Masen’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth.
‘How long was I busy?’
‘It’s gone midnight now, so about six hours.’ Sorchal sipped at his own tea. ‘I watched what you were doing. I’ve never seen anything like that before. There were so many threads!’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you a lesson with it. A job that size, I needed all my concentration.’
‘I think I got the gist of it.’ He pulled a face. ‘Although I think I should have paid closer attention when my sisters were stitching those tapestries they like so much.’
Masen shook his head, sopping a piece of trail bread in his beans. ‘You’ll do fine. Carry on the way you’re going and you’ll be a better Gatekeeper than me! Did you manage to hail Barin?’
Sorchal nodded. ‘He didn’t believe me at first when I said the Veil had been cut, but I told him you’d seen it, too, and he said they’d be careful. They’re still with the rangers, so he’s passing the word.’ He stopped talking, but to Masen, watching whilst he ate, he appeared to have more to say, turning his empty mug round and round in his hands as if he didn’t know where to begin.
Masen finished his supper and put down his bowl. ‘Something on your mind, Sorchal?’
The lad shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just a feeling.’
‘After what you’ve done this last couple of days, I have a healthy respect for your feelings.’
‘It was while you were busy. After that sealed Gate this morning, I thought I should try to see what else I could sense, and . . .’ He peered into his mug and frowned. ‘And I think I found another cut in the Veil.’
Masen felt chilled. ‘Where?’
‘To the west. A good distance away.’
A conversation with some clansmen on a bitter night last year, at Brindling Fall. They’d told him about butchered kine in the Southmarch, and in the west . . .
Oh no. Not two of them.
‘You’re sure?’ he asked, not wanting to be right.
‘It feels the same, just very, very faint.’ Sorchal looked up. ‘I mean, it might be nothing, right? I’m still new at this.’
New you may be, but you’ve got the best instincts for Gatekeeping I’ve ever seen. Masen drained his tea, needing the jolt of the brandy in it. ‘I say we swing westerly tomorrow, on our way up to the mountains, see what we see. You might make more sense of things if we get a bit closer.’
Later, when Sorchal was rolled in his blankets by the fire, Masen took a short walk up to the crest of the rise. He was still desperately weary, but even with brandy in his belly he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a good while yet. At the top he sat down with his back to the wind and fished the horseshoe nail out of his pocket. Holding it up in the lee of his body, he watched the flashing sliver spin and settle, then oh so slowly drift around to point more or less due west.
Two rents in the Veil. Two Hounds. That explained the two attacks the clansmen had described, such a distance apart. He hadn’t realised it was significant at the time – the legends said the Hounds were tireless, so it hadn’t been much of a leap to assume they were also swift. Blessed Eador, no one but that seeker, Kael, had even seen a Hound in about a thousand years, so why would it occur to anyone to question the assumption that there was only one of them?
He stowed the nail away and stared out into the night, watching the moon edging down from its zenith. Two Hounds loosed. A trinity moon rising. If those weren’t signs and wonders like in the campfire stories his grandfather used to tell, he didn’t know what were.
‘I have a bad, bad feeling about this,’ he murmured, and wondered if there was enough brandy left in his flask to drown it.
9
THE STUFF OF SAINTS AND HEROES
Moving by wagon was slow and uncomfortable for the sisters, even travelling at night to avoid the worst of the heat. Nonetheless they bore it stoically, taking turns to drive the mules, and at the end of each
‘How long was I busy?’
‘It’s gone midnight now, so about six hours.’ Sorchal sipped at his own tea. ‘I watched what you were doing. I’ve never seen anything like that before. There were so many threads!’
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you a lesson with it. A job that size, I needed all my concentration.’
‘I think I got the gist of it.’ He pulled a face. ‘Although I think I should have paid closer attention when my sisters were stitching those tapestries they like so much.’
Masen shook his head, sopping a piece of trail bread in his beans. ‘You’ll do fine. Carry on the way you’re going and you’ll be a better Gatekeeper than me! Did you manage to hail Barin?’
Sorchal nodded. ‘He didn’t believe me at first when I said the Veil had been cut, but I told him you’d seen it, too, and he said they’d be careful. They’re still with the rangers, so he’s passing the word.’ He stopped talking, but to Masen, watching whilst he ate, he appeared to have more to say, turning his empty mug round and round in his hands as if he didn’t know where to begin.
Masen finished his supper and put down his bowl. ‘Something on your mind, Sorchal?’
The lad shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing. Just a feeling.’
‘After what you’ve done this last couple of days, I have a healthy respect for your feelings.’
‘It was while you were busy. After that sealed Gate this morning, I thought I should try to see what else I could sense, and . . .’ He peered into his mug and frowned. ‘And I think I found another cut in the Veil.’
Masen felt chilled. ‘Where?’
‘To the west. A good distance away.’
A conversation with some clansmen on a bitter night last year, at Brindling Fall. They’d told him about butchered kine in the Southmarch, and in the west . . .
Oh no. Not two of them.
‘You’re sure?’ he asked, not wanting to be right.
‘It feels the same, just very, very faint.’ Sorchal looked up. ‘I mean, it might be nothing, right? I’m still new at this.’
New you may be, but you’ve got the best instincts for Gatekeeping I’ve ever seen. Masen drained his tea, needing the jolt of the brandy in it. ‘I say we swing westerly tomorrow, on our way up to the mountains, see what we see. You might make more sense of things if we get a bit closer.’
Later, when Sorchal was rolled in his blankets by the fire, Masen took a short walk up to the crest of the rise. He was still desperately weary, but even with brandy in his belly he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a good while yet. At the top he sat down with his back to the wind and fished the horseshoe nail out of his pocket. Holding it up in the lee of his body, he watched the flashing sliver spin and settle, then oh so slowly drift around to point more or less due west.
Two rents in the Veil. Two Hounds. That explained the two attacks the clansmen had described, such a distance apart. He hadn’t realised it was significant at the time – the legends said the Hounds were tireless, so it hadn’t been much of a leap to assume they were also swift. Blessed Eador, no one but that seeker, Kael, had even seen a Hound in about a thousand years, so why would it occur to anyone to question the assumption that there was only one of them?
He stowed the nail away and stared out into the night, watching the moon edging down from its zenith. Two Hounds loosed. A trinity moon rising. If those weren’t signs and wonders like in the campfire stories his grandfather used to tell, he didn’t know what were.
‘I have a bad, bad feeling about this,’ he murmured, and wondered if there was enough brandy left in his flask to drown it.
9
THE STUFF OF SAINTS AND HEROES
Moving by wagon was slow and uncomfortable for the sisters, even travelling at night to avoid the worst of the heat. Nonetheless they bore it stoically, taking turns to drive the mules, and at the end of each
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