by Helen Lowe
“Surely,” said Tisanthe, looking confused, “you are not suggesting that the captain’s spear was one of Kerem’s weapons?”
“Even if it was,” growled Sarus, “what does it matter so long as it slew the demon? The Kerem of the stories would say it had been put to good use!”
There was a murmur of agreement, but Asantir and Kalan remained intent on each other. Kalan’s jaw jutted stubbornly, but Malian could see that he was nervous again. She blinked at them, puzzled, and then Asantir smiled, a wry expression that reminded Malian of Yorindesarinen.
“What Kalan is wondering,” Asantir said, “is how I could possibly possess a black blade without anyone knowing, when such a weapon should be an heirloom of the House of Night. Am I right, Kalan?”
Kalan nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on hers.
“The answer,” she continued, “is simple enough. I was never told what it was and nor, I suspect, was any other Honor Captain of Night for many centuries. It has hung on the wall of the Captain’s room and been handed down from one to the other, along with the command—and the counsel that it has potency against the power of the Swarm, but is only to be used in dire need. So when the heralds warned of the dangers that might wait in here, it seemed prudent to bring it with me.”
There was another murmur, this time of approval, and Kalan’s eyes fell. Asantir watched him for a moment longer, then turned to study the faces gathered around her. Warriors and priests looked back at her wearily, but Malian saw something else in their expressions—the stamp of those who have been into a dark and dangerous place together and come out alive. There was sadness, too, for they had left comrades behind and seen the Derai’s ancient enemy made manifest for the first time. Malian caught more than one quick, covert glance toward herself and Kalan, although Kalan seemed unaware of it. He was still looking down, studying his feet with every evidence of interest. The heralds, as though feeling that their part was done, had moved aside from the Derai.
Asantir rested a hand on Malian’s shoulder, while her eyes circled the others again, warrior and priest alike, pulling them close. “We all know,” she said quietly, “what we have been through together and what we have done, but soon we will return to the New Keep and our comrades there, who will not share that understanding. There is much that we could say to shock them and still more that they will find easier to disbelieve. For these reasons, I believe that we must hold what we know to ourselves, telling only the Earl and those he deems wise. That way, we will fulfill our duty to House and keep while ensuring that rumor, doubt, and fear are not spread through our agency.” Her fleeting grin was twisted. “Rumor will spread abroad quickly enough in any case, without our help.”
Kyr shot a quick, frowning look toward Malian. “Do you mean the Heir, Captain, and her powers? Is that what we should keep silent about?”
“That is part of it,” Asantir agreed, “but only part. The rest you saw as clearly as any of us—the Golden Fire, the power of the heralds, and the powers that the Swarm brought against us.”
She did not mention the black spear, but Malian caught the flicker of Kalan’s upward glance and knew that it was still in his mind. She repressed a shiver, remembering the spear’s glittering hornet song.
Sarus scratched his chin with his thumb. “As you said, it’ll all be out quick enough anyway, especially if the Earl tells those councilors of his.”
“Maybe so,” replied Asantir, when the general chuckle had died away. “Just as long as it does not get about through our indiscretion.”
There was a small silence as they mulled this over, but Malian thought they would follow Asantir’s lead in the end. She could see it in the way the Honor Captain held them in their circle around her. She thought, too, about everything that had happened since she fled the New Keep, strange and frightening and wonderful things, and knew that her life would never be the same again, either in her own eyes or in the eyes of others.
As if in answer to this thought, Garan stepped forward and stood directly in front of her. Probably only Malian, standing so close, caught the infinitesimal tightening of Asantir’s body as the guard drew his dagger. Slowly, his eyes never leaving Malian’s face, Garan drew the tip of the dagger across the palm of his left hand, leaving a fine line of blood. “Chosen,” he said. “Shield of Mhaelanar, Beloved of the Nine. My blood for your Blood, my life for your life, my heart only for you and the Derai cause, now and until my life’s end. If I fail you in this, or if harm comes to you through any deed or word of mine, then may the blood be drained from my body, even to the last drop, and my soul walk naked before the Nine, without succor or respite, forever.”
Malian felt the color blanch from her face as she stretched out a restraining hand. “That is a blood oath, Garan,” she said, her voice harsh in the silence, “binding beyond death. Are you sure you know what you are doing?”
Slowly and deliberately, the guard sheathed the dagger. “I have seen what I have seen, Lady Malian. To my mind, there can be no doubt. You are the Chosen of Mhaelanar, the champion foretold in the old prophecies, the Shield of the Nine sent among us. I have sworn my oath.”
He stepped back and Nerys—Nerys the silent, Nerys the reserved—stepped forward to take his place. One by one the other warriors followed, drawing their daggers and swearing the same oath, even dour Kyr and the sergeant, Sarus. When they were done, Eria held her hand out silently for Garan’s dagger. Just as silently, the guard gave it to her and so the thing was done: All the initiates followed Eria, just as the warriors had followed Garan. In the end, of the Derai present, only Kalan and Asantir had not sworn. But when Kalan made a move as though to step forward, Malian shook her head with passionate intensity. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “Not you, Kalan.”
Kalan stopped, his expression so comical that Garan guffawed, breaking the tense, solemn atmosphere. For a moment his laugh rang out alone—and then everyone was laughing and hugging each other, at first just warrior and warrior, priest and priest, but then Asantir extended her free arm to catch Kalan close. “Well done!” she said, looking from his face to Malian’s. Kalan still held back a little, but Malian hugged the captain unreservedly until she winced at the pressure on her wounded shoulder and cried for quarter. Garan, seeming to think this an excellent example, caught the astonished Eria up in a bear hug.
“Garan just doesn’t like to miss an opportunity to kiss a pretty face,” said the guard Lira, who had a darkly pretty face of her own. “And I am much the same!” she added, stepping up to Tarathan and kissing him on the mouth. The herald looked startled for a moment, but then he laughed and kissed her back. She laughed, too, and shot a half-defiant, half-triumphant glance at Nerys, as she stepped back—and suddenly the hugging and the congratulations and slapping on the back had widened to include everyone.
Malian shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe they did that!” she said to Kalan. “Swore the oath, I mean, not the kissing—but now look at them! You wouldn’t think they had just sworn the gravest of oaths, binding beyond death!”
Kalan looked round at the jubilation and back slapping that was slowly dying away. “I think they do know,” he said slowly.
“Kalan is right,” said Asantir. “And it is right, too, that they should have this moment, before we walk the last few steps to the New Keep and their oath binds them.”
Malian studied her. “You didn’t swear,” she pointed out.
Asantir nodded. “I am Honor Captain, Malian. I swore my oaths long ago. Did you wish me to swear to you also?”
“No !” Malian said passionately. “I’m glad that you didn’t, and Kalan, too! I don’t want people going around swearing blood oaths, and cutting their hands and other such nonsense, even if I am Heir of Night or the Chosen of Mhaelanar! I was just surprised,” she said more calmly, “that you didn’t stop them.”
The Honor Captain regarded her gravely. “I would not think it right to stop anyone, warrior or priest, who chooses to swear such an oath to th
e Heir of Night.”
Malian hesitated, wondering if the oath-taking was the outcome that Asantir had intended all along, when she pulled the circle close. She was still considering that possibility when Kalan said slyly, “Well, I hope you realize that you’ve had your last chance with me, Heir of Night. I won’t offer to swear again.”
Malian laughed. “I’m glad that you and Asantir had more sense! Besides, you’re my friend,” she added more soberly. “People can’t be your friends if they swear blood oaths to you.”
Kalan shrugged and grinned at the same time, but Malian could tell that he was pleased. She turned back to Asantir. “Right now,” she said, “I’ve had enough of the Old Keep. Can we go home?”
The Honor Captain smiled, not the terrible smile of the black spear but the one that was wryly kind, and saluted her. “Of course. The way is clear and the place of honor belongs to you and those who brought you back to us: Kalan and the heralds of the Guild. So lead us home, Heir of Night!”
It was very quiet in the old High Hall after they had gone. The dust settled slowly and the golden motes began to disappear. Some time later, a disturbance rippled through the air. The tremor faded and the air grew still again, only to be redisturbed, first by another ripple and then by a slow rent opening in the center of the hall—just wide enough to let a shadow ooze through onto the floor. The shadow paused, swaying, while the rent closed behind it.
Slowly, the shadow undulated across the floor and up one of the frayed tapestries, blending into the fabric of decay and age. It was weary, both from its journey through the Place Between, moving cautiously so that its enemies remained unaware, and from expending the vast energy necessary to open a door into this place. Now it must rest and restore its strength, and this dim, derelict hall would serve that purpose well. It was not a place where people seemed likely to come. The shadow hissed softly at that thought, the sound unexpectedly loud in the silence.
The creature hissed again and drew back further into the shadows, merging with the stone of the walls, for becoming one with its surroundings was part of its strength. For the moment, it would lie low, so that when it did make its move there would be no mistakes. Not like Nirn and the Raptor, both of whom had underestimated their opponents. Still, they had served their purpose, distracting the enemy from its own secret presence and doing sufficient damage to tie up the Golden Fire for some time.
The shadow reflected on that last point with satisfaction as it settled down to wait. After all, it could afford to be patient. Even if someone came and looked there would be nothing to see, just a darker patch of shadow that was part of the wall with its tattered hangings. But as it turned out, concealed or not, the shadow was completely safe. No one came.
PART II
Storm Shadows
15
The Darkness of the Derai
It was well past midnight and the Keep of Winds was quiet, although the Earl of Night did not think that it would sleep easily again for a long time. He was sprawled in a chair before the fire in his chambers, bone weary and still in the armor he had worn since the attack. So much had happened in so short a time, a potent reminder that their long vigil on the Wall had some meaning, after all.
As if, he thought, anyone with eyes could doubt that, given the withered lands that surround us and the foul creatures haunting every pass and dark ravine!
The Earl sighed, shifting in his seat. He was fortunate, he supposed, to have seen some of the other lands and creatures of this world and to know how twisted and tainted the Wall was by comparison. For most Derai, the Wall and its strongholds were all they ever knew: a bleak and narrow world—and one ill equipped, now, to withstand its enemy. The attack on the keep had proven that.
The frown between the Earl’s brows bit more deeply as he considered the consequences of the attack, some immediate, others more long-lasting. The death and destruction was bad, but could be borne; the sweeping away of the Derai belief in the inviolability of their keeps could prove harder to overcome. But the news that Korriya had brought him—that was far worse than any physical attack. The Earl’s hand closed into a fist. If only Korriya had not been so compelling and he could have dismissed her words. But he remembered the priestess well from their childhood together. Level headed and pragmatic, that was Korriya, with both feet firmly on the ground. She was not a person whose arguments should be dismissed lightly, if at all.
I should have known, the Earl thought. Maybe he had known. Malian was so like Nerion had been at the same age, but he had closed his eyes to the likeness, denying its potential implications. He had even dared to hope that Korriya might be mistaken, when he should have learned the futility of hope long ago. But Asantir’s account of events in the Old Keep had swept away any vestige of doubt, and the news would not stay quiet for long. Someone would talk; sooner or later, someone always did.
He shook his head, wondering how many Earls of Night before him had experienced such a succession of disasters. The aftermath of battle he could deal with: the endless discussions of how best to secure the keep and the daunting logistics of maintaining everyday life, despite the destruction everywhere. He could also understand and manage both those who seemed frozen in bewilderment and shock, unable to act, and the others who raged and called on him to exact swift retribution. That was all part of his duty as Earl, as fighting in defense of the keep had been. But these other matters, the stories of demons and old powers, the part his own daughter had played—the Earl shook his head again, staring blindly into the fire.
He had been stunned when Asantir came to him with Haimyr’s story that one of the heralds was a seeker. He had inherited his father’s aversion to those with the old powers, but he was still shocked to think that those despised powers might not, after all, be unique to the Derai. The Earl could not recall any instance in the long history of the Alliance where the Derai had encountered any other race with powers comparable to theirs—aside from the Swarm, of course. It was part of what set them apart, even if they now feared and mistrusted that particular aspect of their heritage.
The fingers of the Earl’s right hand drummed on his chair arm. “Ay, we fear it. But we’ve relied on it, too, just as we’ve relied on the long tradition of the inviolability of the power bound into the Old Keep.” The more fools we, he added to himself, thinking we could abandon the place so completely and still rely on its wards to defend us.
Now he was faced with the unpalatable probability that neglect of the old powers might prove to be the Derai’s undoing. And he was still his father’s son. It galled him that the priesthood might be essential to Derai survival, but he could not deny the evidence of recent events. Even so, he had been deeply reluctant when the heralds asked for the aid of Korriya’s priests. He had only agreed, unhappily, at Asantir’s urging.
The first time in five hundred years that the warrior kind had sought aid from the Temple quarter—and he was the Earl who had allowed it. His father, the Old Earl, would not have done it; he would have let Malian die first.
If he were here now, he would call me weak, the Earl thought, his expression weary. And perhaps he would be right, since I found that I could not bear to lose my child, as I lost my wife. Yet now I will lose Malian anyway, for exactly the same reason that I lost Nerion.
He could feel the weight of his duty—to his House, to the Derai Alliance, and to the Blood Oath that bound him, as it had bound every Earl for five hundred years—settling on him now, heavier by far than the weight of his armor.
Heavy, yes, but not in the same way as the message delivered to him by the heralds of the Guild, which sat in his belly like a stone. He could not speak of it to anyone, dared not, and that circumstance, together with their priestlike powers, made him reflect dourly on the breed called heralds. Their very presence was like a rock dropped into a pool and he had seen the dark looks and heard the mutterings that followed them.
“They have witnessed Derai weakness and seen too much for outsiders,” the mutterers said, g
iving outsiders its old, dangerous twist, which meant both stranger and enemy.
The Earl grimaced as he remembered the uncanny power of the heralds’ sigil of silence. Once invoked, it was as though an invisible wall had sprung up around themselves and the Earl. Asantir—watching to make sure that he came to no harm—could see, but not hear a word that was spoken. And the heralds had spoken sometimes in unison, sometimes alternately, as though neither of them knew the message in its entirety.
They had been sent, they told him, by an old friend of his youth, from the time when he traveled in the River lands. The friend was a River merchant called Vhirinal, who had risen to be an Ephor, or ruler, in the city of Terebanth. It appeared that information flowed as freely as gold along the trading routes between the River cities, and that in recent years these flows had widened to include some of the Derai Houses along the Wall. Eventually, all the information, like much of the gold, came to the Ephors of Terebanth and so it was that Vhirinal had learned something that concerned his old friend, Tasarion, who was now the Earl of Night.
“There is a traitor in your household,” the herald Jehane had said, speaking the Ephor’s warning aloud.
“One who is close to you but whom you suspect not,” the herald Tarathan had continued. “Beware!” the heralds had then chanted in unison. “Beware, Earl of Night, for the hounds of your enemies hunt!”
One who is close to you but whom you suspect not. It could be anyone—anyone whom he saw every day and trusted, as a retainer or a friend, even a lover. The Earl flinched away from that last thought, but it could not be ignored.
“Someone close to me, whom I suspect not.” He spoke slowly to the quiet night. “Rowan is the obvious choice, the stranger out of the Winter Country. There are already plenty who say that she has bewitched me, and why else but to betray me in the end? Or Haimyr, the outsider who has dwelt so long amongst us. Yet if they are traitors, whom do they serve? Are the people of Winter or far-off Ij my enemies? There is no sense in that.” The Earl’s fingers drummed again: Beware Earl of Night for the hounds of your enemies hunt. He frowned at the fire. “I know that our Derai enemies were not responsible for last night’s attack, but they could have suborned someone close to me, all the same. But if so, who? And to what specific end, beyond the obvious betrayal?”