by Helen Lowe
“But they have not found us yet?” Tarathan’s mindvoice answered Jehane Mor’s. “Your shield still holds?”
She nodded, but Kalan felt the touch of her mind on his, light as a hand resting on his shoulder. “These Darkswarm are strong and determined, but you can help me thwart them. You, too, have the shielding power.”
“He hid us from them before.” Malian’s whisper rang in the silence and Tarathan shook his head.
“Do not speak it. Show us.”
So Kalan showed them his memory of the Darkswarm warriors entering the Temple quarter, when he first heard that cold, sibilant voice. He also relived the memory of building a wall of stone and not-seeing between the Darkswarm and his hidden presence, both then and again when he and Malian hid from the were-hunt in the Old Keep.
“Exactly,” said Jehane Mor, intent on his image of the wall. She showed him how to join his power to hers and support the psychic shield. Kalan, frowning in concentration, followed her step by step. The herald’s power was like water, cool and deep with sunlight sifting through its layers; his own strength, sliding beneath hers, was rock, gray and strong. As soon as it settled into place, the sibilant whisper vanished.
“We have shut it out,” thought Kalan, full of wonder.
“We have,” said Jehane Mor, and smiled at him. “It was well done.”
“But now,” said Tarathan, “we must hurry, before they strengthen their search again.”
They pressed on, Kalan very conscious that part of his mind was still tied to the shield. Holding it in place required energy and constant focus and he looked at Jehane Mor with new respect. Like the herald, he remained alert to any threat from beyond the shield’s protective barrier, but detected nothing more. Soon the mists began to thin and then disintegrate, revealing a silver arch above the path ahead. It reminded Kalan of the twelve doors in the heart of the Old Keep, except that the mist within the silver frame was stretched gossamer thin and they could see dark shapes on the other side.
Tarathan stopped, nodding to the arch. “This is your way,” he told Kalan and Malian. “You must step through this gate physically, while Jehane Mor and I take the spirit path.”
Kalan peered through the veil, but the forms on the other side remained indistinct. Malian, too, seemed doubtful. “Will you join us there?” she asked the heralds.
“We will,” Jehane Mor reassured her. “You need not be afraid,” she added, when Malian still looked uncertain. “This portal is an extension of your Great One’s power, formed from her path, and it is your own people on the far side.”
Malian tossed her dark head and stuck out her chin. “I am the Heir of Night,” she declared firmly, then added, much as Kalan had done a little earlier: “I am not afraid!”
“Nor I,” Kalan said at once, not to be outdone.
Both the heralds smiled slightly, mirroring each other, then winked out before his startled eyes. “Perhaps I am a little nervous,” Kalan admitted to Malian.
She grinned in answer. “I am, too! Still, a door into air worked for us last time.”
“I suppose,” said Kalan, reflecting that it had taken them somewhere quite other than their intended destination. But once again, they could not remain where they were. “Ready?” he asked, and stepped forward, Malian keeping pace so that they crossed the threshold at the same time.
For a brief moment they hung suspended, caught between the silver path and a rough, dimly lit chamber. Kalan could make out Derai warriors standing guard at the two doorways, but for all their watchfulness no one seemed aware of the portal in the air above them. Then one of the warriors turned, eyes narrowing in a keen dark face—and both Kalan and Malian were through the veil of mist and stumbling to their hands and knees on the chamber floor.
There was a startled hush, followed by a sharp outcry from the guards. On the other side of the room, the heralds were slowly sitting up and the young priests keeping vigil around them began to stir at the same time. “Nine forfend!” someone exclaimed, in a shaken voice.
Beside Kalan, Malian was lifted to her feet and swept into a fierce embrace. “Asantir!” she cried, and Kalan stepped aside, feeling awkward and shy at the same time.
“So they did find you!” Asantir exclaimed. She held Malian back a little as though to see her better, then her keen gaze shifted to Kalan. “And who,” she asked, “are you?”
“This is Kalan, who is my friend,” Malian replied simply, before he could answer. “He saved my life when I fled from Swarm assassins.”
“Then you have my deepest gratitude,” Asantir said. Kalan scuffed one foot and mumbled something indistinct in response, because this was the Earl’s Honor Captain and she was talking to him, thanking him. She smiled at his mumble, before her eyes went back to Malian. “But how did you get here? One instant I thought I saw a door opening in the air, the next it vanished and you were both here!” The captain shook her head. “I suppose it must have been some power of the heralds.” But her look was searching, at odds with her words.
Before Malian could speak, Kalan swayed into her, as though from weariness, and trod heavily on her foot. Malian stared at him, but must have understood the unspoken warning, for she shoved him upright again and replied gravely: “The heralds did find us and lead us back safely, for which I am truly grateful.”
It was not a lie, thought Kalan, but he found the glint in the captain’s eye disconcerting. He shifted uneasily, wondering how much she knew, or suspected, but all Asantir said was: “Ay, and at some risk to themselves, so they have my thanks also.” Her expression became grim. “Though you are not safe yet, Heir of Night.”
Kalan looked around properly for the first time, taking in the wounded guards and the cloak-covered bodies of the dead—and the astonishing presence of Temple initiates, with blackened faces and warrior’s garb, surrounding the heralds. Disconcerted, he looked back at the bodies of the dead and found Malian staring at them, too, her expression set. “Is this all… because of me?” she asked slowly, turning to Asantir.
“‘If Night falls, all fall,’ “ the Honor Captain quoted softly. “You know the old prophecy. Do not doubt it, just because it applies to you.” She sounded, thought Kalan, like an uncanny echo of Yorindesarinen, even to the wry reassuring tone. “Each and every one of us volunteered and we all knew the risks involved: ’Our blood for the House of Night, Earl and Heir, our blood for their blood, our lives for their lives, our hearts only for this House and for the Derai cause.’ Everyone present is bound to that service, my Malian, so we ventured this place to keep faith with ourselves, as well as with you.”
Malian sighed and looked around the small, weary company again. “So what happens now?”
“We go back,” Asantir replied. She turned her head, raising her voice just enough to gather the company together. “We have found the Heir, but now we must get her safely back to the New Keep before our enemies return. So let’s get moving!”
There was a subdued murmur as the party retrieved packs and completed the binding up of wounds and injuries. Asantir walked over to the heralds and formally embraced them, first Tarathan and then Jehane Mor. “This expedition may not be over,” she said, “but you have my thanks anyway, for all that you have done. I stand in your debt, if such a debt can ever be repaid.”
Tarathan shook his head, smiling a little. “We are not back yet, as you say.” His expression sobered as he looked at the wounded and the dead. “It was bad here, I see.”
“It could have been much worse,” Asantir said grimly. “But how are the two of you? Are you able to start back at once?”
“We are both tired, but not exhausted yet.” Jehane Mor’s reply was soft. “And cannot afford to be. The danger here is still great, Captain.”
Kalan glanced at Malian, wondering whether she had heard that quiet comment. Malian, however, was watching the priests, who had come out of their shield pattern to realize that two of their number were dead. Eria had lifted the cloaks from Ilor and Serin’s fac
es, then put her hands over her mouth to hold back an exclamation of horror. Armar was kneeling beside her, his hands covering his face, and Tisanthe was crying openly; the others seemed numb with shock. After a moment Armar began rocking back and forward, shaking his head from side to side and muttering through his hands. Malian turned a look of mute inquiry on Kalan, who shook his head. He could make out what Armar was saying, but would not repeat the words aloud.
“I felt them go,” Armar muttered, “felt them being torn away, blotted out, but I couldn’t do anything. I wasn’t strong enough to hold on to them—the Nine Gods forgive me! I tried, but I couldn’t do it.”
“We all tried,” Torin said dully. “None of us were strong enough.”
His words were clear enough and Malian took a step forward, but Kalan reached out and stopped her. “The captain and the heralds are closest,” he whispered. “I think we should leave it to them.”
Asantir had indeed got there first, with the heralds only half a pace behind. She knelt down and lifted Armar’s hands off his face, holding them between her own and making him meet her eyes. “Do not forget,” she told him, “that when your comrades fell the rest of you still held your shield together and called forth the fire that drove off our enemies. Even after that, you didn’t let the shield go but held to your appointed task until the heralds returned safely. I see no cause for shame in any of this.”
Armar said nothing, but his shoulders slumped and he stopped straining against her hands. “But,” Torin said uncertainly, “I don’t think we did call the fire. It just came.”
“Perhaps,” said Tarathan, from behind Asantir’s shoulder. “But it came through you. And if you had failed, our bodies would have been slain and our spirits extinguished where they walked, far from here.”
“We set you a hard task,” Jehane Mor added, “but you did not fail us. It is as the captain said: You have no need to be ashamed or to blame yourselves.”
“In fact,” Asantir said, “you should be proud. Without you, we may all have fallen and the Heir might not have been found. You have fought your first battle and in battle comrades fall. We mourn that fall, but to survive we must carry on—which is what you must all do now, for we are not out of danger yet. You, too, must ready yourselves to leave.”
The priests nodded silently, turning away from their dead, but Kalan had seen the change in their faces as Asantir and the heralds spoke, the mix of wonder and dawning self-respect. He could not help envying them, just a little, despite their grief, for they had been part of the battle, comrades in arms with Asantir and her guards. He pushed away darker thoughts, the memory of what his father had said when he found that his youngest son had priestly powers, hard contemptuous words about cowardice and pollution.
Best to forget, Kalan told himself.
All the same, he could not help staring at Asantir and wondering if she really believed that the young priests had acquitted themselves honorably, or was simply saying what they needed to hear because the situation demanded it. The Honor Captain looked up, as if feeling his scrutiny, and quirked one dark, questioning brow at him. Hurriedly, Kalan looked away and saw that Eria was watching him in her turn.
“Why,” she said, “you’re Kalan, aren’t you? I thought that was a novice’s robe under all the grime.”
He nodded and went over half unwillingly, for novices generally kept clear of the initiates and sworn priests—with the exception of their teachers—and he did not know her well. Eria, however, seemed pleased to see him. “We all thought you were dead,” she said, “even though we couldn’t find your body. But there was so much killing and so many bodies …” Her voice trailed away.
“But how in Haarth,” said Var, who had been eyeing Kalan sharply out of his narrow eyes, “did you end up with the Heir?”
“It’s a long story.” Kalan shifted uncomfortably. “But what about your battle? Did you really call down the Golden Fire?”
“Apparently so,” began Var, but Eria stopped him with a small, weary gesture.
“We don’t know that. It may just have been a residual power in these lamps, which were made in the days when we still had the Fire. It did come out of nowhere, though, just like in all the stories.”
“Actually,” said Torin dryly, “it was more like it took hold of us, rather than the other way around. It was like being in the middle of a wildfire—we felt the heat and the power, only without getting burned.”
The other initiates murmured their agreement and one of the guards, who was lashing closed a pack nearby, turned his head. “Well, it burned a few others, and in the nick of time, because a lot more of us would be dog’s meat now if it hadn’t.” He spoke gruffly and didn’t wait for an answer before hefting the pack and joining the guards around Sarus.
Eria ran a hand over her untidy hair. “That’s Garan,” she murmured. “He has been … almost friendly … on this journey.”
“Journeys like this change things. And people,” Kalan said, deciding that it could, perhaps, be possible. “I’m sorry, though, about Serin and Ilor.”
Eria frowned up at the roof, and it was a moment before Kalan realized that she was trying not to cry. “At least they died doing something worthwhile, which is more than most of the Temple dead last night, who had their souls sucked out of them while they slept.” She looked down again, meeting his eyes. “We thought you had died that way, too, and that we’d find your body eventually, or what was left of it, in one of your many hiding places.”
Kalan blushed to think that his hideaways were common knowledge, but felt increasingly uncomfortable as they told him more about the devastation wrought by the Raptor of Darkness. He couldn’t help feeling that he should have done more, tried harder to warn the Temple of the imminent attack. Wanting to get away, he looked around and saw Malian talking with the heralds. He caught her eye and when she smiled he drifted over to stand beside her, feeling a little less miserable as he reflected that he had helped her escape the were-hunt and played his part in rousing the keep at last.
Malian had turned to frown at the cloak-covered bodies. “Will we take them with us?” she asked Sarus.
He shook his head. “There are too many of them and too few of us, Lady Malian. We all hate the necessity, but we must leave them behind.”
Malian said nothing, but Kalan saw her bite her lip and stare fiercely at the ceiling, much as Eria had done a few moments before. Looking round, he saw the same bitter set in all the surrounding faces, warrior and priest. He hoped they would start moving soon, get it over with. One of the nearby guards, an older man with a dour expression and gray in his short beard, seemed to feel the same. “Let’s get on with it,” he said.
“Peace, Kyr,” growled Sarus, who was older by far, gnarled and weatherbeaten as a Wall tree. He was interrupted, however, by the guard keeping watch by the main door. She was looking toward the Swarm dead, piled outside in the corridor.
“Captain!” she called, her voice high and hard. “Come and look at this. I’d swear I saw one of those corpses twitch!”
14
The Black Spear
Asantir and half the party crowded to look and Malian ducked under elbows to stand at the captain’s side, Kalan close behind her. “Ugh!” the guard exclaimed. “It did it again! There! That finger definitely twitched!”
Malian stared hard but saw nothing, until Kalan said quietly, “Yes, there. The hand moved, too.” She followed the line of his pointing finger and this time she saw the corpse’s hand quiver—then give a slight but very definite jerk.
“Is it possible that it’s not dead?” Eria asked uneasily.
Garan’s answering headshake was decisive. “No. They were all quite dead when we dragged ‘em out there.”
“Well,” said the guard, equally firmly, “they’re definitely moving now!” Her name, Malian recalled, was Lira and the high note in her voice was almost, but not quite, panic.
Instinctively, Malian’s eyes moved from Asantir to Tarathan, who looked s
ingularly grim. “What’s that light?” he asked. “Playing over those corpses there?”
Malian looked again and saw a pale glow around some of the bodies. Her mind flew back to the eldritch fire that had nearly snared her when she floated in the darkness, and she was certain this was the same light. For a moment she almost panicked, remembering her inability to fight against it, before she recalled how Yorindesarinen’s voice had saved her. Involuntarily, her hand moved to touch the smooth, cold silver of the hero’s armring, which burned beneath her fingers like dry ice. Yorindesarinen’s voice spoke, fire in her mind.
“You must burn them all, both the Swarm dead and your own. A Darkswarm sorcerer generated the witchlight when the attackers assailed your comrades. It is afoul, necrotic substance and the residue will stay in their corpses, allowing the sorcerer to reanimate them. Such reanimations will hunt and kill even more remorselessly in death than they did in life. No blade, however sharp, will stop them. And once started, the reanimation process is frighteningly swift. They must be burned, child, and soon.”
“But how can we do that?” Malian protested silently. “We don’t have enough fuel for a pyre.”
“You must do it,” Yorindesarinen told her calmly. “You must call the Golden Fire with your mind and immolate the corpses.”
Malian hesitated, knowing that calling the Golden Fire would banish any hope of keeping her power secret. “Couldn’t you just send down your own fire?” she asked. “Then no one would have to know about me—what I can do.”
“Malian,” Yorindesarinen’s mindvoice was both patient and stern, “I am not present on the physical plane, so I cannot act there. You are both present and of the Blood of Night; the Golden Fire will answer to your need. There is no time and no other option. You must do your duty. The Fire,” she added, “is called Hylcarian. He is Night’s oldest ally, bound to your House from the beginning.”
“Didn’t he come here before,” Malian said doubtfully, “to aid the priests in the battle?”