by Helen Lowe
“Nor I.”Jehane Mor frowned, studying the sky. “If itwere not too early in the year, I would swear that I smelt winter at its back.”
Tarathan nodded. “There is snow behind it, which is even more reason to make haste.”He spread his long cloak beneath the densest tree cover and lay down, his two swords naked across his breast. Jehane Mor sat cross-legged at his head, her eyes and face very calm within her gray hood.
“I am ready,”she told him, her mindvoice calm.
“And I,”he replied—and sent his spirit forth, past the Gate of Dreams and into Jaransor.
28
Flight
Far to the north, Malian stood with a hand on her horse’s rein, her face hidden by the curve of its neck while Kyr and Nhairin argued. Lira sat to one side with her hands lying loosely over her knees. Her bow was already slung over her shoulder, the quiver on her back was full, and two knives were sheathed beside her sword. Her normally lighthearted face was grim and she seemed removed from them, her mind fixed entirely on what lay ahead.
She already knows what she has to do, thought Malian, and leaves Kyr to argue with Nhairin, who does not.
It had been a long, long night since they first heard the terrible scream that Nhairin had identified as one of the demon creatures that hunted with the Swarm. Malian had felt Kalan’s shield slam up, surrounding them with the color and shape of night, a pattern comprised of leaves, stars, and the night breeze. None of the others seemed to notice it, although Malian had caught Nhairin looking at Kalan once or twice with a puzzled frown. They had all stayed awake for a long time, waiting to see if the demon would hunt out their trail. But whether because of Kalan’s shield, or simply through luck, no Swarm demon had appeared and eventually they took turns to sleep. Only Kalan had remained awake all night; he had whispered to Malian that he was afraid that his shield would dissipate without his conscious will holding it in place.
Kyr had roused them before first light. “I would not have thought that a Swarm demon could have missed us,” he had said. “If that is what we heard. But the pursuit will be hard on our heels anyway, since both Lira and Lady Malian believe that they have already crossed the Telimbras.” He had paused, shaking his head. “Only speed and luck will save us now. The way Lira and I see that, Heir of Night, is that we must try and make some luck, while the rest of you flee as far and fast as possible.”
“What do you mean make some luck?” Nhairin had asked sharply.
Kyr had looked back at her, heavy browed. “Why, even the odds a little, slow them up with a few losses. Who knows, we may even persuade them to turn back.”
“What folly is this?” Nhairin had protested. “You know we are hopelessly outnumbered! What you are proposing is certain suicide, when our best hope, surely, is to stay together!”
Kyr had grabbed her by the arm then, pulling her away from the others, and they were still hissing at each other on the far side of the small plateau. Malian looked an enquiry at Kalan, but he only shook his head, either unable to hear or unwilling to reveal that he could, with Lira there. Malian sighed and led her horse over to the other guard.
“Is Nhairin right? Is it suicide?” she asked.
Lira shrugged. “It’s a fighting chance, to slow them down a bit, not to stop them. It’s true the risks are high, but it’s the only way, Lady Malian. If we stay together, as Nhairin suggests, we’ll all be caught together—sooner probably, rather than later. This way, there’s a better chance for the rest of you to escape.”
“I see,” said Malian, and she did see, all too clearly. Before she could say anything else, Kalan spoke quietly from behind her.
“So why does Nhairin advocate a different course?”
Lira shrugged. “She speaks out of her fear that she, on her own, will be unable to protect you. She doesn’t look at what she can do, even now, but sees only what her leg prevents her from doing.” The guard slid a sly smile at Malian. “That is not my wisdom, it is what the captain warned us of before we left. But I think that she saw truly. And this is no time for arguing. It is a time for doing.”
She is right, thought Malian, so now I must act as Heir of Night and settle the matter.
She led her horse over to Kyr and Nhairin, who both looked around at her in surprise. Kyr’s expression was grim and exasperated, while Nhairin looked both angry and upset.
“Nhairin,” said Malian, meeting the steward’s eyes squarely, “I don’t like what Kyr is suggesting any better than you do, but Asantir put him in command and we have to do as he says.”
“Even though it means their deaths?” Nhairin asked deliberately.
Malian sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “It’s a risk that they are prepared to take,” she replied. “I do not like that, but as Heir of Night I have to accept it. Things have gone awry and now we all have to do what our duty requires. Kyr and Lira believe that they have one duty, while you, Kalan, and I have another—which is to do everything that we can to evade our enemies.”
Nhairin stared at her, and when she spoke her words were slow and heavy. “I have never before seen how truly you are his daughter.”
“She speaks as Heir of Night,” Kyr said tersely, “and with more wisdom than you are showing. We have wasted enough time, Nhairin. We have to go.”
“Don’t be angry, Nhairin,” said Malian, as Kyr walked away. “It may be that they will be successful in what they do.”
The steward turned her face away. “Do not delude yourself,” she said. “Still, if this is the course that you are all determined to follow, we had best get on.”
Malian shivered. The wind that had risen in the night was stronger and colder now, with clouds scudding high and fast out of the north. Lira came to stand beside her, casting a thoughtful look at the sky. “There’s nasty weather coming,” she said. “It feels like snow, even though it’s at least a month too early for snow here.”
“As Lady Malian said, things have gone awry.” Kyr laid a hand on Malian’s rein as she settled herself in the saddle. “Remember what I told you,” he said, “and do not stop or hold back for anyone. Most particularly, do not wait for us. Lira and I will follow if we win free.”
“I have given you my word,” Malian replied. She held out her hand to him, her throat tight. “The Nine be with you, Kyr—and you, Lira.” Quickly, she turned her horse away, and although she looked back once, just before losing sight of the camp, the two guards had already disappeared into the trees.
If this is what it means to be Heir of Night, Malian thought drearily, then I do not want it. She blinked back tears, staring hard at the fast-moving sky.
They headed south with the wind driving at their backs, listening hard for any sound of conflict or pursuit from behind them. At first Nhairin preserved silence, her expression set, and it was Kalan who kept a watchful eye on their backtrail and on the sky, where a black speck shadowed their path. After a time, Nhairin began to cast frequent, sidelong glances at him and mutter to herself, an indistinguishable murmur below the voice of the wind. Oppression, sullen as the weather, hung over their small party.
They stopped for a brief midday meal in the shelter of a jagged tor, torn between their need for food and rest and the compulsion to keep going. Nhairin chewed her lip as she studied the terrain ahead, which was becoming rougher, full of jumbled rocks that hampered the horses. The sky was gray as iron now, the clouds pressing lower onto the hill-tops and shrouding the higher peaks. “We’ll have to stick close together,” Kalan said, “or we’ll lose each other in that cloud.”
“Could we leave the old road and go further down?” asked Malian. “I mean, as far as we know our enemies are behind us, not below.”
Nhairin frowned deeply over that. Her face was still shadowed, but her eyes seemed clearer than they had earlier in the day. “We don’t know that for certain, though,” she said slowly. “They might have split their party again. Besides, it’s very rough country further down. The valleys are so clogged with brush and rocks
that we would risk getting hopelessly lost. It’s always best to keep to the path in this sort of country, so I think we’ll have to chance the cloud.”
Malian nodded, recalling Kyr’s advice about the watchtowers and deciding that it might, after all, be best to stick with the main ridge. She shivered as a sharp gust of wind caught them. “We had better press on.”
Press on they did, with the wind prying through the warmth of their cloaks. The clouds, too, conspired against them, rolling lower and lower so that the path ran through banks of gray, moist air with increasing frequency. The world darkened every time they entered the fog so that Nhairin, who was riding immediately ahead of Malian, became little more than a dimly seen shadow. She seemed to fall deeper into her abstraction with every passage of the clouds, but roused herself at their next halt. “I don’t like this weather at all,” she muttered, “Lira was right, there is snow in the wind. I think we’ll have to find shelter soon.”
“Does that mean we won’t make it to the Border Mark before the storm breaks?” Malian asked, trying not to let either fear or disappointment sound in her voice.
Nhairin shrugged, her expression weary. “We’re still at least a day’s ride from the Border Mark, perhaps more. Whatever’s behind this wind will be on us long before that.”
Kalan frowned into the wind. “We don’t have the equipment or supplies to survive a snowstorm,” he said slowly.
Nhairin looked at him, her expression dark as the cloud-wracked day. “Death behind us,” she muttered, “and death ahead. So where now does duty lie?”
“Exactly where it did this morning,” Kalan said sharply. “If we can’t outrun the weather, then we must find shelter—as you just said—and do our best to survive. That is our duty, Steward Nhairin.”
Nhairin continued to stare at him, her eyes narrowed. “Is it?” she asked, in a strange high voice that reminded Malian, uncannily, of the rising wind. “Who are you, little priestling, to tell me my duty? You grow presumptuous—or perhaps you always have been? Ay, that’s it,” she mused. To Malian, watching, it was as though the darkness in her face deepened. “I knew there was something more to you than met the eye.”
“Nhairin,” said Malian uneasily, “are you all right?”
“Is he?” Nhairin countered, not taking her eyes off Kalan. “I knew he was Temple raised, but that could mean anything or nothing these days. No one told me anything about this boy, except that you wanted him along. There’s more to it, though, isn’t there?” Her voice developed an odd, crooning note. “I see the boldness in him now and the power, too, strong as earth and hard as stone. He’s more important than we thought.”
“We?”Malian leaned forward. “What do you mean by we,Nhairin?”
The steward shifted slightly, shaking her head as if to clear it. “Why—Kyr, Lira, and me, of course,” she said, after a slight hesitation.
Malian stared at her. “We’re all important, Nhairin, you know that. And you’ve always been important to me.”
Nhairin gave a bitter laugh. “Have I? More important than Kyr and Lira? You seemed quite ready to send them to their deaths. I have always thought you your mother’s child, but I saw Tasarion in you then.”
Malian gripped her reins tightly, but it was Kalan who replied. “Malian didn’t send them, Steward Nhairin. It was Kyr’s decision. And their deaths are not certain.”
“Aren’t they?” Nhairin’s lip curled. “Who will be next, my boy, have you asked yourself that? Will it be you or me, sacrificed for her Blood?”
“Why are you speaking this way, Nhairin?” Malian was beginning to feel alarmed. “Are you ill?”
Nhairin shrugged. “I am well enough. But what of him, this priestling who rides at your back? Does he mean well?”
“Of course he does,” Malian answered, as steadily as she could. “All he said was that we must find shelter, if necessary, from this storm that’s brewing. You know that’s sense, Nhairin!”
“Shelter, ay,” Nhairin muttered, looking away from Kalan at last. “Yes, yes, you are quite right, we’ll have snow before nightfall.” She shook her head again and her eyes cleared. “But why are we sitting here talking about it? We need to keep ahead of our pursuers and find somewhere safe to sit this weather out.”
“Yes,” agreed Malian relieved, “and the sooner the better!” But she exchanged a doubtful look with Kalan as the steward urged her horse forward.
“Is she often like this?” he asked.
Malian shook her head. “Never. She’s not acting like herself at all.”
Kalan looked grim. “She’s been getting stranger ever since we crossed into Jaransor. And she knew that I was using power last night, with the shield, even if she didn’t know exactly what I was doing. She kept looking over at me in a measuring sort of way.”
Malian bit her lip. “Both she and Kyr said that Jaransor can drive you mad. But we’d better stop talking now before she turns on us again.”
Nhairin did indeed give them a sharp look, back over her shoulder, but she said nothing and they continued on in silence. Soon they rode into cloud again, and this time it surrounded them for some time before lifting. The path dropped steeply away in front of them and they sat looking out over what seemed like a vast sea of fog. Kalan pointed ahead to where the land finally rose out of the cloud again. “There’s another watchtower there,” he said. “That may offer the shelter we need.”
“You have keen eyes,” Nhairin observed, and Malian’s heart sank as she saw that the shadow had flowed back into the steward’s face and eyes.
Kalan nodded, his expression wary, and Nhairin’s horse sidled a few steps closer to his. “What other gifts do you have?” the steward asked. “What else have you been hiding so that you can spy on us?”
“Nhairin!” exclaimed Malian. “Stop this! Kalan is our friend, not a spy.”
“Your friend perhaps, but not mine,” Nhairin replied. “He means me no good, do you boy?” Her horse danced nervously as she turned it toward Kalan, ignoring the long fingers of cloud that were already curling around them. She stared at Kalan with dark intensity. “The little priest said yesterday that going back is not an option. Perhaps,” Nhairin crooned, “he would even prefer death. Well, that can be arranged!”
“No!” shouted Malian, kicking her horse forward as a long knife appeared in the steward’s hand. Nhairin’s mount reared, neighing shrilly as the steward tried to pull it back down with one hand. The other hand still held the knife, its blade sharp and dangerous; the black horse shied sidewise, away from Malian, as it came down. Kalan urged his horse into the gap, shoving Malian away.
“Run!” he shouted.
Malian tried to cry out a protest or a warning, but her horse was already lunging forward. She heard a shout from Nhairin, and an answering cry from Kalan as she tried to turn and see what was happening. But all she could make out was a blur of black—and then Kalan was tearing after her, crouched low on his horse’s neck. They thundered down into the sea of cloud, which was so dense it quickly turned into impenetrable blankness, forcing the horses to check their headlong pace. The fog blew past them in great strands, but it did not dissipate or roll away; eventually, the horses stopped altogether. Malian and Kalan sat very still, listening, but they heard nothing except the soughing of the wind among the tors. “What happened?” Malian whispered. “Why didn’t she follow us?”
“I threw my cloak into her horse’s face,” Kalan whispered back, “so it shied and then stumbled off the edge of the path. I didn’t wait while it scrambled to find its footing. I just charged after you.”
Malian shook her head from side to side. “I can’t believe that she would try and kill you.”
Kalan huddled his arms around his body. “I think the old madness must have taken her.”
“I suppose so,” Malian said miserably. She wanted to throw back her head and howl, but she forced herself to remain calm, to concentrate on what they needed to do next. Kalan was hunched down in the saddle and she
leaned toward him through the murk. “You’re hurt, aren’t you? Was it the knife?”
“Under the arm,” he said faintly. “Nhairin slashed with the blade at the same time I threw the cloak. It’s just a glancing blow, not a deep wound. But it really hurts.”
“We have to get you under cover,” Malian said. “We’ll make for that next tower; there’s bound to be some kind of shelter there. But you’d better take my cloak.”
Kalan nodded, his face white and set with pain, and did not argue about the cloak. Malian handed it over quickly, before she could change her mind, and shivered as the cold struck sharply through her jacket.
They moved forward slowly, and this time the cloud showed no sign of lifting. Kalan was swaying in the saddle, his left hand clamped under his right arm, so eventually Malian dismounted and led both horses, always peering ahead to find the next few feet of path. For a long time she felt as though they were moving through the mist between worlds again, only this time there was no hope of rescue: no Yorindesarinen sitting by her small fire, no herald to come walking out of the flames, or Asantir waiting on the other side of a door in the air.
And no Nhairin. But Malian pushed that thought aside. She could not think about Nhairin now, would not, until she had Kalan safe. The day and the cloud stretched on, interminable, and she had almost given up when the path rose steeply and a darker mass of shadow bulked through the gloom. When Malian drew closer, almost dreading to hope, she saw that it was indeed one of the ruined towers—a mass of jumbled foundations with wing walls falling away on either side. The tower itself rose smoothly to about thirty feet above her head, then ended abruptly in broken stone. The location was very exposed and the low, scrubby vegetation offered little shelter. Malian hesitated, biting her lip, while the wind and the cloud swirled around them.
