by Helen Lowe
The hard voice was dispassionate, yet Kalan shivered, mesmerized by the black mask. In above my head, he thought, and shivered again. He cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re stronger than Yorindesarinen, then?” he asked.
There was a moment’s complete silence and then the Huntmaster gave a short, rasping bark of laughter. “What a boy’s question! Even I would hesitate to put it to the trial, never having gone up against a Chaos Worm.” The voice grew sober again. “I am older, boy, that is all, and much, much darker.”
Kalan struggled to comprehend how old that would be, and the crow uttered a small, derisive squawk. Even the spear song thrummed with dark amusement as the questions swarmed through Kalan’s brain. But the hound bayed again, much closer now, and his companion turned. “There is no more time,” he said. “The Hunt wakes and must be mastered. Even a Great Spear may not argue with that!” He paused. “Such weapons choose their bearers and it has shown itself to you, but the time is not yet, boy. It would kill you, if you grasped it now.”
The spear, Kalan saw, was drawing back into the surrounding mist, its song fading. He felt a wild impulse to reach out and seize it before it vanished altogether.
“Nay, young one. The Huntmaster is right; the spear will choose its own time and place. Presume not lest it turn against you.” The voice was scarcely more than a whisper, a faint rasp speaking directly into his mind. Kalan started, staring at the tall figure beside him, but the black mask was intent on the fading spear. Only the crow moved, ruffling out its feathers and cawing again. Perplexed, Kalan turned Yorindesarinen’s ring on his finger. He could not help hoping that one day the same hand would hold the black spear.
“Perhaps.” The mind voice was still faint. “But anyone who grasps a Great Spear must be strong, lest the weapon master the bearer. You are not yet ready for that trial.”
Kalan remembered both the terrible, compelling lure of the song and how drained Asantir had been after she cast her black spear into the Raptor of Darkness. But his feet dragged anyway as he turned to follow the Huntmaster, who was already striding away from him through the trees. Now that the black spear had gone, Kalan could hear the distant belling of hounds, rising to a clamor that was as dark and terrible as the spear’s song. There were voices, too, hallooing and urging them on, and the sudden clear winding of a horn.
The mask looked back over the black-cloaked shoulder. “Hark at the sound, boy!” the harsh voice said. “The milk-white hounds with their blood red eyes give voice, for the first time in many a long year. The Huntmaster may not tarry once the Hunt is awake—and they are well awake now!”
The ground grew steeper, and Kalan felt the strain in his legs and heard the quick gasp of his breath as he struggled to keep the black cloak in sight. The fog cleared and the wood became more open as the hill rose; the moon shone through and turned the world to silver. The pearl in Yorindesarinen’s ring glowed in answer as the ground leveled and Kalan put on a burst of speed—then came to an abrupt halt.
He was standing on the edge of a wide, open hilltop that was filled by a pack of milling hounds, a band of hunters behind them. The beasts were white as milk, and huge, with eyes the red of rubies and deep, belling voices.
“Blood!” the deep voices bayed, a clamor in Kalan’s mind. “Blood and death!”
20
The Web of Mayanne
Kalan stood very still. He noticed that the crow had come back to rest on the Huntmaster’s shoulder, where it did not twitch so much as a feather.
“Are they wyr hounds?” Kalan whispered, not daring to speak any louder. He had never seen a wyr hound, for the Earl of Night would not have them in his keep, but knew that they were both a power and a terror of the Derai.
The Huntmaster snorted. “Wyr hounds would turn and run with their tails beneath their legs if they met this pack!” The dark eyeholes bored into Kalan. “Will you dare the Hunt, boy?”
Kalan scowled, because it was impossible not to be afraid of the savage, restless hounds, but he was tired of being challenged and told what to do without having any of his questions answered. He folded his arms. “Aren’t both you and they simply a figment of my dream?”
“A figment of my dream,” the Huntmaster mimicked. “So that’s what you think this is.” The harsh voice turned savage as the hounds. “Is that what the Derai have come to, the elder Token on the hand of an ignorant boy? Think! You are a dreamer. You can pass the Gate of Dreams in your spirit and in your waking flesh. There is no such thing as just a dream for you, not ever—and most particularly not when you bear the Token on your hand. See how it glows, boy! Did you truly think it was chance that brought you here to me and roused the Hunt?”
Involuntarily, Kalan glanced down at his hand, then swallowed, for like the moon overhead, the ring was getting brighter. But, a token? He tried to remember what Yorindesarinen had said when she gave it to him, about it belonging to a friend and that people would not remember it anymore. Some other thought niggled as he looked at the ring, something that he was missing or forgetting, but he could not place it.
Slowly, his head came up. “My name’s Kalan,” he said, “not boy. You needn’t tell me your real name if you don’t wish to, but I at least have one.” There was a pause while he held his ground and his stare. “I don’t understand any of this,” he continued more quietly: “the Hunt, you, this ring, although I know I need to.”
The Huntmaster shrugged. “Why waste time with names? It is deeds alone that matter when you follow the Hunt.”
“So you say,” the faint, slightly hoarse voice said, although this time Kalan was not sure that he was meant to hear it. The Huntmaster’s head turned slightly, as though listening. “But then, you have forgotten what it is to be young—and perhaps even your own name, since you speak it so seldom. The boy is right. He needs to know what part he must play here.”
A part? Me? Kalan wondered, alarmed. The Huntmaster was studying him, the mask and its eyeholes equally blank.
“Our time grows short and you have much to do, so listen well, boy—Kalan. These are no Derai beasts. They are wild hounds, untamed and untameable, that used to hunt across the void between the stars, baying for vengeance and blood, feud and war. Fierce they were, and terrible, the milk-white hounds and the wild, merry hunters. All were afraid of them, even the gods, or so the legends say. Who knows, it may even have been true. But in the end, the Nine mastered them to save all worlds, binding them into the web that Mayanne wove. Yet even the Nine dared not bind the Hunt completely, for Mayanne warned that everything in the worlds and between them has a purpose that must be fulfilled.”
“There must be an out, she said, one loose end that is not tied off lest the whole snap and tear—and the very fabric of reality with it. So Terennin, the great Artisan, the Artificer of the Nine, made the ring—the Token as it is called—so that the power of the Hunt might be loosed at need. Both the Hunt and the Huntmaster are bound to that Token and will rouse to its call, within the bounds set by Mayanne’s web.” The Huntmaster’s voice grew somber. “Terennin also foretold that it would not be forever, this binding, and that the old weaving would be replaced by a new that would allow the Hunt back into the circle of worlds and time. That, too, Mayanne wove into her design—although it has not happened yet.”
“No,” said Kalan. He looked sidelong at the milling hounds and was inclined to hope that it would not happen for a long time. His mind was reeling, trying to take in the significance of the ring upon his finger and wondering whether Yorindesarinen had known all this when she gave it to him. Surely she must have. And since the Nine had mastered the Hunt and the Derai served the Nine, that must make the Hunt a potential ally, not an enemy …
“Make no mistake,” the Huntmaster said, cutting across this reasoning, “they hunt for themselves, lest a strong will bind them. The chase itself is all they care for, the wildness and the joy of it, the warm blood and the kill at the end.”
“So why,” Kalan asked, puzzled, “
have they woken now when I didn’t even know that I bore the Token? And I certainly didn’t call either them or you!”
The Huntmaster’s tone was dry. “Maybe we should look to your star-bright hero for the answers. But the Nine wrought both web and ring, after all. Perhaps it is not surprising that if something disturbs the web, it will rouse both the Token and the Hunt.”
Kalan remembered his dark, restless dreams and the sense of imminent danger stalking through them. The feeling that he had forgotten something important stirred again. “What did disturb it?” he whispered.
“You wear the ring,” the Huntmaster said. “See what the hounds see. Then you will have your answer.”
Reluctantly, Kalan focused his attention on the Hunt. He could feel the hounds’ wild power, straining as though at some invisible leash, in stark contrast with the band of hunters who had neither moved nor spoken since he and the Huntmaster arrived. It was as though, despite the hounds that surged and bayed around them, they were frozen in place. Kalan’s eyes narrowed, for although the hounds’ movements were restless, all their attention was focused in the one direction. He turned, following their avid gaze, and saw that the hillside beyond the pack was bounded, not by more forest but by a shimmering curtain of air. At first glance, Kalan thought that the curtain was just a skein of fine mist, but as objects beyond the shimmer came into focus he recognized the red and white room—and memory and horror came flooding back together.
A fire burned brightly on the hearth and a woman sat motionless beside it, her gaze fixed on the flames. The firelight flickered across her scarred face and over the red-and-white canopy of the bed that stood against the opposite wall. A black-haired girl lay beneath the canopy’s shadow, deeply asleep, but a silver light, brighter than the fire, shone around her and had spread out to form a circle of clear, cold flames around the bed.
The girl, Kalan realized, with a queer sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, was Malian; the silver fire, he surmised, must be coming from Yorindesarinen’s armring. It was holding back a dark, sinuous form that probed at the margin of the flames, trying to find a way through. Seeing it, the hounds bayed as one and crowded close to the edge of the veil, their crimson eyes aflame.
Now, finally, the hunters began to move; but in the slow manner of sleepwalkers, or like people wading through sand, coalescing around a man with a stern, resolute mouth. They all wore half-masks, Kalan saw, and one hunter stood aside from the main group—a figure swathed in a great hooded cloak with neither face nor mask visible beneath the cowl. The other hunters seemed unaware of their lone companion, except for one who lingered at the rear of the group and had half turned back, holding out a hand as though in supplication. Kalan stared at them, bewildered, then switched his attention back to what was happening in the red and white room.
“What is that thing?” he whispered fiercely. “Why does the woman by the fire do nothing? Can’t she see that it’s after Malian?”
“It is a siren worm,” the Huntmaster replied, “a creature of the Swarm. Although it cannot be compared to a Raptor of Darkness, it is still a master of stealth and sly but powerful magics. Siren worms change form at will, and few can withstand their venom if bitten, falling first under the worm’s power and then dying when it has no further use for them. In this case, it may simply have cast its siren spell over the woman so that she remains blind and deaf to its presence, saving its venom for the girl.”
Kalan’s fists clenched. “First it must overcome the fire that protects her!”
“True,” the Huntmaster replied, “but it will do so eventually. The silver fire is only generated by a device, however powerful, while the siren worm is a power wielder, able to call on spell and counterspell until it prevails. It must have hidden in the tapestry,” he added, “blending itself into its surroundings after the manner of its kind, without realizing what the web was. Once there, its presence will have woken the Hunt, which hates the Swarm and all its minions.”
“Then let the hounds have it!” said Kalan fiercely. “Isn’t that why you’re here? What are you waiting for?”
“Gently, boy.” The Huntmaster’s voice was stern. “The hounds must not pass the Gate, for the blood of the worm alone will not sate their thirst. Everything in your world will die if the Hunt breaks through Mayanne’s weaving. It must remain bound to this place.”
“So we cannot pass through and save Malian either!” Kalan wanted to pummel the veil-thin barrier, forcing it to let him through. “What is the point of the Token and being a dreamer if all I can do is stand here and watch her die?” He groaned aloud as the siren worm reared into the air and began to sway from side to side in a slow mesmeric sweep. Its shadow lengthened with every pass, coiling around the silver fire like a wreath of oily smoke—and very slowly, the flames wavered and began to contract. The hounds threw themselves against the veil, howling and trying to push their way through, but the worm appeared oblivious to their presence.
Kalan swung round on the Huntmaster. “There must be something we can do!”
“It is not we,” the Huntmaster replied quietly. “It is you, boy—Kalan. You bear the Token and you must rouse the hunters to act. My part is to bind the hounds so that you may do your work without being torn apart.”
Kalan swallowed, looking at the straining, slavering hounds, then his eyes darted back to the red and white room and the dwindling silver fire. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “What can the hunters do? Aren’t they bound, as well, being part of the Hunt?”
“As I told you,” the Huntmaster said, “the ring you bear is an outlet for the Hunt’s power. The hounds are too powerful and dangerous to ever be let loose, but the Token allows the power of the hunters to work on more than one plane. No one knows who the Merry Hunters were originally, or what, but now they serve as a reflection, an image of the forces playing out in the world on the other side of the web. Right now, those forces are focused inside your Keep of Winds, on the Derai Wall.”
Kalan frowned, concentrating on the hunters in their strange tableau. “They are all masked,” he said. “Like you.”
The Huntmaster shook his head. “Not like me. When the hunters wear masks it means that the forces at work on the other side, the purposes and motivations of those they represent, are concealed. But every one of those masked hunters represents someone who is close to the Child of Night in the world beyond the Gate. What we do not know is whether they are they friend or foe.”
“And I,” said Kalan wretchedly, “don’t know any of those close to Malian well enough to tell the difference.”
“Nonetheless,” said the Huntmaster, and his voice was stern, “you are the Token-bearer and you alone have the power to walk amongst the Merry Hunters. Those you touch with the ring will rouse to action beyond the Gate, but whether to save the Heir of Night or to harm her will depend on your wisdom. Only you can discern who will act as a friend to the Child and who would destroy her.”
“How can I possibly tell between them?” Kalan asked, despairing. “I don’t even know who they’re meant to be!”
“If you wish to save your friend, you will find a way.” The Huntmaster was dispassionate. “The wise person knows the face of an enemy—and of a friend, even when hidden behind a mask. The Child of Stars gave you the Token, Kalan. Now you must prove worthy of it.”
It would be useless, Kalan supposed, to say that he had not asked for the ring; in any case, that would not save Malian. “All right,” he said, more desperate than determined, and took a step toward the hunters. He did not look at the hounds, but he sensed the sudden switch in their attention. The Huntmaster stepped forward at the same time, his black cloak swirling, and spoke to the hounds in a language that Kalan had never heard before. He tried not to listen to it, or to the fierce, bloodcurdling answer from the hounds, but continued walking until he stood on the fringe of the group of hunters.
The harsh voice came floating after him. “Choose well, boy, or the Child of Night will surely di
e.”
Kalan scowled, shutting out everything but the hunters.
The light from the black pearl began to intensify, like a full moon shrouded by clouds, rising on his hand.
Terennin’s ring, he thought. That information was hard to take in, let alone accept. Yet Yorindesarinen herself, the Child of Stars, had given the jewel to him, and all knew that the House of Stars served Terennin first amongst the Nine. Yorindesarinen was a seer as well, so perhaps she had foreseen this attack on Malian and sought to thwart it through her gift.
Don’t think about that now, Kalan told himself sharply. It’s not helping. Just get on with what you’re supposed to be doing here.
He stared at the faces around him, but only the mouths and chins beneath the half-masks revealed any expression. Kalan studied each one closely, seeking some clue to the nature and purpose of the mask wearer. Sternness, bitterness, resolution, sorrow—these were all plain enough to read. But there were other faces that he could not make out, like the one concealed by many masks that were constantly shifting, metamorphosing every time Kalan tried to focus on one or all of them. Another figure stood close behind this hunter, its face concealed by the other’s head and shoulder. Every time Kalan tried to move in order to see the hidden mask, the hunter in front would also move and the many masks would change again: now black, now gilded; now of leather, now of feathers; now feline in cast, now reptilian.
Kalan became disorientated by the constant transformations and turned away, giving up on the hunter in the concealed mask as well. This brought him face-to-face with the hunter who stood alone, so deeply cloaked and hooded that Kalan could make out nothing of the person beneath. Cold fingers walked along his spine and he turned quickly toward the hunter with the bitter mouth, the one who always had one hand extended, either in invitation or entreaty—or perhaps in both—toward the one who had just made him shiver.