The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  Kalan waited, and soon there was a slight scrape of wood against stone. A figure detached itself from the surrounding darkness, moving along the stalls and stopping about ten paces away. Kalan’s companions remained still as stone on the narrow stair; the shadow figure began to whistle, a soft snatch of tune from the Night March,a song of the armies of Night. Still his companions waited, but when the same whistle came again, the one with a hand on Kalan’s shoulder whistled the next bar back. The whistler’s face turned toward them and Kalan saw that it was the guard called Lira, whom he remembered from the Old Keep. “The eye has passed,” she said, very quietly.

  “And now we must run before the storm,” the first of Kalan’s companion’s replied—a man’s low voice—and Lira relaxed, smiling.

  “Well met, my friends,” she whispered. “The others are in the undercroft.” She turned and they followed her to a small door that opened onto another narrow stair. It was the door, Kalan realized, that must have made the scraping sound. The stair twisted down into the undercroft, where the grain and the other supplies necessary for so vast a stable were stored. Lira stopped at the foot of the stair and whistled softly, this time the even more famous refrain from the martial air known as the Charge of the House of Night. Alantern flared in answer, and dark figures materialized from behind barrels and grain bins. Kalan stepped forward with a glad cry as he saw Malian appear beside Asantir, but the Honor Captain checked him.

  “There is no time,” she said. “You and Malian need to leave at once, before the night grows old. You must take the narrow ways to the Gray Lands and cross as soon as the storm dies, aiming for the Border Mark and the road south.” She turned as a tall woman with a scarred face led forward a string of horses. Lira moved swiftly to help and Kalan’s companions also stepped forward, pushing back their hoods. Kalan whistled softly as he recognized Garan and Nerys, amazed that they had dared to pass through the Temple quarter, even in secret. But then he saw the horses clearly and forgot everything else.

  There were five horses, all black as night and as beautiful, with spirited heads, deep chests denoting endurance, and legs built for speed. All five horses were equipped for a long journey, with a travel roll and journey bags strapped behind each saddle, and they snorted and stamped their hooves as they waited. “But—these are messenger horses!” Kalan exclaimed.

  “I know,” said Malian. Her eyes were blazing with excitement. “Asantir says they will outrun and outlast anything else in the keep.”

  “But—” Kalan protested. “Messenger horses!”

  The scarred woman snorted. “Are you worried about what the Earl will say? Let me assure you, purloining messenger horses is likely to be the least of our worries if the Earl of Night catches up with us.”

  “Fear not,” Asantir said quietly. “These horses will not be missed immediately, for they belong to those who come and go from this keep unseen and unknown by all but a close-mouthed few. Like the horses, the way that you will take now is made to serve such comings and goings.”

  The scarred woman snorted again, her mouth tight, and Kalan wondered why she was angry with the captain. He remembered seeing her before, when they returned from the Old Keep, and again later, from the other side of the Gate of Dreams. She was the one who had sat by the fire, caught beneath the spell of the siren worm. Her name, he recalled, was Nhairin. “Are you coming with us?” he asked.

  “Ay,” she replied. “The Earl said I was to go with Malian anyway, and I’m not staying behind now to tell lies or, worse still, evasive truths to his face.” Her tone was sharp but her glance, sharper still, was directed at Asantir. “Besides,” she added, more mildly, “we could hardly let two such babes ride out alone.”

  “Not entirely alone,” the Honor Captain replied. Kalan could tell that she was aware of Nhairin’s anger, but chose not to respond to it. “Kyr and Lira have volunteered to go with you as well. The Wall, after all, is still the Wall and you may need their weapon skills there as well as on the long road south.”

  “Hmm,” said Garan, low voiced but grinning as he adjusted a stirrup for Malian. “We can all guess why Lira volunteered—eh, Lira?” he asked, looking at her across the horse’s back. “Are you hoping to kiss the beautiful herald Tarathan again?”

  “Just because no one wants to kiss you,” Lira retorted cheerfully, but equally quietly, and Kalan exchanged a covert grin with Malian.

  Asantir spoke beneath their banter. “Malian will need you, too, Nhairin, when she walks among strangers, both for your love and for your wisdom.” The steward nodded but did not answer, busying herself with her horse. Kalan looked a question at Malian, who shook her head, so he turned instead to his own mount. The beautiful black head looked around at him with a kindly eye, and he hoped that he could still remember how to stay in the saddle after seven years in the Temple quarter.

  A few moments later, they were all gathered around Asantir for her final instructions. “There is a way out of this undercroft,” she told them, “into the paths that lead through the Wall itself and finally into open country. It is only used by those on the Earl’s secret business and very few know of it, but both the High Steward and I are among those few. Garan and Nerys will accompany you to the gate, to let you through, but after that you will be on your own.” She regarded them all steadily. “I will not say take care, for you ride with the threat of pursuit behind you and potential foes on every side. Speed and daring, not care, are your best hope now. But although your steeds are swift and have great hearts, it is your own wit and courage that will bring you through.”

  Kalan felt his throat tighten with a mix of excitement and fear, but pride as well, as the Honor Captain saluted Malian. “My honor for your honor, Heir of Night,” she said, “until the end. Learn, and grow strong, and return to us soon!”

  “I will do my best,” Malian replied. “I give you my word, Asantir.” She paused, and Kalan saw her gaze flick to Nhairin’s impassive face before she added: “If there is wrong in what we do, to Earl or House or to the Derai Alliance itself, I take it now on my own honor. It need not lie on yours, Asantir.”

  The Honor Captain smiled. “Even the Heir cannot come between a warrior and her own honor, although I thank you for the offer, my Malian.” She nodded to Kyr, who would lead the way. “Go now, for it is time and more. And may the Nine go with you!”

  They went, leading the horses single file into the tunnel that led out of the undercroft. The guards went first with Nhairin behind them, while Malian and then Kalan brought up the rear. The cobbles underfoot gave way to sand that muffled the horses’ hooves; a breath of cold and dusty air came stealing to meet them. Kalan stumbled over a small stone and on a sudden impulse he stooped and slipped it into his pocket.

  A piece of the home earth, he thought with an ironic smile. But the Keep of Winds hadbeen home to him, however reluctantly, for seven years, just as Night had, in their own way, taken him in when Blood threw him out. Kalan wondered what Malian was feeling now. He had longed for years to escape but it was different for her; she was the Heir of Night and so this flight must seem like the bleakest of exiles. Even he felt qualms, for in his daydreams he had always ridden out to combat the enemies of the Derai, not crept away as a hunted fugitive. Kalan thought of wyr hounds and shuddered, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, I forgot!” he exclaimed.

  “What?” asked Nhairin, impatient.

  “I have to tell the captain that siren worms hunt in pairs!” he said urgently. “She needs to know that there’ll be another one.”

  Nhairin’s expression, as she looked back at him through the darkness, was very strange indeed. “How do you know about the siren worm?” she asked.

  “Sister Korriya will have told him,” said Malian. “She was there, after all.”

  Nhairin continued to stare at Kalan with narrowed eyes, a kind of weighing-things-up twist to her mouth, but eventually she shrugged. “Tell Garan and Nerys, then, and they can tell Asantir.”

  Now th
at, thought Kalan, as they moved forward again, was careless. He looked across and met Malian’s gaze, which was as speculative as the steward’s had been.

  “How did you know?” she whispered. “DidSister Korriya tell you?”

  Kalan shook his head. “Later,” he muttered back, feeling far from easy. He was remembering Hylcarian’s message to Malian, bidding her seek out Yorindesarinen’s long-lost sword, helm, and shield—and the warning to be very guarded.

  There would, he decided, be plenty of time in the days ahead for more private talk. He smiled, too, because the arms of Yorindesarinen were the stuff of legend and almost as famous as the hero herself. Even the thought of them sent a shiver down his spine, and it would be a marvelous thing if all three could be found and brought back to the Derai Alliance.

  Now there, thought Kalan, his heart lifting, is a true quest—a worthy Derai adventure.

  A few paces more brought them to the door that opened into the Wall itself. It appeared, Kalan thought, staring at it, to be made of stone; the metal crossbars were so heavy that it took both Garan and Nerys, working together, to lift them down. Kyr gave the quiet order to mount up and they all swung into the saddle, Kalan thankful that he managed successfully on his first attempt. His black horse walked calmly forward, following Malian’s, but Kalan drew rein at the gate, bending to speak with Garan.

  “I have a message,” he said, “for Captain Asantir.” He repeated what Hylcarian had told him about siren worms hunting in pairs, while keeping the source of the information to himself.

  “In pairs, eh?” Garan said, rubbing at his jaw. “That’s not good news. But thanks, lad. I’ll make sure the captain knows.”

  “Don’t forget,” said Kalan, although already he was thinking more about what lay ahead. He looked up to find that Nhairin had stopped as well and was watching him again. She shrugged when he stared back, but said nothing, just turned and rode on.

  Malian had stopped just beyond the gate and was looking behind her into the dim corridor that was the last of the Keep of Winds. Her hood shadowed her face, but Kalan sensed her sorrow and loss as Garan and Nerys began to swing the doors closed.

  “Farewell, Keep of Winds.” Malian bowed deeply from the saddle. Her voice was soft, but Kalan’s keen ears heard both the words and the longing and regret with which they were spoken.

  “Farewell, Child of Night.”The reply rippled in Kalan’s mind—and he assumed in Malian’s—unheard by anyone else. He recognized the voice at once, even though it was muted by distance. “I will not forget you. I shall be waiting for your return.”

  Malian straightened out of her bow, and Kalan saw her hands tighten on the reins. “I will not forget you either,” she said. “I, too, long for the day of return.”

  “Soon,”said the light-filled voice, fainter than an echo.

  “As to that,” Malian replied, “it is as the Nine will, and not I.” She raised her right hand, palm turned outward in formal salute “Farewell, Hylcarian.”

  And with only Kalan of the House of Blood to ride behind her, Malian of Night turned and rode away from the Keep of Winds, which had been her home and her inheritance. She did not look back again.

  PART III

  Jaransor

  25

  The River of No Return

  The wind was blowing again, no longer a full Wall storm but driving in gusts, bringing dust and grit from the jagged peaks that towered above the Gray Lands. It blew under the bivouac where the small band of fugitives lay hidden and shrilled around its perimeter. Malian shifted uneasily on the hard ground, feeling the stone beneath her hip and a pebble that was pushing into the small of her back. Rest eluded her, despite her weariness, and she envied Kalan who lay curled in exhausted sleep at her side.

  They had been traveling by night and resting by day in an attempt to avoid detection, with Malian falling asleep as soon as her head touched the stony ground. Even the full daylight had not been able to keep her awake, but now her eyes refused to close and she could see Kyr, Lira, and Nhairin crouched close together by the entrance to the small bivouac, their voices an anxious thread beneath the wind.

  It was the fourth day since they had fled the Keep of Winds, traveling through the narrow ways of the Wall while the storm raged above them. It had taken two full days to blow itself out, just as Haimyr had predicted, and they had reached the western rim of the Wall by the end of the second day. The evening light had been in their faces when Kyr pointed beyond the rock-strewn foothills to the vast, flat emptiness that was the Gray Lands. “That is the way we must go,” he’d said. “We shall travel by night to avoid prying eyes, although it will make our progress slower.”

  They had kept to this plan, making their way down through the foothills and only setting out across the Gray Lands once it was full night. The rocky plain was full of sudden dips and dry streambeds that kept their pace slow, but at first Malian had enjoyed the journey, the smooth stride of the horse and the breeze at her back that raised small dust devils across the plain. After hour on hour of silent riding, however, only stopping for short rests and to snatch a hurried mouthful of food, the ride became a matter of simple endurance. Only the paling of the eastern sky had finally signaled a halt, and their hiding place that first day out had been little more than a scrape in the surface of the plain. Even the horses had lain down to rest, while Kyr and Lira had stretched a tarpaulin, as gray and dreary as the land itself, from one side of the hollow to the other. They had all huddled beneath it, first to eat the dried rations from their saddlebags, and then to take turns sleeping. “For only a fool,” Kyr had said, “would fail to set a watch in these lands.”

  This was their third cold camp, for Kyr would not allow a fire. And although he insisted that they wait until full dark before striking camp, Malian, who was used to a world of stone walls, still felt overwhelmed by the openness of the plain. It was full of unexpected noises, the voices of birds and insects, and the stealthy movement of animals by night; even the gray light filtering through the tent seemed strange after the brilliant illumination of the keep.

  The voices near the entrance quietened and Nhairin moved back toward Malian. “Still awake?” the steward said. Her scarred face was drawn, her hair filmed with gray dust.

  Malian raised herself on one elbow. “What’s happening?” she asked in a low tone, so as not to wake Kalan. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

  The steward hesitated, then said reluctantly, “We’re not sure. We think there’s something out there that shouldn’t be, but we don’t know who, or what. It could be a hold patrol, but we’re a long way off their usual routes.” She hesitated again. “Lira’s going to check it out.”

  Malian looked past Nhairin to where the two guards still squatted on their heels by the entrance. Kyr looked grim, but Lira gave her a reassuring smile and a wink as she looped a water bottle onto her belt and checked her knives. “A horse would be too obvious by daylight, in this terrain,” she said, picking up her rider’s bow and pitching her voice just loud enough for Malian to hear. “I’ll scout this one on foot.”

  “Be careful,” Kyr growled, and Lira gave him a quick nod and the ghost of a smile. “Of course,” she said, and slid out through the entrance.

  Malian thought that she would never sleep then for worrying about Lira, out there alone on the hostile plain. She watched Nhairin settle down beside her and wondered how long they would have to wait before the guard returned. Kyr remained by the entrance, carefully whetting the blade of his sword; the sound was sinister beneath the gusting wind. Malian stared up at the tarpaulin, listening to the wind’s voice—and the next thing she knew the shadows were thick under the bivouac and she was blinking her eyes awake. Voices murmured by the entrance and she sat up quickly. Lira was back, dust coated from the plain, but she seemed unusually subdued and both Kyr and Nhairin looked bleak.

  So, thought Malian, not good news. She saw that Kalan was awake and listening, too, although he had not yet moved. “What did you
find?” she asked Lira.

  Lira sighed. “There’s a large band of riders out there,” she replied, “and they’re definitely not Derai. Their harness is similar to that of the warriors we fought in the Old Keep, so they may be Darkswarm. But whoever they are, they’re on our trail—and it looks like a second group’s split off to get between us and the Border Mark.”

  Nhairin muttered an imprecation. “How long have they been following us, do you think?” she asked.

  Lira shrugged. “I’d say they’ve been searching for our trail since we left the Wall. Now that they’ve found it, they’ll be pushing hard to catch up. Fortunately for us, they don’t seem to like traveling by day much either.”

  They were all silent for a moment and Malian got up and moved to the entrance. “Can’t we outrun them,” she asked, “since we have messenger horses?”

  “They’re good horses,” Kyr said gruffly, “swift and enduring, but it’s too far to the Border Mark. And if we tried to gallop across terrain this rough, even by day, they’d end up with broken legs.”

  “Besides,” said Lira, “as soon as we forsake stealth and run for it, the dust alone will tell our pursuers exactly where we are.”

  Nhairin’s frown was heavy as she looked from Lira’s dusty face to Kyr. “What other options do we have?”

  Kyr cracked his knuckles, one by one, until Malian felt like shaking him. “If we keep on going as we are,” he said, “they’ll catch us pretty quickly, now that they’ve found our trail. So we need to try and outwit them, if we can, do the thing they won’t expect. I say we turn west and head for Jaransor.”