by Helen Lowe
“It’s time for Maister Carick to quit the scene in any case,” Malian told Kalan as they headed for the Normarch town house. “His usefulness is over following the open confrontation with Arcolin.”
Kalan was frowning. “They didn’t really ask about how Raven would have known that Ghis and Queen Zhineve-An were in danger. Maybe because he’d already accounted for it earlier. But what do you think?”
“He says he can smell magic,” she said, waiting until they had passed the guard on the gate, although she still kept her voice low. “Perhaps the sorcery they were using alerted him.”
“The Darksworn adept, the one who died, spoke to him at the last.” Kalan was watching the first dance of moths through early shadow. “ ‘But you’re not’—that’s what she said. She seemed shocked, as though she had just realized something about him that she hadn’t before. She’d called him a traitor earlier,” he added, as they turned into the town house square. “But I don’t think that was it.”
Malian frowned, too, thinking about the two Darksworn she had overheard through the white mists. Rhike had certainly thought the warrior she spoke to on Summer’s Eve was opposing her cause—and at The Leas, even the beast-men had seemed afraid of Raven. Which meant they knew to be afraid, Malian thought now. “ ‘But you’re not,’ ” she repeated. “Not what, I wonder?”
Kalan stopped, staring past the everyday life around them. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “But I think he must have some power beyond just sensing magic. I felt that last mindblast she hurled at him through my shield, and it should have knocked him cold, or killed him. But it didn’t. And her last strike at him just deflected to either side.”
I’ve seen something like that before, Malian thought, although the recollection eluded her. “Jehane Mor was holding a shield—” she began.
“I know. I saw her in my dream, under the great dome. I thought she was protecting the vigil, but when I got to the chapel there was no trace of her shield.” Kalan shook his head. “So it had to be something else diverting the attack from Ser Raven.”
But what? Malian thought. She had never detected any hint of power use around the knight at all. Yet Raven had seen through her Shadow Band illusions as well, either from their first meeting or over time, and known that the River maister was a young woman . . .
I need to work out where he fits into all this, she thought, but I’m too exhausted right now. She yawned mightily, and Kalan looked around with a wry grin. “I think I’ll sleep like the dead tonight,” he said.
Malian could not help herself: she made the River sign to avert ill luck, although she was careful not to let him see it. They walked the rest of the way across the square in mutual silence, although they both grinned when they passed a food vendor’s stall and Kalan’s stomach grumbled loudly. It did smell good, Malian thought, sniffing the tang of salt and frying oil appreciatively, but she knew there would be a meal provided in the town house—and plans to be made once she had spoken with Lord Falk.
The heralds were waiting for her in the town house forecourt, the late sunlight gilding their hair. “Another herald pair arrived at the Guild house here today,” Jehane Mor told Malian, “They had come from Ar and one of their messages was for you, so we said we would deliver it.”
She handed the roll in its sealed case to Malian, who did not need to look down to see Elite Cairon’s secret mark amidst the scrolling on the heavy leather. “We have also,” the herald added gently, “come to say good-bye. We have business in Port Farewell and will return to the River by ship.”
So they were leaving: well, she had known they would. Malian kept her face smooth, although she felt that quick pain again, in the region of her heart. Port Farewell, she thought—fitting! “I still have your medallion,” she said, and made herself meet Tarathan’s eyes, just for a moment. “I should give it back.”
Jehane Mor’s hand closed over hers, preventing her from reaching beneath the neck of her tunic. “Keep it,” she said.
“But—” Malian shook her head. “It’s the insignia of a priestess-queen of Jhaine,” she protested to Tarathan.
“You have earned it,” their conjoined voice told her. Their eyes pierced her. “You have walked the path of earth and moon and seen the visions that entails. You have heard the song of Haarth and will remain a priestess-queen. One who has passed through the sacred rite can never be unmade.”
It’s not just Tarathan, Malian thought, a little shaken: I can hear them both. She remembered the young Zhehaamor, mindspeaking her fellow sovereigns in their temple strongholds, and supposed this must be part of being a priestess-queen of Jhaine.
“Keep it,” Jehane Mor said again. “For my sake.”
“For both our sakes,” said Tarathan.
Malian nodded, if a little blindly, and was acutely aware of Kalan’s presence, his face wiped clear of any expression at all. “Thank you,” she managed, and realized that Jehane Mor was still watching her, something very close to diffidence in her eyes now.
“Are we friends?” asked the herald, who was also Zhehaamor of Jhaine.
Are we? Malian wondered. She felt the weight of the moon disc around her neck, balancing the fire of Yorindesarinen’s armring on her wrist, and heard the hero’s voice out of long ago: There are many friends . . . some open and some still hidden from you.
She heard a fair-haired herald speaking, too, the snow falling around them in Jaransor: . . . are we not friends?
“We are friends,” Malian said, and in saying the words, recognized their truth. She clasped Jehane Mor’s hand, and the herald kissed her on either cheek.
“Farewell, for now.” She stepped back. “May your nine gods watch over you.”
And then Malian was looking into Tarathan’s dark eyes one more time. Let it not be a last time, she thought: let it never be that. “Farewell,” he said aloud, and kissed her lips: “Malian of Night.”
“Farewell,” she said steadily, and inexplicably, the pain released its tight hold around her heart. The heralds stepped back, saluting her as one before walking away, their gray cloaks swinging across the tops of their boots. She watched them go, then turned to meet Kalan’s carefully neutral gaze.
His hesitation was barely noticeable. “Do you think the scroll’s important?”
Almost certainly, she thought. The Elite’s mark on the casing told her it was something he believed she either needed or would want to know. “Let’s find out,” she said, keeping her voice as smooth as her face, although she caught Kalan’s sideways glance all the same. As soon as they passed the door, she could hear the voices of the other young knights, talking somewhere in the upstairs region of the house. She ignored them, crossing to the brightest of the hall lamps before extracting the scroll and turning it to maximize the light. When she had read it through twice she rerolled the parchment and returned it to the case.
“Is it bad news?” Kalan asked.
“Fresh reports have come in from the Wall.” She kept her voice low, aware of how speech could echo in the hall. “My father still mourns for Rowan Birchmoon. Some of the Band’s sources even claim that he is mad with grief.” She was silent, trying to think what that would mean if it were true. “But mad or not,” she continued, unable to keep the irony from her voice, “a marriage has been arranged with a Daughter of Blood. There’s to be a great festival of arms in the Red Keep at autumn’s eve, to choose an honor guard and captain to escort her to the Keep of Winds.”
She could see him waiting and met his eyes. “I foresaw Nherenor’s death, five years ago,” she told him, “when I looked into Yorindesarinen’s fire. I saw you, too, in the same vision sequence. You were part of a wedding caravan.”
“So you want me to return, not just to the Wall of Night, but to the House of Blood, and take part in this contest of arms?” Kalan was expressionless again, his mindtone giving nothing away. “Gain reentry to Night that way?”
Do I just nod and say yes? Malian wondered. Instead she stepped close, her
voice lower still. “I saw you in the wedding caravan, dressed as a warrior. I sense that it is vital you are there, although I don’t know why.”
“So you purported to offer me a free choice earlier, when you already thought me fated.” She heard the iron in his mindtone and her heart sank. I should have explained about my vision before, she thought, cursing herself—but I wanted him to be free to choose.
Kalan stared into her eyes a moment longer, then gave a small jerk of his head. She recognized Girvase’s gesture from the Rindle, signaling acceptance of Raven’s leadership, however unpalatable the young knight had found his decisions. “Everything I said then still holds true, regardless of your foreseeing,” Kalan told her grimly. “And if Rowan Birchmoon’s death was plotted by those outside Night, a festival of arms may be a good place to pick up rumors.”
He paused, glancing toward the upstairs voices. “If I leave tonight I should catch up with the heralds. I can ride with them to Port Farewell and take ship for Grayharbor, then find another there to reach the Sea Keep. But I need to say good-bye to the others first, and see Jarn.” He took the gauntlets from his belt, but did not put them on. “I will meet you back here afterward and we can settle any other plans before I leave.” He paused again, his expression set as he regarded her. “I take it that you will still seek the Lost?”
Malian hesitated, but his unhappiness over the foreseeing had told her that she needed to be open with him now. I am sending him into danger as well, she thought. He needs to know that I trust him. “I will,” she said. She kept her eyes and her voice steady. “But once I have done that, there is another path I must pursue.”
And she told him about the sword.
Chapter 52
The Path of Return
“I still can’t get over Maister Carick being a girl,” Raher said, coming back to the subject after cancellation of the tournament finals had been thrashed out—together with the decision to share the prize money amongst the finalists so there would be no ill will. He paused as the young Normarch knights made their way through the main entrance of the temple complex, throwing out his arms. “And if Ser Raven knew all along, why didn’t he say so?”
“None of his business?” Girvase volunteered, pointedly, but Raher went on muttering about it anyway as they walked around to the infirmary gate. “And is she a scholar or isn’t she?” he asked, plaintive again. “He—she—seemed to know about book learning, but where does the knife-play in the tunnels come in?”
“Oh, for Imuln’s sake!” Audin snapped. “Isn’t it obvious? She’s a dancer of Karn. And maybe a scholar as well,” he added, making a visible effort to curb his irritation. “One doesn’t necessarily rule out the other, I suppose.”
They all exchanged careful glances behind his back. Not even Raher said anything, although Kalan knew they were all thinking about the formal announcement that Ghiselaine’s wedding to Hirluin would take place the next evening. After a moment, Girvase threw an arm, sword-comrade fashion, across Audin’s shoulders, and then Raher said, cautiously, that it looked like they would all be riding out with the Duke in the next few days. “So we won’t have to worry about finding a place as a company until this business with Ser Ombrose is over.”
“What about Jarna?” Ado asked. Kalan guessed that he was thinking about Ser Alric’s comments yesterday. Girvase slanted a look at him but said nothing.
“She’ll stay here, I suppose, until she’s better.” Raher sounded surprised. “And then she’ll join us. But she’ll be all right. The girls’ll look after her.”
The full moon of Midsummer was well up now, the pale light blanching Ado’s fair hair to ash. “What if,” he said, “we can’t get a place as a company if she’s part of it?”
Audin’s lips pursed in a silent whistle. Girvase still said nothing, but Raher scowled. “What a cursed shabby trick!” he said, although it was unclear whether he meant no one taking them on, or the implication that they should abandon Jarna. “After Summer’s Eve,” he added, sounding less certain, “we swore to ride as a company.”
They had reached the infirmary gates and stood beneath the shadowed arch, with its carved tracery of the poppy that eased pain. “We need to be sure about where we stand, that’s all,” Ado said. “Before the situation comes up.”
He had spent most of his training years as Ser Rannart’s squire, rather than at Normarch, Kalan reflected. It made sense that his bond to the group, and to Jarna, might not be as strong. Raher was scowling. “M’father says you should never abandon a sword comrade, even if you don’t like them or the circumstances are not convenient to you. He says that’s what it means, to be a knight of Emer.”
“We rode as one at Summer’s Eve,” Girvase said quietly. “I’m with Raher’s father.”
Audin nodded. “It feels like that for me, too. As though I would be breaking faith, not just with Jarna, but with everyone who died if we broke our fellowship for advancement.”
“Dishonored,” said Girvase.
Audin looked at Kalan. “You’re very quiet, Hamar. But no need to even ask you, I suppose.”
“No,” said Kalan, the word a weight. Girvase’s head turned. “But not because I have always been Jarna’s friend. I won’t be riding with you. I’m leaving tonight.”
The silence was so profound that he heard a priestess laugh softly, somewhere behind the temple walls. Much further off a nightingale was singing, at one with the night and the moon and every Emerian song of springtime love.
“You can’t leave,” Raher said. “You’re one of us.”
Kalan’s mouth was very dry. “No,” he said, for the second time. “I’m not. It’s not for advancement,” he added, reading Ado’s expression. He wanted to laugh, entirely without mirth. “Almost the opposite in fact.” He spread his hands, trying to explain to their incomprehension. “I’m not from Emer, although I was fostered here with Lord Falk. But now I’ve been called back.”
“An older loyalty,” Audin said, frowning and sounding unsure at the same time.
“Called by her,” Raher said suddenly. “The maister—adept—whoever she is. Does your family serve hers, then, back on the River? Perhaps we could persuade her to forgive you the service?” His grin was mostly a baring of teeth.
Audin sighed. “Don’t be a fool, Raher. She’s an adept of Karn—and rode with us, too, at Summer’s Eve.” He looked at Kalan. “You’re really leaving tonight?”
Kalan nodded, and they were all silent again. Despite his night vision, he found it impossible to read their expressions now. Finally, Audin stirred. “We still need to see how Illy is doing. Are you going to see Jarna?” he asked Kalan, who nodded. “We’ll meet you out here afterward, then—see you off.”
Kalan nodded again, and Audin left with Ado and an unusually quiet Raher. Girvase remained, standing a few paces away, but the distance, Kalan thought, might as well have been the full length of the road that stretched from Ij to Ishnapur.
“Lord Falk and Manan told me this might happen,” Girvase said finally. “And that we were not to blame you.”
Do you? Kalan wanted to ask, but he knew to wait, with Girvase. “I think,” his friend said slowly, “that you are not from the River. And probably,” he added shrewdly, “you’re not even called Hamar. You’re part of this northern business.” He waited, but Kalan said nothing. “But you can’t tell me that. Or your true name.”
Kalan shook his head, although his throat burned with the longing to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“So am I,” Girvase said. Something in the way he spoke made the words into an ending. But still he did not move. “And Jarna?”
The nightingale, Kalan noticed, had fallen silent, abandoning the moon and the night’s warmth. “Will always be my true friend,” he said stiffly. “As will you all.”
Girvase was silent. He had a way, Kalan thought, of not saying anything that was annoyingly eloquent.
Ours is a just a springtime love grafted onto friendship, he wanted to re
ply, easy and confident: Jarn knows that. Except that suddenly he felt unsure. Jarna was so shy that sometimes it was hard to know what she truly thought. And she wasn’t a damosel from one of the great families, who had grown up knowing that a springtime love could never be more than dalliance, before her family made her a marriage tied to wealth and land.
“The place I’m going,” he said instead, “is brutal. Hostile to those from outside.” He thought of Rowan Birchmoon as he had first seen her, amidst the falling snow in Jaransor, and grief caught in his throat. “Deadly, too, sometimes.”
Perhaps he should have thought of that sooner, before he and Jarna took the step beyond straightforward friendship into something more. He had been a fool, hoping the Emerian life could last—but then, springtime love meant transience, coming into bloom and then gone again with the spring flowers. And already it was Midsummer, his and Jarna’s fleeting springtime passed. “I have to leave Emer,” he said to Girvase, his voice harsh. “But I’ll see Jarna first and say good-bye, if she’s awake.”
“And if she’s not?” That cursed, dispassionate tone.
“I still have to go.” Girvase said nothing, but Kalan was aware of his friend’s eyes at his back all the way across the courtyard and up the infirmary stair. It’s none of his business anyway, Kalan thought, gritting his teeth. But he remembered Girvase at the fords of the Rindle, when he thought Alianor might be hurt or dead—and how there had been no doubt in him earlier either, when they spoke about sword comrades holding true to each other.
Jarna was awake, although the priestess keeping watch in her room said that she had been drifting in and out of consciousness and he could not stay long. “She’s very weak,” she said, “and we’ve had to give her more poppy, for the pain.” But Jarna’s eyes, though drowsy, were lucid when Kalan took the stool beside the bed. Someone had draped Ghiselaine’s tourney favor across her pillow, the yellow rich in the plain room.