten at the docks by a couple of Guild enforcers. And for what? Because he refused to pay for protection.

I wish you’d told me that sooner, Sibb.

I only just remembered now. Our recent excitement made me forget.

How’s she doing?

Sibb’s face softened and she smiled.

Better. I think her nightmares are fewer. She’s been playing with the girls lately, but she still won’t talk much.

She’s our girl now, said Owain.

Yes.

They sat for a while more in silence. Owain closed his eyes and listened to the house. Outside, the wind moaned about the eaves and peeked in the windows, but all the locks were latched and the curtains drawn against the night.

I’ll try my hand at thievery, he said.

Sibb nodded, but did not say anything.

CHAPTER TWO

OSTFALL

Tracking isn’t so difficult, said Declan. Once you know what to look for. Now, you see? Giverny stepped here, perhaps a day ago, I’d say.

He knelt down on one knee and touched a broken and withered blade of grass. Jute peered over his shoulder.

It doesn’t look like much of anything at all, he said. That could’ve been a rabbit. Or one of those hedgepigs.

They’re called hedgehogs, and it wasn’t either.

If it’d been a rabbit, then we could’ve tracked it and had it for breakfast, said Jute.

He was not in a good mood that morning and, as far as he was concerned, he had reason. To begin with, he was still smarting over an incident that had occurred the evening before. Despite the hawk’s warning, he had ventured higher into the air than he ever had. Floating up, his feet had been higher than Declan’s head. But then he fell. It knocked the wind out of him and he could only lie there, wheezing in pain, while the other three laughed.

To make matters worse, the ghost had sat up half the night, perched by his head and telling tales about people who had died of chest ailments. Wheezed just like you did, said the ghost. It reminds me of old Booley’s death. An, airy, whistling sort of rasp. Not an unpleasant sound, mind you. Sometimes, there was an interesting gurgle in it, particularly right before he died.

And then, in the morning, there had been only some stale bread and an onion for breakfast. Jute could still taste the onion.

Declan sighed. If we hurry, we can hunt later in the day. Meat for dinner. But for now, we’re still too far behind on her trail.

What’s that?

Declan looked where Jute was pointing. Far off on the horizon, a thin dark line was visible.

Your eyesight’s improving, said Declan. I can barely see that.

Of course it is, said the hawk.

What? I don’t see anything, said the ghost.

It’s the forest.

As they hurried along, the dark line grew rapidly until Jute could see the trees. He had seen trees before, as there were some in Hearne, of course, behind the walls of the rich manors in Highneck Rise. And there had been trees on the coast when they had journeyed north, pines and little, twisted cypress. But the trees of this forest were different.

They’re enormous, said Jute, forgetting for a moment that he was determined to be grumpy until he had a decent meal. And the forest—does it go on forever? The sky, the sea, this plain, now the forest. Everything’s so big.

On his shoulder, the hawk chuckled.

There’re things in this world bigger than all of those.

The trail of the girl and the wolf drew them closer to the forest. The trees loomed higher, and beyond them, pale against the sky, were the snow-covered tops of the mountains.

Wait, said the hawk. His head turned this way and that.

What is it? said Declan.

I’m not sure what it is. Something strange. Something of the Dark, perhaps. Something that should not be.

Declan touched the hilt of his sword. He frowned. My nose tells me nothing, master hawk, but if I’d have known if we crossed such a path. If an enemy’s in sight, then I fear we’ve already been seen. This plain is no place to hide, so let’s continue on our trail. Doubtless, it’ll lead into the forest and either the trees will hide us or something waits in its shadows.

The Forest of Lome, said the ghost. Hmm. I recall something distinctly unsavory about the place.

What? said Jute nervously. What do you remember?

He was not sure whether he liked the look of the trees. The edge of the forest stretched away on either side further than he could see. Even though the sun was high in the sky, deep shadows lay beneath the treetops. It seemed to Jute as if they awaited the departure of the sun so that they could spill out from among the trees and join the night.

I don’t remember. At least, not precisely.

Ogres? Bloodthirsty bears? Murder?

Probably all those and much more. Undoubtedly.

Must you be giving Jute notions? said the hawk. Kindly restrain yourself.

Very well, grumbled the ghost. As no one appreciates my conversation, I think I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when someone says something intelligent. And with that, the ghost vanished. Jute felt a quick, cold breath against his neck and heard the ghost mumbling to itself inside his knapsack.

Declan shook his head. I’m afraid he’ll pipe up at the wrong moment when silence is our best defense. There must be some way of keeping our unfortunate friend quiet.

I heard that, said the ghost angrily.

They reached the edge of the forest. Jute touched the trunk of a tree and gazed up. The trees were taller than he had thought. He could hear the wind murmuring in the tree tops. The shadows were cool and still. Dry leaves crunched underfoot.

The Dark was here, said the hawk, his voice quiet. Not so long ago. I’m sure of it now.

I don’t have your nose for such things, master hawk, said Declan, but I trust your word. Walk in my footsteps, Jute, and keep your voice low. And ghost, for once, keep silent.

I heard that, said the ghost from inside Jute’s knapsack, but it whispered as if, for once, it understood what might be at stake.

Declan loosened his sword in its sheath and then plunged deeper into the forest. He walked with his head forward, turning from side to side, eyes flicking down to the ground and then back up, searching through the gloom and the trees for whatever was there and whatever had been there. Jute hurried after him. Even though he was smaller and lighter than the man, he made more noise as he walked: twigs snapping, leaves crunching, and bushes rustling as he sought to thread his way through. Declan turned and frowned at him.

I’m trying! said Jute. Really, I am.

Try harder.

The trail led them deeper into the forest. The silence and the shadows grew as they went. Jute could hear the ghost mumbling to itself inside his knapsack. In front of him, Declan halted.

What is it? said Jute. He sniffed the air. It smelled odd. Somehow wrong.

Something evil’s come this way, said Declan quietly. You’re right, master hawk. The Dark has been here. Not so long ago. A strange track. This print here looks like a deer, yet the next step is something different. And the stride’s too long.

The smell of it’s fading, said the hawk. A day ago, perhaps. How odd. It’s a mix of blood and darkness and something else. Stop quivering, Jute.

Sorry.

Jute clamped his mouth shut. He was afraid his teeth were about to start chattering. He had the feeling that something was watching him. Something in the darkness, a shadow standing behind a tree. Something perched in the branches overhead and staring down through the leaves.

Did someone say blood and darkness? said the ghost, popping its head out of Jute’s knapsack.

And look here, said Declan, kneeling on the ground. These are Giverny’s prints. I think this thing, whatever it is, was tracking my sister.

They made greater speed then. Declan ran, one hand steady on the hilt of his sword and the other keeping his cloak close about him. Jute was hard pressed to keep up. The hawk flung himself from the boy’s shoulder and flew through the darkness. Jute was sure the bird would crash into a branch at any moment, for the trees grew close together and their branches wove together with those of their neighbors into an impenetrable and continuous thicket. But the hawk flashed in and out of the branches and for periods of time vanished deeper into the forest, ranging far from them on either side, only to appear once again in a silent flurry of wings. They came to a clearing in the forest, wide enough so that the gloom was relieved by sunlight. Overhead, blue sky was visible. The hawk flapped his way up toward it and was gone. Declan stopped below an oak.

She was here. Up in this tree. He stepped back, looking up into the branches. Whatever’s tracking her was here too.

There’s a broken branch on the ground, said Jute.

And blood, said the ghost. It reappeared and crouched down on the ground. Ooh. Look at that—though, not much, I’m afraid.

Where? said Declan. Move! You’ll disturb the mark.

I’m a ghost. I don’t disturb anything. I can't.

Human blood, said Declan after a while. His face looked pale beneath his tan. The hawk landed on the ground and settled his wings.

There’s a storm advancing from the east, said the hawk. Dark clouds over the mountains. It’ll be on us before the evening and you’ll lose the trail, yes?

Perhaps, said Declan.

Let’s hurry, then.

And so they went on, following the trail through thickets and brambles and through the shadows beneath the treetops. It grew darker as they went. The hawk settled back onto Jute’s shoulder and swayed there as the boy hurried after Declan.

Can we stop to eat? said Jute. It’s past lunchtime. At least, that’s what my stomach says. There must be plenty of rabbits about here. You can have one yourself. My legs are getting tired. It’s not much fun being the wind. I’d rather just be a thief back in Hearne.

Must you always be interested in your stomach? I doubt there’s a rabbit within a mile of us. The hawk shut his beak with an angry click and then took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was measured and patient. The presence of the Dark tends to drive animals mad. They lose their minds. The scent of whatever it was that passed this way probably sent the animals in the vicinity fleeing.

The ghost stuck its head out of Jute’s knapsack. In my teaching days, I had the misfortune to teach some boys whose minds were perpetually lost. I remember one boy. He got hauled into the head professor’s study for various acts of skullduggery: transforming other boys’ pillows into piles of slugs while they slept, setting fire to the snow in the wintertime, convincing the tower mice that there were islands made out of cheese just over the horizon. The mice stole a fishing ketch one day and sailed away in great excitement. The cats were furious.

You’re the most infuriating ghost I’ve ever met! snapped the hawk.

Be quiet, said Declan. I don’t mind a snapped twig or a noise here and there, but we might as well give up now if you’re all going to continue bickering like this, do you understand?

The ghost vanished with a snort, and the hawk took to his wings without a word. After a while, the trees thinned before them and Jute saw that they had reached the edge of the forest. The plain stretched away into a gathering gloom. The air was cold and Jute could smell the coming rain.

Declan spat to one side and cursed.

Nearly back to where we started, he said. Not a half hour’s walk south of where we first entered the forest. I’d bet my life on it. Shadows take it. If we’d just come south instead of wasting time in the forest, we’d have cut hours off the chase. Still, there’s no use crying now.

And south they went, with the man intent on the trail. The path led them along the edge of the forest, and the trees seemed to lean forward as if they sought to watch what they did. It began to rain. This only spurred Declan on to greater speed. Jute hunched his shoulders in misery against the cold and wet and hurried after him.

Oh, how hungry I am, he said out loud. I wish I had a leg of roast chicken, or one of those dumplings stuffed with onions and cheese that the deaf lady in Mioja Square sold. How tasty they were. He licked his lips at this thought and did some more groaning.

Stop that, said the ghost from inside his knapsack. You sound like a sick cow. Get a hold of yourself.

I’m hungry.

There seems to be something in here. Bread, I think. Why don’t you eat that?

Jute, groping around in his knapsack, found an overlooked piece of bread. It was stale, but it tasted wonderful.

The hawk coasted by on motionless wings. Raindrops glistened on his feathers. The air rustled with the sound of the rain on the grass and the wind blowing across the treetops. After a while, the ground descended and they found themselves on the uppermost slopes of a valley. Far off at the bottom of the valley, a line of trees was visible.

The Rennet River, said Declan.

The valley floor looked as if it was heavily farmed. Stands of cornstalks stood in shabby graying yellow, stripped of their produce and ready for the fire. Stubbled fields of cut hay alternated with plots of recently plowed earth turning to mud under the rain. Here and there, hedgerows and stonewalls straggled between the fields. Declan halted at the edge of a grassy field. The grass was trampled flat before them and in the middle was a large scorched area.

What happened here? said Declan. A fire blazed here so hot that it devoured the grass and blackened the wet earth. And, unless I’ve forgotten everything my father taught me of tracking, this is where our strange creature’s trail ended. It seems as if it was burned in the fire.

You’re right, said the hawk, landing on Jute’s shoulder.

But what happened to my sister? A company of people camped here, with tents and horses and even some wagons. A wealthy party, for these were large tents with heavy carpets put down on top of the grass.

There’s a road beyond that rise, said the hawk. The old road that runs west to Hearne through the Rennet Valley. The king’s road, as it was once called. Many travelers use this road—anyone journeying between Hearne and the duchy of Mizra, or any of the villages in between.

Perhaps she fell in with some kind folk, said Declan. The rain dripped off the end of his nose. Who would want to harm a poor girl?

If you ask me, said the ghost, peeking out of Jute’s knapsack, but the hawk glared at it and the ghost shut its mouth.

Jute stood in the rain with the hawk perched on his shoulder. The ghost peered over his other shoulder. All three of them watched Declan crisscross the field. He walked back and forth, his head bent toward the ground. Sometimes he halted and crouched down, his nose twitching like a dog’s. He circled the field in wider and wider sweeps until he made his way back to the other three.

She went with them, said Declan. I’d bet my life on it. On a horse or in one of their wagons. East on the road.

East, said the hawk. He shifted uneasily from claw to claw on Jute’s shoulder. The land east of here isn’t such a safe place, until one gets to the duchy of Mizra.

I know, said Declan. I’ve heard the stories.

I haven’t, said the ghost, perking up. Or perhaps I have, but I’d like to hear them again.

But we have no choice, said the hawk, his voice reluctant and resigned. We must find her.

They followed the road because, as Declan reasoned, the travelers that had so kindly taken his sister under their wing would probably leave her in the care of the first habitation they came to. And, as far as he remembered, there was a village several miles down the road.

Ostfall, I think it’s called, he said. I’ve never been there myself, but I think it’s the last village before the foothills. Perhaps they left Giverny there.

Perhaps, said the hawk.

Twilight had fallen and it was raining hard by the time they saw the lights of the village. Jute smelled wood smoke in the air. The sides of the valley had been growing higher as they walked, higher and closer together, as the valley narrowed and deepened at the same time. The road angled up a rise and, at the top, they found themselves looking down at the gleaming lights of what was undoubtedly a village.

She might be there this moment, said Declan.

We could get a hot supper! said Jute.

The hawk did not say anything, but only hunched his head deeper into the feathers of his chest, eyes closed against the rain. The road led them down through the darkening twilight. It was rutted with the passage of carts and horses and livestock from over the years. But the ruts now ran with water, and the hard-packed dirt of the road was slick with mud. Through the