The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “The Derai would disagree, of course,” said Haimyr, as they ducked out of the pavilion into spring sunshine and the flurry of the Ilvaine departure. The fife and the drum beat out a brisk tattoo while the armed companies took up their order of march. The pavilions were already being struck as Patrol riders brought up Haimyr’s tall bay horse and the heralds’ grays. Aravenor joined them as they swung into the saddle, while Arin formed up an honor guard to salute the Ilvaine company.

  “They have a Goddess of Luck,” the minstrel explained, continuing the earlier conversation. “She has her own temples, and priests to tend them, in every keep.”

  Jehane Mor regarded him wearily. “Ornorith of the Two Faces; we know. But the context was different, as it happens.”

  “So I gathered,” the minstrel replied. If he noticed the constraint in her manner, he chose not to show it. “He didn’t seem particularly friendly.”

  “He’s a Jhainarian,” Tarathan said, as though that explained everything. He looked at the journey roll strapped on behind the bay’s saddle. “You’re not staying here?”

  “Someone,” said Aravenor, “stirred the Ijiri pot somewhat vigorously last night.” The hawk visor studied Haimyr. “I take it that your princely great-uncle is now to deplore your excess of zeal?”

  Haimyr smiled. “Let us say that we have agreed that it might be better if I were to absent myself for a time. I had thought,” he added casually, “to ride with the heralds and whatever escort you send with them, at least as far as the Farelle bridge. I am assuming that you won’t go by galley until upriver of the boom?”

  The heralds were silent, but Aravenor nodded. “Although first we must farewell your great-uncle and his guests, and then Tarathan and Jehane Mor may wish to rest before traveling on.”

  “Time,” Haimyr assured him, “is of no consequence to a minstrel of Ij.”

  Sarathion, on Aravenor’s other side, snorted, but Jehane Mor was watching the column. “They’re moving,” she said. At the same moment a trumpeter lifted a silver cornet to his lips and blew. Halberds and lanceheads glittered in the sun, and the gleam of armor, the tossing of plumes on headstall and helm, and the array of pennants were a brave sight. The sweat of nervous tension gleamed darkly on the flanks and necks of many of the horses, and several danced impatiently beneath their riders’ hands. One reared, its hooves striking air, before its rider brought it back under control.

  Prince Ilvaine shook his head as he and his immediate companions stopped beside Aravenor, waiting for the forward companies to pass. “They are all impatient to be doing,” he observed, matching his tone to the headshake. “It is a failing of the young.”

  “It’s a failing in war, as well,” Aravenor observed dryly. “The rash die quickly and too often get others killed at the same time.”

  “Having confused impatience for boldness and calculated risk taking,” added Haimyr, from his other side. “I have heard the keep commander say so many times to Night’s younger officers.”

  “The apostate commander?” inquired Aravenor.

  Haimyr’s brows rose. “I hadn’t expected to hear that epithet used on the River.”

  “They hear things on road and river,” said Tarathan, straight-faced, and Sarathion laughed out loud. Even Aravenor smiled.

  “There have been more Derai passing through of recent years,” he said.

  “Why ‘apostate’?” inquired the prince.

  Haimyr shrugged. “The Commander of Night seeks to repair a long folly, but in doing so cuts across much that is deep-seated in Derai tradition, skirting an oath that binds them all. And to many Derai, skirting is no different from breaking.”

  “Hence the ‘apostate,’ ” observed Isperia Katran, with a sage’s interest. “And the Earl your commander serves? Is he also apostate?”

  “The Earl,” said Haimyr, “leaves his commander to manage these matters, since they concern rebuilding the armies of Night, which is the keep commander’s business.”

  “Keeping his distance, then,” Prince Ilvaine approved, “so he can disown the commander if need be. A wise man.”

  Both the heralds and Patrol riders looked sidelong at Haimyr, who shrugged again. “They stand together those two, like Earl and Heir on the playing board.”

  “Perhaps. But in the final analysis, the Heir piece may still be sacrificed to save the Earl, is it not so?” The expression in the prince’s eyes was shrewd. “I suspect your commander knows this as well.”

  “I expect so,” said Haimyr, slightly less easily than before, and Jehane Mor thought she saw the trace of a shadow cross his face. But he was smiling again at once and she could not be certain.

  “What does it matter what some commander or other does on the Derai Wall?” Mykon Ambard demanded. “We have more than enough to concern us here in Ij.”

  “Especially this morning,” murmured the prince. “But still—a Master must know something of the world around him.”

  Mykon Ambrad looked as though he would like to argue, but before he could speak, Leto Ilvaine had dashed up on a fine dun courser. “The column is ready for you to join it, my prince.”

  “Then we had best not keep it waiting.” Prince Ilvaine raised a gloved hand to acknowledge the Patrol’s salute, and his party moved onto the road ahead of the Ishnapuri delegation. Both Lord Isrradin and Lady Sarifa bowed in the saddle as the prince passed, then saluted Arin’s guard of honor in their turn, but the Jhainarians rode by without looking to either left or right.

  “Are they always like that?” Haimyr asked, of no one in particular.

  Let him wonder, thought Jehane Mor. She still felt weary and old, but Tarathan’s mind touched hers with the same mix of grimness and reassurance as on their ride here.

  “Always,” he said calmly. “Your great-uncle may regret letting this demonhunter and her Seven into Ij. They serve a purpose, but their worldview is narrow and they would rather kill innocent people in error than let one demon escape.”

  The hawk visor turned. “I noticed,” Aravenor said to Haimyr, “that your assassin kinsman didn’t care for the Derai—and that the Swarm’s purported objectives were not unpalatable to him. Do you trust him, Haimyr Ilvaine?”

  “Mykon?” The golden minstrel smiled. “Implicitly, so long as his interests march with mine. He is ambitious, like all Ambardi, but he is no fool. And like my uncle, he does not wish to see either School or city dance as some other’s puppet.” The smile widened. “I do not say that he would not bear watching. There is no one in Ij with a mote of ambition and breath still in them who would not bear watching.”

  “In fact, you probably bear watching yourself,” said Aravenor.

  Haimyr laughed. “Do I look like a dead man? Or a lackwit? Undoubtedly, I should be watched. So narrowly that I think you should keep me close and feed me as well, while you’re offering the heralds here a chance for much-needed sleep.”

  Aravenor waved them away. “Sarathion will take you to the mess tent. I’ll join you later.”

  The mess tent was severe compared to the Ilvaine pavilion, and the benches and long trestles had clearly seen many years of hard use. Two sides had been rolled up to let in light, with a couple of Enkot rugs thrown over the benches and floor of the guest area. “A concession to amenity,” murmured Jehane Mor, but had no complaints with that, or the cots in the side tent where she and Tarathan were able to snatch a few hours’ sleep. When they woke, they found that the Patrol’s quartermaster had left saddlebags outside the laced doorflap, bulging with the supplies necessary for those who make long journeys by road.

  Jehane Mor stared into the same shield mirror that had been left for them before, a crease between her brows. “Sorriyith. He knew.”

  “As soon as you spoke, I suspect. And his bond to the demonhunter would already have told him we had power.”

  “They will want to come after us.”

  “He practically promised it, at the end. But the demonhunter will have to conclude her business first.”
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br />   “So we have some time, before it begins again.” Jehane Mor let her face grow smooth, clear. “And the minstrel? Are his hands clean?”

  Tarathan’s lip curled back, half wolf’s grin, half snarl. “Almost certainly not, after last night.”

  She caught the thought behind his mindspeech and nodded. “I agree. He is playing a deep hand between Wall and River. Did you believe him when he said he heard nothing of an attack against the Guild?”

  “If he didn’t, his Ambardi kinsman must have. Someone in the mix chose not to act.”

  “A house full of dead heralds being a small price to pay for—what? The Swarm exposed? The Patrol activated? The River put on an armed footing and able to serve as a potential Derai ally?” Jehane Mor considered options. “Or to resist a Derai invasion? Or both? And the Patrol, for all their vaunted oath, did not press either minstrel or assassin closely.”

  “Because they know something we don’t?” Tarathan was thoughtful. “Or want the Ilvaine alliance to set Ij to rights, and so judge it politic to let other matters lie?”

  She felt the crease between her brows return. “That’s a question in itself—what they know. And another: who are they, really? All these years the Patrol have been part of the River landscape but separate at the same time, with their visors and their forts. They serve, all know that, but why? Where did they come from, a thousand years ago?”

  “Always under our eyes,” said Tarathan, “and yet we see them not.”

  “Someone must know, surely.” Jehane Mor wished she felt more certain of that, and smoothed her hands over her hair. “Well, we won’t find answers in here. Who’s out there now, besides the minstrel?”

  “Sarathion, still. Aravenor has just come in, with another Patroler.”

  “We had better join them. Do what needs to be done.” She saw Naia’s face again, all the dead faces, and thought: how easily we forget them. The river that is life closes over their heads while the current bears us on to the next journey, the next puzzle that needs unraveling.

  She turned as Tarathan stepped close, his dark eyes holding hers—and their memories fused: the swallowtail swords whirled and bodies fell on the bank of a shallow, pebbled river. Afterward she had turned those bodies over and looked down into every empty face, while he stood with both swords hanging down, blood dripping from the blades onto the shingle.

  Now she felt his mind, quiet in hers, and for a moment they watched the memory together. “We had to get across the river,” he said finally, and she nodded.

  “Yet if my horse had not gone lame, they would never have caught us.”

  “Perhaps.” His hand closed on hers, warm and strong. “But your horse did go lame. They did catch us.”

  “And now we ride the long road.” Jehane Mor put on her herald’s face, serene, untroubled, as she reached to unlace the tent flap. “Shall we take the next step, join our hosts?”

  The Patrol riders were sitting with Haimyr when they ducked back into the main tent. All four had battered metal plates in front of them, piled high with food. “I’m sorry about the black clothes,” Aravenor said, as though noticing their apparel for the first time.

  “I’ve seen them in black before,” Haimyr said cheerfully. “Five years ago on the Derai Wall—when they made their presence felt, in fact.”

  “So that’s how the three of you know each other. I’ve been wondering about that.” Aravenor nodded to the Patroler on his left. “This is Yris. She is one of our river pilots and will take you upriver from Farelle.”

  Yris bowed, but did not speak. She wore the same long black tunic and visored helm as the riders, but the sword at her side was short, her armor a quilted gambeson rather than a mail shirt. When she bowed, the light reflected off what looked like a stylized wave on her visor. The heralds both bowed in reply before starting to eat, and despite the breakfast in the Ilvaine pavilion, Jehane Mor found that she was ravenous again. She did not argue when a mess orderly brought second helpings.

  “What I want to know,” said Sarathion, when he had taken another helping himself, “is how you made your presence felt on the Derai Wall. That has the ring of a story.”

  “If it does,” said Tarathan, around a mouthful of stew, “the minstrel can tell it.”

  “Oh, it’s a story,” Haimyr said, “although I need my harp to do it justice.”

  Sarathion shook his head. “No, no, just tell it anyway. Don’t worry about the fal-lals of a song.”

  “Fal-lals!” said Haimyr in mock indignation, then shrugged, the bells on his clothes chiming, when Sarathion persisted. “Oh well, if I must pay for my luncheon, I must, I suppose.”

  “For a good story,” said the Patrol lieutenant, “we’ll throw in dinner and supper as well, as many helpings as you like.”

  Think what you would of Haimyr the Golden, Jehane Mor reflected, listening, but he could tell a good tale. He made their arrival at the Keep of Winds, in the middle of a formal Derai feast, sound full of portent, an opening hung about with the frayed darkness of ancient story—then let that darkness deepen into the blood and horror of the Darkswarm’s surprise attack and the disappearance of the Heir of Night. The request for the heralds’ assistance with the subsequent search became a flourish out of legend, and every step into the shadows of the Old Keep more fraught, sweeping the listeners through the Darkswarm attacks and into the final, deadly encounter with the Raptor of Darkness.

  A profound silence followed his last words, and all three Patrol visors were fixed on the heralds, who concentrated on finishing their meals. Eventually, Sarathion shook his head. “I do call that making an impression, even if only half the story were true. Although I am sure that it is all true,” he added immediately.

  Haimyr smiled. “I was not present in the Old Keep myself, so must rely on what others have told me of events. For particulars, you will have to ask the heralds here.”

  It was uncomfortable, Jehane Mor thought, hearing a tale told about you that way—as though you belonged to the legends and the mythic past, rather than the everyday world. She bit into an apple and chewed slowly, grounding herself in the ordinariness of that action. “In terms of the bare facts, it was much as the story related. The glory Haimyr added. As for what we did, it was our heralds’ duty, no more or less.”

  “And any herald pair would have done the same?” Aravenor’s tone suggested that he was not convinced of that, reminding her of his words by the river. “I suppose the role you played could explain why the Darkswarm sought your deaths, in particular, last night. But why wait this long?”

  The heralds shook their heads. “We don’t know,” Jehane Mor said, “or even whether the two events are connected at all.”

  Haimyr stretched, flexing his fingers together. “Perhaps,” he said, his tone silken, “the Swarm also seeks that which is lost.”

  Jehane Mor continued to eat the apple while the patrolers looked from her expressionless face to Tarathan’s, and then back to the minstrel. “Who or what is lost?” Aravenor asked, when the silence had dragged on too long.

  “It’s the minstrel’s story,” Tarathan said, in his darkest voice.

  Jehane Mor made a weary gesture. “He refers to the Heir of Night, Malian of the Derai, who disappeared five years ago. Most believe that she died in Jaransor, but Haimyr the Golden has convinced himself that we have her hidden away somewhere.”

  “Malian of Night,” Aravenor said, as though the name were an object he was examining. His voice grew brisker. “As for Jaransor, we know those hills by reputation. It seems highly unlikely that anyone who went into them would survive to come out again.”

  “And even if the Derai Heir did, why would you have hidden her?” Sarathion sounded puzzled. “Or the Darkswarm want to kill you if they think you know where she is—assuming that the Swarm wants her found. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “We did agree to help her flee the Wall and hide from her enemies.” Jehane Mor shook her head. “But we have already told Haimyr that altho
ugh we waited by the Border Mark, Malian of Night never came there or returned with us to the River lands.” She looked across the table at the minstrel. “It may be that you are right, Haimyr, and she is still alive, but we don’t know where she is.”

  The hawk visor looked from one to the other. “She is telling the truth,” Aravenor said.

  Haimyr shrugged. “What is truth? The whole world knows that many secrets may lie concealed beneath the surface of a herald pair’s truth. And if they have nothing to hide, why won’t they even try to seek the lost Heir out?”

  “You would want that,” Sarathion asked, “knowing that Swarm agents are already watching them? If this Heir is alive, wouldn’t the heralds lead her enemies straight to her?”

  “Besides,” said Aravenor, “your own story shows that Tarathan and Jehane Mor have already risked their lives once for your lost Heir. What are the Derai to them, that they should aid you again now? It is not they who owe a debt here, Haimyr the Golden.”

  Haimyr’s brows flew up. “Are you suggesting that I do?”

  “Well, don’t you?” said Aravenor. He waited while the minstrel’s raised brows subsided into a frown, but it was Jehane Mor who spoke first.

  “Neither Haimyr the Golden nor the Derai owe us any debt for what we did five years ago. We made that clear at the time.”

  The hawk visor turned to her. “I suspect the Derai may see it differently.”

  Tirorn had suggested something very similar, Jehane Mor recalled, but she was watching Haimyr. It was not often that the golden minstrel was put out of countenance, but he looked wrong-footed now.

  “It’s not about owing or not owing,” she said quietly. “But our duty does lie elsewhere. First we must go upriver, and then news of Salan and Ileyra’s fate must be carried to their own Guild House—perhaps even to the Lion Throne. We may not be the ones sent, but the Guild may wish to dispatch heralds to the rest of the southern realms as well, to warn them of what happened here—in which case its resources will be stretched.” She did not add, given the tally of our dead in Ij, knowing the thought would be in all their minds.