The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Along one path of seeing, the nightingale sang on, the scent of jasmine dizzying beneath the two luminous moons. Down the other, the moons dripped blood as serpents of power writhed from the ground and coiled around her, contracting into weighted chains that extinguished her fire to gray, cold ash. In that vision, the serpents twisted about Tarathan as well, igniting into flame that snapped whiplash strands in a second web across her chains. Malian’s body arched against the searing pain, her mouth stretched into a rictus as the web scored fiery lines through flesh and soul until the core of her power was fused to his. His eyes, dark as the blindness that follows staring into the face of the sun, bored down into hers as he used the rite that had been powerful enough to save Jhaine from the Cataclysm to bind her in thrall to Haarth.

  The darkness engulfed her and a potential third path opened up, fire exploding against fire as Tarathan tried to bind her and she fought back, the ritual worked far enough through that they killed each other, far down in the Gate of Dreams. And the world fell again, the binding that followed the Cataclysm torn apart by their death struggle.

  Time hung suspended, poised around that single incandescent moment of seeing, and balanced on the knife edge of a rite that could be turned so easily to dark or light. And then Tarathan was moving in her, his eyes dark on hers as the heavy silk of his hair swung around them both. His lips found her mouth again and now Malian was on fire, only there was no pain—and somewhere beyond their conflagration the green world of Haarth sang to her with the voice of the nightingale.

  Vision unfolded again on the other side of the fire, when they lay with their arms around each other and Malian’s head close to Tarathan’s heart. At first the seeing was simply whispers around his steady heartbeat, voices out of their shared past with the wisps of vision attached.

  “It was a long time ago,” Jehane Mor’s voice spoke gently as snow fell around them both, “and it was not the two of you, or any of the Derai who live now, that destroyed Jaransor.”

  And then Tarathan’s voice: “Be of good heart, Lira of the Derai. We will do all in our power to find your Heir and save her.” A pledge made to a dying Derai guard, again in Jaransor—and such promises were sacred in Jhaine and Emer, and on the River, just as they were amongst the Derai.

  Another, clearer vision slipped through as Malian lay half sleeping, this time of a youthful warrior, his hair a twisting of chestnut braids, on his knees before a white-clad girl with his face buried in her lap. He lifted a fierce, passionate face.

  “We need to find her, this stranger, this power I have seen in my visions, and bring her to Haarth’s song. But to take by force and fear what should only be given freely—that is their way.” He bowed his head again. “I will not be what they are!”

  The girl bent her fair head over his, one hand light on the chestnut braids. “You are not. And the paths of seeing are fluid, uncertain: you yourself have told me this. We must trust in Imuln to unfold another path.”

  His lowered head did not stir. “And if She does not?”

  For the briefest of instants, fear and doubt were cloud shadow, chasing across the fair girl’s face. “The Goddess has made you the vessel for her vision. We must trust in that.” Her hands turned his face up to meet her gaze. “As I have always trusted your true judgment and truer heart.” Her expression grew resolute. “And if there is a price to be paid, we will pay it together.”

  “You see us as we were long ago.” Tarathan spoke quietly, into Malian’s hair, and she realized that the link forged by the ritual still bound them and he was following her thoughts. Tentatively, she reached for his, and he did not draw away.

  “I didn’t know you had made that pledge to Lira.” She watched the flow of events as he saw them, the ceaseless movement of the many strands that made up time and fate. She heard the whisper of his promise to Lira again and saw the strands of possibility drift apart and reform, a new channel opening for the river’s flow. Jehane Mor’s voice wove through it, out of their shared memories: “Let there be no word of thanks between us, for are we not friends?”

  Malian recognized them as the last words the fair-haired herald had spoken, five years ago, before she and Kalan rode through Rowan Birchmoon’s door into the Winter Country—but it was only now that she felt their weight.

  “Yes.” She could feel the waiting quietness within Tarathan again to her the same stillness as when they confronted the priestess-queens. “Whatever Zhehaamor—Jehane—and I may or may not have been able to do before coming to the Derai Wall, afterward it would have been a betrayal.”

  And that, Malian thought, listening to the rhythm of his heart, is not who you are—has never been who you are. She lifted her head and kissed him. “True,” she whispered, the word a sigh from her mouth into his.

  Yet they had called him an abomination.

  “Because they finally realized it was I who was the seer and seeker, not Zhehaamor.” His expression was stark, patterned by moonlight and shadow. “By the Goddess’s law, they say, a man cannot be a seer at all—because the visions come from Imuln and so must be sacred to her consecrated priestesses. And above all else, a priestess-queen must be a seer, in order to absorb the great visions granted by the path of earth and moon. If the hierarchy had found out the truth when we were growing up—” He shrugged. “I would have been quartered alive and my remains purged in fire, while my six brothers of the Seven went to the headsman’s axe. If Jehane had survived our deaths, which a queen who loses all her Seven rarely does, she would probably have been burned as well. That, or banished to an isolate’s cell, far into the wilderness, to live out her life as a penitent, never again permitted speech with another human being.”

  Malian had raised her head and now stared into his eyes, appalled. She understood, too, what he did not say—that this could still be their fate, if either he or Jehane Mor were taken and brought back to Jhaine. Darkness draws darkness: she had heard Asantir say that in a dream, the one in which the Honor Captain slew a siren worm. Blood demands blood—and the priestess-queens had spilled a great deal of blood. The moon that rose with them had been black with it.

  Yet were the Derai so different, with their great oath that forced anyone with old powers into the temple life? Malian felt a sudden helplessness: about her ability to change anything, or to convince the Lost that they should return to the Derai cause and the Wall of Night. Or even whether it was right, after all, that she should try to persuade them.

  And yet I was promised, she thought wearily, that I would not have to be alone, as Yorindesarinen was when she fought the Chaos Worm. Tarathan’s hand lifted, smoothing back her hair, and she closed her eyes momentarily, swallowing against the tightness in her throat.

  “Think it,” he said. “I can hear you.”

  “Even Kalan does not wish to return to the Wall. Why would he, when Emer has given him the life that he always wanted? The only problem is . . .” She hesitated.

  “You have foreseen him there.” He was unsurprised, and she wondered if he had seen the same thing—and what else he might have foreseen with his falcon’s sight.

  “But not with me.” There, she had said it at last. “I saw him in Yorindesarinen’s fire, the day we met, but I wasn’t with him in the vision. And even if I had been—I do not want him to be forced back against his will, serving my cause through constraint.”

  Tarathan was silent, and when eventually he spoke, his mindvoice was almost gentle. “If you do not wish it, then I doubt that will be why he returns.”

  “I wish,” she began, and then fell silent herself. The nightingale, which had been quiet for some time, was singing again, and now the old Derai sorrow was all she heard of its song: Kerem the Dark Handed and Emeriath; Xeria’s grief for Tasian; Yorindesarinen dying alone, her body hacked and riven, with the Chaos Worm’s venom racking her veins.

  Malian bent her head, her mouth seeking Tarathan’s with something of his own fierceness. The green moon was rising higher above them, the blue moon
sinking low; when the first horn of its crescent touched the horizon, then their time together would be done. But for now, his lips were still warm, answering hers, the touch of his hands sure.

  The kiss lasted a long time, their bodies moving together in warmth and grace, and the lovemaking that followed was gentler than the fire and urgency of their first embrace. After, when they had dressed again, Malian helped Tarathan rebraid his hair, a task that took considerably longer than doing her own. She watched her fingers move, her mind carefully blank, as his was to her. But when it was done he took both her hands in his again and held them against his heart. She smiled at him: a little crookedly, she suspected, but a smile nonetheless.

  Take what you want. The voice of Doria, her nurse, speaking out of memory. And pay the price. As I have, Malian thought, and will. But she kept her mind closed around that thought, an adept’s subtle shielding. Her voice was steady, her eyes tranquil as they met his. “Will I see you again? Or do you return to the River now?”

  “We still have business here, with Zhineve-An.” Impossible to read his mind either, if he did not wish it, but his gaze was very dark as he touched his lips to hers. Malian’s hands still lay within his and she did not want to draw them away—but she did, or he released them; she could not be sure which happened first.

  Tarathan turned to study the blue moon, his profile as pure as that of Seruth on every temple frieze in the River lands. “Time to return,” he said quietly, and she nodded, narrowing her eyes at the moon as though she could look through it to the temple garden and the pool.

  And then she did see, as clearly as though she were gazing into a mirror: saw the bright light of the full moon and the tree shadows stretching black across the grass. Between the two, other shadows moved, slipping toward the old chapel of Imuln. Her mind flew to Jehane Mor, holding a protective shield over their rite—but unprotected herself.

  A bank of mist boiled up, hiding the moon and the garden from Malian’s sight. Kalan’s voice spoke out of it, just two words cast toward her like a javelin, hurled as far through the Gate of Dreams as he could reach: “Danger! Beware!”

  Tarathan’s hand seized hers. “We must get back!” he said, and she felt the fire of his power buoying her strength, as it had when she walked the path of earth and moon. Malian glanced at the blue crescent and knew that it was not quite time, but she dared not wait. She threw her mind forward, focusing on that last vision of moon and woodland and pool, in the grounds of Imuln’s temple.

  “Now!” said Tarathan, his hand tightening on hers. Malian took a deep breath and opened her portal.

  “Stay close,” she said, and pulled them both into mist and darkness.

  Chapter 47

  The Old Chapel

  By the time Kalan reached the door, Girvase was already in the upper hall, dragging his mail shirt on over his head. “What’s happening?” he demanded, banging on Audin’s door as his arms came clear. Before Kalan told him, Audin was in the hall as well. He was fully dressed, and Kalan guessed that, like Girvase, he had lain down to sleep in his clothes.

  “You need to get to your uncle,” Kalan said, putting on his own armor as he spoke. “Get the guard turned out.” He hesitated, then added, “Don’t trust anyone else, only your uncle.”

  Audin nodded, his face twisting in pain as Girvase helped him into his jupon. “You don’t trust Ombrose.” His tone was flat.

  “I don’t.” Kalan fastened the buckle on his sword belt. “I may be wrong but we can’t afford to take that chance. And make your uncle listen, Audin, else Ghis and all the girls will be dead.” He knew he did not need to tell the Duke’s nephew that if anything happened to Queen Zhineve-An it could mean war with Jhaine, and possibly Ishnapur as well, given the longstanding alliance between the two. “Gir, the attackers are using some sort of ward to block awareness of what they’re doing, so you need to get to the courtyard and raise the alarm there. I’ll go in though the temple grounds.”

  “Rastem had three of his Seven on the postern entry there,” Audin reminded him.

  Kalan nodded. “If we can reach the chapel we may be able to hold it until the guards arrive. But we need more Oakward,” he finished savagely. Or Malian and Tarathan here where they’re supposed to be, he added silently, not Nine knows where!

  The revelers were gone and the torches in the square doused when they reached the town house gate, but although the moon was sinking west it was still bright enough to see by. Girvase began to jog for the temple square, his boots echoing off the cobbles as Kalan and Audin turned toward the palace. “Is there another way in, besides the main gate?” Kalan asked. “Somewhere closer to the temple grounds?”

  Audin nodded. “Try the stable gate. It’s near to where the old mews begin, so you won’t have the whole palace to tranverse. Get going,” he added as Kalan hesitated. “Don’t wait for me.”

  Kalan broke into the same jogging run as Girvase, heading toward the palace and the mews as fast as the day’s stiffness would allow. The clang of his armor and weapons sounded loud to him, but no one chinked open a shutter as he passed by or called down a question. Everyone’s sound asleep, he thought—the ideal time for a surprise attack. The bright moonlight made the contrasting shadows blacker, and Kalan kept one hand close to his sword hilt, but his route to the palace remained clear until he reached the stable gate. The sole sentry was slumped at the top of a short flight of stairs from the street, and at first Kalan thought he was asleep. A closer look revealed that the man’s throat had been cut, and a partial boot print was smeared through the blood.

  A typical knight’s boot, thought Kalan, who did not need a torch or moonlight to make out details in the dark. He flattened himself to one side of the gate, creating a psychic shield of blended moonlight and shadow before slipping through, pressing close to the wall of the service alley on the far side. The stiffness in his muscles was easing by the time he reached the next door, which again stood open, with no sign of anyone on guard duty. The ribbon of greensward beyond was etched in black and silver, and Kalan kept to the deepest shadows as he moved along it. The night surrounding him was very quiet; even the normal chorus of insects had fallen silent.

  The three Jhainarians at the postern gate were dead, shot with longbow arrows. The shafts of the arrows were painted with the same runes he had seen on the warding rod, and he wondered if the Jhainarians had even known an enemy was there. He strengthened his shield, but could detect no sign of hidden watchers. The apparent lack of rearguards bothered him, but he entered the temple grounds anyway, working his way into an overgrown corner.

  Once there, Kalan stood motionless, listening. The temple’s power thrummed through his boot soles, although with another note wound through it that he could not quite make out: moonlight shot through with the scent of jasmine, perhaps, while in the distance a nightingale sang.

  He shook his head, the hairs on his nape rising, because there was no nightingale, although he thought there might be jasmine, spilling over the nearby wall. When he moved, he kept every step gentle, holding the tranquility of the night and trees around him as he slid from grove to thicket. Gradually, he felt the presence of other minds, pressing at the edge of his shield—and then a mindsweep washed across the night.

  Not Nindorith, Kalan thought, when his heartbeat had slowed again. And not attacking me: not yet. He had stopped beneath a weeping birch and the tree’s soft green trailed about him while his mind filtered new scents: the stink of rage and fear, and the metallic tang of blood. He could see the old chapel now, between gaps in the trees, and ghosted closer, crouching down beneath a gnarled elm. A few paces ahead of him, a body was sprawled on its back. It wore one of the bestial helmets favored by some Darksworn—a different lot than the lightning warriors? Kalan wondered—and had been killed by a crossbow quarrel through the eyeslit.

  Good shooting, he thought, impressed. Kneeling at the foot of the tree gave him a clear line of sight to the chapel entrance, where two great yews stood watch over
a shadowed portico. Two more bodies in the bestial helms were slumped at the base of the trees, so clearly someone must be holding the door—or had been.

  Jarna? Kalan wondered, or one of the damosels? He crept closer, alert for every twig or pebble that might give away an unwary step.

  A warning feathered along his psychic shield an instant before he heard stealthy footfalls and the whisper of bodies through the brush. Four attackers broke cover, racing for either side of the portico, and a crossbow spat in answer. One runner gave a coughing cry and pitched forward, but his companions kept running—intending to close before the crossbow could be reloaded, Kalan guessed. He drew his sword.

  The defender waited until the assailants were close enough to block the aim of any enemy archers, before stepping clear of the entrance. He was holding a ladyspike in a businesslike fashion and wearing one of the bestial helms—a contradiction Kalan was still trying to work out when the ladyspike severed one opponent’s head, the return cut taking the next assailant at the knees. The fourth attacker swerved aside and rolled into the undergrowth as his comrade collapsed, screaming, and the defender retreated beneath the arch. A moment later another crossbow quarrel silenced the screams.

  Where’s Girvase? Kalan wondered. Surely he should have roused Rastem and the rest of the Seven by now?

  The silence that followed the skirmish was intense, and he studied the surrounding grounds, stretching the edge of his shield to try and locate the seeker—who must be wielding considerable power through the warding rod, to have blocked out even the crippled warrior’s screams.

  A wave of red fury spat along the edge of Kalan’s shield like another crossbow quarrel. He could not pinpoint the direction from which the mindsweep had come but guessed that it was intended to stun the defender. Time to act, he thought, and moved forward again, still careful not to break cover physically or release the chameleon dapple of his shield.