by Helen Lowe
An opener of ways: the epithet Sirit had used became a weight as Garan remembered that Malian of Night’s power was believed to have come from her mother, Lady Nerion. And someone had known how to get into the Old Keep and bring down the New Keep’s defensive wards . . . Garan gritted his teeth, remembering Night’s tally of dead and injured from the Swarm attack and its aftermath. He wondered, too, if the reason Nhairin was keeping her face so resolutely averted was because one must never meet a demon’s gaze—or the eyes of one who had fallen beneath a demon’s sway. Although if so, that would suggest Nhairin was no longer mazed . . .
A slight sound made Garan whip around, only to relax as Asha and Lawr slid into the brush beside him. Next to Nerys, Lawr was their best archer, but more importantly, neither guard had been part of the Old Keep expedition or sworn the survivors’ oath that Sirit had warned could be woken to life. Even so, he wished Nerys had understood that he meant for her to get the entire unit clear, regardless of whether they had sworn the oath or not.
“Nerys said you’d be needing this,” Asha whispered, and handed him the scroll tube from his saddlebag.
Garan thought that if he had not already realized matters were serious, the fact Nerys had spoken would have convinced him. Emulating Khar ahead of the Red Keep duel, he stowed the tube inside his coat, but kept his eyes on the cairn. The lead knight had stepped clear of the others and was studying Nhairin, who still refused to look back. Garan was not surprised, when the knight lifted the veiling coif aside, to see a woman’s face. Despite his hazy memories of Lady Nerion, he could not swear the visage carved from night’s shadow and the flambeau’s chill light was hers. But it was that of a huntress as she regarded Nhairin, who sagged against her captors’ grasp and slowly sank to her knees, her head still bowed.
“My Nhairin.” The huntress’s voice carried to where the Night guards lay hidden. “I always hoped I would find you again.” Stepping forward, she placed her hands on either side of Nhairin’s face, turning the captive’s gaze upward.
Asha hissed, her fingers shaping an ancient Derai ward against demon influence, as Nhairin choked out a harsh but inarticulate protest. “I could shoot her from here,” Lawr whispered. “End it.”
Except the Commander said we were to keep her alive, Garan thought. The chances were, too, that none of them would live long after Lawr’s arrow flew. But Nhairin was locked rigid, her face a mask of shame and pain as she stared into the gaze bent on hers. Garan stared at the tableau of huntress and victim—and remembered the Tower of Watch, when Sirit had commissioned him to place her gift in the opener of ways’ hands. And he, the Nine help him, had told her that he would. He guessed, too, that if the huntress-knight was Lady Nerion, then there was a fair chance she already knew the Night guards were watching. So he needed to seize the initiative.
“Nhairin is of Night,” he said calmly, despite knowing the doom that had begun on the Tower of Watch was upon him. “And we were told to bring her back alive.” Slipping clear of the scrub before the others could protest, he spoke softly over his shoulder. “Cover me if you can, but don’t let yourselves be taken if this goes badly.”
When this goes badly, he thought, extracting Sirit’s scroll tube from his jacket. I must be the mazed one, not Nhairin. Even before he stood up, the huntress had turned his way. Her face was a mask of dark planes and sculpted hollows, and again Garan felt drawn to her. He resisted the sensation. “I have a gift for you,” he called, feigning boldness: “From a Mother of Morning.” And felt sure, as he started toward the cairn, that what came next would see his death.
40
Shadow Moon
Kalan climbed the same slope he had ascended in his Red Keep dreams, with every pebble rimed in frost and the moon a disc of pitted iron. The Wall was a ragged silhouette behind him, while the Gray Lands lay on the far side of the ridge. He could sense dawn, concealed just below the dark edge of the world, but the frost continued to tighten its grip until the last of the night rang with its stillness. Even so, the slope was steep and he was sweating beneath leather, wool, and mail before he reached the ridgeline with its spike of rocks and thorn scrub. The thorn was one of the few plants that grew in the barren terrain and its spines were fierce, so Kalan avoided the densest clumps. He wrapped his face, too, before lowering himself to the ground to avoid being skylined and snaking the last few yards to the crest.
The Gray Lands were as he remembered, deceptively flat until the plain broke against the dark brooding line of Jaransor to the west. Southward, it rose into the more gradual crests of the Barren Hills, while the paved road that ran the length of the Wall was a pale serpent beneath the pitted moon. At this point the terrain it traversed was a no-man’s-land, where the territories of several Houses petered out into the plain. In his Red Keep dream, Kalan had seen a camp laid out below, with long bridal pennants hanging motionless above its defensive circle. In reality, the landscape beyond the ridge was empty except for a solitary wagon, foundered halfway down an embankment that supported one of the road’s many bridges.
The ridge’s height showed him the skeletal branching of the watercourse, extending out of the Wall’s foothills and across the plain. Even Kalan’s keen sight could not make out details from this distance, but he could see how the road angled as it entered the bridge. The wagon’s position suggested it must have swung too wide, aiming for a better approach, and gone over the bank. At first Kalan thought it must have been abandoned, until he shifted to obtain a better view and caught a telltale spark of red below the bridge. He frowned, because the lone wagon suggested a small company, and in their situation he would not have risked a fire—but his main question was whether this was an independent company or one abandoned by the bridal caravan.
Kalan’s frown deepened as he considered the latter possibility. He was well aware, from crossing the Gray Lands with Malian, six years before, that the dips and hollows masked by the plain’s apparent flatness could hide an army. Especially, he thought, if that army used concealing magic. Given the perils of the terrain, he had dispensed with his wards once clear of Blood’s territory, and now stretched his psychic awareness beyond the disabled wagon, but no hint of power brushed against it. Sound, too, would carry a long way in night and frost, but all he could hear was the occasional bark of a rat-fox. The luck of the unwary, perhaps, or the company might be stronger than a single wagon suggested. Either way, Kalan intended taking a closer look.
He slid away from the ridge before rising again and heading back to where Taly and Jad’s eight-guard waited with the horses, concealed among rocks and the stunted scrub that characterized the Wall’s boundary with the plain. They had all agreed—once Blood territory was behind them and the Night eight-guard had departed in search of their fugitive—to hide out in the foothills and shadow the Bride’s caravan to Night. It was what Kalan had intended to do anyway, and he had guessed Taly would be of the same mind. But he had also known it was important to offer the former honor guards purpose as they struggled to adjust to their exile.
Caution had dictated they wait until the Bride’s caravan passed well beyond Blood’s official boundary before cutting its trail. As exiles, they might technically be safe once they passed Blood’s border, but in reality remained at risk from patrols scouting beyond its bounds. So for the past few weeks they had hidden out among the tumbledown watchtowers and abandoned redoubts scattered throughout the marginal country between the Wall and the Gray Lands. Even in the Wall’s settled season, the ruins’ deep foundations still offered necessary protection from squalls or late storms. It was a safer option, Kalan had decided, than risking the shelters provided along the road, even if it meant having to travel further to intersect the caravan’s progress. Both decisions had seemed correct at the time, because potential enemies were likely to wait until the slow-moving cavalcade was well out into no-man’s-land before showing themselves. Now, though, with unease persistent as an itch between his shoulder blades, Kalan questioned his wisdom in delaying.<
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Rhanar and a pale-eyed hound rose from the shadows as he entered the rocks. Palla and another wyr would be keeping watch on the far side of the broken ground, but the remaining guards gathered close as Kalan rejoined them, while the wyr hounds watched, silver-eyed, from among the scrub. “Did you see the caravan?” Taly asked.
Kalan shook his head and saw her disappointment through the darkness. “There’s a wrecked wagon, so that may mean the cavalcade’s close. But I saw a campfire and people with the wagon, which suggests an independent company.”
“With only one wagon?” Jad’s tone said that didn’t seem likely. “But for the caravan to abandon a wagon crew in this country . . .” Beside him, Dain’s mouth pulled down.
“So what’s our course now?” Taly asked. “I suppose we have to render assistance.”
Kalan knew the question was for him, despite Jad’s former command of the eight-guard. The entire company had tacitly accepted his leadership since quitting the Red Keep, partly because he had offered a course of action, but also because Jad was prepared to follow him. Even Rhanar, the most reserved toward him of all their company, accepted Kalan’s orders. “We scout the surrounding area and the wagon’s situation,” he said. “It’s possible they have an armed escort, in which case we’ll keep clear. If not, I’ll risk riding in, because even if they’re not from the caravan they may know where it is.”
No one argued, so Kalan sent Jad, together with Palla and her shield comrade, Machys, to scout deeper into the foothills. Dain and another guard, Aarion, went one way along the road, back toward Blood, and Jaras and Nhal started in the other. The wyr pack split up of its own accord, with a pair loping after each of the scouting parties while the remaining seven stayed with Kalan. “They like you, Storm Spear,” Rhanar observed, his tone suggesting this was not necessarily a recommendation.
“How can you be sure it’s not Taly they like?” Kalan countered, as they left the rocks.
The ensign, who was riding Tercel, grimaced at the bay’s ears before returning her focus to the rough terrain. The frost was still intense, but the sky was lighter, and by the time they circled the base of the ridge a breeze had picked up. Taly frowned across the Gray Lands to the bridge. “We’ll have to approach on foot to avoid being seen. Along the streambed maybe, although they’ll be guarding that approach.”
“We hope,” Rhanar muttered.
“I’ll go in,” Kalan told them, dismounting. “You keep watching the plain.” He did not need to tell them how deceptive it could be, but hoped the hounds’ senses would help counter that. Only one pair padded after him, shifting in and out of the half-dark as he worked his way toward the watercourse. Once he dropped down into it, Kalan shielded himself using an Oakward weave, so anyone looking his way would see only a thread of stream between pale boulders, and the jagged tracery of scrub-choked banks. The shield should cover the wyr hounds, too, so long as they stayed close—although from what Kalan had seen, they shared Faro’s aptitude for playing least-in-sight.
Despite the shielding magic, he still placed each footstep with care, aware how far the rattle of a stone would carry. He stopped a good spear’s cast clear of the bridge, settling into a mix of scrub and boulders that provided a view of its underside. The bridge foundations still obscured most of the wagon company, but Kalan could pick out a sentry concealed by the parapet, and at least one more in the shadow of the buttress below, monitoring the stream approach. He could see picketed horses and mules as well, and a nearby scar of fresh dirt and mounded stone that looked like a grave. Someone must have died, he supposed, when the wagon went over the edge.
The pennant set into the mound stirred as the breeze gusted, and Kalan’s eyes narrowed on the device. He could see it was not Blood crimson, but had to wait for a second gust to reveal the indigo field and mer-dragon badge of the Sea House. Both wyr hounds growled, an almost inaudible vibration from deep in their chests, and Kalan was tempted to echo the sound. Lord Nimor had a marine escort with him, which meant most scavengers and ’spawn would steer clear, but no wagon traveling with the Bride’s caravan should be abandoned, its crew left to fend for themselves. If the worst happened and the Sea House’s envoy—accredited to both Blood and Night in recognition of the significance of this wedding—was killed, then Lady Myrathis’s honor would be stained irreparably in the eyes of the Nine Houses.
And since, exile or not, I’m still her champion, Kalan thought grimly, that makes Lord Nimor’s safety my concern. Best to retreat now and ride in openly, he decided—but remained motionless as the sentry guarding the stream approach turned his way and he recognized Lord Nimor. The envoy was carrying a staff as tall as himself, one shod with steel for the road, and the angle of his head reminded Kalan of Laer when the weatherworker was listening to wind and wave. Reflexively, Kalan checked the direction of the breeze, but it was blowing toward his hiding place so would not carry scent or sound to the envoy. He was debating whether to reveal his presence and risk being shot out of hand by the sentry on the bridge, when someone called to Nimor from the far side of the buttress. As soon as the envoy moved that way, Kalan seized the opportunity to withdraw.
The long, early morning shadows were stretching out from the Wall when he rejoined Taly and Rhanar. Both frowned when he identified the stragglers as Sea; they all knew only the most exceptional circumstance, mostly likely grave danger to the Bride, could justify abandoning an envoy. “Even then . . .” Taly stared into the haze of distance. “No one outside the Red Keep would believe they were left against Lady Myr’s wishes, but I know she would never have agreed to it.”
With Kolthis as Honor Captain, Kalan thought, she might not have been informed, let alone offered a choice. He saw the same knowledge in Taly’s face as she studied the wagon again. “If there was going to be a relief party,” she added somberly, “it would’ve arrived by now.”
“I think we can rule that out.” That conclusion did nothing to reduce Kalan’s unease, but at least the Sea Keepers could tell them if the cavalcade was in danger. “What about the plain?”
“Nothing,” Rhanar said.
Taly nodded agreement. “The wyrs have stayed quiet, too.”
Kalan regarded the hounds, uncertain how far they could be relied upon to detect darkspawn activity. Despite the day’s apparent calm, he could not shake the tightness in his gut and studied the plain again, but could detect nothing out of place. “We’ll ride in,” he said finally, and remounted Madder.
Taly and Rhanar fell in to either side as he started for the bridge, with the wyr hounds loping alongside. Initially, they rode within the deep shadow cast by the Wall, but Kalan saw the moment when the bridge lookout spotted them. He halted Madder clear of arrow range and shouted out their identities, preempting a verbal challenge: “Khar of the Storm Spears, together with Taly and Rhanar, both of my company.”
The Sea Keepers knew him and should recognize Taly’s name from the duel, but the lookout kept an arrow trained on him anyway and was soon joined by two more archers. At the same time, Lord Nimor started out to meet him, flanked by his escort captain, Tyun, and a marine called Tehan, both carrying crossbows. Kalan dismounted again and removed his helmet when they drew close. “Khar of the Storm Spears,” Lord Nimor said, and smiled, although he and the marines maintained a careful distance. “I wondered if we might encounter you again.”
“I’m the Bride’s champion,” Kalan said, knowing that was explanation enough. The Honor Code was clear: an Earl might declare exile, but only the champion, or the one he or she defended, could sever the bond of honor between them. He tucked his helmet under one arm and gestured to the bridge with the other. “What happened here, Lord Nimor? I thought you would be traveling with the cavalcade.”
“We were,” the envoy replied, as Tehan snorted. “But the road edge collapsed beneath the wagon and our axle broke. Captain Kolthis then explained that the country was too dangerous for the caravan to wait on either repairs or salvage, or to spare any additional gua
rds. I have my marine escort, the captain said, and the Sea House must look to its own.”
Yet animosity from Blood toward Sea, Kalan thought, still would not justify marooning an accredited envoy in wild country. “What is the caravan’s situation?” he asked.
“Kolthis is Honor Captain,” Tehan muttered, as if that were sufficient answer.
Nimor shook his head. “Until yesterday he observed the formalities, although I have not been permitted to speak with Lady Myrathis. No one has. For her security, Kolthis says, although in fact there’s been no threat to the cavalcade beyond the nature of this country.”
“He’s made it clear he considers her a poor excuse for a Daughter of Blood.” Tehan nodded agreement as Taly cursed beneath her breath. “And most of the cavalcade follows his lead.”
“What concerns me most,” Tyun put in grimly, “is the axle. We assumed it failed because the wagon went over the edge, but once we looked closely we found it’d been tampered with. If not here, sooner or later the break would undoubtedly have occurred.”
Kalan’s unease sharpened into outright foreboding. “Is Bajan with the Honor Guard?” he inquired, as by tacit consent they all began walking toward the bridge. From what he could make out, the Sea Keepers were trying to repair the wagon, although they must have little hope of doing so without either a smithy or a replacement axle.
Nimor shook his head again. “He was one of those Kolthis vetoed as soon as he was made Honor Captain. Apparently that’s the captain’s prerogative, so Bajan returned to Bronze Hold with Lord Narn.”
So now, with the Sea Keepers gone, Lady Myrathis would have no allies and few friends among the caravan. Nimor must have read Kalan’s expression, because he nodded. “I agree. We need to rejoin the cavalcade as soon as possible. We would have pushed to do so yesterday, except the driver was badly injured when the wagon fell. He died despite my physician’s efforts, but by then we had no hope of catching up before nightfall.”