by Helen Lowe
The worm, larger, swifter, and more powerful than the comrade it sought to avenge, hissed and looped back on itself, flowing across the darkened hall with frightening speed. Asantir and her sword slipped sideways into shadow again, away from that silent, deadly rush. The worm rippled, becoming one with the night—then the flat head burst through the fabric of air, its jaws wide, darting toward the black-clad figure that spun out of darkness, the curved blade slicing at the worm’s neck. The worm rolled away, its powerful tail sweeping around in a counterstrike, but the black figure somersaulted out of danger in a movement that was almost too quick to follow.
Sound spun across the blackness of Mhaelanar’s hall: a song of death and drought, of the first grass shriveling in a black frost, and topsoil blown away by incessant winds. The tune swelled, singing of harvests rotting in the fields and loves gone to ruin, an eternal promise of darkness, desolation, and grief that numbed the heart and vanquished hope. So powerful and persuasive was that siren voice that even Malian, watching and listening unseen, struggled to find an answer to it. “Who can possibly withstand it?” she whispered, knowing that no one would hear her. “This worm is too powerful. They will all be lost!”
But it seemed as though someone did hear her, for another voice rose in answer to her despair. As cold as death and black as the void between the stars, it soared across the lightless hall. A thread of unease crept into the siren voice, and the gleam of a lidless eye, quickly hidden again, peered through the gloom.
Malian glimpsed movement in the darkness beneath the latticed gallery that circled the great nave of the Temple. The shape of warrior and sword slid out of the blackness between the pillars, and the worm’s head whipped toward it. This time, however, the worm checked, drawing back as it—like Malian—realized that Asantir’s sword was the origin of the countersong.
Black blade. The name cut through the lightless air. When the worm eventually slithered forward it moved far more slowly, watchful, as the cold song pushed back against its own paean of doubt and despair.
Malian frowned, both fascinated and perplexed, for how could this sword be another black blade? It seemed impossible that there should be two such weapons in the Keep of Winds without anyone knowing. Could Asantir have lied, in the old High Hall, when she said that she had not known what the black spear was? Malian shivered, her doubt colder than any fear spell cast by the siren worm.
She remembered the Red and White Suite, and how the ichor from the first worm had corroded Asantir’s sword. One would want a blade one could rely on, the next time one went against such an enemy—and some defence against its sorceries as well, not just a strong sword arm. And she had seen Asantir study the swords on the war chest before lifting them down, had heard her quote Kalan’s saying about the black blades.
Malian shook her head as the combat became a deadly contest of strength and power. Warrior and worm flowed in and out of the darkness beneath the pillared gallery: the one luring and retreating, the other pursuing, seeking to bite or crush. Korriya and Vern watched from the sanctuary, making no move to intervene, and Malian saw what the worm did not—the silent figures creeping along the gallery and mustering outside the Temple doors. She noted the curve of bows through the balcony latticework and the shuttered glow of a firepot; she watched black-clad figures slide, quieter than a whisper, through the Temple doors and into the shadows along its walls.
Ah, thought Malian, understanding at last: Now the trap is sprung. Yet she was also aware of the vast width and length of the Temple nave, the sheer distance between the newcomers and the two combatants.
The sword’s song had continued to build, filling the lofty hall, and the voice of the siren worm began to falter. Perhaps it sensed the silent net closing around it, for it hissed suddenly and Malian felt the surge of its power, hunting its opponent out. Asantir spun out of the shadows, moving to attack again, and the worm’s sorcery retracted, forming a rampart around its body. Asantir circled left, keeping the sword between herself and the worm. The flat head swung, following her movement, and a jet of power hurtled toward the Honor Captain. Malian opened her mouth to scream—but Asantir extended the sword and the assault rolled away on either side of the black blade like a wave breaking, its energy dissipated.
This time, the worm did not stop but followed the wave of power forward. It was fully visible now, a sinuous coil of potency and strength, and Malian was astonished once again by the sheer speed of its attack. The figures by the door broke cover and raced forward; the archers in the gallery were bending their bows, but the worm’s head was already stretched out, the jaws extended for the strike. Asantir came in from the left, cutting toward the worm’s throat. The move was fast, very fast, but the worm pulled away from the strike and whipped around to come in again—except that Asantir had turned the sword cut into a roll, intercepting the trajectory of the worm’s counterattack. By the time the beast turned she was already coming up, directly beneath its upreared head.
The worm hissed its surprise, but it was too late to evade or pull back again as the captain’s left arm thrust up with the short blade that she had drawn as she rolled, extending it straight into the worm’s chitinous throat. The blade pierced the armored scales like silk and the worm coughed, a guttural explosion of pain and rage. Asantir used the thrust and her own momentum to hold the head clear, simultaneously bringing the blade in her right hand around in a smooth, powerful cut that severed the siren worm’s head from its body.
Malian’s hands flew to her mouth as the head thudded onto the floor, ichor spraying around it. Asantir stepped back, her face dispassionate as she withdrew the short blade from the worm’s body, which continued to writhe and thrash. “And death,” she said, very softly, to the gaping mouth and glazed eye of the severed head, “demands death.”
Deliberately, the Honor Captain wiped her blades clean and thrust them into their sheaths as the figures running toward her slowed. Malian noted, with detachment but no surprise, that the worm’s caustic blood had made no impression on the somber gleam of either blade. Garan, Nerys, and the rest of the archer company in the gallery rose to their feet, quenching their fire arrows, but it was the Earl of Night who was the first to reach Asantir. The winged horse on his breastplate glittered as Korriya joined them, holding the votive flame high, but the Earl’s stern gaze was fixed on Asantir. “Its neck was armored,” he said harshly. “What sort of blade could cut through that so easily?”
What indeed, thought Malian—but if Asantir replied, she did not hear her, only Vern’s rough, urgent speech: “I can see no mark on Terithis. It may be that she is only ensorceled and will live if we fetch help quickly!” A clamor rose, and feet ran again as the sacred flame blazed, burning away the darkness of the New Keep. A voice, pure as silver and cool as moonlight, spoke to Malian out of the fire: “I seek the Chosen of Mhaelanar, across time’s divide.”
“Who are you?” demanded Malian. “What is the Chosen of Mhaelanar to you? Why do you seek the One?”
“Ask, rather,” the cool voice replied, “what I am to the One and why she should seek me.”
“Who are you?” Malian said again. “Where will I find you?”
The moonlit voice rang in her mind, clear as a chime of ice:
I lie outside of worlds and time,
a-top a tower that isn’t there:
To find me here you must climb
the shattered stair that leads nowhere.
“What?” began Malian—and started up, wide awake. The fire in the cellar was muted embers, but Yorindesarinen’s armring had slid down to her wrist and was blazing with silver fire, although the metal remained cool against her skin. The horses stood with their heads up and ears pricked, watching her; Kalan was fast asleep, sprawled on his back with his left arm flung out.
Malian remembered the violence of her dream and shivered, wondering if it had been a farseeing and not a dream at all. “It seemed so real,” she whispered, and shivered again, remembering the slain guards and To
rin’s face, fixed in a rictus of death. She hoped, if the dream or seeing were true, that Terithis would live.
“Child of Night!” The voice seemed to sigh out of the ground itself. “Come to me!”
“Who are you?” Malian looked around, as if she might spy out the owner of the voice. “What do you want? Are you an enemy or a friend?” But there was no answer except the wind, crying around the broken tower. She frowned, knowing that she could not assume that the voice belonged to a friend or ally just because it had addressed her in the words of ancient prophecy. She could feel the summons still, reverberating in the quiet air, and thought how easily the voice had breached Kalan’s shield—if, with Kalan asleep, his shield was even in place.
“Or—” Malian paused, her eyes narrowing. “What if whatever spoke is already here, inside the shield with me?” She thrust herself to her feet.
“Friend or enemy,” she said, “I had better find you. Deal with whatever you want.”
She cast one longing glance at the fringe of her cloak where it showed beneath Kalan’s blanket, then picked up her own blanket and draped it cape fashion around her shoulders, careful to cover up the armring. Cold as it was beside the dying fire, she knew it would be colder still on the open hilltop with the wind and the snow and the Nine only knew what enemies lurking. One of the horses snorted gently, but she shook her head at it. “No, you stay here. You might as well be safe, and as warm as this weather allows.”
The wind that pried through her draped blanket when she reached the tower entrance was bitter, but there was only a light dusting of snow. The quarter moon, appearing intermittently between clouds, cast a frail light. Malian could not see any tracks crossing the open ground, yet she still felt uncomfortable, as though she were the focus of unseen eyes. She drew back and waited, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm.
Wings fluttered and a shadow dropped through the dim moonlight onto the crumbling stone of the arch. Malian jumped back, throwing up an arm for protection, but no attack followed. Cautiously, she lowered the arm and saw a crow sitting on the keystone.
“Hello,” said Malian, more than a little surprised. “Where did you come from?”
“It is less a matter of where I come from,” the crow replied, speaking in a soft rasping voice that was half a caw, “but more of where you are going.”
Malian gaped at the bird. “Did you, er, speak?” she asked finally.
The crow cawed softly, in what might have been humor. “Say, rather, that you heard me. How could you help it, with the hero’s ring upon your arm?”
Malian stared at the crow a moment longer and decided to be bold. “How do you know where I’m meant to be going? Was it you who called to me?”
“Was mine the voice you heard?” the crow demanded, with a touch of asperity. “Nay, it was not I who called—although I may know who did.” The bird fixed her with a bright, expectant eye.
Malian met that look and frowned, folding her arms. “Who does the voice belong to, then?” After all, given the strangeness of the whole business, she supposed she could do worse than seek information from a bird.
“You could,” the crow replied calmly. “Much worse.” It fluttered its feathers at her startled expression. “There are very few, child, who can understand me, and fewer still with whom I choose to speak.”
Malian considered this. “The voice must be important. Or you think so, at any rate.” She refolded the blanket around her in a vain attempt to ward out the wind. “So how does one find a tower that isn’t there? What hint can you give me, O Wise Crow?”
The crow peered down at her. “You must look with the eye of your mind, the seer’s vision, not just with those two orbs that you have for everyday use.”
Malian frowned again, because Derai lore was full of tales of priests and heroes who were trueseers and farseers, able to look beyond the limitations of the mortal world. “Which makes sense, I suppose,” she muttered, “if I’m looking for a place that isn’t here.” She let her mind drift as it had done the night before when she soared over Jaransor, although this time she floated no higher than the rough-shorn crown of the ruin, afraid of what might happen if she breached Kalan’s shield.
How beautiful it must have been, she thought, when the towers stood straight and tall, and sages gathered to watch the heavens.
In the darkness behind her eyes the wheel of stars turned and Malian, too, spun in the heart of their vastness. Their voices sang to her, cool and brilliant, and another voice whispered beneath them, light turning to dark, then back to light again: “Chosen of Mhaelanar.” Malian opened her eyes and saw the shadow of the watchtower stretching away, black and sheer in the fitful moonlight, with silver fire twisting along its length.
Excitement fluttered in the pit of her stomach. “The tower that isn’t there,” she breathed. “I was right; it is inside the shield already, both here and not here.” She paused, her excitement fading. “But how, in Mhaelanar’s name, does one climb a tower that is only shadow?”
“How indeed?” said the crow, fluttering down and landing on her shoulder. Its feathers tickled her ear. “You already have your guide and your talisman, Child. Don’t you see?”
See what, Malian wondered, studying the empty hillside and the silhouette of the unbroken tower. Her eyes narrowed on the silver fire that spiraled around its shadowed length. “The armring,” she said. “Of course.” Her fingers found its cool surface—and she saw the glade between worlds again and a small fire that burned silver, with lilac and blue at its heart. Yorindesarinen’s voice spoke to her out of the flames: “Look inside the ring, Malian!”
Malian blinked and slid the armring off, turning it to catch the fitful moonlight. The spiral of stars on its outer side blazed, but the inside remained dull, without either decoration or inscription. Malian tilted it another way and saw a line of fire flicker around the inner rim. After a moment the line brightened and the flow of letters became clear. “What does it say?” the crow asked.
“The lettering’s archaic,” Malian answered. “And some of the words are strange, but it seems to say: ’I move between worlds and time; I seek out the hidden, the lost I find.’ “ She grimaced. “Is there nothing here that is not a riddle?”
“Very little,” the crow replied dryly. “This is Jaransor, after all.”
“Haimyr would like it,” said Malian, with a small smile. “They play riddle games in Ij and he was always trying to test and trick me.” Her smile became a frown. “Worlds and time. That’s the same phrase as in the other rhyme, which suggests that the armring may be the key to climbing the stair to nowhere. A guide, as you suggested,” she said to the crow. She cast her mind back, trying to recall the ruined watchtower as she had first seen it that afternoon, before she detected its unbroken shadow.
“There was a stair,” she said, thinking hard, “and it was certainly shattered. It seemed to end just below the broken rim of the tower.” She angled a sideways look at the crow. “And the silver fire is spiraling around the shadow tower, just like a staircase—” Malian struck one hand against the other. “Because the armring itself is a bridge between place and time! That has to be it!” Slowly, she drew the ring down onto her wrist again, clear of her coat’s sleeve. “If I can make it work, that is. I will have to start with the stair, I suppose, and see what happens.”
The crow remained silent but dug its claws into her shoulder, plainly intending to stay with her for the moment. Malian was glad of its company, for she still felt the pressure of unseen eyes as she left the shelter of the arch. She also felt the wind’s full chill as she tried to make her way through the same scrub and crumbling stone that had challenged her that afternoon. Even with the silver light cast by the armring she stumbled several times, scraping her shins and bruising her knees. It was impossible to hold on to the blanket so she was forced to knot it around her chest, leaving her head and arms exposed to the freezing wind. “I hope you’re comfortable,” she said austerely to the crow, huddled ben
eath her hair.
In the end Malian fell over the collapsed first step, which had fallen askew from the tower, grazing her hands as well as her shins. She blinked away tears, and when her eyes cleared she saw the broken stairway circling up. The silver fire, too, danced merrily upward and Malian followed it slowly, her left hand against the tower wall for balance. She kept her head down against the wind as she tried hard to see with her mind rather than her eyes, which were still watering from her fall. But it was difficult to let her mind slip free when she had to resist the pull of the wind and keep her footing on steps that were often cracked and sometimes missing altogether.
Malian climbed like this for some time, until she began to think that she had been ascending too long given the height of the broken tower. When she paused and raised her head, she realized that the spiral of silver light must have thickened imperceptibly, for it was no longer a fine thread but had grown into a rope, curving around the outer edge of the staircase like a balustrade. Malian grasped at it with her numb right hand and huffed out her breath, relieved, when it felt solid beneath her fingers. Her feet began to move more freely and soon she was floating up the stairs rather than climbing. Some time later it dawned on her that she no longer felt cold and she found the courage to open her mind fully to her surroundings.
The balustrade still circled upward, but the staircase she climbed was made of darkness and silver fire, rather than stone, and a star-filled sky spun around her. When she looked down she could see nothing except night, not even the snow on the hilltop; above her head a full moon was rising, white and luminous over the tower’s crown. Malian frowned, remembering the quarter moon over Jaransor. “Where am I?” she whispered.
“Outside of time,” the crow replied from beside her ear, startling her. Its rasping voice was swallowed in the vastness of the night. “You will have to learn to make that transition with your mind’s eye fully open,” it added, when she did not answer.
