The Shadow at the Gate Read Free Page A

options. There was only one. But it was impossible. The boy’s face, bewildered and frightened and knowing all at once, flashed through his mind. Vanishing down into the darkness of the chimney.
    “That means,” said the Silentman, “one of two possibilities. Either the boy opened the box, or you opened it.”
    “And,” said Dreccan, “if the boy opened the box, he might still be alive.”
    “But the lianol—”
    “The lianol would not have killed him if he had opened the box. Whatever was in the box might have—I’m not sure—protected him. Preserved him, perhaps.”
    The Silentman pointed a long black arm at Ronan. “One of you opened the box.”
    As quickly as the Silentman’s fury had flared, it was gone, damped down and invisible beneath the shadows wreathing his body. But Ronan could hear it vibrating below the surface of the Silentman’s words. Anger welled up within his own mind in answer. His mouth went dry with it and his hands trembled. The anger was tinged with fear. He hated the Silentman, then, as he never had, for having such an effect on him—the Knife, the dreaded enforcer of the Guild.
    “There’s magic involved,” said the Silentman, speaking more to himself now than to the three assembled before him. He shifted restlessly on his chair. Shadow drifted around him. “We still don’t know what the box contained. Our client is proving unusually close-mouthed on the subject. There’s the possibility something unusual happened to the boy, as Dreccan said. If he opened the box. I won’t discount that. You’re convinced he’s dead, Ronan. But your certainty puts you in a bad spot. For if he’s dead, that leaves me with few options. You’re hereby stripped of the position of the Knife of the Guild. You’ll confine yourself within the city walls. Leave Hearne and your life is forfeit.”
    “I’ll find him,” said Ronan, his voice hoarse. “His body, anything—”
    “Get out of my sight,” said the Silentman. His voice was a monotone, as if his mind were already busy somewhere else.
    White-faced, Ronan bowed. He turned and walked away. Smede scurried after him. The torches guttered in the hall as the door shut. The Silentman and his steward were alone.
    “What are your thoughts, Dreccan?” said the Silentman. His voice was changing. The forced whisper relaxed to the even tones of a man well-bred. The shadows around his form retreated.
    “I can’t sleep at night but I hear that thing’s voice whispering,” said Dreccan. “I jump at every shadow and twitch at the slightest noise, thinking that he—that it—will be standing there when I turn. I fear the Guild chose poorly. Magic’s a chancy matter at best, but this thing we’re dealing with is probably something from the distant past, something that was old even before the Midsummer War. I don’t doubt your pet wizard’s capabilities, but this thing is beyond him.”
    “Maybe so,” said the Silentman. “But even he could scry the interior of the box and tell that it once contained great power.”
    “I think we can assume our client didn’t lie. Whoever opened that box also opened a door that would’ve been best left shut. We don’t know what came crawling through. Our doom, perhaps.”
    “The doom of Hearne,” said the Silentman. “It was too much gold to turn down, and you know how empty our coffers are.” He laughed sharply, a harsh bark devoid of mirth. “Perhaps my greed has gotten the better of us all.”
    “I find it hard to believe Ronan had any hand in this. He’s been nothing but loyal for thirteen years, and he knows the penalty—as he should, seeing that he’s been the one meting it out.”
    “But there are few options before us,” said the Silentman. His fist slammed down on the arm of his chair. “Two people handled that cursed box between the theft and its delivery to us: a boy who could be alive or dead, and a decidedly alive Ronan. What am I supposed to think?”
    “We don’t have the