by Helen Lowe
“They may call you Daughter of Blood,” the entity speaking through the boy continued, “but that means even less now than it did when we gulled the Golden Fire, smelting a shard of your hero’s shield into the mirror to disguise its essence, and so work our will on Aikanor. I doubt you have any more understanding of the forces shaping themselves around you than the Grayharbor brat, least of all why you must die.” An adult’s reflective note infused the child’s strained voice. “Although the Derai’s current state only makes your camp’s resistance more intriguing. It should have been an easy mouthful, yet instead we’ve broken teeth on its defenses.”
Whatever the Swarm had detected through the mirror and their hold on Faro, they still thought the boy was masquerading as Derai. So you’re not infallible, Myr thought, watching Faro’s mouth purse in another adult gesture. “More than time,” the one controlling him said, “to be done with the entire business.” The page’s body snapped upright, and his next step was smooth. Only two more steps, or one if his stride was long enough, and both boy and blade would be within striking distance. Myr’s heart hammered—but still she could not move.
Yet even in her fear, the part that was Ise’s student, taught to observe and comprehend, thought how terrible this must be for Faro, his will trapped while his hand slew the person Khar had sworn to defend. She doubted the boy would live long afterward either, and sought his eyes again. Remember, she thought, focusing her will through her gaze: remember who you are—how you adore Khar, and love Madder and the wyr hounds. Remember your mother, who was the finest armorer in Grayharbor. Hold fast to all of them and what they mean to you.
As Myr concentrated, the shield’s murmur began to acquire meaning. A forest of skeleton leaves rustled, all assuring her that she was no Yorindesarinen to set the worlds alight with her power, just Myr the Mouse, the insignificant daughter of an abject line. All her endeavors, the dead leaves sighed, were doomed to futility . . . But the Myr who had noted that the Swarm was not infallible whispered back, pointing out that mice could slip through the tiniest of spaces—perhaps even one as slender as a girl immobilized on a camp stretcher with only her eyes to save her. “Heart up, Lady Mouse,” Taly’s voice encouraged her, out of memory. And again Myr threw all her heart and strength into reaching Faro, trapped behind his haunted eyes.
This time it was not just The Lovers: the entire tent shook as though a rogue wind had struck it. The tapestry hounds howled and Faro’s eyes bulged, his body locked rigid as lightning forked through the apex of the tent and struck the tapestry. Myr smelled charred wool as more lightning crackled, but could only watch, both absorbed and terrified, as wildfire rippled across the ground. A strangled word that might have been “no,” or “won’t,” crawled out of Faro’s throat, and he dropped the dagger as if it burned him. The tent was blazing with energy, and Myr cried out, or tried to, as Ise’s silver tray sailed through the air like a discus, knocking the shield-mirror to the floor. Wildfire danced across the tray’s back as it covered the mirror, outlining a riven phoenix in the silver—while Ise’s walking stick sprang up, exactly as if an invisible hand had lifted it, and struck Faro down.
The mist vanished as the boy collapsed, leaving Myr free to move and speak. Her mouth felt as though cloth had been stuffed into it, and her limbs dragged as she sat up. When she looked around, she saw that the lightning had split the lovers in the tapestry asunder, but the crow still watched her from the warrior’s half of the web. If a bird could be held to have an expression, Myr felt it looked sad. Faro was groaning, and she knew she should go to him, then see what had become of Ilai. She had just risen to her feet when sheet lightning flared outside—and the thunder that followed shook the world, tossing her down again.
The explosion that tore through the three planes had knocked Kalan off his feet. He could hear screams, shouting, and the clash of arms, but all at a distance. At first glance the sepulchre appeared untouched, but plaster dust fell from his body as he rose, and two of the wyr hounds lay unmoving. The other nine were whining and scrabbling up, their lost comrades’ power glimmering about them, while the baying of the Hunt diminished at the same time as the roar of battle swelled.
Urgency drove Kalan, but he still paused when retrieving the spear. The hornet song had quieted, but the blade, which had been uncovered before, was now concealed by a leather hood. Exactly like the Huntmaster’s spear, he thought—but the battle clangor intensified, forcing his attention back to the camp. He dared not linger, even to farewell the two dead wyrs, and made do with a parting salute.
The last time Kalan had exited the Gate in his physical body, it had been via a door that Malian created in the air. Now he visualized the interior of the Storm Spear’s tent with himself inside it and the Great Spear in his hand, using the battle clamor as a grapple onto the daylight world. The wyr hounds belled their urgency, bridging the realms beside him, and Kalan’s eyes opened to garnet-and-gold panels while his mind encompassed the hole that had been torn in his shield-wall. By the time he registered the barricade of Stars’ power, spanning the breach, he was already on his feet. So far Tirael’s company were holding—but although Kalan’s barrier remained in place around the rest of the perimeter, the hole had undoubtedly weakened it. He could sense the magically induced onslaught of doubt and despair seeping through, and knew its trickle soon would become a flood. When it did, it would not matter whether the Star knights held the break or not. Everywhere else, the defense would fail.
Throwing open the tent flap, Kalan emerged into turmoil. The only still point was Murn, kneeling a few paces from the entrance with his forehead bowed against his staff. His head jerked up as Kalan emerged. “You’re awake.” The weatherworker hurried to rise and join Kalan as he strode toward the inner barrier. “No matter what I tried, I couldn’t enter the tent.”
If the inner camp was confusion, the outer was chaos. As soon as Kalan reached the carts, he saw that the psychic breach reflected a physical opening blasted through the earthworks. The blast had also revealed the tunnel used to reach the camp’s perimeter undetected. Most of the enemy dead surrounding the opening were were-hunters, so now he knew where the remnant that survived Arcolin’s tempest had gone. Together with their concealing magic, Kalan thought grimly, and cursed himself for missing the significance of their complete absence from the plain—while simultaneously noting that Tirael and his company were defending the breach physically, as well as spanning it with their power.
The rest of the defenders were holding on grimly as well, but everywhere Kalan looked the defense teetered on collapse. On the enemy side, a white-haired sorcerer with two adepts was stationed beneath the Darksworn’s command standards, on an area of rising ground. Energy swirled around them as they battered the breach with power, pressing the Star knights hard. Otherwise, the assault was fiercest on the opposite side of the camp, where a section of palisade had come down and fighting swirled in and around the weakpoint—and a tide of magic, cold and deadly, was augmenting the Darksworn’s physical attack. Nimor was there, shored up by his remaining escort, but Kalan doubted the envoy could hold for long.
Frowning, he identified Tercel in the midst of the chaos, and realized Taly was with Nimor, riding the bay charger and fighting with the battle fury of legend as she strove to reach Kolthis. The renegade Honor Captain was in the forefront of the second assault with the remnant Blood guards, and he, too, was cleaving a path toward Taly. “The ensign and Namath were with Lord Nimor and the others when the dike exploded.” Murn’s right hand clenched tight on his staff as he followed Kalan’s gaze. “And as soon as Taly saw Kolthis, the battle fury seized her.” If it was the true battle fury, Kalan knew that would account for why Taly appeared as indifferent to the aftermath of her watchtower injuries, as she was to the magical onslaught of doubt and despair. Both emotions, though, were stamped deep into Murn’s face as he spoke again. “I should be with them, but Lord Nimor ordered me to rouse you, then prepare to defend the inner camp.”
Nimor was right, Kalan thought. “Your presence on the dike would alter little now.” He spoke with a calm he was far from feeling. “But I need you to get Tyun out here. Even from his stretcher he can marshal a defense. Tell him I want everyone in the infirmary who’s capable of holding a weapon on the inner barrier, and every bow he can muster to cover a retreat.” If the defenders retreated, they would all be dead soon afterward. In all likelihood, Murn knew that, too, but Kalan did not wait to find out. “Tell Kion and Vael I’ve ordered them out here with you. Their wounded will have to wait. Get the Adamant boy, too, and Faro. They’ll both have to play their part.” Throwing children into the breach, he thought: as if too many scullions and horsegirls and errand runners had not died already. “And look to Lady Myr,” he added—although if she was with the healers, that made her as safe as anyone in the camp.
Kalan started to swing away, but Murn put out an urgent hand. “Lord Tirael shouted something as he left, about an army coming. From the way he yelled at me to tell you, I don’t think he meant the Stars relief force.”
If one Swarm legion had gotten through the Wall, then doubtless another could, too—while the Derai Alliance remained preoccupied with internal squabbles. But whatever might be coming, right now Nimor was weakening and more troops were advancing to support Kolthis’s offensive, their battle drums rolling. Whistling to Madder, Kalan broke into a run, and the roan trumpeted in answer. Tearing his reins from the distracted horsegirl clutching them, the destrier plunged to meet Kalan, who vaulted into the saddle.
Tirael and his company were still holding as Madder turned, the breach about them choked with dead. A brief swirl among attackers and defenders revealed Jad and his company supporting them on the right, while Orth wielded his poleaxe to the left of the gap. On the opposite side of the camp, Taly and Kolthis were hacking at each other, locked knee to knee so the battle would not separate them. Beyond them, the blood-washed sun banner streamed above Arcolin as he led the fresh onslaught of troops on his Emerian destrier, surrounded by a knot of were-hunters.
A sledgehammer of sorcery, Kalan thought, poised to pulverize Nimor and the weakened shield-wall. Grimly, he urged Madder forward, the wyr hounds fanning to either side. “If you are what I think,” he told them, “now is the time to unleash whatever power you possess!”
“We are Maurid . . .” The mindvoice vibrated, deep and somber, but was lost as Madder thundered toward the battle and the wyr hounds surged around him, baying—like the Hunt they had recently defied—to sunder worlds.
55
The Crow
The thunder had been deafening, but shouting and screams began to filter through to Myr as she pushed herself upright, and she could hear Faro groaning nearby. She wondered if the explosion had affected her vision, since the tent had grown dark again—then decided her mind must be playing tricks, because her brother Huern was there, silhouetted against a cave mouth that had materialized in the canvas wall. Both darkness and an intense cold were flowing through the opening, and Myr shivered as the silhouetted figure stepped fully into the tent. She had known he could not be Huern, but still stared, transfixed, as she recognized the warrior in barbed armor, glimpsed earlier through the shadows surrounding Faro. The austerity of his regard reminded Myr of Asantir, only without any of the Night Commander’s warmth as he stepped toward her, kicking Ise’s walking stick aside. Instinct commanded her to run, but even if she could have reached the entrance ahead of him, flight would mean abandoning Faro.
“Call for help if you wish, Daughter of Blood,” the warrior said, with a courtesy Myr found more chilling than any Red Keep insult. “They will not hear you. Even if they did, they have more than enough to occupy them right now.”
It helped, Myr found, to pretend to be unafraid even though she was: horribly so. “Who are you?” she asked, as Faro stopped groaning. “What are you doing here?” She sounded calm, she thought, as a Daughter of Blood should when facing danger.
“My name is Thanir, although I doubt it will mean anything to you.” The warrior smiled at Faro as the boy’s head wavered up. “I’m impressed, little rat. Most of all by your tenacity, although calling lightning should not be overlooked. You threw off my compulsion as well, which suggests I shall have to pay far more attention to what’s being bred in Haarth. Yet you appear to have overlooked that you owe me a debt for your life, despite assuring me that I would not regret my generosity.” The dark brows rose as the boy’s head jerked in denial. “No? Ah, well . . .”
Thanir must have picked up Faro’s knife, but Myr did not see it in his hand until he moved. As soon as she did, everything grew clear, like looking at a picture in which she observed herself stepping between Faro and the blade. Thanir’s dispassionate expression did not change, and for a moment Myr thought nothing had happened—except the girl in the picture was sinking to her knees, folding forward over the hilt of the knife. In the picture there was blood, too, streaking Myr’s hands and spreading across her clothes. She knew it was her own blood, not stains from helping in the infirmary, and the Faro in the picture was crying out and crawling to reach her. Myr thought the word he cried might have been no again, but his voice was too thickened by tears to be sure.
She swayed, her eyes fixing on the phoenix depicted on Ise’s tray, as though it was not just Faro’s arms, but the flame-etched image holding her up. Don’t let him kill Faro as well, she thought—as if happier fireside stories might come true, too, and a bird engraved onto the back of a tray could save a life, just because it was the phoenix of Dawn-Eyed Terennin . . . The world beyond the bird of fire was all shadows, but Myr caught the gleam of another knife, this one with a lightning bolt engraved on the blade. When she fought to focus her vision and see who held it, she realized the severed tapestry had been lifted aside.
Ilai. Myr’s whisper was only in her mind, because she was beyond speech. Yet what she was seeing still jarred, not just because of the unknown device on Ilai’s knife, but because when the attendant stepped forward, she appeared to be uninjured. All the bruising had vanished from her face, and her eyes were clear as she held Thanir’s dark gaze. “Not the child,” she said.
The warrior bowed. “Lady of Ways,” he replied. “I could assert that the boy is mine by virtue of the debt he owes me, to dispose of as I will.”
“You could, but I would dispute your claim.” Ilai’s expression was as much a mask as any of the elaborate makeups she had painted over Myr’s features, her cool eyes luminous in the dimness.
Thanir’s face, too, might have been a mask. “You may find Arcolin more difficult to persuade.” He continued to watch Ilai, his austerity grown thoughtful. “You’re cleverer than he is, though, or even Nirn, to perceive that a shield-barrier, however powerful, cannot wall out what is already in. Although this one is impressive. I needed to rip a hole in its physical foundations before I could activate either the mirror or my hold on the boy.” Apology tinged Thanir’s thoughtfulness. “But much as I respect your cleverness, Lady, you are a long way from Ilkerineth’s sheltering hand—and Aranraith will not be pleased to learn how you have opposed us here. Since he has ordered the boy killed, it would be . . . inadvisable . . . for you to cross him further.”
“It would be equally inadvisable for you to threaten me, Thanir.” Ilai’s smile, like her voice, was thin as a blade’s edge. “Do you really believe Ilkerineth would send me out alone? And the Bride was to have provided a cover for my entry into Night, so Sun’s attack on her camp has equally undermined my and Lightning’s plans. Nonetheless, I’m prepared to accept that with the maelstrom rising we cannot risk a new champion born from the bloodlines of Stars and Night.” She paused. “The boy, however, is another matter. And his life is a small recompense when set against the debt the Sworn owe me.”
Thanir’s brows lifted. “You refer, I take it, to the way you opened through the Wall when fleeing your own kind? Yet since that was not done for our benefit, how can there be a debt?”
“My opening h
as facilitated much of what the Sworn have achieved over these past twenty years.” Ilai was cool. “Besides, my sources tell me Aranraith ordered the boy killed in Grayharbor, which means you, Thanir, were the first to cross his will.”
“Spies in our camp, eh?” The warrior’s voice was fading, but he did not sound perturbed. Like his voice, the cave mouth was also receding, but Myr could still discern the tall figure in barbed armor, framed against it. “Well, I have warned you. Let that count in my favor when you next speak with Nindorith and the Prince of Lightning.”
Faro, Myr thought hazily, had called lightning . . . He was no prince, though. The shadows still clung, and the chill remained, but Thanir had gone. Myr’s sense of distance from what was happening dissipated as well, replaced by pain. She found it difficult to see Ilai through the shadows, but heard her when she spoke. “I am truly sorry, Lady Mouse. I would have saved you if I could, and not only because you were my passport into Night.” The cool voice paused. “But perhaps it’s better this way. At least with Thanir, death is always clean, which it would not be with Arcolin or Nirn. And with both dike and shield-wall breached, the defense cannot last long.”
She must have bent close, because now Myr could see her eyes, the color of twilit water and equally full of shadows. “I will return for the boy before that happens. But die knowing this, Lady Myrathis. They sought to use the mirror to suborn you, or whisper you into madness as they did Aikanor, but Salar’s wiles could gain no hold over you. That in itself places you among the great heroes of the Derai.”
Now I know I’m hallucinating, Myr thought. As if to confirm it, Ilai disappeared. Faro still seemed to be present because she could hear him crying, repeating the same words over and over: “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Somewhere beyond that, the hounds in the tapestry were baying after blood, although perhaps it was the wyr hounds she could hear, fighting for the camp.
