by Helen Lowe
“Such journeys are never easy,” the Earl agreed. “And more difficult still if one must make them alone.” His expression grew brooding, dark. Malian watched the play of firelight over his face and wondered if anyone truly knew his mind or heart; certainly she did not, even if she was his daughter. It seemed unlikely now that she ever would.
Her father met her eyes again. “There is something more that you should know,” he said and Malian straightened, caught by the gravity of his tone. “It concerns your mother. Up until now you have always been told that she died when you were young. But although that is true, or we believed it to be so, it is only part of the truth.”
Malian’s heart began to pound and she realized that she was waiting for some blow, long suspected but never acknowledged, to fall. “It began when you were less than a year old,” the Earl said. “Your mother had not been well and it was discovered that the cause of her illness was the abrupt manifestation of the old powers, which had only emerged following your birth. Apparently it can happen that way: The power lies dormant until shaken into life by some major physical or emotional event.”
He paused, as though ordering his thoughts. “I was Heir at the time and your grandfather, my father, was Earl. As long as I can remember, he was consumed by a great hatred for those with priestly powers. It was intolerable to him that Nerion should have brought the taint into our line and he insisted that she be exiled from this House, even though she was not herself of the Blood of Night. The exile he named was to the stronghold of the House of Adamant, which is perhaps the oldest and certainly the most implacable opponent of Night.”
The Earl paused again, a deep line between his brows as his right hand clenched into a fist. When he resumed speaking, his voice was harsh. “Your mother was sent to the Keep of Stone and no word came back to tell us how she fared until two years later. Even then, we simply received a bald message telling us that she had died. There was no detail, no explanation. I was Earl by that time, but it still took considerable effort to find out that she had, in fact, committed suicide. Apparently she just walked out into the heart of a Wall storm, the kind that shreds flesh from bone. We found out later still that she had been very badly treated in the Keep of Stone, to the extent that death was preferable to continuing to live and breathe within its walls.”
Malian stared at him, her mind reeling. She remembered all the stories that Nesta and Doria had told her, of her mother’s kindness and laughter, her wit and spirit—and of how much she and her father had loved each other. Doria had always said that was why there were no portraits of her mother in the keep: “Because your poor father could never bear to look at her dear face, not after she was gone, my poppet.” Truth, Malian thought now, Doria’s voice resonating in her memory: Every word true—but not as she had understood them.
Sick and dizzy, she shook her head. “And you let her go,” she said, “alone amongst enemies.” The tapestry behind his head swam and glittered through the tears standing in her eyes; momentarily, it appeared to move, coming alive. Malian blinked the tears away as her father made a sharp gesture, as though warding off a blow.
“I live with the regret and the pain of that every day,” he replied, his voice hard. “But be sure of this, I will not let the same thing happen to you.”
“Won’t you?” Malian asked. She sat even straighter, challenging him. “Yet you are still sending me away, just as you let my mother, your wife, be sent away. And what can you do to help me, any more than you helped her, once I am in the Sea Keep Temple, far beyond your reach and that of Night?”
The Earl’s face darkened. “I do what I must, Malian,” he said harshly, “for the Alliance and for our Derai vigil. You are of the Blood of the Sea House, through Nerion, and unlike the House of Adamant they are our friends, not our enemies. It is also said that they hold the Oath more lightly than we do, perhaps because Sea is not a warrior House.” His face and voice softened. “I am doing the best that I can for you. And you know as well as I what it means to be Earl and leader of this House, the first and oldest of the Derai Alliance. You know the Oath that binds us.”
Malian refused to soften. “It does not bind you to send me away,” she replied, quick and cold as steel. “That is tradition only. And why should the Oath overwhelm every other tie that has ever bound the Alliance together, including the obligations of love and honor that make both House and family strong?”
The Earl’s headshake was weary. “It is the Blood Oath, Malian, binding beyond death. It cannot be broken or set aside. You know that. But there is another reason why I believe it best to send you away.”
“What is this other reason?” Malian asked carefully. She was surprised when her father began to pace much as she had done earlier in the day, restless and almost angry, up and down the room.
“Korriya,” he flung at her over his shoulder, “thinks that your mother is not dead, after all.” He turned on his heel. “She believes that she is alive and gone over to the Swarm—that it was Nerion who spearheaded the attack on Night, silencing our protective wards and leading the raiders through the Old Keep.” He ran a hand through his hair and turned again. “Korriya is concerned, given this, that the invaders’ main target, whether to slay or to capture, appears to have been you.”
“Kill,” Malian whispered, “they were trying to kill me.” Her eyes flicked to the tapestry as she remembered the ululating cries that had hunted her through the Old Keep. Suddenly the milk-white hounds seemed crueler and more menacing, the deer smaller and more desperate. “Is it possible?” she whispered again. “Can it possibly be true?”
The Earl sighed and came back to her. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I hope that it is not, that Korriya is just another priest gibbering at shadows. Unfortunately, she was never much of a gibberer when we were young together, quite the contrary in fact. And if she is right, then you remain vulnerable. Nerion was of this keep before she turned, she knows our secrets well. And like you, she ran wild in the Old Keep as a child.” He grimaced slightly at her expression. “I find out what goes on in my own keep eventually, and even if I do not, there is no secret that you can hide from Asantir. She ferrets them all out, in the end.” He shook his head. “But you will be safe in the Sea Keep. Nerion never went there, even though she came of their Blood. She will have no knowledge of its ways.”
“I see,” said Malian. Her throat ached with the effort not to cry in front of him, so she stared fiercely into the fire instead, willing the tears away. His words echoed in her mind: She knows our secrets well. She remembered Yorindesarinen’s words, too, from beyond the Gate of Dreams: As for the secret of your heritage, it seemed well kept, but this attack can only mean that the enemy has learned of it at last. The priestess Korriya’s suspicions would certainly explain how the Swarm had come by that knowledge, although not why it had taken so long for the Darkswarm to act.
Malian tipped her face forward so that it was hidden against her drawn-up knees. After a moment she felt her father’s hand rest on her shoulder; his tone, when he spoke, was heavy. “If Nerion is with the Darkswarm, she will not be the childhood friend or lover I once knew. Nor will she be the mother that you lost. The gods only know what twisted sort of creature the Swarm will have made of her.”
Did the Swarm do that, Malian cried silently, or was it the betrayal by husband, friends, House?
Because of her father’s brief gesture of tenderness, and the pain she heard in his voice, she did not speak the words aloud—but nor could she fling her arms around him and blot her tears in the folds of his tunic, as she had done so often with Haimyr. Malian took a deep breath and lifted her head.
“Thank you,” she said, as steadily as she could. “I needed to know this. But it is a great deal to have to think about—” She paused. “And I would prefer to do so alone.”
“Yes,” the Earl said bleakly. He hesitated, and Malian thought he might remind her that he had intended to eat with her. But in the end he just sighed. “I will let yo
u know what the Temple says about the boy. And tell you myself when your departure has been arranged.”
After he left Malian wept, flinging herself down on the bed and crying in low, shuddering sobs. She felt as though she were weeping for everything that had happened: the fear, loneliness, and terror of her time in the Old Keep, and the grief and isolation of her return, all flooding out on a tide of tears. She cried, too, at the cruelty of her mother’s fate—as well as for the possibility that Nerion might have led the Darkswarm invaders who had tried to kill her. But most of all Malian grieved for Doria and Nesta, who had been the comfort, stability, and warmth of her solitary childhood.
The great storm of tears left her limp and wrung out. Yet slowly, other memories of the past days began to creep in: Yorindesarinen in the glade between worlds, with stars in her hair; the warmth of Kalan’s hand holding hers, far down in the dark; the unexpected friendship of the heralds; and the wonder of the Golden Fire that had saved them all and enabled her to bring everyone safely home. Malian’s fingers sought the cold silver of Yorindesarinen’s armring and just for a moment she saw the warmth of the hero’s smile again, and heard her musing voice: “I was promised, even as I lay dying, that another would come to unite the Derai, and that one would not have to stand alone—would not be alone.”
“And I’m not alone,” Malian said, sitting up and wiping her eyes. There was Kalan—and Haimyr and the heralds and even Hylcarian, somewhere in the depths of the Old Keep. She sighed and looked around, then blinked at the tapestry on the wall. Surely it wasn’t quite the same as when she had last looked, surely, it had—“Changed,” said Malian and slid to her feet. She walked closer, staring.
The tapestry still depicted a hunt, but now the prey looked less like a deer and more like a unicorn: a small unicorn with a slender horn. The hounds had narrowed the gap on their quarry and they seemed larger and whiter, their fierce eyes a deeper red. Malian could almost hear them baying. The hunters, too, had crowded closer together, their faces turned away; what little she could see of their expressions seemed veiled, secretive.
Malian shivered, deeply uneasy and reluctant to turn her back on the tapestry’s strangeness. She felt that at any moment the figures in it might speak and move, but although she stared hard they all remained frozen in place. Yet she was sure that they had moved—the pattern had definitely changed. She forced herself to look away and then swung quickly back, trying to catch the hunt out in some shift or trick, but there was no further alteration.
Malian scowled at the tapestry, wondering whether to tell herself that it had all been an effect of the light, or to appear a nervous fool by requesting that the guards keep watch inside the chamber as well as outside the door. “Gibbering at shadows,” she muttered, repeating her father’s phrase, but after the Old Keep she could not help feeling wary. Still watching the tapestry, she backed toward the double doors, but before she could reach for the handle, someone knocked. “Come in,” she called, and one of the doors opened to admit Nhairin with a covered tray.
“I thought I would bring your meal myself,” the High Steward said, “and see how you were feeling.”
Malian stood aside to let her enter, then closed the door on the guards outside. Nhairin set the tray down on the table and went to stoke the fire, building it up again while Malian nibbled at the tray’s contents. “There,” the High Steward said at last, sitting back on her heels, “that should see the night through.” She held out her hands to the warmth and slanted a look at Malian, the old scar cast into lurid relief by the flames. “So,” she said, “I take it that your father has told you his plans?”
Malian nodded. “But I was expecting exile anyway.”
“Well,” the steward answered, “I spoke against the idea, for whatever that’s worth, both privately and in the council.”
She shrugged. “Not that it did any good. Your father is resolved on his course.”
“Thank you anyway,” Malian said slowly. “He says,” she added, “that you are to lead my escort to the Sea Keep?”
Nhairin gave a little snort. “With this leg? It will be Lannorth or one of the other honor guards who leads the escort. But I am to ride with you, in lieu of a governess or other suitable duenna.”
“Why, Nhairin,” said Malian, “you sound bitter. That’s not like you.”
The steward sighed. “The last few days have brought reality home to me. I may have been a guard once, but because of my lame leg I couldn’t fight off the invaders, or form one of the Old Keep rescue party. And I’m certainly not fit to lead a party into the wild country of the Wall. I am like an old hound, snapping over its scars and of little use to anyone.”
Malian considered this. “You could help me now,” she said gravely. “I had much rather ask you than one of Lannorth’s guards.”
The scarred face turned fully toward her. “Help you? How, my Malian?”
“I know this will seem silly,” Malian answered, wishing she did not sound so defensive, “but I’m sure that tapestry has changed its pattern.” Before she could say anything more, Nhairin had risen to her feet and was limping over to the wall hanging.
“Are you sure its changed?” the steward asked, studying the hunt scene closely.
“Yes!” said Malian. “Until this evening it was a deer the hounds were chasing, but now it looks more like a unicorn. The hunters are different, too. You used to be able to see their faces and they were all happy, laughing. Now every head is turned away, their expressions mostly concealed, but I doubt anyone is laughing!”
“They’re a grim lot,” Nhairin agreed, then shook her head. “Although I have to say that everything here looks very much as I remember.” She turned back to Malian. “It’s too late now, but in the morning I’ll have the hanging removed. And if you wish, I can stay with you until you get to sleep.”
Malian hesitated, feeling rather foolish—but given everything else that had happened recently, what could it hurt to be careful? “I do wish,” she said finally, and Nhairin nodded.
“These have been hard days,” she said, as though following Malian’s train of thought. “You get into bed, then, and I’ll take this chair by the fire so I can keep my eyes on your tapestry!”
“Thank you,” said Malian, with real gratitude. “I am not afraid,” she added, as she hurried to get beneath the red cover on the bed. “I’m just being cautious, that’s all.”
“Very prudent,” the steward agreed, settling into the armchair.
Silence fell, but after a while Malian turned to face the fire again. “Did you know my mother, Nhairin?” she asked.
She watched the steward’s head turn. “Now what,” said Nhairin, “brought that up? Yes, I knew her. We played together as children, here in the keep.”
“Were you friends?”
“Yes,” Nhairin said again, “we were friends.” She picked up the poker and leaned forward, stirring the fire so that a shower of sparks flew up, orange and golden above the hearth.
Malian persisted. “But you didn’t go with her when she was sent away?”
The poker froze above the fire. “No,” said Nhairin. “I did not. Now who has been telling you that story, my Malian?”
Malian pushed up onto one elbow. “My father,” she said slowly. “He told me tonight. He thought I should know, since I, too, am being sent away.” She hesitated, not knowing how much Nhairin knew of the Earl’s other suspicions and reluctant to say more.
“Did he now?” said Nhairin, half under her breath.
“Well, I suppose you had to know sometime. What else did he tell you?”
“That she was sent away alone, to a fastness of our enemies. That they did not treat her well, and that she killed herself.”
Nhairin nodded. “Those are the bald facts.”
“But why,” asked Malian, “was she treated so cruelly? Why did she not simply go to a Temple in one of our holds, or at least to one of our allies?”
The poker was set back, very carefully, onto the
hearth. “The Old Earl, your grandfather, was a harsh man, and those with the old power were anathema to him. It was a point of pride with him that the priestly powers had never appeared in his direct family line since Aikanor’s day. And he had never liked the Lady Nerith, Nerion’s mother, because of what he called her ‘lax, Sea House ways.’ So when the power emerged in Nerion, it was as though all his hatred for the priest kind was unleashed against her.”
“But what about Sister Korriya?” Malian protested. “Isn’t she of the Blood as well?”
“She is of the First Kin, but not of the greater line that has endured since the beginning,” said Nhairin. “That is how the Old Earl saw it anyway.”
“My father should have stood against him,” Malian said vehemently. “He should have opposed my grandfather’s extremity.”
Nhairin hunched one shoulder. “The Earl is always the Earl,” she said, “and your father had only recently become Heir. Do not judge him too harshly, Malian, for if he could not protect Nerion he at least saved you. Ah,” she said, seeing the expression on Malian’s face. “Didn’t he tell you that? Well, I suppose he wouldn’t. Initially, the Old Earl wanted you killed, to remove the threat to the line. But your father would not allow it.”
Malian was silent, digesting this. “Why have I never been told any of this before?” she asked at last.
“Would it have changed anything?” Nhairin asked. “Or helped you, to have knowledge of your mother’s fate hanging over your head like a sword?”
Malian frowned at the ceiling. She knew what Nhairin meant, but she was the Heir, as well as the person most directly affected by this history. And now not knowing had ambushed her … Malian bit her lip, unsure what she could or should say and so reluctant to reply. In the end, it seemed easier to say nothing at all—and Nhairin must have considered her silence an answer in itself, for she, too, said nothing more.