The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  Nhairin’s eyes narrowed. “Why, you cunning—!” she began, breaking off as she caught Malian’s eye. “Very well,” she said tersely. “At least in going with the Heir I will be doing as the Earl wishes. But may the Nine preserve us all!”

  “We must ask Sister Korriya to look to that aspect of the matter,” said Haimyr lazily. He winked at Malian. “While you and I wait patiently for the captain’s return.”

  “Not very patiently,” Malian muttered, and Asantir’s brows flicked up.

  “We had best get on, then,” she said briskly. “Are you with me, Nhairin?”

  The steward looked dark and seemed about to say something more, but instead she nodded, turning abruptly away, and together they left the room.

  As soon as they had gone, Malian slid off the bed and ducked behind the red and white billow of its curtains. “I suppose,” she said, her voice muffled, “I could go out into the world in my nightgown but—” There was a brief silence and then she continued, her voice much clearer, “—I’d rather not!”

  A few minutes later she reappeared, wearing a dark tunic and hose with soft boots, her hair twisted into a rough plait. “Do I look ready for adventure?” she asked Haimyr, setting her hands on her hips.

  “As any hero of song and story!” he assured her, and she tossed her head, blinking back tears at the same time.

  “Except,” she said, “that I go forth without either my father’s blessing or a sword of power on my hip.”

  The minstrel shook his head. “Not all hero tales are the same, my Malian.”

  She paced restlessly, then paused to frown at the tapestry. “Are they not?” she said, speaking over her shoulder. “I thought they were, in their essential parts. It’s real life that twists and turns. The hero tales are less … complicated.”

  “You are growing wise, Child. That would make a fine beginning for a hero tale, don’t you think? ‘The Earl of Night had a wise child and her name was Malian.’”

  “Stop!” said Malian, then shook her head. Her apologetic smile was brittle as she turned, her expression strained. “I’m sorry, Haimyr. So much has happened in so short a time. It’s not just this last attack, it’s everything else as well. I can’t believe it was only this afternoon that you and I first plotted an escape.”

  “And now Asantir has taken it out of our hands,” Haimyr finished calmly. “Does that trouble you?”

  Malian frowned and came back to sit cross-legged on the bed, facing him with her chin resting on her hands. “I suppose not,” she said slowly, “but it is unexpected. Still, a great deal about this past week has been unexpected.” She fell silent, listening to the roar of the wind. “How much longer do you think the storm will last?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Two days perhaps, probably not three. But you will have to travel by the narrow paths through the Wall itself, as we did. And you won’t be able to cross the Gray Lands until it passes.”

  “No,” said Malian, a little hollowly, and Haimyr stretched out his hand, covering one of hers.

  “You will reach the Border Mark before the heralds leave, have no fear of that. They will then see you safely to the River.”

  And after that? Malian wondered. But she said nothing, just slipped off the bed and walked over to look at the map, turning the tabletop beneath her hand. She murmured the names under her breath: Ij, Terebanth, the Winter Country; Emer, Jhaine, and Ishnapur. “After Ishnapur, what?” she asked Haimyr.

  “The great deserts,” he replied, in his lazy way, “the sea of sands, perhaps even the very end of the world. Why, would you go there, my Malian?”

  “I would like to see it for myself,” she admitted. “To be something more,” she added, not quite under her breath, “than just a vessel of ancient prophecy.”

  The golden eyebrows rose. “You must know that you are more than that—to me, to Nhairin and Asantir, even to your father.”

  “My father,” said Malian shortly, frowning down at the tabletop. “And Asantir. At one level,” she continued softly, “just two names, another two people—but think what they stand for. The Earl of Night, leader of the first and oldest House of the Derai Alliance, and Asantir, his Honor Captain, sworn to defend Earl, Heir, and keep with her life.” She looked up at Haimyr, her expression deliberately fierce.

  “Yes?” he inquired mildly.

  “The Earl and his Honor Captain should be as one: That is our history. Yet now their two courses are at odds, or so it appears. How can the Honor Captain act against the Earl’s express order, even if it is for the Heir’s benefit? It seems to slice through the very heart of our Derai code.”

  “Do you think so?” inquired Haimyr. “To me it was as though the Derai Wall had cracked from top to bottom.”

  Malian smiled in spite of herself, then shook her head. “It’s not funny, Haimyr.”

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Yet what, in terms of your code, is the difference between the Heir plotting an escape in the afternoon and the Honor Captain executing it in the evening?” He shrugged. “But it is Asantir you must ask about these matters. I am neither Derai nor a warrior, and see the world very differently.”

  “Perhaps,” Malian said softly, “it is that different view I wish to hear.”

  He flicked a bell on his sleeve with narrow fingers, his smile crooked. “Let me ask you another question. Do you trust Asantir?”

  “With my life,” Malian replied, without hesitation.

  “Why?” Haimyr asked.

  Malian frowned. “She is just one of the things I’ve been certain of all my life. I don’t even think about why.” She paused, then continued slowly: “She always seems like the Wall rock beneath one’s feet. All those things we say about honor and giving one’s life for one’s House and the Derai cause—with Asantir you know it’s real. But not,” she added, “in a stupid way. Asantir thinks about things.”

  “Yes,” said Haimyr.

  Malian smiled, a small reluctant smile. “I see what you’re saying, I suppose. If Asantir thinks that I should leave, even if it means going against my father’s wishes, then I should trust her judgment.”

  “I feel compelled to point out,” Haimyr observed, “that it is you who are saying these things, not I. Is it for a minstrel of Ij to advise the Heir of Night?”

  “If the Heir of Night seeks his advice, then why not?”

  Malian revolved the map table gently beneath one hand, watching the world turn before her eyes. Haimyr came and stood behind her, resting one long hand on her shoulder; after a moment she reached up and placed her smaller hand over his, holding it there.

  “It is a wide world, my little one,” he said softly.

  “I trust my father, too,” she said, in a voice so low he had to stoop to catch it. “I know that he will always uphold the laws and oaths of our people, although there have been many Earls less scrupulous. He will also do all that he can to hold both Night and the Derai Alliance itself together.” Her small smile was rueful. “I trust him to be the Earl of Night, I suppose—and my father only when other considerations allow.” She tapped her forefinger on the table, first on the sinuous vein of gold that was the great river Ijir and then on the vastness of the Winter Country. “He alone, of all our people, has traveled to both these lands and learned something of their ways. Yet now the people of Night will want certainty. They won’t have confidence in an Earl who tries to turn the Oath, or their understanding of it, on its head. That,” she finished simply, “is why he feels that he cannot temper the Oath even a little in my favor.”

  “I said that you were growing wise,” the minstrel murmured, “if it is any comfort to you.”

  “Not much,” she said. Haimyr smiled.

  “No,” he agreed. “I fear it may be easier to be happy if one is not wise. Life is so much simpler.”

  Malian smiled, too, then she sighed. “I suppose that if my father has given no actual orders concerning me, if he has only spoken of his intentions, then there cannot be disobedience. Not by t
he letter of the law anyway.”

  Restlessly, she moved away, trailing her fingers over the textured surface of the tapestry, feeling the myriad tiny stitches that made up the scene of hunt and hounds. Something rippled deep within it, a thread of awareness—disturbance—and she snatched her hand away. The scene had changed again, she noticed, reverting more to its previous form, although the white deer—or unicorn—was still half concealed by trees and the hunters’ faces remained hidden. Malian shivered and turned on her heel.

  “Where is Asantir?” she said, walking back to the fire and holding out her hands to the flames. “What if something’s gone wrong? Maybe we should leave now, rather than waiting?”

  “She will come.” Haimyr strolled over and seated himself in Nhairin’s armchair. “Time always passes slowly when you are waiting for something important to happen.”

  Malian frowned, wanting to argue that it had been too long, that something musthave gone awry, but after a moment she nodded and sank onto the rug, cross-legged again. “So,” she asked, to take her mind off the waiting, “what did happen twelve years ago, between Nhairin and Asantir? From what they said, it must have had something to do with my mother.”

  The minstrel shook his head. “My dear, that is not my story to tell.”

  “So you do know!” she pounced, then added slowly: “You would have known my mother, too.”

  “Yes, I knew her,” he replied quietly. “But do not ask me to speak of her, my Malian. It is an old grief and we should let the dead sleep.”

  “What if she is not dead?” Malian asked, just as quietly.

  The golden brows flared upward. “Who told you that?” he demanded. For the first time, she heard a flick of anger in the golden voice.

  “My father.” She fiddled with the end of her braid. “He didn’t say that she was alive, for certain, but he indicated that it was a possibility. He also told me something of what happened here, twelve years ago.”

  “Did he now?” the minstrel murmured, echoing Nhairin when confronted with the same news. “But that still doesn’t give me the right to speak to you of what Nhairin and Asantir have chosen to keep to themselves.”

  Malian sighed, exasperated. “I thought minstrels were supposed to pass on information and recount histories!”

  Haimyr smiled. “We are also meant to be diplomatic and discreet.”

  Malian brooded over this, resuming her contemplation of the fire. They did not speak again, but both their heads turned as one at the sound of voices outside—and finally, Asantir was back, slipping into the room with Kyr and Lira behind her.

  “Time for you to bow out, Haimyr, my friend,” the Honor Captain said briskly, “for the reasons we agreed before.”

  “Did we agree?” the minstrel murmured, uncurling from the chair like a cat. “Now, there I was thinking that you commanded and I humbly obeyed, as always!”

  He turned back to Malian, who had scrambled to her feet, and took her face between his hands. The golden eyes looked into hers and for a moment there was no laughter or mockery in them. “I will not say the long good-bye,” said Haimyr the Golden, “for I believe that we shall meet again. But I will bid you take care and wish the blessings of your Nine Gods on your path and your cause.”

  Malian hugged him fiercely. “Farewell, Haimyr.” She blinked back her tears. “Take care of my father for me.”

  The look he gave her was quizzical. “Your father has always had my friendship, my Malian. Never doubt that.”

  “I don’t.” She held out her hand to him, not as a child but in the clasp of equals, and for a moment it was as though their two hands melded: the smoke gray eyes and the golden met and held. “I am trusting you to do this for me, above all else,” Malian said, and felt the power rise within her, weaving its note through her voice. She saw the recognition of it in Haimyr’s face as he lifted her hand in his own, bowing over it like a courtier.

  “As you wish, Heir of Night, so shall it be,” he answered. “For are we not also dear friends? Farewell, my Malian, until we meet again.”

  “Farewell,” she echoed, blinded by tears. She felt his hand touch her head and heard his light, departing step. By the time her vision cleared he had already gone, leaving her with Asantir and the somber-faced guards.

  Dour Derai faces, Malian thought, with a glimmer of humor that vanished as Asantir held out a cap of black leather and a plain, dark cloak.

  “Hide your hair beneath the cap and wrap the cloak about you,” the captain said. “Then even if anyone does see you, which I doubt on the paths we shall travel, you will simply look like any other page. Now I, too, must leave again while Kyr and Lira stay. But fear not—I shall return at once by the secret way.”

  Malian nodded, and both she and the guards drew closer to the fire, which was burning low. “Soon,” said Asantir on a promise, and was gone again.

  24

  The Long Goodbye

  “Kalan, wake up.”

  The voice spoke very quietly, but it was also a command. Kalan groaned, stirring, and finally sat up, staring into Sister Korriya’s face. Her eyes were shadowed and she carried one of the cone lamps shielded beneath her cloak. She held up the other hand to require his silence. “Get up and dress, Kalan. It is time for you to leave us.”

  The note of authority in her voice brought Kalan out of bed and fumbling for his clothes. Questions burned as he began to dress, but Sister Korriya had already turned and was standing in the doorway, her back to him. Kalan could see other people in the hallway; all were cloaked and hooded and they bore no lights. He wondered, as his fingers struggled to manage fastenings, whether he should be afraid, and the words of the Huntmaster circled again in his head: “It is a wise man who knows the face of his enemy.”

  Kalan longed to ask who had decided that he was to leave: the Earl, the ailing High Priest, or even Sister Korriya herself. But something in the stern, forbidding line of Sister Korriya’s back precluded questions. He paused, halfway through pulling on his boots, and the priestess looked at him over her shoulder. “What, not ready yet? Time is short!”

  “I’m dressed,” Kalan said hastily. “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “Not for this journey,” she replied. She shone the light around the small room as though checking that nothing had been missed, then stepped into the corridor and gestured Kalan to follow. The cloaked and hooded figures closed around him as he stepped outside, but no one spoke. One of their number handed him a cloak, similar to their own, which he pulled around his shoulders, fumbling a little over the clasp. Sister Korriya pulled the hood forward over his face and nodded once, as though satisfied that he was indistinguishable from the rest, before turning away down the corridor. The others fell in behind her with Kalan in their midst.

  He could not help glancing at the cloaked, silent figures surrounding him and remembering the hunters in the tapestry. Their faces, too, had been hidden, concealing both identity and intention. Kalan shivered, remembering how Sister Korriya had said that he need not bring anything with him on this journey—but he could not believe that the priestess would do him harm. Besides, it would have been too easy to have killed his sleeping body while he wandered beyond the Gate of Dreams. No, Kalan decided, this silent journey must lead to some other end. And despite the strangeness, or perhaps because of it, he felt a small thrill of excitement.

  They descended a long flight of stairs and then there were more corridors and more stairs, each one caught between darkness and shadow. The hooded figures wove in and out of the dimness and Kalan, who had thought he knew every stone and step of the Temple precinct, now realized how strange even a familiar place could look when passing through it by night.

  Finally, after so long a time that Kalan wondered if they had crossed the entire Temple quarter, Sister Korriya led them down a shallow flight of steps and stopped by a steel door. He felt the priestess’s eyes rest on him as she turned, although her face remained shadowed beneath her hood. When she spoke, she kept her voice
low. “This is my journey’s end, Kalan, but not yours. This door opens into a loft above the keep stables; there you will find another stair that leads down into the stalls. From the stable you must make your way to the undercroft below, where others are waiting for you.”

  What others, Kalan wondered? His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast and hard. “How will I know,” he asked, “whether those I meet are friend or foe?”

  “Two of our company will go with you,” Korriya replied. “They know the passwords and the faces of those who await you.” She stepped forward, resting her hands on his shoulders, and Kalan forced himself to remain still, meeting her searching gaze. He wondered what it was that she was looking for, and whether she found it. “Go well, Kalan,” she said at last, and he heard both fear and hope warring in her voice. She shut off the cone light and pressed it into his hand. “May the Nine guard you, for the path ahead is dark and I am no seer, able to read your way.”

  Kalan’s fingers closed around the light and his heart began to hammer as he understood that they really were sending him away—but why so secretly? Korriya held up a hand, forestalling questions, and nodded to one of her anonymous companions to open the door. Kalan followed the hooded figure through, before turning to look back at the anonymous company above him. “Farewell, Sister,” he said softly, and Korriya inclined her head, signaling another of the cloaked figures to join him. The door closed, and the first of his silent companions reached back and locked it.

  The loft stair was easy to find and led them down into the warmth and darkness of the stable, with its scents of straw and leather, and the shift and murmur of the horses in their stalls. The place was vast, thought Kalan, and he remembered that it was underground, carved out of the rock of the Wall itself. His companions had used the curved wall to guide them down and Kalan followed their lead, even though he could see perfectly well in the darkness. When they reached the bottom a firm hand rested on his shoulder and exerted a pressure that said, as plainly as words: Wait.