The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  Kalan knew from Sister Korriya’s lessons that there had been other temple dwellers who felt they could not bear it. Some had taken their own lives while others sought to flee the Wall. It was not easy, however, to hide the old powers from other Derai. Most were returned to the temples, sometimes with the “R” for renegade branded into their forehead or cheek to prevent further escape attempts.

  As if we were criminals, Kalan reflected angrily. Or slaves.

  The Earls of Blood were renowned for their implacable pursuit of such renegades, and Kalan wondered whether the Earl of Night would be similarly relentless. Even in the Temple quarter, the current Earl was known for his justice, but there were some nasty stories told about his father, the Old Earl. And the schism between priest and warrior ran very deep in Night, which Kalan found strange, because in all the long history of the Derai, only the House of Stars had produced more heroes with the old powers.

  Sister Korriya had shaken her head when he shared this thought. “Strange,” she replied, echoing his word. “Perhaps. But then again, perhaps not. The line between love and hate can run very fine, as we have seen time and again in our history.”

  Kalan had not been quite sure what she meant, and he still wondered why the temples were so feared when most clerics only had minor powers. Once, Derai temples had housed sibyls, with their talent for prophecy, and mindspeakers who could communicate across vast distances, as well as those like Errianthar, whose powers allowed them to move objects and to bring fire with the touch of their minds. Such powers were difficult to hide, particularly when the one bearing them was startled or threatened, although temple tradition held that with training, natural instinct could be overruled. Even so, there were stories … Kalan had heard that there were weather workers in the Sea Keep who paced its walls in savage weather, their physical forms fraying into the elements. Behavior like that drew attention, but it might be possible for those with lesser powers to survive undetected, even amongst other Derai.

  Kalan sighed again and shifted, trying to find a comfortable position in his hiding place. It was probably time to start back anyway. There was no way that he or any other priest would see anything of the Feast of Returning, and a longer sojourn with the mops and brooms would not change that. Easing himself to his feet, he peered into the hallway.

  The sound was fainter than a whisper, but Kalan tensed instantly. Then he heard it again, the suggestion of a nearly silent footfall or the slither of a cloak against wall. Its stealth made him freeze, his heart beating a sudden, sharp tattoo. Kalan eased backward, retreating into the broom cupboard.

  The whisper sounded again, resolving into a definite footfall—and then more than one. It came from the maze of unused corridors and storerooms, rather than the stairway to the upper levels, and this made Kalan doubly cautious. He crouched low, trying to blend with the deeper shadows and the angles cast by the stacked mops and brooms. He had discovered, over years of playing truant, that if he kept very quiet and still, emptying his mind of everything except the image and texture of his surroundings, people tended to overlook his presence. Kalan had never discussed this aptitude with anyone, not even Brother Belan, but he found it very useful, especially when he wanted to avoid unwelcome attention.

  The footsteps drew closer and Kalan saw the first shadowy figures file past the cupboard entrance. They were clad in black, but he could make out sword hilts at their sides and the keen, flame-shaped heads of spears in their hands. They carried no lights, but could apparently see clearly in the unlit hall.

  And that, Kalan knew, ruled out any possibility that they were a patrol of keep guards who had gotten into the Temple quarter by mistake.

  Besides, there were too many of them, far more than in any guard patrol—upward of a hundred at least, he estimated, swallowing hard. Their silence exuded menace and their helms were crowned with horn and talons like were-beasts, quite unlike anything used by the Derai. Kalan could almost remember seeing something similar in one of Brother Selmor’s books, but the exact detail eluded him. He pressed further back, holding his breath as the lead warrior halted.

  The warrior’s grotesque helm peered this way and that, like a hound questing for scent, and Kalan thought desperately of stone, cold and still and rough-hewn all around him. He became stone, forgotten in the darkness. The voice that spoke was cold, too; sibilant and metallic, rasping against the silence. “I thought I sensed something, another presence.” The words sank slowly into Kalan’s consciousness, filtering through the weight of stone. They were strangely accented, but he found he could understand them. “Just for a moment… But now there is nothing.”

  “This is a temple,” another voice replied, dispassionate as iron. “Even at this level it will echo power. If you cannot sense anything more, an echo is all it will have been.”

  The first speaker did not move. “Still nothing,” he said, after a long moment.

  “We must go on,” the iron voice said. “The others will be in place soon. We must not fail in our part.” He paused. “What of our … ally? Do you have it safe?”

  “For now,” the other replied, a thread of tension in the sibilant voice. “But I do not know how long I can contain it.”

  The darkness thickened as he spoke, and Kalan felt a rapacious, insatiable will striving to push through. It hungered, that will, famished and thirsting; the sweep of its power was like a dark wing brushing across Kalan’s mind. Desperate, he clung to the roughness of the surrounding stone. The first speaker grunted, as though lifting a weight, and the warriors stirred, their hands shifting on their weapons. The warrior with the hard voice cursed under his breath, then gestured the advance, and they moved forward as one, flowing silently up the stairs.

  Kalan’s whole body was shaking, cold and sick from the brush of the deadly will across his mind. Cautiously, he released his hold on the image of stone, letting out his breath with a gasp when he realized that the blood was hammering in his ears. “Darkswarm,” he whispered. There could be no mistaking that dark will. For the first time in his life he wished he was a mindspeaker and could raise an instant alarm.

  The intruders must have come through the Old Keep, he thought. Brother Belan had always said that there were secret doors from the abandoned fortress into the temple quarter.

  “But how,” Kalan whispered, “would the Swarm know that?” He shook his head, still trying to take in what was happening, to think out what he should do. “I have to get ahead of the warband somehow,” he told himself sharply, “warn Sister Korriya and the others.” But the only other way up was a service stair that had fallen into disrepair and the attacking warriors could already have sent another warband by that route. And who knew what other dark powers they might possess?

  I don’t know, Kalan thought, and clenched his fists until the nails cut into his palms. But I have to try and do something.

  Carefully, he checked the hallway again and then hurried toward the service stair, keeping as close to the wall as he could and straining both eyes and ears for hidden enemies. The distance to the second stair seemed further than he remembered, and Kalan gradually picked up speed. Rounding a corner fast, he slid to an abrupt halt, staring at a large door of black metal where he had never seen anything but blank walls before. “So they did come through the Old Keep,” he muttered, realizing that he had not quite believed it before.

  The door had been jammed open. Kalan could see a stone landing through the gap, and a stair twisting down into darkness. He peered through, thinking that if anything it seemed sadder, colder, and more derelict than his side of the door. But even with his keen sight, the absolute blackness beyond the landing was frightening. Kalan shivered, almost glad to have a reason to turn away and start running again. Caution made him slow before he reached his destination, hugging the wall again and creeping along the last half corridor to the foot of the staircase. He craned to look, and saw a bar of light across the first landing and booted feet beneath long black cloaks.

  Lookouts, Ka
lan thought grimly, and retreated as quietly as he had come. He frowned, trying to come up with some way of getting past unseen. But there were too many rearguards posted and the stair was too narrow, with too few places to hide if they came after him. The only option he could think of now was to try the Old Keep. The staircase he had seen twisted down, but it might lead to a landing where another stair led up—and Belan had said that there was more than one secret door. Kalan suppressed the thought that the invaders might know of those doors as well; that he might already be too late. “I can’t just give up,” he whispered. “I have to keep trying.”

  But he still hesitated when he reached the iron door, wondering what might be waiting inside that profound dark. He could not help remembering all the ghost stories told about the Old Keep—but every moment he hesitated was taking the intruders further into the unarmed temple quarter. “You wanted adventure!” Kalan told himself sternly, and stepped through the door.

  The stairs wound tightly down and the blackness was intense. The silence, too, felt tangible, pressing in on Kalan as though the Old Keep itself were aware of him. The muted echo of his sandals on stone sounded frighteningly loud, and Kalan tried to step and breathe more quietly. As he descended, the darkness grew thicker, even to his catlike vision; he listened intently to compensate, his neck and shoulders tense with strain. But there was no sign of any other route leading upward again, let alone back into the New Keep. Eventually, Kalan stopped.

  “This is hopeless,” he muttered. He would have to go back, see if he could slip past the intruders’ rearguard somehow. But Kalan remembered their bright, bitter weapons, and the way the one with the sibilant voice had quested after his presence, and was not sure how it could be done. He closed his eyes, trying to think—then opened them again as a sense of light penetrated his lids. All he could make out was the stone floor and rough block walls on either side, yet the impression of light, pale as honey, teased at the corners of his eyes.

  Kalan turned his head quickly, trying to catch it out, but there was nothing there. He shook his head, but the light flickered again at the periphery of his vision and this time it persisted, enticing him further down the stairs. Kalan resisted, trying to turn back, but the light twisted and danced, beckoning him further into the dark. Fear touched his spine with a cool finger as he strained to hear something—anything at all—but only silence answered. “Nine take it!” Kalan muttered, and swung around, determined to return to the iron door.

  Far above him, a voice howled. The drawn out, ululating wail made every hair on his body stand straight up. Even as he shuddered, it was answered by another eerie, mournful cry and then another, like an unearthly pack baying for the scent. The surrounding darkness was filled with urgency and fear.

  “Danger!” The whisper brushed the surface of Kalan’s mind. “Make haste!” Light glimmered again on the downward spiral, a compelling flicker. Above him, the hunting cries rose, ululating to banshee pitch.

  “Hurry!” the voice in his mind commanded. Kalan hesitated a moment longer, then turned with a curse, plunging further into the dark.

  4

  Call to Arms

  The light in Malian’s mind, which had flooded in with the voice that bade her flee, had almost gone out. It had led her through the spyruns and then down, deep into the Old Keep and well beyond the places that she knew. Now it had grown dim and the surrounding darkness was so thick that Malian felt it might swallow her.

  There was humor in that, she supposed, the Heir of Night being devoured by night itself. She wondered if Yorindesarinen had felt something similar when she stood alone, abandoned by her comrades and her kin, to face the Worm of Chaos. The stories said that the Worm’s vastness had blotted out the constellations, but that Yorindesarinen had blazed in answer—like a star fallen from heaven to pierce the Darkswarm murk. Malian found the thought comforting and tried to imagine herself as the hero, blazing like a comet across the darkness of her age. Immediately, the light in her mind caught fire and sprang up again, white and clear and brilliant.

  A cry split the silence of the Old Keep, rising on a long, ululating note until it was almost a shriek before dying away again. Another cry followed, melding into a wild clamor of howling voices. Malian’s heart leapt into her throat, then came thudding down again into her stomach. “Flee!” her mind commanded, but night blindness betrayed her. She had only taken a few hasty steps when her front foot came down onto nothing.

  “Nine!” Malian flung out both arms to steady herself, but there was nothing to grasp and she pitched forward, tumbling head over heels to the next level. For a long moment she lay completely still, flat on her back and trying to decide whether she was still alive. When she finally decided that she was uninjured, she had to fight back a wild desire to laugh.

  “Now that,” said a boy’s voice, “was impressive. Do you always go down stairs that way?”

  Malian turned her head carefully and decided that the patch of deeper blackness crouched a precautionary spear’s length away, could—just possibly—be a person. “Not usually,” she said. She sat up, tentatively, and confirmed that yes, her body did seem to be intact. “It’s just that I can’t see a cursed thing in this darkness.”

  “Can’t you?” the boy asked. He paused, then continued slowly: “Because the light burning in you could illuminate the entire keep.”

  Malian wondered if the fall had done more damage than she realized, or whether the boy she was talking to was hallucinating. She hesitated and the hunting cries rose again, far away still, but coming closer.

  “I think they can sense it, too.” The boy spoke again, and she felt rather than saw the jerk of his head toward the cries. “The light. I think that’s how they’re tracking you.”

  Malian shivered, peering at him through the darkness. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing down here?”

  “I’m Kalan,” the boy replied. “But we don’t have time for that now. We have to run!” He paused again. “Are you sure that you can’t see anything at all?”

  “Not a thing!” said Malian. “I can’t even see you. Not really. Unfortunately, I am no Kerem to see in the dark!”

  “Kerem?” Kalan echoed, an odd note in his voice. He cleared his throat. “Well, I can. See, that is, so I’d better lead you.” She sensed his sudden doubt as the clamor rose again behind them, louder now. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea which way to go?”

  Malian stood up, steadying herself against the rough stone of the wall, and forced herself to think coolly. “I don’t know these regions at all,” she said. “Certainly not well enough to play hide-and-seek in the dark. But it’s too risky to double back, or to try and dodge them on this level. We’d better keep going down or find somewhere to go to ground.”

  “Down, then,” Kalan agreed. His hand reached out and closed over hers, reassuringly warm and real, but his voice was rough with anxiety. “You’re going to have to do something about that light, though.” The dark outline of his head turned toward the wailing cries. “They aren’t even hesitating,” he whispered. “They know exactly where you are. If you don’t do something now, we’re lost.”

  Malian concentrated, responding to the raw certainty in his voice. She thought about the path of light she had followed, and how it had faded when she grew weary and flared up when she thought of Yorindesarinen—just as it ignited again now at the memory. Beside her, Kalan flinched and Malian quenched the thought hastily, transforming the image of blazing fire into a candle flame cupped between her two palms. Carefully, she visualized the hands closing together, so that not even a chink of light escaped.

  “Nine!” Kalan’s relief was palpable. “That’s so much better! We might even have a chance, so long as we get going.” He started down the next curving flight of stairs, murmuring cautions to guide her, but still descending far more rapidly than Malian could have managed on her own. There was frustration in the ululating cries behind them now, like a pack that circles after a lost scent.

/>   The stairs leveled and Malian hesitated, sensing the size of the space around them, but something tugged at her awareness, a tiny flicker of light that was not her own. It hovered like a will-o’-the-wisp at the corner of her eye, pulling her attention back to the staircase they had just descended. “I wonder,” she whispered, thinking of the spyruns that riddled the New Keep—and perhaps the Old, too, since Night had built them both.

  The will-o’-the-wisp danced, an imperative flicker. “Over there!” Malian whispered to Kalan and pointed. “Can you see what’s there?” She didn’t want to ask outright whether the light was visible to him as well.

  “I see something,” Kalan muttered, peering toward the wisp. “There’s a recess under the staircase. But we don’t have time to explore it. We’ve got to stay ahead of the hunt.”

  “Or find somewhere to hide,” she whispered back. “This reminds me of places in the New Keep, where the entrances to secret ways and bolt-holes are concealed.” She glanced over her shoulder. “We should have time if we hurry.”

  Kalan hesitated, then led her closer to the recess, a darkness beneath the curved base of the staircase. “You’re right,” he said, after a moment. “There is an opening here. It’s very narrow,” he added, turning his body sideways and edging forward. “But—we should—just—be able to—squeeze through.” Malian crawled through after him and began to search the interior walls, her fingertips seeking for concealed triggers like those in the New Keep.

  “Whatever you’re looking for,” Kalan whispered, “you’d better find it soon. They’re coming!”

  Malian’s hands trembled in nervous haste, then she sighed as the first stone shifted and a whole section of wall slid aside. She slipped through the gap and Kalan followed, helping her ease the secret door back into place.