The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  ‘“Ware,” she whispered to it. ‘“Ware foes, ‘ware terror, ‘ware treachery by night!” She felt it shudder, heard the faint shiver of sound that ran through it, but nothing more happened.

  “You must try harder, Child.” Malian felt the urgency of the Fire in her mind, and also its fear, matching her own. “They are slaying your clan and your kin. Do not whisper the alarm—thunder it through the keep! It is in your hands, and yours alone, Heir of Night!” The Fire’s power burned along her veins, searing every nerve ending and flaring from her mind into the gargoyle, wreathing it in golden flame. Far down in the Old Keep, Kalan threw up his free arm to protect his eyes from the light that snapped out of her.

  “Awake!” Malian cried at the top of her voice. “’Ware foes! ’Ware blood! ’Ware ruin in the night! Awake, Earl of Night! To arms, Keep of Winds!”

  All through the New Keep the gargoyles sprang fiercely into life, yammering out her call to arms in a wild clangor that went on and on and did not stop. Malian heard the shouting and clatter of weaponry, the war cries and the rush of running feet as she swept through the darkness like a flame.

  “Awake, Nhairin!” she commanded. “To arms, Asantir! Treachery and blood! Awake, Earl of Night!” she cried again, and felt the flash of her father’s mind, like a blade being drawn to cross hers before she sprang away. She heard the sudden outcry, and the clash of steel on steel, and knew that the intruders had been discovered at last.

  “‘Ware foes!” Malian shook the keep with one last call. She felt weary now, ready to return through the Old Keep to its heart, her place of safety.

  Something caught at her mind and held on; a suffocating darkness coiled itself around her. Malian felt a terrible hunger that sought to drain her soul and her power with it, down to the marrow—and realized that she had forgotten the Raptor of Darkness, was not even thinking of it as she turned away. It would have leached her to a husk in an instant if she had not been filled with raging wildfire and linked to Kalan in the heart of the Old Keep. Even so, she felt the protective link waver as darkness dragged at her soul, inexorable as an ebb tide.

  Malian screamed and fought back, struggling to sear the engulfing darkness with fire while holding on to the link to Kalan. She heard Kalan scream, too, pouring his strength into hers and pushing back against that terrible, draining force. For a moment their resistance held, but Malian could feel the Raptor’s satisfaction and its greed beating in on her, and knew, in a blinding flash of terror, that it was far, far stronger than she was. Struggle though she would, she could not break free, and already her strength was fading. Kalan was cursing; she could hear him far down in her mind, while the darkness crept in and her last defences crumbled.

  Is this how Yorindesarinen felt at the end, Malian wondered, with the Worm’s venom in her veins and her lifeblood draining away?

  The thought of the hero rallied her, like a star blazing in darkness, and she clung to it like a spar. She felt her attacker pause, its malice and hunger hesitating for a single instant, and a new voice, calm and yet compelling, spoke in her head: “Hold on. Help is coming! “

  Fire snapped back into her mind, flinging the darkness back. There was someone standing in the heart of the fire, Malian thought dizzily, as the image of a man scored itself into her brain; he seemed made of flame and lightning coruscated around him. Someone else stood in his shadow, as deep and cool as he was bright, but Malian was dazzled by the flames and could not see either figure clearly. The Fire roared, assaulting the Raptor’s power, and its voice rang out like a thunderclap: “Begone, Raptor of Darkness!”

  There was more than one voice bound into that thunder, weaving in and out of each other and the Fire. Malian reached out to them through the conflagration and felt a touch on her mind that was gentle, luminous, and clear, like light dancing on water. Through or beyond it she sensed a hotter, deeper blaze, and then another touch that was cold, gray steel. There were other minds there, too, paler and dimmer again, but all were bound up into the Golden Fire, joined in battle against the Raptor of Darkness.

  Malian exerted herself for one last effort, joining her strength to theirs and pushing back hard against the Raptor’s mass. It was still frighteningly strong and she could feel it hunting for weaknesses to exploit, but the Fire, too, was relentless. Slowly but inexorably, the Raptor was driven back. Gouts of golden flame burned into its darkness until it was in full retreat, dwindling before the onslaught and hunting for escape.

  Done, thought Malian—and faltered, falling away from the firestorm. Out of control, she plummeted headlong, down through the Old Keep toward her crumpled body and the pinprick of light that she recognized as her own dwindling consciousness.

  Collapsing in on myself, she thought with mild hilarity. She knew that she was falling much too fast and should feel frightened, and part of her did, but mostly she was too exhausted to care. Her body and the tiled floor were rushing up to meet her and she could hear Kalan cursing again.

  The light—which Malian had thought entirely gone out—sparked, and she felt the touch of another mind, the one that was cool and deep as water, joining with hers. It held her up and slowed her headlong descent so that she was floating rather than falling, sinking gently back into her body. “Who?” Malian asked in bewilderment, but even that last touch was gone. Kalan’s frightened, tear-tracked face blurred above hers for one brief moment, then all light flickered and went out.

  5

  The Broken Gate

  Nhairin limped toward the frontline of the battle that had raged throughout the night, rubbing at the tight scar on her face and cursing the bad leg that had prevented her from playing any real part in the fighting. A troop of the keep garrison doubled past without speaking. For all the attention they paid, she might as well have been invisible.

  Useless! Nhairin derided herself, but pressed stubbornly on, her thoughts circling back to what could have gone so hideously, disastrously wrong. She had stumbled from her bed when the alarms rang out, echoing the imperative cry that had snapped like a lightning crack into her head: “Awake! ’Ware foes! ’Ware blood! ’Ware ruin in the night!” Like half the keep, it had sent her grabbing for clothes and weapons even as she struggled to throw off sleep. She remembered cursing everything: the darkness, the confusion, and especially the lameness that had meant that she could not keep up with the running melees being fought along corridors, up stairwells, and through room after room. She had, Nhairin reflected bitterly, simply been in the way.

  It was Asantir who had finally yelled at her to get back. The captain had come charging past with half the Honor Guard behind her, torchlight leaping wildly across her inlaid helm and along the naked blade of her sword. She had cursed Nhairin for a fool, demanding whether she wanted to get herself killed, before sweeping on and up the central stairs with the guard baying at her heels. They had met a wedge of the black-clad intruders on the first landing—and the rest had been a reeling, thrusting, cut, and slash of bloody ruin. Nhairin, accepting at last that she would be more hindrance than help, had gotten back as ordered.

  She had done what she could to rally those behind the fighting lines, forming the stewards and any others who were willing into squads. Those with weapons and some ability to use them she sent forward to support the guards while she, together with the rest, organized medicine, bandages, and a place to tend the wounded. They had been more than busy as the long hours dragged by and the High Hall became a nightmare of blood and gaping wounds, voices that cried ceaselessly for aid, and the groans of the dying. And there had been too many for whom nothing could be done, except to send their cloak-covered bodies on to the Hall of Silence.

  It was dawn, a gray creeping dawn, before Nhairin had time to take stock of the battle’s bloody aftermath. Now she picked her careful way along a corridor strewn with splintered wood and broken doors that marked where Asantir and the Honor Guard had hacked and fought their way forward. Debris and bodies were piled on either side, and Nhairin’s heart sank as
she realized that the wreckage was growing worse as she approached the Heir’s quarter. The floor was sticky with blood and there were far too many of their own amongst the black-clad bodies of the intruders. The faces of the guards standing watch over the Heir’s rooms were drawn in the pale light; they turned their faces away as she limped up, avoiding her gaze.

  It should have warned her. It did warn her. Even so, Nhairin staggered, her stomach heaving, when she saw the carnage in the Heir’s chambers: Doria and Nesta with their throats torn out, the dismembered bodies of the pages, the blood sprayed across every wall and soaked blackly into furnishings. She could see how those of the household who had not died immediately must have stumbled and crawled to dodge blows, although it had not saved them. Nhairin rested one hand against the wall for support, closing her eyes against the horror. Blood roared in her ears like the ocean, but finally she found the strength to grate out the one, vital question: “Where is the Heir?”

  The guards exchanged a look, their expressions bleak. “Not here,” one told her, anger and the echo of her own horror in his voice. “Nine knows, we’ve searched, but there’s no body with the dead and no word of her amongst the living.”

  “But given the night’s events,” the other added, “we fear the worst.”

  Appalled, Nhairin sought out Asantir, finding her amidst the wreckage of the invaders’ last stand. The Honor Captain was surrounded by a tattered remnant of her guard and what seemed like a small army of the main keep garrison. One guard was binding up a bloody wound to the captain’s shoulder while a sergeant pored over plans spread out on the floor. Asantir leaned over his shoulder and nodded as his finger stabbed from one corridor to the next. The grim and weary troops surrounding them were either watching, too, or occupied with their own hurts and battered gear.

  Nhairin hesitated as Asantir turned away from the plans to deal with fresh dispatches coming in. Sarus had secured the Temple quarter, one runner reported, but it was very bad there, as badly hit as the Heir’s quarter, or worse. The attackers had been determined and merciless, despite nearly all those they killed having been unarmed. Worse, though—and here the whites of the runner’s eyes showed—there had been some kind of demon loose. Mind and soul, it had sucked its victims dry.

  A low, disturbed murmur ran through the surrounding guards, but Asantir held up her free hand, checking them. “The point,” she said calmly, “is that it has been driven off. Does Sarus need more troops?”

  The runner shook his head. “He said it was not essential, Captain, although more would be welcome if you could spare them.”

  Asantir nodded, turning to one of the guards beside her. “Kyr, take another twenty and reinforce Sarus. Tell him I’ll be along myself as soon as I’m done here.”

  She turned immediately to the next runner, who gasped out that he came from Lannorth, who was with the Earl. Asantir’s brow cleared a little. “How goes it there?”

  “Lannorth reports that the fighting has been fierce,” the runner replied, “but they’ve driven the invaders back and the Earl is safe.”

  “And the Heir?” Nhairin put in sharply. “What news of Malian?”

  Asantir looked around. “None,” she said wearily. “We’re looking, but we have to secure each area as we go through and it all takes time.”

  Nhairin limped over to her. “What of the Old Keep?” she asked.

  Asantir’s mouth set in a grim, hard line. “That,” she said, “is where the enemy came through—and it’s the bolt-hole they’ve retreated into as well. We can’t pursue them in there, not until we have the New Keep secure. And that’s not yet done.”

  Nhairin frowned, biting her lip. “What of Gerenth?” she asked. “Perhaps he could free up more troops from the main garrison?” Her voice faltered as she saw Asantir’s expression. “Dead?” she whispered.

  Asantir nodded. “The invaders rigged an ambush and Gerenth’s troop bore the brunt. I’ve taken command of the keep in his stead, but there are no troops to be spared, Nhairin.”

  “But what if Malian’s been captured?” Nhairin protested. “Even now these invaders may be bearing her away, or worse.”

  The Honor Captain shook her head. “It’s possible, but so far not many intruders have actually lived to escape. Most fought on like cornered rats, rather than fleeing. Even at the last they were still trying to cut their way forward into the New Keep, as though hunting for someone or something more vital than their own lives. Such behavior,” she pointed out, “doesn’t fit with an enemy who has a hostage like the Heir of Night to bargain with. And they took no other prisoners, quite the opposite in fact.”

  Given these circumstances, Nhairin conceded silently, it was unlikely Malian had been captured—although her whereabouts remained as great a mystery as the identity of whoever had sounded the keep’s alarms. Ornorith, the goddess of Luck, had shown both of her two faces to the Derai that night: Many had died in the unexpected attack, but warning had been given before it was too late.

  It did not pay, thought Nhairin, to underestimate the enigmatic, two-faced deity. And was the vanished Heir further evidence of Ornorith’s influence, or had some other power come into play?

  The steward shivered. Too many unanswered questions, she said to herself. But it’s unthinkable that the Heir of Night should simply disappear. She must be found, and quickly. Quickly, before it’s too late!

  She must have spoken the last words aloud, because Asantir nodded. “I agree. But we must secure the New Keep before we venture into the Old. We are doing our best, Nhairin.”

  “I know you are.” Nhairin looked around as another guard troop tramped in. “What can I do now to help you here?”

  “Here? Nothing,” said Asantir. “But if you could accompany Kyr to the Temple quarter, see what aid they need there and do something to organize it, I would be grateful.”

  It was not far to the Temple quarter, but the way was strewn with battle debris and Kyr and his fellow guards moved cautiously, checking every side corridor, alcove, and stairwell. When they did finally arrive, Nhairin was dismayed to see that the great iron gates, which had been sealed shut for five hundred years, were wrenched nearly off their hinges and slewed sideways at a drunken angle. Beyond them, she could see a wreckage of timber, stone, and bodies spread out across the concourse into the first of the nine temples.

  Nhairin steadied herself against the still intact stone of the gatehouse, reluctant to proceed any further. She could hear activity at a distance, voices and shouted orders and the sounds of debris being cleared, but here all was silent. There was an eerie quality to the air—as though, Nhairin thought, remembering the runner’s story, all the life had been sucked out of it. A shudder crawled across her skin, but she supposed that she had better follow Kyr’s troop in. She straightened, gathering herself together, and realized that someone was watching her.

  The watcher, swathed in a gray, hooded cloak, was concealed in the shadow of the gatehouse opposite, on its temple side. The cloak blended with the surrounding walls and the watcher stood so still that for a moment Nhairin thought the silent figure was stone. Her skin prickled, sensing a keen scrutiny from within the shadowing hood. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same questions,” the watcher replied, in a woman’s voice. “Except that I know the answers to both, Steward Nhairin.” As she spoke, the watcher lifted the hood back, revealing a face of indeterminate age. Deep lines tracked the corners of eyes and mouth, and like every face that morning, the watcher’s was etched with exhaustion.

  Nhairin’s brows rose. “Korriya,” she said, then cleared her throat. “But that still doesn’t answer my second question. What are you doing here?”

  “In the Temple gate, do you mean, or what is left of it?” asked the priestess Korriya. Her voice was low pitched and slightly husky. “Officially, watching to ensure no stragglers slip through this way. Unofficially, I am waiting for someone like you, who is close to Tasarion.�
�

  “Why?” Nhairin asked bluntly.

  The priestess gathered her cloak and picked her way across the debris until she stood barely an arm’s length from the steward. She did not, however, cross the line of the broken gates, nor did Nhairin step closer to her. “I need to speak with him, Nhairin,” she said. “Urgently.”

  Nhairin shrugged. “The keep has been invaded and the Heir is missing. He will say that he has no time for Temple quarter nonsense.”

  Korriya’s eyes searched Nhairin’s. “Is that what you say as well?”

  “I only tell you what he will say.” Nhairin fingered the scar on her face. “It might help, I suppose, if he knew why you want to see him?”

  Korriya shook her head. “This is for his ears only. You could,” she added, her tone as devoid of expression as her face, “try telling him that the Temple quarter received special attention in this attack and has paid a bitter price for that distinction.”

  “And so he owes it to his honor, as Earl, to hear you?” said Nhairin. “I don’t think that will help. There are too many others who have suffered, too many matters demanding his attention right now, not least his missing heir.”

  “I see.” Korriya cast her eyes down, her lips compressing, and then she drew herself up so that she stood straight as a spear. Her gray eyes were stern, her voice sterner when she spoke. “Then tell the Earl of Night that I do not ask. Tell him that I name him First Kinsman and call on the Right of Blood to speak with him now. He may speak with me here or I will come to him, if he grants permission for me to pass the gate.”

  Nhairin took a step back and almost lost her balance on the rubble. Her breath hissed out. “Is this wise?” she asked, recovering.