Authors: Christopher Bunn
Tags: #Magic, #epic fantasy, #wizard, #thief, #Fantasy, #Adventure, #hawk
The Wicked Day (59 page)
She spoke out loud, as was her wont, for she had not yet fallen into the easy use of spoken thought.
“I had a mother, once, though her face has faded in my mind. She hailed from this land. Did you know this, Ehtan? Sunlight, stone, and sea. And the wind over all. Harlech bears upon its cold coast the scars of each of the four stillpoints. The warmth of fire even in this thin sunlight. Stone and earth with my own marks upon them. Sister sea, restless in her sleep below. And do you hear? Listen. The whisper of my brother wind lingers in the sky here.”
You need not ever lose remembrance of your mother, for you resemble her greatly—in visage and character, for she died defending her clan.
“And what if I forget I had a mother? What then?”
The wolf did not answer.
“Perhaps a mother is a small thing to forget when each stone and tree, all the nyten that draw breath, near all Tormay, leave their remembrance within my mind and clamor for my attention.”
The wolf nipped her hand gently.
I will be your memory.
Sunlight gleamed and flashed on the sea far below them. A small gray warbler settled in a flurry of wings on the grass and whistled saucily at her. She whistled back, a long liquid trill of notes that soared in the air. The little bird hopped up and down in amazement.
Mistress of Mistresses!
But that was all the bird could manage. Overcome by its audacity, the warbler fluttered away into the air, wobbling at first and then gaining height until it was only a small speck skimming along the headland. Giverny laughed aloud. She whistled again and then sang.
“Blues and greens and shadows beneath—
the colors of the sea.
Breathe wind—blow the storm clouds hence
and bring my love home to me.
“Do you know this song and whence it came, memory mine? I feel it woven through the land here, like the earth breathed in and made it part of its own self. Yet I also know the song from some other, from she who was before me, Levoreth, for I remember her walking beside me and singing these words. It was on the Plain of Scarpe.”
Must I remember for you your songs and fripperies?
The girl laughed again. However, the wolf raised its great head, scenting the wind.
“What is it?” she said, sobering. “Does something draw near?”
Nay. It is that which is no longer here. Do you forget why we came to Harlech?
She scrambled to her feet, remembering. Further along the headland, toward its stony height that reached out over the sea, they came to the small cottage built up against the back of a massive rock. A name sprang to the girl’s mind, and she called out loud.
“Jute!”
There was no answer. The door was shut, but it opened easily enough for Giverny. Sunlight slanted in through the window on an empty room. Firewood sat neatly stacked by the hearth, though the wood was covered in cobwebs. Everywhere there was dust, and it stirred at her feet. There was nothing else in the room, only lichen growing on the walls and over the stone sills. The wolf whined at the door but would not enter.
“Ehtan.” Her voice shook. “How long has it been?”
More than two hundred years have passed their way since we have stood at this door, Mistress of Mistresses. He who once lived here lives here no more. He has gone away. Who knows where and how, for he was the wind, and who can predict the wind?
Giverny wept a little, leaning on one of the sills and staring out across the headland until her tears blurred the earth and sky and sea into an endless blue, trembling and luminous with golden light. She stumbled outside and knelt on the verge of grass growing bravely on the cliff’s edge. The sky was fraying into that which lay beyond it. Light filled her eyes. The cold nose of the wolf pressed against her hand.
A breeze sprang up, blowing in off the sea and full of the salt air. The grass trembled at its touch. A shadow fell on the ground there as something swooped down out of the sky. Giverny wiped her eyes and found herself staring at Jute.
“Hello,” he said, grinning.
“Hello.”
“Why are you crying?”
“No reason at all,” said Giverny, smiling now.
A bird teetered down through the air on outstretched wings and settled onto Jute’s shoulder. It was a young storm kestrel. He had feathers as dark as night, and bright blue eyes that surveyed Giverny and the wolf with interest.
“Come,” said Jute, drifting up into the air. “There’s a storm in the Morns, there’s a fishing boat to rescue off Lastane, and it’s snowing in Damarkan—the first time in four hundred years! There’s so much to see.”
“And there’re twin foals about to be born in Andolan,” said Giverny, “and bears robbing an apple orchard in Lura, and a little boy in Hearne who can’t remember his way home.”
“That was me, once, wasn’t it?” said Jute.
They left the old cottage then. Giverny and the wolf walked at first, down along the cliffs, but then running as quick as thought, as quick as fading dreams. Jute and the kestrel swooped and dove through the air above them. The waves tumbled on the rocks below. The sky was full of light, full of the scent of the sea and the heather growing on the heights. The wind followed in their path for a while, laughing and chuckling to itself, as if eager to journey to wherever they went. After some time, though, it blew away to other places, for it was the wind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Jen Ballinger for copy-editing this book. Also, thanks to Josh Addessi for designing the cover, and Bryan Ballinger for drawing the map. I greatly appreciate the time and honesty of my test readers: Jaemen Kennedy, Frank Troya, Wayne and Jessica Collingwood, Scott Mathias, Dave Palshaw, Rob and Sandra Kammerzell, Daniel White, and the various long-suffering members of the Bunn family (David, Michael, Jodi, Benjamin, Micha, Megan and, of course, Jessica).
To those who have taken the time to read this trilogy, I hope it provided a few hours of enjoyment and dreaming for you. Thank you for visiting Tormay. I plan on traveling there again, one day, for I suspect there are a great many stories to be told of that land.
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