The Heir of Night

by Helen Lowe

  Malian was not sure she liked the implication that shifting between place and time was something she might choose to do regularly. She craned to look at the top of the tower again and could just make out arched windows and curved eaves, with a sheer rise of wall between herself and the slender spire that seemed to pierce the moon. “Still a long way to go,” she said, wondering how fast time was passing on the hilltop in Jaransor.

  “Not for you,” said the crow, “unless you choose to climb every step.”

  “What?” Malian was puzzled.

  “You have taken yourself out of time,” the crow replied. “Think about the armring and what it told you.”

  “‘I move between worlds and time,’ “ Malian said slowly. “But how can I do that if I’m already outside of time? I know I opened a portal in the Old Keep, but that wasn’t like this. I was still part of the temporal world then.”

  The crow fluttered its wings. “Who spoke of portals? What has there ever been in this except you and your will, and the armring answering to it? It is your choice, Child. You can continue to insist on seeing the three that are yourself and the armring and the tower, or look again with the spirit’s eye and see—differently.”

  “The oneness of all things,” murmured Malian. Her voice came out in a sigh and the flames of Yorindesarinen’s fire flickered in her mind, so that she was not entirely sure whether it was she who had spoken, or the hero speaking through her.

  “Are you not One?” the crow asked. Its voice grew dreamy. “Long before the watchtowers stood, before empires and sages who studied the slow passage of the stars, this hilltop was already a place of power. Legend has it that the builders wrought the symbols of that power into the tower’s stone, both at its foot and at its lofty crown.”

  “The Hunt,” said Malian, thinking hard. “There was a hawk flying over it, too—or was it a crow?”

  The crow shifted on her shoulder and its voice grew softer still. “This is Jaransor. These hills have always lain beneath the shadow of the falcon’s wings.”

  Malian held on to the rope of silver fire and closed her eyes, visualizing the hunt and the hawk as she had seen them above the archway. The carved figures had been weathered, faded by time, but the details were clear in her mind—the fleeing hind and the pack of hounds pouring in pursuit, with the hunters close behind. Malian concentrated, seeing the curl of a hound’s tongue and the foam that splashed the hind’s flank; she noticed the curve of a horn, lifted to the sky. Cloaks spun from the hunters’ shoulders and one shaded his eyes with his hand. The colors, she knew, came more from her memory of the tapestry in the Red and White Suite, but the fire and strength of the falcon flying overhead, the vast span of its wings, were all from the carving in the stone.

  Malian sighed and opened her eyes. The stairs and the silver balustrade had disappeared and she stood on a mosaic in the center of a stone chamber, her feet on the falcon’s wings. Moonlight, white and brilliant, poured through arched windows.

  “Oh, well done!” said the crow.

  “So which is the real tower,” asked Malian, “and which the shadow? This one, or the one in Jaransor?”

  She felt rather than saw the tilt of the crow’s head. “Why cannot both be real?”

  Malian opened her mouth, then closed it again, shaking her head. She looked around for the owner of the voice that had called to her, but the chamber was empty except for the mosaic on the floor. “Well,” she said, hands on her hips, “here I am. What do you want of me?”

  Only silence answered, but Malian sensed a presence all the same. Well, two could play at the waiting and watching game. So she waited, counting the stars in their slow dance around the tower. Her breathing slowed, became one with the immensity of the night while the spiral constellation of the armring stretched across the floor.

  Like stepping stones across the void, thought Malian, but leading to what?

  Her brows drew together, then smoothed out again. “Ah,” she said.” ’I seek out the hidden, the lost I find.’ “ Malian gave a sudden, soft laugh. “You told me who you were, didn’t you, when you said that you sought the Chosen of Mhaelanar across worlds and time—and that you were my destiny, not I yours. The silver armring is indeed the key. I only need to ask who bore the bracelet before me, and what—connected to her—was lost or hidden a long time ago.”

  The crow shifted on her shoulder, while the moonlight listened. “How do you answer this riddle, Malian of Night?”

  Malian lifted her arms wide so that the fire from the armring caught and glittered in the star pattern on the floor. “The arms of Yorindesarinen were lost when the hero fell, but of the three—helmet, sword, and shield—only the moon-bright helm ever had a voice.” Her words became a chant, compelling. “I call you now by your name, Nhenir. Across time and worlds I summon you here!”

  The tower shivered as the constellation on the floor blazed into fire. Malian opened her mind to the flare of power, absorbing it, but kept her eyes fixed on the small black plinth that had appeared on the last of the stepping stars. The helm on top of the plinth glowed and Malian caught her breath, for no song, no description, however detailed, could have prepared her for the beauty of Nhenir. The helm was made of black, adamantine steel and decorated with silver and pearl, like the bright and dark of the moon. Its visor was wrought in the shape of the dawn eyes of Terennin the Farseeing, while the inlaid wings that swept up on either side and wrapped around the back of the casque were those of the phoenix. “Which hears all things,” Malian murmured, knowing that the phoenix was also the symbol of the House of Stars. She stepped closer.

  “The original helm shattered,” the crow said softly, “in one of Yorindesarinen’s first great battles against the Swarm. She remade it in a forge lit by the Golden Fire of her keep. Some say she alone reforged it, others that Terennin himself aided her. All that is certain is that much of her own power and strength are bound into it, together with the residual power of the gods.”

  “I didn’t know that,” said Malian. “The stories about Yorindesarinen don’t get told much in Night anymore. All I knew was that her arms were supposed to be magical and that the moon-bright helm could talk.”

  The crow cawed in her ear, a small, dry sound. “It is true that each one of the three weapons had power and gained more in the hero’s hands. Nhenir was called the Helm of Secrecy by some and the Helm of Knowledge by others, because the wearer could pass by an enemy unnoticed and see through all enchantments intended to confuse and deceive. Of the three, it was always Nhenir that was the most… like a person, if you will. I suspect that came out of its remaking, but it does not surprise me that the helm has found you first.”

  Malian tore her eyes away from the fair and terrible beauty of Nhenir. “But you are wary of it?”

  The crow was silent, almost as though debating whether it had already said too much. “You are very young, Child,” the bird said at last, “and the moon-bright helm is long in years. And like a person is not the same as being a person. The helm is a valuable ally, but it has a will of its own. So although it is true that Nhenir is meant for you, Malian of Night, you would be wise to treat it with circumspection.”

  Malian nodded, but she still longed to reach out and take the glowing helmet into her hands.

  “It is permitted,” the moonlit voice said, “but only to the Chosen of Mhaelanar. For any other, the price of wearing me is death.”

  Malian almost took a step back. Yorindesarinen and the Swarm might both believe that she was the chosen One, and the hero’s armring might have led her here, but what if they were all mistaken? She bowed her head, remembering the terror and excitement of the Old Keep, where Yorindesarinen had first spoken of her destiny and Garan and the others had pledged themselves to it. Shield of Mhaelanar, Garan had named her, then—and she had not refused his oath.

  That’s when I really made my choice, Malian thought now. I may have argued it to Haimyr later, but the decision had already been made and I knew it. He di
d, too, she added to herself with a wry inner smile, even if he wasn’t with me in the Old Keep.

  Malian lifted her head and bowed to the helm on the plinth, a grave, formal salute. “Nhenir,” she said, “I accept my destiny and become yours.”

  Or die here, she added silently, somewhere outside of time.

  She extended her hands, conscious of the sudden sweat along her palms and the high, fast thump of her heart, and lifted the helmet, placing it over her head. Something shifted within her, like two plates moving within the earth and then settling together. “Found!” said Nhenir, the moon-bright helm, on a long, long note of satisfaction.

  Malian stood quite still. She could hear the movement of the stars and the snow falling on the ground, while far below that quiet surface she could detect the vein of anger rumbling through Jaransor, just as it had in her vision. She crossed to one of the arched windows and stared down at the world below. It did not seem so distant now as it had when she climbed the stairs. “What is Jaransor?” she asked. “Besides being dangerous and driving some people mad?”

  Nhenir was silent, but Malian felt the crow’s claws flex. “Jaransor,” the bird replied, “is one of those matters the Derai have chosen to forget, although it is recorded in their histories. They came here in the early years, but the enmity of the hills preyed upon the minds of the vulnerable, particularly those with power, until they ran mad. That is why the Earls forbade their people to come here and why you would do well to fear it. Jaransor is not fully awake yet, it is only rousing—but the longer you stay here the greater your risk.”

  “Is that what happened to Nhairin, the madness of Jaransor?” Malian frowned. “Although she is not of the priestly kind.”

  “Perhaps not,” said the crow. “But like these hills, your companion is filled with old anger. Her bitterness has divided her heart.”

  Surprised, Malian looked round. “How can you know anything at all about Nhairin?”

  The bird shifted on her shoulder. “I am an old crow,” it replied softly. “There is little I do not know about the dark and troubled places of the heart.”

  Malian hesitated, wondering exactly where the crow fitted in the legends and stories that were waking into life, and whether either the bird or the helm would tell her. Instead of demanding answers, she slid the visor down across her eyes and looked out over Jaransor again. A small circle of crimson jewels, pinpricks of distance, stared up at her from the hilltop below. Malian drew back, startled, when her curious mind encountered the power behind them.

  “’Ware the Hunt,” said the crow, “for even when you come into your full, adult power, Chosen of Mhaelanar or not, you would be hard-pressed to master it.”

  “The Hunt,” echoed Malian. She glanced back at the mosaic, remembering how she had visualized the hounds and hunters in order to reach this chamber. “What are they doing here?”

  “This is their place,” the crow replied. “And as well that it is, since the night demon has already been here, hunting for you.”

  “The Darkswarm minion!” exclaimed Malian, and used the eyes of the helm to look more widely, but could neither see nor hear the Swarm predator. She shuddered, remembering its hideous cry, and looked wider still until she saw Kyr and Lira, both lying beneath the midnight sky with snow falling on their faces. “So they are dead,” she said. She pushed up the visor and lifted the helmet off her head.

  “Ay,” said the crow, “the helm’s gift of knowledge will not spare you its bitterness. One must be strong of heart, as well as will, to engage with such powers.”

  “I suppose so,” Malian said dully. All the excitement of finding Nhenir had leached out of her as soon as she saw Kyr and Lira’s bodies. She frowned down at the inlaid patterns on the helm. “Do you think Nhenir will speak to me again? And how in the Nine’s name will I hide it, once we leave here?”

  The bird squawked, dry crow laughter. “Trust the helm to manage that for itself. It is powerful, Malian of Night, powerful—doubt it not!”

  Malian did not doubt it. She tucked the helm into the crook of her left arm and visualized the entrance to the underground cellar, with the depiction of the hunt streaming across the archway. The circle of milk white hounds waiting on the snowy hilltop neither moved nor gave tongue as she stepped toward them, out of the hidden tower. They simply watched, their crimson eyes intent, as Malian steadied herself against the arch and looked around. The shadow of the tower was squat in the intermittent light of the quarter moon and ended abruptly in a jagged crown. The armring’s fire died, leaving the silver dull.

  “It’s over, then,” Malian said. The crow did not reply, just lifted itself and flew to sit on the shoulder of the tall, masked figure that watched over the hounds. He carried a hooded spear in his right hand, Malian saw; the left arm ended in a stump. The mask, dark and enigmatic, stared at Malian out of fathomless eyeholes.

  Long before the watchtowers stood, she thought, hearing the words again in her mind. But where does your shadow fall, I wonder?

  The tall figure did not speak, but the harsh line of his mouth curved very slightly as he raised the spear in formal salute. Wordlessly, Malian inclined her head in the Heir of Night’s acknowledgment of an equal, but not a superior, and the smile deepened; the crow watched her with unblinking eyes.

  As if I imagined it speaking, Malian thought. Discouraged, she trudged back down the tunnel. The horses were dozing again, and Kalan, too, slept on. Malian felt the deepening cold and every scrape and bruise as she built up the fire and then lay down, pulling the blanket around both her and the helm. She lay awake for some time, and when she did sleep her dreams were jumbled: A winged helmet pursued her along endless corridors, cawing with a crow’s voice while invisible hounds belled, hunting through the folds of time.

  Panicked, Malian fled the wild baying until a black-gloved hand on her shoulder made her spin around, expecting to see the Huntsmaster’s mask. Instead she saw Yorindesarinen, smiling beneath a crown of spring stars, before the hero turned to the moon-bright helm, which hovered nearby on phoenix wings. Hero and helm looked at each other for a long time with their shining eyes, but if they spoke it was in a language that Malian could not hear.

  The phoenix wings spread wide, beating the air, and the helm transformed into a crow. The hero held out her arm and the crow dropped onto it. “I am grateful,” Yorindesarinen said, her expression both tender and very sad, “but I thought you had done with the Derai.”

  The crow lifted its wings and cawed, a wild, harsh cry that reverberated in Malian’s head and down the dark corridor of her dream. She fled, but the cry pursued her: relentless as the knell of fate, inescapable as doom.

  32

  Passage of the Hills

  Kalan woke with a start to find that the night had already become gray shadow and the ashes of their fire were cold.

  Only just dawn, he thought, sitting up. But we have to get moving. We’ve got to keep ahead of the Night Mare. The air was so cold that his teeth chattered as he combed a hand through his hair, feeling the pull of his wound. A quick glance showed him Malian’s empty blanket, the wool full of twigs and damp leaves. Kalan frowned at that, puzzled, then yawned deeply.

  She should have woken me, he thought. She shouldn’t have gone out there alone, not without making sure that my shield still held.

  The two black horses watched him expectantly, their breath misting the air, as he got stiffly to his feet. “Ugh,” Kalan said, as his own breath huffed out in a cloud. “It must be really cold up there.” His stomach growled and the horses snorted, a reminder that they, too, needed to be fed. Kalan hoped that there had not been enough snow to cover the grass, because he knew they had little food left, either for the horses or themselves. “And no idea how far it is, still, to the Border Mark. I’ll come back for you soon,” he said to the black horses, “but I need to scout outside first.”

  Kalan shivered as the colder air crept down the tunnel to meet him. He found Malian just beyond the entrance, sitti
ng on a large block of fallen stone and surveying a morning that was lightly powdered with white beneath a washed-out sky. The wind had died away in the night, and there was no sign of either the Night Mare or the Hunt; even the carving over the archway was little more than a dim outline of hounds and hawk. Malian smiled as he came to sit beside her, but Kalan thought she looked tired, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. “How’s the wound?” she asked.

  “Better,” he replied. “It’s still sore and the arm’s awkward to move, but at least the cut doesn’t feel infected.”

  “You definitely look better than you did last night. Although we should check the wound again anyway, before we leave.” Malian’s fingers were busy as she spoke, braiding her hair. She smelled of woodsmoke and sweat, and Kalan regarded his grimy hands ruefully, supposing that he must smell the same. But Malian was looking out over the white and gray world, wonder in her eyes. “How beautiful it is,” she said softly, “despite everything.”

  “Yes,” agreed Kalan. Their breath clouded and mingled together on the still air.

  I feel alive here, he thought. You can breathe and there are no walls, just the hillside falling away and the empty air. Almost empty air, he amended, his eyes finding the black speck that was the hawk, hovering far above them. Malian followed his gaze and frowned. “The shadow of the hawk,” she murmured, still staring up into the pale sky.

  Kalan was frowning, too. “It has to be some sort of spy,” he said, and stood up. “We’d better get going.”

  “Yes. But we should eat first and check your wound.” Malian finished pinning the braid around her head. “If you keep watch here, I’ll fetch the horses.” She half turned away, then paused, turning back. “We should cut our rations,” she added slowly. “Try to make them last.”

  Kalan nodded, listening to her footsteps crunch away, then frowned out over the snowy hills until she came back with the horses. The wound was clean when she checked it; afterward, they ate their scanty breakfast in silence, watching the horses pull at the rough grass. Kalan frowned again as they packed up their gear. “You didn’t have that before,” he said, nodding at the old-fashioned and rather dented pot helm that Malian was tying to her saddle bow.