by Helen Lowe
Orth’s laugh grated out. “I always thought that fireside nonsense would bite you Bloodites on the arse one day.”
Several of those around the fire muttered darkly, until one of their number chuckled. Kalan saw that it was Sarr, lying full length with his hands behind his head. “Looks like it’s biting yours as well,” the farrier said, grinning. Kalan heard Kelyr murmur a warning to Orth, who rose and stalked back to their bivouac, halfway between two fires. Kelyr waited a few minutes more before leaving, too, and Kalan ghosted after him, using a touch of concealing power to aid the darkness.
“The bastard was right,” Kelyr told Orth. “We could all be caught like rats in a trap. But don’t go killing him for saying so until we know this is over. Or Khar either.”
Orth muttered a curse, and Kelyr began tossing a handful of knucklebones. “You know what’s the biggest fireside tale in all this?” He snatched the knucklebones neatly out of the air. “It’s the notion Blood’s Bride could be half of the Rose, when the Rose never marries outside its own. Lovers maybe, but marriage . . .” Kelyr threw the knucklebones again. “If you ask me, someone’s pulling a ruse on Night. Either that or they’ve already pulled one on Blood. Nine knows, the Bloodites seem gullible enough.”
Orth spat. “Who cares? Like you keep saying, staying alive is what matters.” Kelyr shrugged and continued playing with the knucklebones. If there was any comfort to be derived from their conversation, Kalan decided, moving on, it was that the pair made unlikely facestealers. As for Lady Myr’s heritage, the straightforward explanation was that the rare or unusual was not the same as the impossible. Yet the more Kalan thought about alignments within the Nine Houses, the more he felt Kelyr was right. In terms of formal alliance, the Rose had stood aloof throughout Derai history, an apartness that had become isolation following the Great Betrayal. Traditionally, they were also the Derai’s peacemakers and treaty brokers, as well as lovers of poetry and the arts, so Blood was hardly the obvious choice for a marriage outside their own ranks.
It would be interesting, Kalan thought, to know which House initiated the marriage and why the other then agreed to the alliance. Blood and Rose territories did not adjoin, and as far as he knew, Earl Sardon and Lady Mayaraní’s marriage had not been a love match—which all added up to Lady Myrathis being as much an anomaly, lineage-wise, as her nature had made her growing up in Blood. Yet with Lady Mayaraní dying so soon after the marriage, any speculation caused by the alliance would have been forgotten, in the same way Myr had been overlooked.
Not everything that happens has meaning, Kalan told himself. Only this was a marriage between two Derai Houses, and such arrangements were always about advantage within the Alliance. First Blood and the Rose, he reflected, and now Night, as though someone is weaving new alignments: could that have been what Ise’s dying caution meant? But rather than the old woman’s fading whisper, he heard the drum of Grayharbor rain and Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s murmur against his ear: “I like puzzles.”
Briefly, Kalan held still, before shaking off both memory and speculation and joining Rhanar, who was captaining the current watch with a wagoner called Nai as his second. She was one of those with guard training who had been invalided out, in her case with a withered leg, a legacy of the plague years before Kalan was born. He suspected Rhanar had selected her as much for a similarly taciturn disposition as competence, since neither had much to say, beyond Rhanar’s observation that the six wyr hounds were maintaining their perimeter patrol.
Nai pursed her lips. “They’re different,” she said. She bit off the second word as if she had already said too much, but Kalan guessed she was referring to the hounds’ reputation for instability.
“Don’t rely on them,” he cautioned. “Even wyrs may not recognize these enemies.”
“I’d prefer higher ramparts,” Rhanar muttered.
Kalan nodded, because even with the dike’s thornbrush crown the camp still felt horribly exposed compared to a keep or hold’s walls. They were all silent, listening to the wind and watching the darkness, and Kalan wished he did not remember a similar sly, prying wind from his flight across the Gray Lands six years before. But he could not shake the recollection, or the certainty that a Swarm attack would use magic. Exactly as they did this morning, and in the Old Keep, as well as in Jaransor and Emer, he thought: they must laugh, seeing how we’ve hamstrung our ability to fight on equal terms.
He, though, was not hamstrung—and a shield spell constructed around the earthworks and palisade would protect the defenders from magical assault, including psychic attacks aimed at sapping the defenders’ will to resist. It would also, Kalan thought, prevent the Swarm from scrying out the defense. Six years ago he had watched the herald, Jehane Mor, use a wall of air to fend off a Night Mare. Recalling her working now, he could see how it might provide a natural extension to a more regular shield spell. Kalan did not think such a working would last long against a major Swarm demon, but an infestation of lower-level ’spawn, even in unprecedented numbers, might be deterred by the unexpected magic use.
Anything that buys us time, he thought, and if larger scale magic’s thrown at the camp as a result, it might alert the Houses that retain pretensions to power use. “I’m going out to take a look around,” he told Rhanar and Nai. “See if I can detect anything more from beyond the perimeter.” He knew Rhanar’s frown was because the guard thought an Honor Captain should not put himself at risk, but where Jad would have spoken up, Rhanar remained silent. Kalan glanced around as the wyr hounds with him emerged from the darkness. “I won’t be alone,” he said, indicating their presence. “I won’t go far either.” He paused. “If I return without the hounds, don’t let me into the camp before you have the other wyrs clear me. The same goes for anyone else wanting in, even if you believe you know them.”
Rhanar’s habitual dourness deepened, and Nai was frowning. “That’s fireside tale stuff,” she said, then added slowly, “but you believe it.”
Kalan nodded. “I do.” This time Rhanar grimaced before shifting the barrier so Kalan and the wyr hounds could pass through. Despite shielding himself, Kalan still tensed as he moved beyond the protective earthworks. He continued a short distance into the plain, but aside from a rat-fox’s bark, the night remained as empty as it had appeared from the camp. Any scouts, he decided, after listening and watching for some time, must be keeping their distance. Returning to a point clear of any sentry posts, he slipped between Sarr’s stakes and placed his right hand against the rammed earth of the dike.
In Emer, the Oakward had taught him to listen to the magic that permeated Haarth. Yet even before Emer, as a novice in Night’s Temple quarter, Kalan had been adept at assuming the likeness of stone and earth. Now he took a deep breath and stood motionless, building layers of shield and ward, first about himself and then around the camp. He infused the working with the fabric of the surrounding world: the dust and grit of the plain, the low shrill of the wind, and the incandescent glow of the hounds’ eyes as they materialized out of the night.
The spark of Yelusin’s power, which Kalan had carried since the Che’Ryl-g-Raham, flowered in answer, weaving through the new shield in the same way the remnant Fire had added her protection to his Red Keep wards. For a moment the wyr hounds’ eyes were phosphorescence on a night sea, and Kalan smelled the ocean’s tang. He let his awareness sink beneath it, deep into the fabric of the Gray Lands and adjoining foothills. Beyond both, the Wall’s barrier rose, layer on layer, its roots of stone sunk deep into Haarth’s alien ground. Yet the more Kalan extended his own shield spell, the more clearly he perceived places where the Wall’s layered magic had grown thin.
Kalan sank deeper again, until he could detect Jaransor, lulled back into sleep on the far side of the plain but still grumbling with anger in its dreams. Winter, too, encroached on the periphery of his awareness, advancing inexorably on the world—and now his bones were rock and his flesh earth, the ebb and flow of his breath night itself. When he moved, Kalan f
elt as though he were grinding his way back to the surface of the plain. At midsummer, he had pulled power out of the earth to strengthen Audin when Orth seemed likely to kill his friend in the Caer Argent sword ring. Now he did the same thing on a vaster scale, placing both palms against the dike and pulling raw power out of the ground, channeling it first into the earthworks and palisade, then into his protective shield, before wrapping a rampart of air around both.
“Stone,” Kalan commanded, binding rock’s essence into his working. And then: “Earth,” bolstering the foundations of the dike before drawing Haarth’s power upward into an invisible shield wall. “Air,” he charged silently, and finally: “Darkness.” The concluding invocation transformed the shield into both fortification and psychic barricade, one that would simultaneously trick the eye and shield those within from magical assault. Slowly, because he, too, was encased in the working’s essence of earth and stone, Kalan paced the circumference of the camp, locking the protective spell in place. The wyr hounds accompanied him, one always pressing close while the other maintained a wider orbit.
Kalan was over halfway around before he realized someone was reinforcing his working from within the camp. The power use was both deft and unobtrusive, but he dared not let his concentration waver in order to pursue its source. By the time his circumnavigation was complete, he had to lean against the earthworks while he tied the spell off, binding it into the physical structure of the dike. So long as the embankment endured, the shield should hold, even if he died.
I’ve done all I can, he thought, feeling exhaustion settle deep into sinew and bone. Now all I can do is wait and see.
45
Breakout
On the other side of the barricade the camp remained undisturbed, although Kalan heard Nai ask Rhanar whether he had been gone too long. “It’s all right,” he called softly, “I’m right here.” Each word felt like a pebble, roughening his voice, and he trudged rather than walked back to the sentry post. Nai exhaled in relief when she saw the wyr hounds, and Rhanar worked the barricade apart to let Kalan and the hounds back through.
“Anything out there?” he asked.
“Not yet.” The fires had burned low and most of those who weren’t on watch were asleep, but Kalan saw that Orth was on his feet, glowering toward the inner camp. When Kalan followed his gaze, he saw a dark outline that he recognized as Nimor, leaning on his tall staff as he had only that morning, by the bridge.
“What put a thorn beneath his saddle?” Rhanar picked up the crossbow he had set aside to deal with the barricade, but he was watching Orth, not Nimor.
Kalan’s night sight was keen enough to see the shadow of a second figure, also carrying a tall staff, standing behind Nimor. His body might feel more like slurry than rock, and his mind ache for sleep, but he guessed his day was not over yet. “Keep an eye on Orth,” he told Rhanar. His own focus remained on Nimor, although he caught the swing of Orth’s head, tracking his progress toward the inner camp. Yet despite obvious suspicion, the giant stayed where he was—possibly because he had taken note of Rhanar’s crossbow.
When Nimor stepped aside to let Kalan enter the inner camp, he saw the second staff-bearer was Murn. Once concealed from Orth’s sight, he stopped and regarded them both. He had been suspicious before, but certainty still shocked him out of his exhaustion. “Khar of the Storm Spears,” Nimor said, and indicated his tent. “May we talk?”
I think we should, Kalan thought, and nodded, following them toward the entrance. Yelme and Ler: reflexively, he recalled the names of the marines on guard as they allowed the wyr pair through with him. Once everyone was seated, the hounds settled at Kalan’s feet. “I take it I must thank you for the help with the shield wall.” He paused as the envoy and his secretary bowed. “You remind me of Laer, Lord Nimor, which makes me think you must both be weatherworkers. Although he would never meet anyone’s eyes, yet you do?”
Nimor nodded. “Weatherworking is our primary ability, but there are degrees of power, as I believe you know. Those who sail with our ships or safeguard the keep are the strongest of our order, but their power is frequently as chaotic as the forces they wrestle. That is why they never look at others directly, to avoid drawing them beneath their sway.”
“You must be able to shield as well,” Kalan said slowly. Not just to have helped me now, he thought, but to enter the Red Keep as you did.
“Most weatherworkers can, to some degree,” Nimor replied, “although Murn’s and my talent is insignificant besides yours.”
“The rampart of air on top of the shieldwall is amazing.” Momentarily, Murn’s grin banished his impassivity. “I’d love to learn how you do that.”
Despite his weariness, Kalan grinned back. “I’ll show you, if we get out of this.” Sobering, he shrugged. “Since you now know about me.”
“I always knew,” Nimor said quietly. “The ships told those they knew could be relied upon, and whom they thought needed to know.” The envoy rose and bowed, a deeply formal gesture. “I am Sea’s witness to the marriage between Blood and Night. The other part of my mission is to escort you.” Because I’m carrying a spark of Yelusin, Kalan thought, as Nimor smiled. “Although having seen you construct your shield wall, I suspect it’s more a case of your escorting us.” His envoy’s gravity returned as he resumed his seat. “Most weatherworkers have some farspeaking ability, too, and all Sea envoys have at least one farspeaker in their party. Murn is mine, and Namath, whom I sent with Ensign Taly, can manage a limited mindcall.”
A marine can mindcall? Kalan thought, staring.
Murn coughed. “Most in Sea have power, however minimal. And we never swore the Blood Oath.” The secretary sounded almost apologetic. “That fact’s not a secret, it’s just that no one ever asks, or hasn’t for a very long time. Knowing how attitudes run, we don’t volunteer the information either.”
Especially, Kalan thought dryly, when it plays to your advantage. “You’re a farspeaker?” he asked, before frowning at Nimor. “But you still let me send Taly and Namath out there?” The moment Kalan had spoken the words he stopped, inwardly cursing his tiredness. “Because you’ve already tried to farspeak, but failed,” he said heavily. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” Nimor confirmed quietly. “No-man’s-land or not, Murn should be able to reach through to Adamant from here. He tried to do so while we waited outside the camp.”
“But the camp’s being blocked,” Murn said. “The farspeaking fragmented into dissonance within a very short distance of the camp, no matter what I attempted, trying to push through the barrier.”
Warded out—or in, Kalan thought grimly, which fits with the death standards and the were-hunters. “Would you have told me if I hadn’t shielded the camp?” he asked, then shook his head. “Not that it alters our situation in any practical way.”
“It doesn’t,” Nimor agreed, “but the fact you built your wall confirms that you, too, believe we’re facing a large-scale Swarm incursion, one we’ll need to work together to counter.”
Meaning, Kalan thought, as their eyes held, that the only hope for the camp’s survival may be to fight power with power. “Including sharing information,” he said pointedly, then spoiled the effect by smothering a yawn.
Nimor inclined his head. “I agree. But there is one other matter, by your leave. Murn says you referred to us as stealers.”
“Stealers?” Kalan glanced at Murn, caught between embarrassment and impatience. “I apologize if I gave offense.”
“I wasn’t offended,” the secretary said quickly. “But I wondered if that is how the Storm Spears commonly speak of us?”
“Nine, no! It was a joke, that’s all, because when I first met Faro that’s how he referred to you.” Kalan’s impatience and weariness won out over diplomacy. “He didn’t want me going anywhere near your ships. His mother, apparently, had warned him against you.”
“Using that term?” Nimor was openly surprised.
“So he said. Does it matter?”
“I’m still trying to understand why it matters,” Kalan said.
Murn grimaced. “Let’s say it’s a history we hoped we’d put behind us. After the Great Betrayal and the loss of the Golden Fire, we were desperate to protect our fleet. So much in the keeps and holds had depended on the Fire, and with it gone keeping the sea routes open was vital.”
“For our survival,” Kalan said, remembering his conversation with the Che’Ryl-g-Raham.
Murn nodded. “The ships were essential to supply the food, medicine, and other resources the Nine Houses so desperately required. To keep the ships sailing, Sea direly needed weatherworkers, farseers, shielders like yourself . . .” He spread his hands, his expression unhappy.
“So you stole those with the powers you lacked.” Despite his tiredness, Kalan could understand why the Sea House might want the history forgotten. “They call it pressing in the South, or slavery, depending on the circumstances. Practices,” he added coolly, “that’ve been outlawed throughout the Southern Realms, with the possible exception of Lathayra.”
Murn’s unhappiness had grown more pronounced. “It’s not a history we take pride in.”
I imagine not, Kalan thought, before curiosity got the better of him. “What made you stop?” Deep in his mind, Yelusin’s spark stirred.
“We believe it was part of what woke the ships to consciousness, a half century after the Betrayal. They roused as one and told us they could not endure such pollution on their decks. No vessel would leave port again until we swore, from the Sea Count to the most junior mariner, that the practice ended then and there.”
“Many in Sea had opposed it bitterly in any case,” Nimor said, “but were overruled by those who argued necessity. The other Houses,” he added dryly, “also knew what we were doing, as the term ‘stealers’ indicates.”