The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Zhineve-An hesitated, and her remaining Seven, who had still been watching Tarathan like cats at a mousehole, tensed at once. Eventually the young queen nodded. “The demon,” she said, “wore the face of Lord Arcolin, the Many-As-One’s envoy to Emer. Ser Ombrose, your father’s champion, was with him, together with men wearing his wolf’s head badge.”

  There’s more to this, Malian thought, watching Zhineve-An: something she’s not saying. Lord Hirluin simply nodded—because he already knew about Ser Ombrose, Malian guessed, or suspected, at least. “I may have seen him,” she put in quietly. “In the tunnel over there, just before you arrived. The figure I glimpsed was hooded, but wearing parti-colored hose. One leg was black, the other royal blue.”

  “But he’s the Duke’s champion.” Disillusion and disbelief roughened Girvase’s voice.

  Lord Hirluin nodded again, but Malian caught the flash of grief before his expression settled back into weary grimness. “Ombrose has always been as much a Sondcendre as a Sondargent, and I knew that he had embraced their old enmity toward Ormond. I just didn’t realize the hatred ran so deep.”

  The champion had also resented the Duke’s intention to set aside the Sondargent name and adopt Sondemer instead, Malian thought, remembering the conversation in the Duke’s study.

  The Duke’s son glanced at Zhineve-An again. “It seems he was more ambitious than we realized as well.” The Jhainarian queen, her eyes cast down, did not see his look, but both Rastem and Zorem intercepted it and shifted closer to her. Malian glanced toward Tarathan and caught Raven’s eye instead. His expression was so noncommittal that she felt sure he was considering every question Lord Hirluin had not yet asked about why she and Tarathan were here—and how they had known Zhineve-An needed help.

  So why hasn’t Lord Hirluin asked those questions? she wondered. And how is it that he’s only arrived here tonight, despite being expected days ago?

  “We should leave this for now,” Lord Hirluin said. “I am sure my father will want to talk with you more later, Queen Zhineve-An and”—here his gaze considered them all—“we shall have questions for everyone involved tonight. But right now we need to see both you and Countess Ghiselaine safe, while the guards continue to search for my cousin and his men.”

  “They attacked us in the courtyard, too,” Raher told Malian, as the Jhainarians maneuvered to make sure they were between Tarathan and their queen. He and Girvase waited while she stooped to pick up Arcolin’s knife, but it was Raven who gave her his cloak to wrap the poisoned blade.

  “I’ll retrieve you later,” Malian told Nhenir.

  “Not Ser Ombrose himself,” Raher continued, as they hurried to catch up with the others, “but Emerians wearing his badge, together with some of the Lathayrans from the tourney camp. I still can’t credit that,” he added, shaking his head, “not after all Ser Ombrose did to them in the border war.”

  “Some of them,” Girvase said dryly. “Lathayra’s so divided that the enemies of those he put to fire and sword probably embraced him as their dearest friend.”

  “True enough,” Raher agreed. “And I thought we might have been done for, except first you appeared, and then Duke Caril arrived with Lord Hirluin and the guard. Apparently the Duke received word tonight that Lord Hirluin had almost reached Caer Argent, but had been forced to travel in secret, so he rode out to meet him.”

  What word? Malian wondered. She recalled Ser Ombrose telling the Duke that he had sent his own men east—but perhaps that was why Lord Hirluin had been traveling in secret.

  “Lord Falk was with them, too,” Girvase told her.

  “Lord Falk?” Malian almost stopped, she was so surprised. “I thought he was in the north?”

  “We all did,” Girvase replied. “But he must have decided that the attack on Ghiselaine could mean a threat to Lord Hirluin as well, so while we were on the road south, he went east.”

  And relied on us, Malian thought, to keep Ghiselaine safe—which suggests a high level of confidence in Kalan, Girvase, and Alianor, or a man who believes in taking risks. He had already known that the Swarm agents in the north must have had access to someone close to the inner circles of Emerian power, who had set them on to Normarch and the Oakward there. So by sending Ghiselaine to Caer Argent as though he believed it safe—and the Oakward’s business all in the north still—he had lulled his enemies. And to a certain extent, used us all as bait to draw them out: clever fox, Malian thought reluctantly, as she had once before. “Although,” she added grimly, “I’m growing tired of being bait.”

  “I think Lord Falk had confidence in your ability to bring down your enemies.” Tarathan mindspoke her for the first time since she had turned to face Arcolin. “As well as in the younger Oakward he sent south.”

  All the same, Malian reflected, he took an extraordinary risk. But then, maybe he felt he had to, rather than letting Ghiselaine’s enemies continue to work from hiding. She grimaced, because the risk had turned on a knife’s blade—but also because in flushing Ser Ombrose out, part of the Swarm’s objective of war within and without might have been achieved. “So Ghiselaine’s really all right, too?” she asked abruptly.

  “Yes,” Girvase replied. “She, Audin, and Alli had just joined the Duke when we came down here. From what they said, we all owe a lot to Ser Raven, as well as Hamar for rousing us all out.” He told her as much of the story as he knew, and Ser Alric added a little more, relating how Audin had commandeered him in the palace courtyard.

  “I’ve been wondering about that,” Raven said. “Why you rode in at all, let alone bringing the northerners with you?”

  Ser Alric rubbed at his chin. “That’s simple enough. Some of the northerners were seen leaving the camp and heading toward the city—bent on truce breaking we all thought. So I decided enough was enough and went to hold the rest of them to their oaths. They weren’t happy, but eventually agreed to take responsibility for their comrades. We were going to the Duke first to let him know there might be trouble in the city—and then Lord Audin, and the trouble, found us.”

  The Derai with him should have been happy anyway, Malian thought, since it seems they found plenty of legitimate fighting to do. “So where is Hamar?” she asked. “And Jehane Mor,” she queried Tarathan. “Has your link reestablished yet?”

  “Apparently the lad stayed at the chapel,” Ser Alric said, “to find the queen and the rest of the Countess’s party. The priestess is leading us that way now, so we can join up with them.”

  “Jehane Mor is with him,” Tarathan told her. “Malian, it’s not good news.”

  “Kalan?” she asked, with a quick, sickening jerk of her heart—and then they were filing into a small open area and she saw that it was Jarna. And Ilaise, she added, an instant later, except that the yellow-haired damosel had been wrapped in a gray cloak and appeared to be alive. Kalan and Jehane Mor were kneeling on either side of Jarna, who was soaked in blood, but they both looked up as the newcomers arrived.

  “She’s alive,” Kalan told them harshly, “but she needs healing.”

  Lord Hirluin spoke quietly to the priestess, who nodded and went swiftly past them and up the stairs. At a jerk of the head from the Duke’s heir, Lord Alric followed—for protection, Malian supposed, with the corner of her mind that was not focused on Kalan’s face as he turned to Lord Hirluin. “We can’t wait for the priestesses, ser. She’s almost dead now.”

  Tarathan stepped forward, and Rastem made a half move as if to check him. The look the herald gave him was level, but the Jhainarian eased back and Tarathan settled onto his heels beside Kalan. He did not need to speak: the careful lack of expression on his face had already told Malian that Jarna’s wounds must be very bad.

  “Healing is in her gift,” Zhineve-An said, almost as though the words were twisted out of her. Her eyes jerked from Jehane Mor to Tarathan. “And he gave me his strength.” She shook her head as Rastem said something sharp and harsh in Jhainarian. “When I was almost done, to stanch the psychic wo
unds made by Arad and Zarn and Syrus’s passing. But healing is her gift,” she repeated. She took a step forward, her gaze falling to Jarna. “If it can be done at all.”

  Kalan’s eyes were fixed on the heralds as well. “You healed Alli in the hill fort.”

  “This is much worse,” Jehane Mor said, her voice full of regret. “And she has lost so much blood.” She did not add that she and Tarathan had already expended a great deal of energy that night, but Malian knew it must affect what they could do now. And if she and Girvase helped as they had at the hill fort—or Kalan—it would mean revealing the Oakward to Ser Alric and the guards present. She did not think, though, that Kalan would care.

  “Unless—” Jehane Mor raised her calm, gray-green gaze to meet Zhineve-An’s. “It can be in your gift also,” she said quietly, “if you were to join your ability and that of your remaining Seven to ours. We are beneath a sanctuary of Imuln and together may be able to draw on its well of power to mend what is broken here.”

  To mend what is broken . . . The words rang through Malian’s seer’s sense like the afternote of a bell, and she wondered how much of this Tarathan had foreseen. Zorem had clapped a hand to his sword at Jehane Mor’s words, while another of the Seven snarled. Only Rastem remained still, and now he put an arm out, checking the others. His eyes had not left Tarathan since Zhineve-An said that he had given her his strength.

  The young queen was staring at Jehane Mor, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles were white. “You are the Forsworn,” she whispered, “your name ritually cursed in all Nine temples. And I know you have suborned the sacred rite, felt it, although I could do nothing—how can I join my power to yours?”

  “Not suborned,” Jehane Mor said gently. “Performed in its true form. And I do not ask for myself, but to save this young woman’s life, which hangs in the balance.”

  “Just do it!” Kalan grated out “There’s no time, Nine take you!”

  Malian did not miss Raven’s swift, blue-black stare, or Tarathan’s hand, pressing into Kalan’s shoulder. No one else seemed to have noticed the Derai oath; they were all watching Zhineve-An as her eyes remained locked on Jehane Mor.

  “Please.” Kalan whispered this time, and Malian felt the word swirl like autumn leaves: please, please, please.

  Zhineve-An’s eyes shifted to his, and Malian saw the war there, between loyalty to her fellow queens and the better instinct that wanted to save Jarna’s life. Kalan reached out and closed his hand over the young queen’s balled fist. “Please,” he said again. “I beg you.” And his eyes would not let hers go.

  The fist beneath his hand stirred convulsively, and Malian could see the pulse in Zhineve-An’s wrist, rapid as a frightened bird’s. Then the priestess-queen gave a little nod and knelt beside Jarna as Kalan withdrew his hand. She pushed back her sleeves, her glance sliding quickly from Tarathan to Jehane Mor. “What must I do?” she asked.

  Chapter 50

  Duty and Honor

  Jarna would live—although even with the power of the temple to draw on, Jehane Mor was gray with fatigue when she finally lifted her hands from the young knight’s body. Zhineve-An and her remnant Seven simply seemed dazed, partly because of the sustained call on their strength, already depleted by the death of their companions, but also, Malian gathered, by the nature of the working. “I didn’t know it could be like that,” Rastem said finally, speaking to Tarathan but not quite meeting his eye.

  “Well, now you do,” Tarathan replied. The young First did meet his eyes then, before as quickly glancing away—ashamed, Malian thought, and looking as though he had a great deal to think about.

  The slash across Jarna’s stomach turned out to be shallow, and the healers who returned with the priestess said they would stitch it closed and set the broken collarbone as well, once back in the temple infirmary. But it was the initial healing, Malian knew, that had held Jarna’s spirit to her body long enough for any subsequent treatment to occur. “The rest,” Jehane Mor said softly, “we must leave to the body, and Jarna’s will to live.”

  Malian thought she glanced at Kalan then, but it was so slight a look that she could not be sure. In any case, it was no secret that Kalan and Jarna were close friends, regardless of whether any of the Normarch company guessed at a deeper relationship. “We should find Ado at the infirmary, too.” Girvase said, as the Normarchers helped lift the stretchers the healers had brought. “He turned his ankle and took a gash across the forearm during the courtyard fight. But he’ll be all right,” he added, as Kalan looked around quickly from his place beside Jarna.

  Malian thought Zhineve-An hesitated momentarily, as though she wanted to go to the infirmary as well, but in the end she drew the remnant of her Seven around her like a cloak and departed with Lord Hirluin. The heralds left the infirmary soon after the healers had finished their work on Jarna, and Malian found time to slip aside and retrieve Nhenir from the old chapel while the rest of the Normarch company lingered, waiting for Ado. Guards were still coming and going from the tunnel network, but it seemed clear that Ser Ombrose and those of his men left alive had gotten away.

  “We should get back,” Girvase said, when Malian returned. “Find out what’s happening.”

  No one seemed surprised when Kalan chose to remain in the infirmary with Jarna, because a close comrade would do that in Emer, as on the Wall of Night, so long as need allowed. Ado joined them, limping a little, as they farewelled Ilaise. She was still groggy from the blow to her head. “And needs quiet,” a priestess told them firmly, adding that they could come back that evening so long as the damosel rested all day.

  The search for Ser Ombrose was fanning out through the city, and Lord Falk had already taken men to the Swarm town house, but found it abandoned. The Duke had also sent messengers to the tourney camp, announcing that the finals had been postponed, for that day at least. “How can they continue at all,” Girvase demanded bitterly, “with the champion’s honor in the dust?”

  “The Duke may need the men there in the field,” Raven observed, “in order to bring Ser Ombrose to bay—depending on how many others he’s drawn to his cause.”

  Many of the knights might need to sober up drastically first, Malian thought, judging by what Alianor had told her last night. The early arrivals looked sober enough, but they had not come from the camp. She recognized the Lords Bonamark and Tenneward arrving at the same time as a stooped, melancholy knight with shrewd eyes. “Lord Griffonmark’s captain,” Girvase said, when Malian asked. “He came with Lord Hirluin.”

  Lord Falk spoke with them briefly on his way to join the Duke’s council of war, his expression bland as he glanced Malian’s way. Fox, she thought again, not quite sure whether she meant it as an epithet or a compliment, although she had to admit that he looked like a man who had been driving himself hard. He gave them a quick account of his journey from the Eastern March with Lord Hirluin, an expedition beset by every kind of obstacle: flooded fords, trees fallen across roads, a hailstorm in Griffonmark with stones large enough to lacerate flesh. And finally, an armed force lying in wait at the last posting station in Azur forest, before the road ran clear to Caer Argent.

  “Ser Ombrose’s men?” Malian asked.

  “It seems likely. We went the long way around them, rather than finding out.” Lord Falk shrugged. “We’ve already sent word to Lady Azurward. She’s loyal and will dispatch troops to round them up.” He glanced toward the meeting chamber as Ser Alric and the Allerion knights came in. “I’ll need Ser Raven with me, but the rest of you should get some rest. We will want to talk with you, although probably not before this afternoon.”

  So we will be called, Malian thought, as they got to their feet. She had looked around for the heralds several times—and been annoyed, each time, to have Raven catch her doing it. Tarathan and I said good-bye on the island, she reminded herself, but still felt as gray as the dawn that had greeted them when they left the old chapel for the infirmary.

  They found Ghiselaine and A
lianor back in the Gallery wing, which was bristling with ducal guards. Both young women were in a somber mood, as was Audin when he returned from the infirmary where he had spoken briefly with Kalan and looked in on a sleeping Ilaise. Malian was sure that most of their downcast looks were for the night’s events—but part might be because Lord Hirluin had come to formally greet Ghiselaine before he joined his father.

  “They spoke for a few minutes,” Alianor told her, pretending to study the jostle of men and horses in the main courtyard below the window. “Just the expected courtesies, but it wasn’t too stilted.” She hesitated. “At least Lord Hirluin chose to come here first, before going to the council of war. He seemed kind,” she added softly, “like Audin. And I think he wants to please her.”

  They might do well enough together, then, despite everything, Malian reflected: the heir of Emer and the heiress of Ormond. It would have been hard for Audin, though, if he had to stand by and smile. And for Ghiselaine, loving one cousin, but bound by politics, honor, and duty to marry the other—even if he was kind. Springtime love, she told herself, and sighed.

  Ghiselaine caught the sound and turned. “You look exhausted, Maister Carick.” Her gaze took in the remaining Normarch company. “We should all get some rest now, since there may not be time once we learn more of what’s happening: whether the tourney will go ahead tomorrow, after all, or whether it’s war again.”

  “Come with us to the Normarch town house,” Audin said, and Malian was tempted just for the company, but the part of her that was Malian of Night, rather than Carro the scholar, or Carick the adept, needed to be alone. So she returned to her small rooms under the tower, setting Nhenir and the cloak-wrapped blade on the table while she sat on the bed, her elbows on her knees as she studied the helm. She focused her will to look through the layers of concealment to the moon-bright helm that lay at their heart. The dawn eyes on the visor gazed blindly back at her, opaque with secrets.