by Helen Lowe
“Yet you know them,” murmured Yorindesarinen. “So tell me what they say, Kalan of the House of Blood.”
Kalan shrugged. “The promise of the One-to-Come is supposed to be our oldest legend, born in the time when the Dark first swarmed and the Derai alone stood against it. It is said that Mhaelanar promised that a champion would come, his shield born into the world, to turn back the Swarm. The prophecy says that the Chosen of Mhaelanar will be born of both the House of Stars and the House of Night, and will unite the Derai for the final victory over the Swarm.” He looked at the woman across the fire. “You were—the hero, Yorindesarinen, that is—was born of the House of Stars, but her—your—mother was of the Blood of Night. But in the past five hundred years, with the schism between Night and Stars, everyone has rather given up hope of the prophesied champion.”
Yorindesarinen looked at Malian. “Tell him who your mother was,” she said.
Kalan rolled his eyes. “Nerion, daughter of Nerith of the Sea Keep. Everyone knows that!”
“They do,” agreed Yorindesarinen. “What is not so well known is that Amboran of Night was Nerith’s second husband. Her first was Serianrethen, who was the youngest son of the Earl of Stars. As it happens, it was a very short-lived union, since Serianrethen was killed on a Wall patrol. Nerith only discovered that she was with child after her return to the Sea Keep, but she chose not to tell the Earl of Stars because she wanted to keep the child for herself. She remarried quickly, to Amboran, so when Nerion was born everyone just assumed that he was the father and the babe had come early.” She smiled at Kalan. “So you see, Malian does indeed come of both lines, Stars and Night.”
“But why,” Malian objected, “should having the Blood of both Houses make me this One you speak of? Surely Stars and Night must have intermarried many times in the past?”
Yorindesarinen nodded. “Not many times, but a few, until the civil war five hundred years ago. But since I died and you were born”—the hero’s face grew grim—“no children of those few unions has ever lived to see adulthood. They died as babes or in early childhood, always from illness or by some accident.”
“It could have been coincidence,” Malian said. Yorindesarinen shrugged, her smile thin.
“A fortunate coincidence, for the Swarm. As for the secret of your heritage, it seemed well kept, but this attack can only mean that the enemy has learned of it at last. Make no mistake, the Swarm, too, believes that you are the One-to-Come.” A flash of genuine humor replaced the thin smile. “The Darkswarm and I could both be wrong, of course, but you did wake the Golden Fire last night—or it roused itself to protect you—for the first time in five hundred years. That speaks of a very great power indeed, Malian of Night.”
Malian shivered. “Even then, I nearly didn’t survive.”
Yorindesarinen nodded, grim faced again. “And now the Swarm will not rest until you are dead. This attack will only be the first and the Derai Alliance, after so many years of bloodletting, is no longer strong enough to protect you.” She sighed. “Too late, the Derai will realize the bitter price of the folly that has allowed their once-great powers to wither. But you, my dear, must not be part of that bitter payment. You must flee the enemy and hide—and look outside the Derai for aid to develop your powers.”
“To those like the Guild?” asked Malian. She remembered the power she had sensed in the heralds when she saw them in the High Hall, and the piercing light in their eyes.
“Perhaps,” said the hero. “But there are more powers in this world than the Derai suspect—or the Swarm either, for all that they have begun sending emissaries with gifts and honeyed words to every city along the River.”
Malian shook her head. “But to leave the Wall … And I don’t know these other powers. How will I discern between enemies and friends?”
“You must learn to know them,” Yorindesarinen said. “That is the point. For not all the forces that move and coalesce around you are enemies. There are many friends as well, some open and some still hidden from you. But you must remain well hidden until you have grown into your full power. Both of you,” she added, looking from one to the other, “must remain hidden.”
She fell silent, staring into the fire as though she had dismissed them from her mind. Malian, too, gazed into the fire and slowly she began to relax. Somewhere between walking through the golden door into the mist and emerging in the dark wood, the headache that had incapacitated her in the Old Keep had vanished. Now her weariness was lifting, too, and she saw the marks of strain in Kalan’s face easing. She sighed deeply, her arms folded around her drawn-up knees.
The fire was not large but it burned very brightly, the weave of the flames fluid and constantly changing. Malian felt herself drawn to the pattern, white and lavender and palest saffron, that flickered in the fire’s heart, gazing into its snap and brilliance until she felt made of fire herself. She let her awareness meld into the white-hot core—and just as in her dream, the flames burned fiercely but did not consume her and the fire became a window. But this time, instead of looking into a firelit room, Malian was gazing down, as from a great height, into a world she did not know.
The landscape was formed of low, rounded hills and jagged rock outcrops beneath a strange, bruised sky. A line of warriors rode in double column along a narrow defile, while the sky above them darkened from lavender to plum. Their attackers seemed to rise out of the ground itself, charging in to hack and slay. Swords rose and fell and Malian, unable to do anything but watch, could hear the cries of men and the screams of horses as they died. The riders tried to rally around their leader, to hold a path for his escape, but there were too many attackers. One by one the riders fell until the leader alone was left and his assailants closed in, yammering war cries and poised to cut him down. The next moment he vanished, winking out from beneath their blades. The attackers howled beneath the bruised sky and Malian, too, drew in a breath, sharp with surprise.
The flames swirled before her eyes, then parted again to show another scene, another place. A moon rose, pale as gold above a world of tiled roofs interspersed with graceful spires. Malian felt as though she were soaring above them, springing from rooftop to rooftop and filled with wild exultation despite being pursued. Yet she did not know who pursued her, or why.
The moon waxed to fullest gold, then waned, turning pale and cold, a wisp of its former self. Malian stood beneath it in a lonely place, waiting for something or somebody to appear; she knew that it was autumn, the dying season of the year. She called out, but only silence answered. A veil of mist drifted across the waning moon and swallowed it. When it rose again, it was a daylight moon sailing above a paved road that wound through gray hills. A long cavalcade of people and horses, carts and palanquins, crawled along the road; banners snapped bravely overhead and long narrow pennants furled and unfurled on the wind.
Malian recognized the significance of the pennants: This was a Derai wedding caravan, taking some scion of the Blood to meet his or her bride or groom. She noticed a wagon being dug out of the mud by cursing retainers and drifted closer. One of the guards, clad in quilted leather and a chain-mail shirt, frowned at the leaden sky, wiping his hands on his leather trousers.
Malian’s eyes widened, for although a few years older and considerably grimmer, the warrior wore Kalan’s face. She was so surprised that she shot back up and away from the road, and the fire wrapped around her vision again. When it drew away, she was standing in a room hung with crimson draperies in the Derai style. A young woman in jeweled crimson robes, with a shy, beautiful face, looked back at her in surprise. “Who are you?” she asked. “What are you doing here?” Her voice was steady, but Malian could tell that she was afraid.
She opened her mouth to answer but the flames snatched away the room and instead showed her a cobbled street, wreathed in mist. The body of a warrior was slumped facedown on the slick cobbles. His armor was bloody and he had lost his helmet. A cloud of black hair, matted with blood, fell around his shoulders
and onto the path, pooling around his face. The prone figure called to Malian and she longed to lift back the concealing hair and see the hidden face. She extended a hand, eager for the moment of revelation.
The flames roared, fiercely bright, and raced over the cobblestones and the warrior, sweeping Malian along with them. The conflagration burned in her veins as well as in her mind and she feared that now, finally, she would be consumed. Yet she remained aware that somewhere she was still sitting by Yorindesarinen’s fire, gazing dreamily into its heart. Malian tried to will herself back but the fire roared again, beating at her, and she closed her eyes against its scorching heat. Blindly, she extended her hands, trying to ward it off. She wondered, rather desperately, whether Kalan and Yorindesarinen would notice anything before it was too late—and then two hands gripped hers with reassuring strength.
12
The Hero’s Fire
Malian’s eyes flew open and down to the leather-gloved hands grasping her own, then up to the face that was emerging from the flames above them. It was a face she recognized—all lean, strong planes with darkly fierce eyes—even though she had only seen the newcomer once before. “What are you doing here?” she asked the herald, Tarathan of Ar.
The herald stepped fully out of the fire and gazed down at her. He seemed to have a measure of power over the flames for they subsided a little, drawing away from him. His voice, when he answered, was deep and calm. “Why, looking for you, Heir of Night.”
Malian stared at him, the fire and her visions momentarily forgotten. “How did you find me?” she asked, trying to match his calmness.
“Last night, in the hall,” he said, “I saw the light that burned in you, like a fire in your heart. It was not hard to recognize you again now, even on this plane. And I found you because I was searching for you.” He paused. “There is a search party of your own people, as well, and Jehane Mor is with me.”
She glanced round quickly, but the herald shook his head. “Only I have the power to walk into this fire,” he said.
Malian shivered, remembering the feeling of being consumed. “I let myself be drawn into the fire’s heart and now I’m lost. I can’t find the way back.”
“Looking deeply into such constructs can be very dangerous,” the herald replied, “even for the strong; the weak and the unwary may be consumed by them. But you, I think, are neither weak nor unwary.”
“Still,” Malian pointed out, very reasonably she thought, “I cannot find my way back.”
“Can you not?” he asked. “Yet I can see your path, stretching out behind you.”
Malian turned and saw that what he said was true. There was a path now, where she had seen only fire before, leading back to the glade and a night filled with stars. She took one step along it, then a second—and then she was stepping back into the space behind her eyes with a jolt.
“Do not touch the fire,” said Yorindesarinen.
Malian snatched back her hands, which had been extended toward the blaze, and looked around for the herald. “But—” she began, then stopped.
The hero smiled. “There are not many,” she said, “who can look into my fire at all, let alone step into its heart.”
Malian rubbed her hands up and down on her knees. “Is that what I did?” she asked. The look she cast across the fire was almost defiant. “And the visions that I saw? Are they usual for those who can look into your fire?”
“Not for all,” Yorindesarinen replied gently, “only for those who have the gift of seeing.”
“Or the curse,” muttered Kalan.
Yorindesarinen shook her head at him. “Not so, if the gift can be properly trained and directed. The curse of the Derai, in these times, is that there is no one to teach such control.”
Malian regarded her uneasily. “The visions that I saw, were they of the future or the past?”
“They could be either,” the hero said, “or both, or even another time and place in the present. The seer must learn to read his or her own visions.”
Malian shivered. “Is that what I am?” she asked, not without bitterness. “A seer?”
“Amongst other things,” Yorindesarinen replied, stirring the fire again. “You did very well, you know, finding your way back without my help.”
“But I did have help,” Malian said. “The fire nearly overcame me and I couldn’t return until the herald came out of the flames. He held back the fire and showed me the path here.”
“Now, that is impressive,” murmured Yorindesarinen. She gazed into the darkness between the trees. “You may come out, my careful friend, now that you have found what you seek. My fire is safe enough.”
Malian and Kalan both swung round, peering into the woods as a shadow that was darker than the tree trunks shifted, moving toward them. After a few paces they saw that it was not a shadow at all, but a man. A moment later and Malian recognized the herald, although he was clad all in warrior’s black now, rather than Guild gray. His face, which had been clear to her in the fire, was blackened like a warrior’s, too, but there was no mistaking the braided hair and the dark, penetrating eyes. Both she and Kalan watched intently as he crossed to the fire and bowed low to Yorindesarinen. His manner was contained, but he managed to look formidable nonetheless, even dangerous. “Hail, Great One,” the herald, Tarathan, said, straightening out of his bow. “Honor on you and on your fireside.”
“And light and safety on your path,” Yorindesarinen replied. She smiled faintly, as though seeing or hearing something for the first time, and said: “Your friend is well concealed. Even I did not sense her until you drew near. Yet she, too, is welcome at my fire.”
Again, Malian craned to look, but at first saw only moonlight and shadow, before finally making out another figure standing motionless in the wood. “Jehane is holding a mindshield to hide us from our enemies,” Tarathan said quietly, “and would have to let it go to enter your enchanted circle. She is afraid that if she does so, she will not have the strength to build the shield again.”
Yorindesarinen nodded. “Ay, your enemies are powerful, both on this plane and in the Old Keep.” Her eyes were pools of night, unfathomable, as the herald squatted on his heels and held out his hands to the blaze, studying Malian and Kalan in turn.
“So,” Tarathan said, “two of you.” He inclined his head, very slightly, to Malian. “Well met again, Heir of Night. But who”—he quirked an eyebrow at Kalan—“are you?”
Kalan looked back at him, half defiant, half shy. “I’m Kalan, from the Temple quarter. Who are you? And how did you find us here?”
“All fair questions,” murmured Yorindesarinen, and the herald nodded.
“They are indeed,” he agreed. “I am called Tarathan of Ar and I am a herald from the Guild House in Terebanth, in the lands of the River. Amongst other things, I seek out the hidden and find the lost. It is difficult to hide from me, but you two have done well so far. Now, which of you, I wonder, was responsible for that?”
“Mainly Kalan,” said Malian, and Kalan blushed.
“I stumbled into this by accident,” he muttered, as though feeling an excuse was required. “Although I did help with hiding us both in the Old Keep. Mostly, though, I think it’s been the Golden Fire and this lady doing the concealing.” He bobbed his head at Yorindesarinen, who grinned at him.
“I called them here,” she said, “but they found their own way through the mists, as must all who would pass the Gate of Dreams. But what of you? What brings a herald of the Guild beyond the Gate and into the heart of my fire, Tarathan of Ar?” Tarathan’s smile was a little grim. “The Heir of Night,” he said, and told them about the search party that had gone into the Old Keep, the brush with the dark seeker, and the decision
to look for Malian on the psychic plane. “But we never expected,” he finished wryly, nodding to Malian across the flames, “to find you sitting at the Great One’s fire.”
“But, then,” murmured Yorindesarinen, “so little in life is what one expects, after all
.”
The herald shot her a quick look and Malian thought there was a great deal of caution in his expression. “No,” he said, then gave a sudden shrug and a half laugh. “No indeed. Still, some things are more unexpected than others, even when one passes the Gate of Dreams.”
Kalan looked from one to the other. “Why do you call her the Great One?” he asked Tarathan. “How do you know her at all?”
“Say rather that we know of her,” Tarathan replied, with a respectful nod to the hero. “Heralds of the Guild have known how to pass the Gate of Dreams for a long time. We also have some experience of the powers, some wise and bright, but many fearful and terrible, that may be encountered here. So we knew that one whom we recognized as great dwelt here amongst the folds and mists of time, on the threshold between worlds, but we did not know who she was.”
“Or what,” murmured Yorindesarinen.
Tarathan smiled, very slightly. “We did not know who you were,” he reiterated firmly, “or that you were of the Derai.”
“But how can you dwell on the threshold of Haarth?” Kalan asked Yorindesarinen. “You died long before we ever came to this world.”
She smiled at him, her eyes kind. “So I did, my Kalan. But as the herald says, this place lies between worlds and time.”
“So are we in a dream, after all?” he asked. “How can we all be dreaming the same thing?”
“Does this feel like a dream?” she asked him. He shook his head and the hero smiled again, but it was the herald who spoke.
“This place is called the Gate of Dreams because that is the only way most people will ever access it. But dreams are haphazard and notoriously difficult to control, so most of those who wish to pass the Gate voluntarily do so by means of what the Guild calls mindwalking—spiritwalking to the Winter shamans. That is how Jehane Mor and I have come here now.”
