The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  “The psychic attack was designed to kill anything in its path,” Jehane Mor said, speaking more easily. “But it also felt random, as though the attacker sensed another power but couldn’t pinpoint our location or gauge our strength.”

  “A mindsweep,” Tarathan said grimly. “But random or not, it’s almost certain the seeker will have sensed your shield at work.”

  Jehane Mor nodded. “And will try and flush me out.”

  Asantir stared into the dark, her eyes narrowed. “Our enemies, it seems, still have teeth. Well,” she added dryly, “if I had expected miracles, it would only be the three of us down here.” She glanced around the small band of guards and priests, raising her eyebrows slightly at the sight of the initiate Eria helping Garan bandage his gashed forearm. “So long as you’re sure that the concealing shield still holds, we’ll push on. But we haven’t had to contend with these psychic perils for many generations and I won’t waste lives on a forlorn hope.”

  “There is another way of seeking,” Tarathan said slowly, “but we will need to try it now, while Jehane’s shield holds.” He paused, but Asantir simply waited, her silence a question. “One can seek consciously on the physical plane, or one can seek through the psychic level by what we call mindwalking, which is what the shamans of the Winter people do when they dream through the smoke. But there are not many who have their skill.”

  “Or the strength to use it safely,” murmured Jehane Mor.

  Asantir frowned. “But surely the psychic plane is where the enemy threat is greatest?”

  “It is,” Tarathan agreed. “But my seeking will also be more powerful there, and swifter. And with other powers actively in play, we no longer have the luxury of time.” He met Asantir’s eyes squarely. “I will need Jehane to mind-walk with me, to shield me on the psychic plane. But given the danger here, the seeking will also have to be shielded in the physical realm.”

  “So we all bear the increased risk,” said Asantir. “I suppose that’s only fair.” She looked around at the watching priests and guards. “But is it wise?”

  Jehane Mor’s eyes followed Asantir’s gaze. “It is necessary, Captain. And although your priests are young and untried, there are eight of them. Together they should be strong enough to shield us on this plane.”

  “I’m not sure I like should be,” Asantir murmured. But the heralds said nothing, simply looked back at her until she gave a short nod. “Then may Ornorith favor us, since she loves a risk taker. Tell me what we must do to make this mindwalking happen?”

  Tarathan nodded, his gaze as dark as hers. “We must find a place where Jehane Mor and I can go into a deep trance. Somewhere defensible,” he added, not quite as an afterthought.

  Yet the further they descended the more of a labyrinth the Old Keep became. Every doorway was a lightless hole that opened into yet another corridor, or onto more narrow twisted stairs. Those rooms they did find were small, with only one door. “Deathtraps!” said Sarus. No one disagreed, although they were losing precious time and there was more than one sigh of relief when they finally found a chamber large enough for their purpose. It opened off one of the wider hallways and also had a second, smaller door leading onto the usual twisting stair.

  Garan regarded both sets of doors, which were sagging off their hinges, with misgiving. “I don’t like this at all.”

  “Rotten,” said Sarus, rapping his fist against one of them. “We’ll have to see what we can do, construct some kind of barricade.”

  The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as packs were swung off backs and Asantir split the guards into two groups. One team, under Sarus, was posted at the stairwell door while their main strength was with Asantir, at the larger entrance. The heralds gathered the priests together and Jehane Mor looked into each of their faces in turn. Some met her gaze, but others dropped their eyes or looked away. The herald’s voice was even as she told the priests what she and Tarathan intended—and what was expected of them. All eyes flew back to hers then, wide with consternation, but no one spoke.

  “Well?” Jehane Mor said softly.

  The young faces looked at each other and then to Eria, as their spokesperson. The initiate shook her head. “We were proud to be chosen for this mission, Herald Jehane, and to be of service to our House. But now we are here and have seen what you do …” Her voice trailed away and she shook her head again.

  “What have you seen?” the herald asked patiently.

  “What real strength is,” the young man beside Eria said harshly, bitterness stamped across his broad, blunt face.

  “Hush,” Eria said quickly, but the boy on her other side, who had narrow hazel eyes in a thin, clever face, spoke up impatiently.

  “Torin’s only saying what we all know, Eria—that Herald Jehane has been protecting us all.”

  “Ay,” said Torin, still bitter. “We might as well not be here.”

  “Perhaps the High Steward was right,” said the tall girl beside him. “Perhaps we are just a liability.”

  “We don’t know why you asked for us at all,” said another young woman, her eyes fixed on her feet.

  “What is your name?” Jehane Mor asked.

  The bent head lifted. “Tisanthe,” she said, plainly shy.

  “And you?” the herald asked the tall girl.

  “Terithis,” she answered, bolder than her friend.

  “Var,” said the priest with the thin, clever face, in answer to the herald’s look.

  “And you are Torin,” the herald said to the young man on Eria’s other side, with a small nod. She looked at the other three, who still remained silent. “Will you tell me your names as well?”

  “Armar,” said the lad beside Torin, with a quick bob of his head. Freckles marched across his beaky nose and he was all bony wrists and ankles in his borrowed black clothes. The youth at his shoulder contented himself with a swift upward glance out of eyes that were so darkly blue that they looked almost as black as his hair.

  “Serin,” he murmured, quickly lowering his eyes again, while the young woman beside him, who was similar enough in face and coloring to be his twin, spoke at the same time.

  “I’m Ilor,” she said.

  “So,” said Jehane Mor. She inclined her head gravely to all of them. “We would not have asked for you,” she said simply, “if we didn’t need your help.”

  Torin looked at her suspiciously. “You could just be saying that, to encourage us.”

  Jehane Mor smiled. “I could,” she agreed, “but heralds of the Guild do not lie.”

  There was a brief, abashed silence before Eria, obviously pulling herself together, said, “We will do all that we can, but you must know by now that none of us is very strong in either seeking or shielding. Those particular talents have all but died out in the past century.”

  “We may,” said Var, as ironic as Torin was bitter, “be amongst the best the Temple quarter has, but that—unfortunately—doesn’t make us very strong.”

  “Individually, perhaps,” said Tarathan, speaking for the first time, “but collectively your small abilities will amount to something far more substantial. You are no different, in that way, from any of the warriors here, who would all be hard-pressed on their own. Yet by standing and working together, they defeated the fell-lizard attack.”

  The circle of priests looked at each other, clearly taken aback.

  “Tarathan is right,” said Jehane Mor. “And I can teach you a shield form that will help you find your strength. It is very strong if all involved bind themselves to it.”

  The priests exchanged another swift look. “Show us,” Eria said.

  Jehane Mor reached out, holding Eria’s eyes with her own, and shaped the outline of the initiate’s face with her hand—and then all the young faces lifted as one as the herald’s power rippled over them. “This shielding is called Eight,” she said, her voice light on water. “To build the shield you must open your minds, first to me and then to all your comrades. The weave follows the pa
ttern of the number, which is infinite, a flow without beginning or end. You must become one with that flow so that you are no longer singular and weak, but Eight and strong.”

  The herald looked from one face to the next, around their circle. “Can you see it?” she asked, very soft. “Can you feel the power?”

  Eria drew in a shaky breath. “I feel it,” she said.

  “I feel like a mote,” Tisanthe whispered, “a tiny spark in the middle of something vast.”

  “It’s like floating in a river of light.” Var was exultant.

  “It is all those things, and far more,” said Jehane Mor. “You must be part of it and it of you, but do not let it overpower you. You are neither the Eight’s servant nor its master, but rather the fish, swimming in an infinite stream. You may swim with the current or against it, so long as it is you who chooses that path.”

  “If pressure is brought against you,” said Tarathan, “then you must pour yourselves, mind and spirit, into the Eight. No matter what else happens you must remain as one within the flow, in order to maintain the shield. Never forget that it is working together that makes you strong. The moment you allow yourself to be pulled out of the flow, you will be alone again and vulnerable.”

  “And those who remain,” concluded Jehane Mor, “will no longer be Eight. You can reform as Six or Four, but the greatest power lies in the seamless infinite; anything less than an Eight will always be considerably weaker.” She looked around at their serious faces and shining eyes. “Do you think you can do this, hold the shield?”

  “We will try,” Eria said, her expression serious, but Torin tossed his head.

  “Of course we can do it,” he said. “It doesn’t seem that difficult.”

  “No-o-o,” agreed Terithis, more cautiously. “But how long must we hold it?”

  “Until we return,” said Tarathan, with finality. “Time passes differently on the psychic plane and we don’t know how long we will be gone. It could be minutes here, but it could also be hours.”

  “Not so easy after all,” said Var. Eria squared her shoulders.

  “We will just have to do the best we can,” she said.

  “No,” said Asantir from behind them. “You are Derai and will do whatever it takes. You will hold this shield for as long as the heralds need it.”

  They all jumped, for none of them had heard her quiet approach. The keen eyes measured them and they flushed, shifting nervously. “Sister Korriya told me you are the best that the Temple has,” Asantir told them, “and she chose you to serve your Earl and your House. There is no doubt in my mind that you will fulfill her trust.”

  No one spoke or even exchanged a glance but all the initiates drew themselves up a little straighter. Asantir, however, had already turned to the heralds. “We have this place as defensible as it can be. Are you ready for your mindwalking?”

  “We are,” the heralds said, speaking in their one, blended voice. They conferred briefly with the priests and then lay down, side by side, with Tarathan’s head pointing toward the main doors and Jehane Mor’s to the postern. Both heralds crossed their arms over their chests, but while Jehane Mor’s hands were empty, Tarathan held a naked, swallowtail blade in either hand. The swords gleamed in the soft glow of the cone lights as the priests formed a figure-of-eight around the heralds and the guards watched with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.

  Eria, Tisanthe, Var, and Torin took the inner positions, close to the feet and heads of the heralds, while Terithis and Armar, Serin, and Ilor formed the outer curves of the Eight. All their faces were subdued as they sat cross-legged, facing away from the heralds, and the light from the cone lamps spilled around them in an incandescent figure-of-eight.

  Tarathan looked up at Asantir. “Be vigilant,” he said, “for the enemy is very near.”

  She nodded and then both heralds closed their eyes, still as carven stone at the heart of the silence that emanated from the Eight. The Honor Captain studied them for a long moment, then called four of the guards to her. “This is your watch,” she told them. “I do not want anyone to reach this Eight unless all four of you are dead.” Garan nodded, his dark, mobile face serious, while his companions, Mareth and Korin, murmured their acquiescence. Only Nerys remained silent as she took up a position between Terithis and the postern, her hand resting on her sword hilt.

  Asantir nodded, satisfied, then crossed to the main door and stared into the shadowed hall. “Oh, yes,” she murmured, “they are close. It doesn’t need a seeker to know that.” She looked across the room to Sarus. “Keep a sharp eye out, old friend. It may be more than cold steel we have to deal with.”

  The sergeant grunted, settling his shield more firmly on his arm, and she smiled slightly, as if that were answer enough. The guard, Soril, who was from the keep garrison, looked from one to the other doubtfully. “Are you sure there’s something out there, Captain?”

  “Ay,” said Asantir, “and they know we’re here as well. We are past seekers and shielding now, as far as that goes.”

  “How do you know?” asked Ber, another guard from the keep garrison.

  Sarus chuckled from the other side of the room. “How does the raven scent battle? It’s in the very air.”

  Kyr, squatting on his heels at the sergeant’s side, had taken out a whetstone and was carefully honing his sword blade. “It’s a matter of time, that’s all,” he said, without looking up.

  “And time,” murmured Asantir, with a quick glance back at the heralds, “is what we most need right now.”

  They waited, while the long minutes crawled by and became an hour. Tension coiled in the air, like the feeling of a storm about to break. The cone lamps burned on, clear and steady, and the guards settled and resettled their weapons. And then the attack came, a swift rush out of the dark.

  Asantir saw the light first, a pale witch-glow that came streaming down the corridor with shadows running behind it. “Here they come,” she said conversationally—and then the first wave was on them, a silent, snarling rush of warriors with the eldritch light spilling around them. Steel clashed on steel as Asantir shouted the battle cry of the House of Night and the guards to her left and right echoed it as they too leapt forward to engage the foe. For a moment, the witchlight wavered and drew back.

  As swiftly as it had ebbed, however, it came flowing back and then the fight was on in earnest, a desperate reeling to and fro in the doorway with the attackers pressing fiercely forward and the defenders withstanding the assault. Shields pushed back against spearpoint and sword blade, the defenders’ swords cutting and slashing in bitter answer. The narrowness of the door meant that only a few attackers or defenders could contest it at any one time, but there were always more attackers pressing forward over their fallen fellows and only a small number of defenders in reserve.

  Nonetheless, the fight seemed very even, trampling back and forward across the threshold, which became slick and wet with blood. Asantir cut hard and fast with her sword, despite her wounded shoulder, and used her shield like a weapon, hammering it into her opponents’ faces. Ber and Soril pressed forward on either side, supporting her, and there was no more breath for war cries. The attackers, too, fought in silence, fierce and deadly in their antique armor, with the black visors down across their faces, each helmet wrought into an alien and terrifying shape. The eldritch light billowed and ebbed around them, seeming to follow the success or failure of their attacks.

  Behind the melee, one of the priests gave a terrible scream and collapsed to the floor. The pale light surged forward, up and over Ber like a wave that breaks against a cliff. He screamed, too, and flung up his hands to claw at his face, dropping his sword and letting his shield fall. An attacker followed through with a spear thrust to Ber’s chest, then made to push on over the fallen body and into the room.

  The guards behind pushed forward to close the gap—but the pale tide washed on over Mareth, who writhed and fell in his turn. His scream echoed that from another of the priests behind them,
a woman’s wail of anguish. “Stand firm!” shouted Asantir, as she and Soril struggled to turn the flank of the attack. “Defend, House of Night!”

  Another guard sprang to aid them and Eria and the remaining priests shouted, as if in answer to the captain’s call, a tremendous, unified cry that thundered in the chamber’s low roof. The lights in their hands flared into columns of incandescent white, transforming almost instantly to a blaze of molten gold that hurtled outward like spears, straight into the heart of the eldritch light. The two fires clashed and twisted upward in a conflagration that echoed the cut and thrust of the battle, but the golden flame blazed hotter, towering to the roof. Gradually the pale light withered and shrank, dwindling until it was totally consumed.

  The attackers broke and ran, leaving their dead behind them. The golden light flowed after them, crackling at their heels but neither consuming nor slaying as the witchlight had done.

  “Hold!” commanded Asantir, for the second time that day. “Hold all positions! Our job is to defend this place, not pursue.” Astonishingly, even the golden light seemed to heed her command: It retreated as swiftly as it had raced out, splitting into six streams again as it reentered the chamber. The streams flowed back into the palm lamps, which continued to glitter, luminous and golden. A faint golden glow remained in the air, casting a sheen across the six remaining priests. Their faces were remote and calm, lost in their trance, but all six were drenched in sweat.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” said Sarus, but he sounded shaken.

  Both Serin and Ilor were dead, their mouths stretched into a rictus, their beautiful, dark blue eyes holes that stared at nothing. They were both sprawled on their backs, Serin with his arms flung wide; blood had burst from their ears and nostrils, but was already starting to congeal. “Mind-burned,” said Garan, kneeling beside them. “There was nothing physical for us to fight—nothing we could do.”

  “I know,” Asantir said heavily. She rested a gauntleted hand briefly on his shoulder.