by Helen Lowe
“Twelve doors,” she murmured at last, still leaning heavily on Kalan’s arm. “And twelve sections to the table. But why twelve? If it had been nine the puzzle would be easy: one door and one section of the table for each of the nine gods, or the nine Houses, or both. But twelve?”
She heard Kalan’s breath catch and felt the sudden tension in his arm. So he knew something, then, or was guessing at it. Malian waited, counting the tiles in the floor and keeping her own breath calm and steady to conceal her impatience. She felt rather than saw the turn of his head toward her, but kept her eyes down. “What if,” he said, “there were twelve Houses, not nine?”
Her head jerked up, but the movement was too sharp and the pain bit deep. When she could speak, the words were gasped out. “But there’s only ever been nine!”
Kalan looked unhappy. “I was told,” he said, as though taking no responsibility for the veracity of his words, “that when the Swarm first rose and covered the heavens, not all Derai refused the lure of its power. It is said that there were those, even among our own people, who sought out the lightless dark and pledged themselves to its service—three of what were then the twelve Houses of the Derai, in fact. They became Darksworn, shadow warriors serving as the vanguard of the Swarm. Few know of it now and those who do are bound to secrecy with many oaths. But Brother Belan’s wits wandered in his last years and he spoke to me of much that he should not have, including this. He even showed me the secret scrolls that record the story. It is called the Great Sundering and beside it, he said, even the Betrayal is as nothing.”
Malian stared straight ahead with eyes that saw nothing. “How can that possibly be true?” she whispered. “If it were, then surely I, as Heir, would have been taught of it?”
Kalan shook his head. “It is forbidden,” he answered. “The knowledge is permitted only to the very highest levels of the priesthood and possibly to the Earls—although I would not wager on that, these days. Brother Belan said that the truth, if widely known, would shatter the Derai Alliance. How could we continue to defend the Wall, believing that we alone have always stood against the Swarm of Dark, if we knew that Derai were also its foremost servants? How could we continue to believe ourselves the champions of the Nine?”
“How indeed?” echoed Malian, her tone hollow. She looked at Kalan intently. “And you really believe all this to be true?”
He shrugged, looking away. “Brother Belan used to be one of our greatest loremasters. And I have seen the records. I also saw the attackers when they first entered the Temple quarter last night.” The glance he slid toward Malian was quick, uncertain. “At first, I couldn’t recall where I had seen depictions of their armor before, but I remember now. They looked like us; not as we arm ourselves now, but as we used to do.”
“They could have been our own Derai enemies,” she said slowly, “from the House of Adamant or the House of Stars.” But she remembered the were-hunters and the Raptor of Darkness and did not believe it herself.
“No,” said Kalan. “I felt the Swarm taint, its mix of cold and evil that has been recorded so many times. The invaders were Darkswarm … but there was something of the Derai about them as well.”
Derai amongst the Swarm. It was unthinkable—and yet Malian could not dismiss the conviction in Kalan’s voice. Perversely, she could even be glad, a little, that the attackers were not from another of the nine Houses, particularly the House of Stars. Even the possibility of Derai amongst the Swarm was preferable to the heirs of Yorindesarinen, in their far-off citadel, plotting to kill her.
Malian stretched out a hand to steady herself against the nearest door arch, trying to think through the implications of what Kalan had told her. “Your Brother Belan was right,” she said at last, her tone hollow. “This news would shake the foundations of the Wall itself.” She wondered if that was part of what the attackers had intended—a strike at the Alliance on more than one level?
“Malian, look! Where your hand is!”
She saw the blaze of excitement in Kalan’s face and realized that the doorframe had turned to gold beneath her hand. The script carved around the arch was alive with small, dancing flames and the symbol at the apex resolved itself into the image of a winged horse glittering with light. Puzzled, she looked more closely at the inscription and watched the letters waver, then shift, transforming into words that she could read.
“‘I carry Night through void and flame,’ “ She murmured the words aloud. “‘I move on more than one plane.’ Of course!” She turned to Kalan. “What if we are on one plane here, but the keeps, both Old and New, are on another? That would mean that the Fire, if it is to protect us, would have to concentrate its presence on the plane where our enemies are located.”
“And we have to get back to that plane if we are to have any hope of being found by a rescue party.” Kalan studied the door uncertainly. “It’s like the lights and the table, it seems to respond to your touch. But can we trust ourselves to it without the Fire actually being here?”
“We can’t wait for the Fire to return,” Malian replied soberly. “We don’t even know that it will. We must find our own path—and I think it lies through this door.”
Kalan shook his head. “I knew you were going to say that. Not that I have any better suggestions.” He frowned at the wall of mist. “How to get through, though, that’s the question.”
“Mmm,” agreed Malian. “But if the arch responds to my touch, like the table did … The Fire said that I must touch the table with both my hand and my mind and join my other hand to yours.” She curled her fingers around Kalan’s. “Well, my mind and one hand are on the door and we have each other. Shall we try our luck?”
He returned the clasp of her fingers, his frown lifting. “Why not? Particularly given the unheroic alternative, which is to wait for something that may never happen!”
Malian smiled at him and the pain behind her eyes receded. “Waiting and staying alive can be heroic, if it thwarts your enemies. But dying slowly of starvation and thirst because you are afraid to act, is not. Now we must be bold.”
“Then lead on,” said Kalan. “I’m with you, Malian of Night.”
10
In the Old Keep
“There’s something out there,” Tarathan said, low voiced to Asantir.
They stared into the deep gloom of the Old Keep’s lower halls and then back at the waiting file behind them: all black clad, with blacking on what would otherwise have been the pale blur of faces. There had been trouble over that when they set out, for not all those gathered behind them were Asantir’s handpicked twenty, drawn from both the keep garrison and what was left of the Honor Guard. There were eight young priests, as well, all wearing the silver-gray robes of initiates—and their presence had caused quite a stir at the entrance to the Old Keep, both amongst the twenty and the few who had come to see them off.
Nhairin had been the first to protest. “You have the heralds,” she had said sharply, but Asantir had remained firm.
“Two heralds,” she had pointed out, “who have asked for the help, given what we may find in the Old Keep. You would not expect me to rely on just two warriors,” she had added, with a touch of humor. She had leveled a dark, keen eye at Nhairin’s frown and the disapproving faces behind her, her brows lifting a little. “They are coming with us,” she had said, as cool and final as a steel blade.
No one seemed to have anything to say after that, except for Nhairin and even she was more guarded. “Initiates!” she had muttered, as she turned aside. “Green as grass and nothing more than a liability!” Most of the guards had looked as though they agreed, and the nearest of the priests had flushed deeply. But nothing more had been said until their small party reached the old High Hall and Asantir sprung her second unpleasant surprise—making it clear that she expected the priests to blacken their faces, too, and don the same garb worn by the warriors. Her sergeant, Sarus, had produced the required gear from his pack amidst a sudden, shocked silence.
&n
bsp; It was Kyr who found his voice first. “This is warrior’s gear. I know these heralds are wearing it, but priests? That can’t be right, Captain, begging your pardon.”
Even the slight, dark priestess who had accompanied Korriya earlier in the day, and who seemed to be the leader now, protested nervously. “Surely, Honor Captain, this is forbidden?”
“There is nothing in the Oath about clothing that I can recall, Initiate Eria.” Asantir’s sardonic gaze had swept the group. “And I’m really not prepared to have any of our number showing up like targets in the dark.”
The warriors had exchanged reluctant shrugs and the priests, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled off their full outer robes and replaced them with the black tunics and leggings. “Much more practical,” Tarathan of Ar observed, to no one in particular, “if we have to run or fight.” He, at least, seemed prepared for trouble, with the multiple braids of his hair clubbed into a knot and a pair of short, curved swords strapped to his back. Asantir’s brows had risen again when she saw them, for swallowtail swords were a weapon of Ishnapur.
“And Jhaine,” Tarathan had answered, when she said as much, “but they are popular now in the cities of the River.” He had taken a blacking pot when Sarus handed them out and carefully spread the paste over his own face, before turning to help Eria with hers. It was plain that it was something he had done before, and equally clear that the young priestess had not. Asantir had shaken her head at her guards’ expressions but said nothing, simply picked up a second pot and moved to assist another of the priests.
The guards had hesitated a moment longer before Garan rose with a shrug and went to help as well, closely followed by dark, silent Nerys. The blacking had been completed quickly after that, although in strained silence. They had then descended steadily through the Old Keep, scoring route markers into the walls as they went, and the only sounds were footsteps, breathing, and the occasional low-voiced conference between the heralds and Asantir. Tarathan had taken the lead from the beginning and led them unerringly, a file of shadows within shadow as the twilit gloom deepened toward full dark. Eventually, Asantir had given the reluctant order for light.
The young priests had exchanged glances as the guards unpacked storm lanterns, then Eria had brought out palm-sized cone lights that were secured by a strap across wrist and hand. Silently, she had offered one to Asantir. The cones had caps that could be flicked off with a thumb, emitting a shielded beam that fell no more than a few feet ahead of the holder. “Useful,” was all Asantir said, but the look she had given Eria was very keen, and the storm lanterns were packed away again.
“Where do you think they got those?” Kyr had muttered to Garan. “They’re plainly made for stealth work.” But the younger guard just shrugged.
They walked on, light-footed and tense, hands resting on sword hilts and eyes seeking to penetrate beyond the narrow fall of light. The chill air seemed to thicken as they descended further, and every stumble or spurned pebble came back to them in eerie, hollow echoes. They were crossing a wide hall where all could sense, rather than see, the vast, soaring vault of stone above them, when Tarathan murmured his warning to Asantir.
They both listened intently. “There’s another seeker,” Tarathan said. “I can sense the power.”
“Does this seeker know that we’re here?” Asantir replied softly.
It was Jehane Mor who answered. “My mindshield holds—for now. But the closer we come to another seeker, the harder it will be to block the seeking out.”
Asantir’s gaze shifted back to Tarathan. “How close are we to Malian now?”
“Not close enough,” he said slowly. “There is something strange at work, a sense that she is both here and not here that is difficult to resolve.”
“But we are on the right track?” Asantir asked. Her frown lifted at the certainty of Tarathan’s nod, but she kept her voice low. “What of these other seekers? Is one of them the Raptor of Darkness?”
“Last night’s demon?” Tarathan’s head moved in a quick negative. “I have not detected its presence. Whoever lies ahead is not someone I have encountered before.”
“But even that,” said Asantir, “is better than knowing nothing.” She looked around. “Sarus, make sure the priests stay in the center, where they’re protected, and strengthen our watch to the rear. I’ll take the lead from now on. We can’t afford to lose either of you,” she added, turning back to the heralds.
Tarathan smiled slightly. “Can we afford to lose you, Captain?” he asked. “Besides, it is difficult enough to seek through this darkness without having either thoughts or jangling armor in my way.”
“I’ll try not to jangle,” Asantir said dryly, “but we can’t leave you unprotected.” She glanced back at the main party where shields were being settled more firmly on arms and swords drawn. “It will definitely be close-quarters work down here,” she added, and drew her own sword in a whisper of steel. She handed the cone light to Nerys, but Jehane Mor extended her hand before the guard could take it.
“Let me do it,” she said. “I have to stay close to Tarathan anyway, to shield his seeking most effectively. This way, Nerys will have two hands free to defend me.”
Asantir nodded. “Try and keep the light angled so it falls just ahead of our feet. But make sure the beam stays low. We don’t want to risk light blindness.”
She looked over her armed and watchful party one more time, then gave the signal to move on. Every ear was strained, listening for any sound out of place, and the tension in the air was palpable. The priests drew in close behind Jehane Mor and the guards’ eyes flicked to either side, while Kyr and the sergeant kept watch to the rear. Asantir walked catfooted at the front, her sword ready. No one spoke.
It was some time before the attack came. They had descended another long stair and come out into yet another hallway, where the walls were closer and the roof much lower overhead, when Jehane Mor gasped out: “Beware!”
Something streaked out of the darkness, straight as a flung spear. The attacker made no sound; there was just the sudden rush of air, an impression of driving wings and an outstretched, striking beak—and then Asantir’s sword cut up, severing the creature’s neck.
The attacker fell; the next moment a storm of the winged creatures hurtled along the low hall, attacking with vicious beaks and raking talons. Tarathan leapt to meet them, striking left and right with his swallowtail swords while Asantir’s blade continued to bite, precise and deadly. “Draw in!” she commanded, her voice encompassing the entire party. “Shields up!” The guards obeyed, forming a tight circle around the noncombatants and clashing a shield wall into place.
“Roof’s too low,” Asantir remarked conversationally to Tarathan, holding her own shield to cover them both as they retreated, step by cutting step, into the circle of guards. “They can’t get enough height to beat the shields.”
The winged creatures seemed to prefer height, making no attempt to vary their pattern of attack, although they shrieked fiercely as they wheeled and dove. For a while their sheer numbers kept the battle even, but the shield circle held and the guard’s swords continued to cut, disciplined and steady. The winged creatures either fell or circled sharply away from their blows. Then, as suddenly as the assault had begun, the remaining attackers wheeled around and sped back into the darkness.
“Hold your positions!” Asantir ordered. “Don’t break formation! Anyone hurt?” she added after a moment.
A quick murmured response indicated that there were no serious injuries, although a few guards had sustained gashes from the slashing beaks and talons. “But what in Haarth were they?” someone asked in a shaken voice.
Asantir took the cone light from Jehane Mor and shone it onto one of the fallen creatures, illuminating a lizardlike body between long, leathery wings with sharp barbs at the end of each pinion. The head was bony, with a heavy, serrated beak, and the creature’s short legs were razor taloned. “I’ve never seen them before,” she said, “but I have
heard them described. These are fell lizards, which some say are darkspawn but others claim are a Haarth creature corrupted by the Swarm. Either way, their presence usually means that other darkspawn aren’t far away.”
“Scouts, maybe,” said Sarus.
Asantir stood up and handed the light back to Jehane Mor. “They could be hunting on their own, but we take no chances. I want a sharp watch kept while we see to these cuts. Give the alarm if you see or hear anything even slightly strange,” she told the lookouts grimly. “Better that we jump at shadows before they jump us.”
This got a general chuckle as the shield circle broke up and those who were not on lookout duty pulled out bandages and salves. Jehane Mor slid slowly down the wall to sit on the stone floor, her face drawn. Tarathan sheathed his swords quickly and knelt beside her, while Asantir squatted on her heels in front of the herald. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Jehane Mor shook her head. “I’m all right.” But she spoke in a queer, slightly breathless way, like a person who has been running hard. She drew another, deeper breath before speaking again. “Something—a power—attacked hard just before the fell-lizards struck, so hard it was almost impossible for me to call a warning before it was too late.”
“Was it the seeker?” Tarathan asked quietly.
“But in the moment that it attacked I felt something more, a flash of other powers out there.” Jehane Mor’s eyes met his. “Do you sense them?”
“Others?” Asantir said sharply.
Tarathan was silent a moment, as though listening. “I sense them. Their minds are cold, their purpose dark, and they, too, are hunting, seeking. I suspect that, like us, they hunt for your Heir.”