The Wicked Day (57 page)

“No, I will not,” said Jute, his eyes full of tears.

But the hawk did not answer, for his body was still.

It was said that day, by those who were there, that the wind cried out in the darkening twilight sky. It cried out with such a voice that the stars turned away and hid their faces. The sea and the earth answered back in sorrow, but there was none living who understood the language of their voices. Owain Gawinn and those standing with him saw the girl, Giverny Farrow, crumple to the ground. They ran to aid her, but she would not be comforted, though the wolf and her brother crouched beside her.

“Go find him,” she said. “Out in the fields past the bridge.”

They saddled horses and rode out through the ruined gate. The ground there was a trampled morass of icy mud. Several of the soldiers carried lanterns, and the light fell on the bodies of the dead, on the weapons of war, on shattered armor, on arrows standing stiff in flesh and earth like lifeless branches, on dead horses stretched out in one last frozen gallop. As they picked their way through that awful landscape, one of the soldiers cried out in surprise. A figure stumbled toward them out of the shadows. Owain thought it Jute at first, but the man was taller, a sword in his hand. He seemed a ghost, but as he drew near, the lantern light fell on the weary face of the prince of Harth. His horse walked behind with trembling step and hanging head. The prince spoke, his voice clear and courteous as it always was.

“My lords,” he said. “Who do you seek among the dead?”

“Jute,” said Owain.

The company clattered over the bridge with the river rushing below. That is where they found him. Jute lay on the icy ground, curled up around the wound in his side. His fingers were clenched tight on a single black feather. They bore him up and brought him to the city. Through the ruins of the city gate they rode in care and solicitude, for his face was white with pain. The soldiers of every duchy stood there in silent honor. When they set Jute down in the court of the Guard, the chief physician came and tended him. The dukes came and knelt at his pallet.

“You saved this land,” said Lord Lannaslech, his voice gentle. “You, the wind.”

Jute said nothing, but only clutched the feather in his hands. He did not see them. They drew back at the approach of Giverny Farrow. She crouched at his side and touched his brow.

“Jute,” she said. She said nothing more than that, but stayed by his side. The wolf sat there too, as unmoving as stone, but his eyes never left Jute’s face.

The moon rose higher. The wind did not blow, but through the dark streets came the sound of the sea. The soldiers, wounded and whole, slept in their tents and houses and makeshift shelters all along the ruined wall of the city. Owain Gawinn could not sleep, but paced the night away, walking back and forth on the top of the Guard tower. He looked east, but there was nothing there except for the night. In a room in the tower, Jute slept, still clutching the feather. Giverny did not sleep, but sat by his bed, her eyes on his face, the wolf crouched beside her. In a chair in the corner, Declan sprawled, having said that he would watch with her, but he had long since fallen asleep. And so, save the captain, the girl, and the wolf, all the city slept.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FAREWELLS

The next morning dawned bright. The bonfire in the court of the Guard had burned to coals. Owain walked down the steps of the tower. He found the duke of Harlech and his son Rane in the stable, talking with the prince of Harth. The prince was saddling his horse.

“What, my lord,” said Owain. “Are you away so early?”

“You would be welcome in Harlech, Eaomod,” said Lord Lannaslech. “Our home and hearth will always be yours for the kindness you showed Tormay. Your swords strengthened our fortunes when we thought all was lost.”

“These are glad words,” said the prince. “You hearten me, for though this battle is ours, all my kinsmen lie dead on the field and I alone am left. And although I would be son to all of Tormay, I am my father’s son first of all, and must return to his court. I disobeyed his word and now I must go and make amends.”

“No!” said Declan, stricken by his words and by his own memory of the stern king of Harth. “Surely there is time for you to tarry here in the north.”

“I’ve been away long enough,” said Eaomod quietly. “I did not leave Harth with my lord father’s blessing, so I must return to hear his will.”

They followed him as he walked his horse out into the yard. He swung up into the saddle.

“You will wait,” said Owain, “at least, until I have you provisioned for your journey.”

He turned aside and spoke with a Guardsman, sending him running to the kitchen in the tower. The soldier did not return, but Giverny came in his place, bearing a leather bag full of food. She handed it up to the prince.

“Lady,” he said, bowing from the saddle, “I am honored to have seen one such as you with my own eyes. May you be blessed. May you wander in safety all your days and guard us against the designs of the Dark. Do not forget Harth, even though we have only the sands and stone and the barren desert.”

“I will not forget,” she said gravely.

“Is the boy well?” the prince said, somewhat hesitantly.

Giverny said nothing, though a breeze sprang up around her, stirring her hair into disarray as if it was anxious to know her answer as well. The sun shone and the clouds were gone. Light flooded the sky so that it was nearer to white than blue. The prince of Harth turned his face to the sky and it seemed that his face was eager, as if he were hungry for the light and heat of the southern sun.

“We have all come from dust, have we not?” he said. “And so we shall return.”

And then he bid them treat his dead peacefully, that they would be laid in the ground side by side with the dead of the other duchies, and so honor the old blood that all of Tormay held in common. This they promised, and he then turned his horse and rode away. His steed picked his way through the rubble of the city wall and then across the battlefield. They stood and watched him go until horse and rider were a tiny black shape on the landscape that wavered and then disappeared entirely in the shimmering light of the afternoon sun.

Owain turned and saw Jute slowly descending the steps of the guard tower. Others saw him then also. A great cheer went up, unbidden and unprompted. Jute smiled, but his face was thin and white. He walked between them, limping as if his side still pained him. Many of the soldiers knelt when he drew near, and the braver ones took his hand as he passed by. Jute walked on and disappeared from sight down a street heading toward Fishgate.

“I’d follow him, if I were you,” said Giverny.

She was standing beside her brother. Declan looked at her, startled.

“He has lost a great friend,” said Giverny. “Let him know that he still has others. Besides, I think he’s going down to the sea.” She smiled.

And that was where Declan found him. Declan did not go alone, of course, but Severan and the ghost came along with him. The city streets were quiet, and the stench of smoke and fire no longer fouled the sky. Instead, the sweet scent of selia blossoms filled the air. The sun shone down and the sea sparkled before them.

“There he is,” said Severan.

Jute stood at the end of the pier, staring out to sea. He turned at the sound of their footsteps on the planking.

“I used to come here all the time when I was a boy,” he said. “I would sit here and dream about other lands. Dream about being a hero and fighting battles and saving a princess along the way.” He sighed. “All I can dream about now is going home. But I’m not sure where that’ll ever be. Or even what that really means. Hearne certainly isn’t my home anymore.”

“Hearne’s just a city,” said Declan.

“I’ve never been fond of cities myself,” mumbled the ghost. "Too many people."

“You’re always welcome to come home to Harlech with me,” said Severan.

“Thank you,” said Jute gravely.

He opened his hand. A black feather lay there.

“It’s a little thing, isn’t it. But it almost killed me. I almost wish it had.”

“Don’t say that,” said Severan.

Jute smiled, though there were sudden tears in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I am the wind, yes, but the heart of the wind is peace.
Anbeorun
means stillpoint, and that is what stands in the midst of even the worst storm. The silence and stillness of peace. The peace is stronger than the storm. I think I finally understand that now. I hope I never forget.”

The four friends stared out at the sea in silence. Even the ghost had nothing to say. After a while, Jute stirred and glanced at Declan.

“She’s released you,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” said Declan quietly.

The wind blew across the harbor, kicking the wave tops into foam. Seagulls flew up into the sky. Declan sat down on the end of the pier and stared out at the water. After a while, the others left and he was alone. He took out the pearl and rolled it around in his hand. It shone there, blue and serene.

“Thank you.”

Declan looked up, startled. Liss sat next to him, her legs dangling over the edge of the pier. She smiled at him. Her eyes were the same color as the pearl, blue and serene. The sunlight fell across her hair and the line of her face. The light seemed to blur through her. Declan could not speak.

“You are true, Declan Farrow. You are true in your heart and with your courage that you have freely spent for others. True to your word, this land, and your friends. I’m sorry, perhaps, for how I have used you, for now I think you would’ve made the same choices without my compulsion. You’ve done well, and I am gladdened, for even the sea has her own heart, as cold and as remote as it is.” She smiled somewhat ruefully. “Keep the pearl. That story is not over yet.”

“Will I see you again?” he said, finally managing words.

Liss did not answer, but she reached out and gently closed his fingers over the pearl. Her touch was as light as seafoam on his calloused hand. They looked out at the sea together in silence. The waves rolled in slow and sure confidence beneath the pier. The sunlight flashed on the water. The next time he glanced over, she was gone.

Jute left that afternoon. The Guard were drawn up in ranks on either side of the city gate. A great crowd of cityfolk filled the square, hushed and waiting. Flags snapped in the wind. Arodilac Bridd stood before the tower, looking uncomfortable in unaccustomed finery and with a thin silver circlet on his brow. The dukes and all the nobility of Hearne were gathered about him, but Owain Gawinn stood at his right hand.

“The city of Hearne is forever in your debt,” said Arodilac loudly, holding himself stiff and wondering whether he was saying the right thing. He nervously eyed Owain, but the man’s face was impassive. “From the days of Dol Cynehad, in the time of our forefathers, down to our own age, Tormay is beholden to the graciousness and care of the anbeorun. Though I serve the people as regent, I also serve you, my lord wind. Hearne and the regency are yours to command. I, uh, well, what I mean to say—”

“Just say thank you,” muttered Owain quietly. “We don’t need to hear all the other stuff. If you weren’t the regent, I’d put you on guard duty.”

“Thanks very much,” said Arodilac, stammering a bit. He grinned and shook Jute’s hand. “I’m afraid it’s going to take a while to figure out this regent thing. I hope I don’t make a hash of it like my uncle did. I’d much rather be on guard duty, but it can’t be helped.”

“Some things can’t be helped,” said Jute.

Some things can’t be helped, whether we like them or not. We make our choices and the house of dreams directs our path. All of you chose well. You chose to fight and die. This is your land, just as much as it ever will be mine. Tormay belongs to us all, as we belong to her. And the house of dreams watches us, men and anbeorun alike. But the Dark watches as well. It watches and dreams and waits.

But Jute said none of this out loud. He only smiled as best as he could and nodded and shook hands with the dukes as they gathered about to wish him well. Finally, Jute took the reins of a horse from a waiting groom. Someone gave him a leg up and he settled into the saddle. Severan urged his own horse alongside.

“They don’t expect me to fly,” Jute said quietly to the old man, “do they?”

“Even the wind can ride a horse once in a while,” said Severan.

“I was once bitten by a horse,” said the ghost from inside a saddlebag. “It was a dreadful experience. Wait. Are you telling me we’re riding horses?”

A row of trumpeters brought up their horns with a flourish. A sharp, clear blast echoed through the air. The crowd cheered. The horses set out with a jingle of bridles. A larger troop of horsemen waited for them outside the city gate. Declan sat on a tall bay at the front of the troop.

“You didn’t think I’d let you lot gallivant off by yourself, did you?” he said.

They rode north through the day. The horsemen were all from Harlech, and the duke’s son, Rane, rode with them as well. From time to time, the wind blew along their path, though it was mostly quiet, for that was how Jute felt. The wound in his side was almost healed, but it still pained him. He rode with the black feather clutched in one hand.

“Things are so much simpler now, Severan,” he said.