by Helen Lowe
“They’re here!” he muttered. Malian could sense it, too, like a stifling closeness in the air. But if this was like the New Keep, there should be a spyhole … After a moment her fingers found it and she peered through, catching the first uneven leap of torchlight across floor and walls. Jagged shadows loomed and Malian held her breath as the first of the hunters padded into view.
One by one, four more hunters crept down the stairs to join the first, their heads moving constantly as they turned and quested, checking everywhere for the prey. Their headgear was horned, bestial. Masks? Malian wondered, staring intently, then swallowed hard as she realized that the grotesque beast shapes were neither masks nor helms. Were-hunters, she thought, her eyes dropping to the raking claws that served them instead of hands. She and this boy, this Kalan, could never have outrun these pursuers; they had found their hiding place just in time. Even so, they were still far from safe, for she knew that were-hunters used Darkswarm sorcery to enhance the sharpness of their beast senses.
Silently, Malian motioned Kalan to look and felt the sudden, rigid tension in his body the moment he set his eye to the spyhole. He reached out an arm and drew her close, placing his hand over her mouth as though to prevent even a whisper. For a moment she resisted—and then felt a wall close around the remaining spark of fire in her mind. It was like being encased by stone: cold, rough-hewn, and dry with the undisturbed dust of centuries. She could almost see it closing over the narrow opening beneath the stairs as well, impenetrable to searching eyes. The flaring nostrils and bestial heads swung from side to side, baffled by the silence and sense of nothing-there-at-all in a place where they had expected prey.
Gently, Malian eased away from the boy and he lifted his hand from her mouth, moving to let her look through the spyhole again. A light flickered on the far side of the landing now, a tantalizing firefly spark, and the bestial heads turned toward it as one.
It’s drawing them off, Malian thought, just as it showed me this hideaway. She could sense the were-hunters’ wariness and doubt, almost tangible in the air, but they followed the will-o’-the-wisp anyway, padding out of sight. There were no more hunting cries, but both she and Kalan remained very still for some time, watching and listening. “I think they’re gone,” Malian murmured at last, daring a whisper.
Kalan shifted. “For now,” he said. “But with were-hunters you never really know.”
Malian shivered. “You did something, didn’t you?” she said. “I could feel you blocking them with your wall of stone, turning their eyes and minds away.”
I would never have escaped them without you, she added silently.
He shifted again, as if uncomfortable, and was close enough that she could feel his focus, intent on her. “So what is your name?” he asked. But she could imagine the unspoken questions, too: The “Who are you?”; and “Why are they hunting you? “
Malian frowned, and for a moment considered not telling him, but then she shrugged. “It’s Malian,” she said.
“Malian,” he repeated, but not as though the name held any significance for him. Malian suppressed a wry grin, mocking herself.
“We should go,” Kalan continued, sounding worried. “Before they come back.”
Malian nodded and let him lead her away from the spyhole and the secret door, deeper into the maze that ran through the walls of the Old Keep. After a time, she whispered that they should keep bearing to the left, that doing so should bring them to a concealed safehold. “If,” she added, “this place works the same as in the New Keep.”
“How—” Kalan began, then broke off, apparently thinking better of whatever question he had been going to ask.
They went on in silence, following the secret way for what seemed like a very long time. In one part, the roof curved in so low that they had to crawl on hands and knees. Eventually, the passage opened up again and they were able to stand upright, only to find their way blocked by a steel door. “Is this your safehold?” Kalan asked, keeping his voice low, but Malian shook her head.
“All the doors into the safeholds are wooden,” she murmured. “I’ve never encountered anything like this before.”
Kalan put his ear to the door and appeared to be listening. Finally, he eased it open, just wide enough to peer through—then stopped. “The room’s not large,” he whispered after a moment; he must have remembered that she couldn’t see. “But it has twelve sides and twelve doors, one in the center of every wall. The walls look rounded, as though they’re curving into the roof.” Kalan took a step forward, into the room, drawing Malian after him. “And the roof’s arched.”
“It’s very quiet,” Malian whispered back.
“But peaceful. Not threatening at all. Not like the silence in so much of this place.” Kalan took another step forward. “I don’t think these walls are made of stone either. The surface looks very smooth.”
“This bit feels like glass.” Malian snatched her hand back as light flared beneath her touch. The initial spark brightened to a soft glow and she blinked at Kalan in astonishment. Then she looked again, absorbing the detail of a square face beneath rough tawny hair, gold-flecked gray eyes, and the spattering of freckles across a straight nose. He was stockily built and slightly taller than herself, and the mouth below the freckles was wide—with a quirk, Malian thought, that might mean humor. She noted the gray-blue robes of a temple novice, robes that were patched and far too short at wrist and ankle. Her eyebrows went up when she realized that he was surveying her every bit as critically as she was studying him: A second later, as though reaching some unspoken consensus of approval, they looked into each other’s tired, grime-smudged faces and smiled.
“I like the light,” Kalan said, “even though I don’t need it to see by.” He reached up and touched the glass panel, but the light didn’t change. “How did you do that?”
Malian ran her hand over the glass and the light faded until they stood in darkness once more. When she touched it again, the light returned. She shook her head. “I don’t know.” She looked around at the white, gleaming walls and saw more glass panels spaced at even intervals. “What a strange place this is. It feels as though we’ve been drawn here, but to what end?” She slanted a look at Kalan. “And what brought you down here, out of the Temple quarter?”
His eyes held hers, his expression curious, assessing. “I thought you’d know, since those were-hunters seemed to be after you. They’re not the first Swarm minions I’ve seen today: The keep’s been invaded.” Quickly and quietly, he told her about seeing the company of black-clad warriors pass, bringing some sort of Darkswarm demon with them. “I was trying to warn the temple,” he said at last, “to get around the invaders somehow. But I just got drawn deeper and deeper into the Old Keep, until I met you.”
Malian felt sick, almost dizzy. “So it’s not just an assassination attempt,” she whispered. “This is a major attack. Even now, our people may be dying in their sleep!” Her hands shook and she curled them into fists. “We must find a way to warn them, to save them!”
“What can we do, just the two of us?” She saw her despair reflected in Kalan’s face. “We’re not armed and there are were-hunters after us. Or after you,” he amended, with that same measuring look.
Malian ignored his unspoken question and began to pace. “I was asleep,” she said, half to herself, half to him, “and when I woke it was to a voice in my mind, telling me to flee. The warning was so compelling that I didn’t wait to ask questions; I just did as it said. I ran.” Her fingers opened, then closed again. “Unlike you, I didn’t even think about warning anyone else.”
Kalan was frowning. “It’s probably just as well since the were-hunt was after you. Brother Selmor’s books are full of warnings like that.” A thread of excitement crept into his voice. “All from the old days, of course, when we were strong in the powers and the Golden Fire burned in every keep. Some stories claim that the warnings came from the gods, some say from the Fire. But they almost always came to the Blood
alone, usually when they were in very great danger.” He nodded, as though a puzzle had clicked into place. “I knew your name seemed familiar, although mostly people just say ‘the Heir’ or ‘the Heir of Night.’ But it certainly explains why they’re hunting you.”
“I suppose it does. But otherwise—” Malian shrugged. “I don’t think it matters that much who I am, not right now.”
Kalan rolled his eyes. “Of course it matters! You’re the Heir of the House of Night, by all the Nine Gods! There are no other children of your Blood—you’re the only heir that Night has. You of all people have to know how important that makes you.”
Malian sighed. “‘If Night falls, all fall.’ They say that prophecy is as old as the Derai Alliance itself, but that its true meaning has been lost over time.”
Kalan’s lip curled. “Brother Belan always said that the prophecy means exactly what it says; that belief in it is the only thing that’s been lost. But you do see,” he added, stumbling a little over the words, “that it’s my duty to help you, and to try and protect you and all that other stuff, now that I know who you are?”
Malian grinned. “You’ve already helped me,” she pointed out, “and not because you knew I was the Heir of Night.” The grin faded. “Can you understand how I feel, though, knowing that I fled when it was my duty as Heir to warn and protect my House?”
“I can,” Kalan said slowly, “except that you were told to flee. And in the old stories, it’s always disastrous to ignore warnings like that—to set your own will against that of the gods, as it were. No good ever comes of it.”
“Wise boy.” The whisper seared the quiet air with light and heat and both Malian and Kalan jumped, staring around the twelve-walled room.
“Who are you?” Malian demanded. “What do you want?”
“You, Heir of Night.” The will-o’-the-wisp danced at the edge of her vision.
“Well, I’m here,” she said, as boldly as she dared. “Now—who are you?”
“Do you not know me? “ asked the voice, a rumble of muted thunder. “I and my fellows are in all the histories of the Derai, your long allies and your friends in the age old war against the Swarm of Dark.”
Malian pushed a hand through her hair. “Then I do know you,” she said, and heard the wonder in her voice, “although you have been gone a long time. Most believe that you died, along with so many others, on the Night of Death.”
“Died?” mused the voice. It was warmth, light, heat, all shimmering together. “No, we did not die, but we came very close when Xeriatherien broke the first law and called down our fire against the Derai. That dealt us a soul wound, striking at our very essence, and we fled from it and the horror of her deed. And then the Blood, who should have been most diligent in seeking us out and aiding our recovery, abandoned us instead. The Old Keep and I have become ghosts together, neglected and forgotten by all but a very few. You, child, were one of that handful, creeping through to play your games and breathe a little life back into the old halls. You were not aware of me, but I learned your voice and your heart, which is why I could reach out to you and warn you of your peril. I cannot rouse anyone else. I have tried, but though some few may have stirred in their sleep, none have woken. The House of Night, it seems, has grown both deaf and blind!” The voice paused, as though recollecting itself. “But you, child—it may be that you can reach them, for you know the New Keep as I do not, and they know you. You may even be in time to save many, for the enemy have delayed and dispersed in hunting you. Much of the keep still sleeps on, unaware of the attack.”
Malian stood straighter. “Tell me what I must do,” she said.
“First you must come into the heart of my power,” the voice replied, “so I have some hope of protecting you, while you may draw on my strength. It is imperative that we work together, for you are young and untrained and I am weaker than I used to be. But together, and with the boy’s help, we may do what needs to be done.”
Kalan was frowning. “Rouse the keep?” he asked. “Is that all you mean to do? Or is there something more?”
Fire crackled through the air, like the dry summer lightning that scoured the heights of the Wall. “There is,” said the voice of fire. “The Child of Night must mindspeak the New Keep, rousing the alarms that the invaders have silenced. The alarms are tuned to the Blood of Night, so she can override the Darkswarm binding. You must help by anchoring her to this physical place and adding your strength to hers. But as soon as she touches the alarms, the enemy will become aware of her presence and then she will be in deadly danger. For they have brought an ally with them, a Raptor of Darkness, and even now it hunts in the New Keep.”
Malian looked at Kalan. “A Raptor of Darkness?” she asked, and saw him shudder.
“It must be the darkspawn I sensed when they passed by me in the Temple quarter,” he replied, low voiced. “It was terrible, like an all-devouring darkness brushing against my mind.”
“You did more than well,” said the fiery voice, “if you felt its presence but it did not sense yours. It is an eater of souls and hungers most for those who are power wielders, which is why they loosed it in the Temple quarter. There is no one there now, alas, who is a match for it. But the Darkswarm minions have overreached themselves, for to get the Raptor through they had to bring down the psychic barrier that Night erected between the Old Keep and the New, in order to wall out the ghosts of their dead. Those same walls have kept me out as well—but now the wards are down.”
“Does this mean that you can fight the demon and defeat it?” Kalan asked, the eagerness clear in his voice.
“It means I will try, but I, too, am not what I was. And since I cannot be sure of success I will need an edge, something to distract the Raptor’s attention so I can take it by surprise.”
Malian swallowed. “You plan to use me as bait,” she said.
“No!” exclaimed Kalan. “You cannot risk the Heir of Night!”
The room was silent, and after a moment Malian nodded, understanding that it was to be her decision. “The enemy is loose in the New Keep,” she said quietly, “and once this Raptor of Darkness is finished in the Temple quarter, it will hunt us out anyway. We have to do this, Kalan, take the risk.” But inwardly, she mocked her brave words, wishing that she did not feel so afraid.
Kalan looked bleak. “It’s ‘Yorindesarinen’s Choice’,” he said somberly, “from the saga.”
Malian shook her head, thinking that Yorindesarinen’s choice had been far more bitter, her hour more desperate. She drew a deep breath and spoke to the quiet room: “Tell us how to come inside your power.”
“Close your eyes and empty your minds and hearts, then open them again to me.”
Malian exchanged an uncertain look with Kalan, then closed her eyes, striving to let all thought and emotion drain away and fix her mind on emptiness. Gradually, she was filled with an immense golden light that intensified until she flinched away from its brilliance. The muted thunder rumbled in her head. “Fear not, I will not burn you. Now open your eyes.”
Malian obeyed and saw her own awe and wonder mirrored in Kalan’s face. The room’s twelve walls remained, but now the roof was far overhead and points of fire glimmered in the arched dome.
Like stars, Malian thought, staring up—or meteors burning through space.
The twelve doorways, too, had grown tall, stretching toward the distant roof. Each frame was outlined in golden flame and the solid wooden doors had been replaced by shimmering mist. “You may not look through them yet,” the fiery voice said. “For now, turn your eyes to the table.”
Malian blinked at the circular table that had appeared in the center of the room. Its circumference was vast and supported on what looked like a massive tree trunk, rooted into the stone floor. She moved closer and saw that the table was divided into twelve equal parts, each one separated by fiery lines. The surface was cloudy, filled with moving shapes that she could not make out.
“No child of the Blood of Night ha
s stood at this table in over five hundred years,” the Fire said. “But if you look closely, you will see your place.”
Malian looked again and saw that one of the twelve sections was growing clearer. As she watched, it became a field of gold with a glittering horse flying across it, its wings cleaving heaven.
“Touch it with your hand and mind at the same time, and join with me,” the Fire commanded. “As you do so, let the boy take your other hand. He will anchor you here, for that is part of his gift. But be careful, boy, not to touch the table yourself, for only the Blood may do so and live.”
“I was born to the House of Blood,” Kalan said, but he sounded uncertain.
“It is not the same, alas,” the Fire replied. “Your House has named itself for the blood of battle and war, at which it excels, whereas I speak of the Blood, the kin bound to us since the beginning of the Derai Alliance. Now, Heir of Night, are you ready?”
“I am,” said Malian and placed her right palm on the table. The surface was cool as flowing water, and she could feel the contrasting warmth of Kalan’s right hand, clasping her left. Her whole being was infused with light; she felt intensely and gloriously alive with it and could sense the Old Keep, with all its silent levels, rising above her. She shot up through them like an arrow burning through darkness, past the enormity of empty rooms and vast echoing corridors. The chill of long neglect numbed her but she forced herself on, coming at last to the tiled halls and wooden galleries of the upper levels. From there, it was only a very short journey into the New Keep with its lights and warmth and life, a life that was muted now in sleep.
Too much sleep. Malian could feel the silence of death and smell congealing blood. She was aware, too, of the dark malice of her enemies, regrouping now from the hunt and preparing to attack again.
The Fire in her mind drew her attention to the bronze gargoyles that leered down from every major door and gateway in the New Keep, forgotten through the long years and unseen by those who passed by every day. Now their leers had grown tortured, contorted beyond the grotesque into silent screams. Malian let her awareness settle on a verdigris-rimed gargoyle that crouched above the main entrance into the High Hall.
