The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  Asantir shook such thoughts away and went to study the chessboard on the corner of the desk. The set was hers also, with small campaign pieces in the traditional black and white, each one intricately and beautifully carved into a representation of the Derai world. The Earl was the king-piece that must be taken in order to win, the heart of the game, while the Heir was always the most powerful and versatile piece on the board. The High Priest and Priestess flanked the Earl and Heir on either side respectively, while the Honor Captain and the Keep Commander rode beside them on their fiery-headed steeds. The Keeps held either side of the board, while a row of eight stalwart Guards lined up in front of the major pieces.

  Foot soldiers, mused Asantir, pawns of the greater players—except that a pawn on the chessboard might become Heir, with skill and Ornorith’s favor, whereas that was impossible in real life.

  The black and white pieces were spread out across the board, as though left in the middle of a game, and Asantir studied them thoughtfully. Her hand hovered over a piece, but then she shrugged and tossed her cloak over a chair, turning away to splash water over her hands and face. The washstand stood in the long, narrow sleeping room that opened off the office, a chamber spartan in its plainness and meant only for times of emergency and war. But after years of boundary patrols and living in barracks, the camp bed was more than comfortable enough for Asantir, who rarely slept in the comparative luxury of the Honor Captain’s official quarters.

  Even when she finished washing and came back into the office, Asantir did not unbuckle her sword belt or take off the armor shirt that she always wore on duty. Despite her tiredness and the pain in her shoulder, or perhaps because of it, she felt far from sleepy. The gnawing sense of disquiet remained and she drifted back to the chessboard, a slight frown between her brows as she studied it again.

  “Interesting.” Asantir sat down astride a chair and rested her chin on her arms, along its back. She considered the disposition of the pieces, her eyes narrowed, but was not so intent or so weary that she missed the faint shimmer of bells in the hallway or the light footfall at her door. “Welcome, Haimyr the Golden,” she said, without turning her head. “What brings you here so late?”

  The bells tinkled softly as the minstrel strolled in and stood at her shoulder. “Interesting!” he observed, echoing her own comment. “Black and White seem very evenly matched.” He paused, then added lightly: “Although Black should make better use of its Heir, rather than keeping it hedged about like that, especially with White dominating the center of the board.”

  “You are right,” Asantir replied. “Black is playing too defensive a game. All its pieces are still intact but the understanding of positional play is poor. I will have to see if I can rectify that.”

  “Ah,” said Haimyr. “Are you are playing both sides? That is poor sport. We really must play each other, you and I.”

  Asantir shook her head. “We shall, but I don’t think it will be for some time yet.”

  “Ay, you have your work cut out at present. But one day, when you have more leisure …” Haimyr studied the game, his expression thoughtful. “Did you hope those two pawns would carry on unnoticed and reach the end of the board? Black may lose them if it is not careful, for White is pressing close and their position is unsupported.”

  Asantir turned away from the chessboard. “Even you did not come to talk about chess, Haimyr the Golden, not at this late hour. So what does bring you here to disturb my well-earned rest?”

  The minstrel’s eyes glinted as he, too, sat down. “Is this what you call resting?” he inquired. “If so, I will not beg your pardon. But the truth is that I find myself uneasy since our recent return, although I cannot say why. Perhaps it is simply the storm—but if so, I have never experienced such an effect before, despite many years living on your Wall. And I am not one to jump at shadows.”

  “No,” agreed Asantir. “And you have no idea at all what has caused this uneasiness?”

  Haimyr shrugged in a shimmering accompaniment of golden sound. “None. It’s a feeling like—what was it Doria always used to say?—as though a Swarm minion had walked over the cold, lightless spot that will be my grave.” He threw out his hands. “Which is to say that there is no reason for it at all! But the feeling has ridden on my shoulder for some time now, all the same. I could find no peace from it so I thought: Aha, I will take my disquiet and visit my old friend, Captain Asantir, who has the sharpest nose I know for sniffing out trouble.”

  Asantir considered him, a long, thoughtful look. “As it happens, I cannot assist you at all, except to say that I, too, feel uneasy and have done so since we returned from the Old Keep. But I have no better explanation to offer than you do.” Her gaze swung back to the chessboard and her hand went out, hovering above the black Heir, her expression remote.

  “Ever since we returned from the Old Keep,” she repeated softly, then looked sharply around to the open door and the hallway beyond. The lamps shone as brilliantly there as elsewhere, but the shadows still pooled outside the light’s bright circle. Asantir’s eyes, fierce in their concentration, fastened on those shadows—and then she sprang to her feet, knocking over the chair with the violence of her movement. When she spoke, however, her voice was very soft. “What a fool I’ve been. We must hurry, Haimyr. Hurry!”

  “Certainly,” said Haimyr, as Asantir swung her cloak onto her shoulders and strode to the door. “But may I know where, and why?”

  Asantir quickened her pace. “I have been a blind fool, my friend. Guards at every gate, guards at the Heir’s door—but they need not come in a straight line or by the paths we know. We all saw that plainly enough, both when the Raptor returned and when Malian brought us back from the Old Keep.”

  “Asantir,” he said, “you forget that I was not in the Old Keep. And the hour is too late for me to play at riddle games.”

  She shot him a quick sideways look. “This is no game, but the hour is indeed late and there is no time to explain for I must—” Haimyr, however, was never to learn what she must do for they rounded a corner and immediately had to jump aside to avoid the guard racing toward them.

  “Lira!” said Asantir sharply. “What are you doing here? You are supposed to be on duty at the Temple gate.”

  Lira gave a hasty salute. “Both Garan and Nerys are still there, Captain, with the rest of our eight-guard. But I have an urgent message for you, from the Priestess Korriya.” She hesitated, obviously uncomfortable, then added, “She bade me seek you out with all speed, Captain. She said it was a Matter of Blood.”

  “Again,” Haimyr murmured, but Asantir’s hand closed on his arm, compelling silence.

  “Tell me!” she commanded Lira.

  The guard frowned slightly, concentrating, then recited: “‘Sister Korriya, of the Temple of Night, salutes Asantir, Honor Captain and Acting Commander of the Keep of Winds, and greets her in the name of the Nine. Captain, know this: I have kept watch over the boy as I said I would and he has been dreaming a dreamer’s dreams every night, although without discernible form. But now he has gone far deeper into the dream than even our strongest watcher can follow. All we know is that the occasional words torn from him speak of the Heir, of danger, and of fear. I, too, fear, Captain, for these are dreams of the now, not of past events. But without your help I cannot act.’”

  “But act we must,” Asantir said, as soon as Lira finished. “Lira, tell the priestess that I am going to the Heir’s rooms now and she is to meet me there as soon as possible, with whatever strength she considers necessary.” She paused, frowning. “Innor and Ter are to remain at the Temple gate, lest the Earl have my hide, but send Garan and the rest along with the priestess. Then you, Lira, must find Sarus, wherever he is—wake him up if you must—and tell him I want a backup eight-guard sent to the Temple with all speed, and another to the Red and White suite. If Sarus demands explanations,” she added, “say only that I told you this: ‘The eye has passed and now we must run before the storm’.”

&n
bsp; Lira saluted. “Ay, Captain. ‘The eye of the storni’. I understand.”

  “Then go!” said Asantir, her voice iron, and the guard went, running as though there were storm demons after her. Asantir strode on toward the Earl’s quarter and the Red and White suite, Haimyr silent at her side. They hurried along the galleries that circled the Warrior’s Court, past the High Hall and the Great Chamber and the long corridors beyond, and had just reached the main stair when there was a shout from behind them. Asantir paused, one foot on the first step, and turned to see Garan and Nerys jogging to catch up, a small knot of guards and priests hurrying in their wake. She remained where she was, her attention focused on the tall figure of Sister Korriya in their midst. “Has there been any change with the boy?” she asked, as soon as the priestess was close enough.

  Korriya made her a perfunctory bow, which Asantir suspected was to help regain her breath, then favored Haimyr with an even shorter nod. “No. But it seems you were right, Captain, when you suggested that he and the Heir have been bound together in some way since the Old Keep. And it is the Heir we must look to now.”

  Asantir looked at the initiate priests behind Korriya, nodding to Var, Torin, and Terithis, then took in the fourth with a careful eye. He was a dark, thickset young man with an open face and calm expression. “You weren’t with us in the Old Keep,” she said, her tone making the words a question.

  “This is Vern,” said Korriya. “He is the best we have for holding off a psychic attack. He would have gone with you into the Old Keep except—”

  “That he was still in the hands of your healers,” Asantir finished, and saw their quick surprise. “My sergeant, Sarus, led the guards that relieved the Temple quarter. His report covered the condition of the priests that held the barriers of Mhaelanar’s Temple against the Raptor of Darkness.”

  “Dead, unconscious, or mad,” muttered Garan, who had been with the sergeant’s company that night. “This lad was fortunate to wake at all, let alone to health and strength again.”

  “Not fortunate,” said Asantir softly. “Strong.” Vern colored, but did not look away from her scrutiny, and she nodded. “Strength we may need again now, if your priestess and I are right.”

  They hurried on up the stairs, Korriya falling into step beside Asantir, with Haimyr and Garan half a pace behind. “I don’t suppose,” the minstrel said plaintively, “anyone would tell me what is going on? Or what you all fear?”

  “An attack,” said Asantir over her shoulder, “on the psychic plane—or through it, since some of our enemies can open doors into the air.” Her stride lengthened with her words so that she was almost running, and the others had to extend their pace to keep up. “An adept could open a portal directly into this keep, bypassing any watch that I’ve set!”

  “But,” Haimyr protested as they swept up the final flight of stairs, “if the Darkswarm raiders truly have that power, why would they have bothered with a physical attack at all? There would have been no need if they could simply open one of these doors into our midst.”

  Korriya shook her head. “To open a portal that large, and to hold it open long enough for numbers to pass through, would require extraordinary strength. Our histories suggest that even the Swarm has very few with such power.”

  “But what,” said Asantir, “if it isn’t numbers? What if it is only one, a solitary assassin? What then?”

  “An assassin,” Haimyr repeated, his golden brows drawing together. “Oh, yes. I do see.”

  “A wyr hound,” the priestess said, without looking around, “might detect that. Although the beasts are far from reliable.” Asantir nodded, knowing that the wyr hounds’ instability, coupled with their ferocity, was the reason why the Earl would not have them in the Keep of Winds.

  “Or—” Korriya’s expression was suddenly haunted. “A strong dreamer might well detect such an intrusion.” She shook her head. “I should have seen this sooner, thought through the implications of Kalan’s constant dreaming days ago. I have been negligent, blind!”

  Asantir lengthened her stride again. “Recrimination, whether directed at ourselves or others, will not serve us now. We can only hope that our eyes have been opened in time!”

  And then they were all running, running as though their lives depended on it.

  22

  A Power of Three

  On the other side of the Gate of Dreams a hound lifted its milk-white muzzle and howled a mournful, eerie sound that made every hair on Kalan’s body stand on end. The Huntmaster’s head turned, listening, although Kalan could hear nothing except the cloying sweetness of the siren song and the distant roar of the storm, muted through the veil between worlds. A quick look showed him no change in the red and white room: The silver fire was drawn in tight over Malian, the shadow of the siren worm pushing in hard against it. Around him, the entire pack was quivering, alert, and Kalan shivered as the hound howled again.

  The fire in the red and white room leapt up with a snap, throwing out a cascade of sparks and the woman by the fire came to life with it, cursing as the sparks smoldered on her tunic and in her hair. The siren worm turned with a hiss as the double doors into the chamber burst open and the Honor Captain, Asantir, strode into the room. She was flanked on one side by the tall austere figure of Sister Korriya and on the other by a golden, fantastic creature who could only be the Ijiri minstrel, Haimyr the Golden.

  “See?” the Huntmaster said, and relaxed his arm, letting Kalan step free.

  Kalan nodded, all his attention focused on events unfolding on the other side of the veil. The woman by the fire was struggling to rise from her chair while Asantir advanced into the room with her swordsman’s step, her blade drawn. Guards fanned out behind her as Korriya and a group of young priests formed a wedge inside the double doors. The Huntmaster shook his head. “Your heralds taught them how to work together but they will still be hard-pressed to match the worm’s song, given their limited powers.” He paused. “One of them, that dark boy, seems to have some strength—but they need to attack now, not defend.”

  He’s right, Kalan thought. The siren song had not weakened as the worm moved swiftly to elude its enemies, blending into the half-light around the perimeter of the room. Asantir continued her soft-footed advance, but the worm still had too much room in which to maneuver its flexible body and venomous head. “A simple warrior will never corner it,” the Huntmaster said, “not while the song holds your own power users back.”

  “Stalemate,” Kalan muttered, wondering who would move to break it first. A flicker of gold caught his eye, but it was only the Ijiri minstrel tossing back his fantastic sleeves. No one in the room paid him any attention, but something about the movement and the minstrel fascinated Kalan. He stared at the golden figure and blinked hard, then blinked again, for there in the exact spot where the minstrel had stood before, sat a great, golden cat with lambent eyes.

  “A powerful transformation,” the Huntmaster murmured.

  Kalan shook his head, puzzled. “But no one else seems to have noticed it at all.” The cat began to pad gracefully around the perimeter of the room, in the opposite direction to the guards.

  “Ay, they still see the illusion of the minstrel, standing by the door. Except,” the Huntmaster added, with harsh satisfaction, “for the worm, of course.”

  The worm had indeed turned its head and was watching the cat with baleful eyes. The golden beast growled, a low rumble that reverberated in counterpoint to the siren song. The hounds pricked up their white ears, listening; their crimson eyes followed the prowl of the cat with intense interest. “How is it that we and the worm can see it,” Kalan asked, still puzzled, “when the others can’t?”

  “Siren worms are masters of illusion,” the Huntmaster replied, “so it is difficult to deceive them with such magic. And you and I stand very deep within the Gate of Dreams. It is hard for any illusion to withstand this place and harder still to cloud the eyes of one who bears Terennin’s Token on his hand. But look to the worm!�
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  The rumbling growl of the cat had gained in strength and its tail began to lash as the siren worm struggled to hold the thread of its song. Kalan leaned forward. “It’s not going to escape, is it?” he said. “Not with both guards and priests on one side, and the cat on the other.” He glanced at the hounds, thinking that the worm would not dare risk the tapestry.

  The growl of the great cat deepened until the room shook. Kalan wondered how the others there could not feel the vibration, even if they did not see or hear the cat. The siren song fractured into a series of harsh dissonances, finally dissipating altogether, and the silver fire sprang up again, incandescent. The worm shrieked.

  “Bitter!” it wailed and there was no sweetness left in its voice. “Starbane!” These words seemed to finally release the woman by the fire from the remnants of whatever spell held her back, for she, too, stumbled toward the worm, grasping for her dagger. The silver light grew until its brilliance filled the room and any shadows that might have protected the siren worm fled. Asantir came coldly on and the worm darted away from her, closer to the tapestry.

  “The silver light is anathema to it,” the Huntmaster observed. “The worm cannot endure it, especially now that its own sorcery has been broken.”

  “But surely,” Kalan said, “it cannot have forgotten the Hunt!”

  They watched the worm hesitate, its head darting rapidly between the tapestry and the half circle of its attackers. The golden cat sat back on its haunches, watching its prey with gleaming eyes. Suddenly, a slavering muzzle pushed its way through the fine membrane of the veil and snapped at the worm, missing it by inches. The Huntmaster snarled, hauling the hound back as the siren worm wailed again, a shrill cry of desperation and fury. The sound was abruptly cut off when Asantir—taking full advantage of the distraction—brought her booted foot down on the siren worm’s neck, pinning its head to the floor. The worm’s body thrashed, but it could not escape and the captain’s blade swept down, severing head from body.