by Helen Lowe
“And our return.” Malian’s gaze, lifting from the phoenix, grew reflective. “Partly because of the debt we owe Rowan and the Winter People for our rescue from Jaransor, and subsequent safe passage into the Southern Realms. But also, I suspect, because he wishes to be at the heart of what is coming, not just looking on from the periphery.”
Kalan could understand that. He could also perceive the inherent danger of the wish. “Since he alerted you to the caravan’s peril, I’m doubly in his debt.” Wearily, he rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Garan’s gesture, he realized, and wondered if the Night eight had found their fugitive. “Are Garan’s eight still with you?”
Malian shook her head. “As soon as our scouts returned, I dispatched them to the Keep of Winds to rouse out Night.”
“I’d better let Tirael know.” Liad can farspeak the Stars force, Kalan thought, sure Tirael would agree that the last thing they needed right now was a Stars-Night confrontation. Rubbing his chin again, he studied Malian. “From what you said earlier, your plan is to concentrate on restoring the Golden Fire?”
“With the Swarm rising and all hope of the shield gone, I have to.” Malian was matter-of-fact. “My only alternative is to summon the Council of the Derai and force the Nine Houses to accept me—and Fire. But that will take time I doubt we have.”
And with the Alliance, it was always better to bargain from a position of strength. Assuming, Kalan told himself, that restoration of the Golden Fire is even possible. Silently, he reviewed the remnants they knew had survived. “Hylcarian in Night, Yelusin with Sea, Maurid and Blood. I would put coin, though, on there being a remnant in Stars: a strong one, from what I’ve had seen of Tirael and his knights. And probably in the Rose,” he added, his eyes on the walking stick at Malian’s side. She nodded and picked it up, reexamining the twisted wood and mother-of-pearl eyes.
“Sea’s ships have similar eyes painted onto their prows,” Kalan told her. “In the Red Keep, it’s the hydras. They’re depicted everywhere, and you can always feel the eyes, watching you. I think that’s where the bulk of Maurid’s remnant resides, although he acts through the wyr hounds.”
“The old Blood returns, and we have chosen the new to raise up with it.” The mindwhisper was a ghost, its source uncertain. Had the mother-of-pearl eyes glowed briefly, Kalan wondered, or was it just a trick of the light? Automatically, he glanced toward the wyr hounds, but did not catch even the gleam of a ghostly eye.
“Five of the nine entities that once comprised the Golden Fire,” Malian said. “But five isn’t enough. We need all nine.”
Kalan frowned, not wanting to contemplate the possibility that some, if not all, of the remaining four Fires might have been extinguished altogether. “If you could bring together the Blood of all Nine Houses, the combined power might be strong enough to wake any remnants that still lie dormant.” He grimaced at her expression, which suggested that would be an achievement of similar magnitude to restoring the Golden Fire. “Even representatives from the Blood of each House might be sufficient,” he continued doggedly. “Although if Xeria could call down all Nine at once during the Night of Death . . .”
“I should be able to restore them single-handedly?” Malian shook her head. “The leaders of all Nine Houses were already gathered that night, with the nine Fires drawn together as well, to foster the desired peace.” Somberly, she traced the twisted strands of the walking stick. “I imagine, too, that by the time Xeria called down the conjoined Fire, many among the Nine Houses would have bound their power to hers in order to counter Aikanor’s onslaught. So even once they realized what she intended, they may not have been able to break free. Effectively, though, she would not have acted alone.”
I never considered that, Kalan thought. With an effort, he pulled himself back to his previous line of thought. “If representatives from the Blood of each House were enough, then we already have Tirael, Nimor, and Faro. And Rook, too, I believe, as well as you . . .” He shook his head, convinced his frown was in danger of becoming permanent. “But you’d still need some sort of focus for your working—something that unifies all nine entities that comprised the Golden Fire.”
The walking stick revolved between Malian’s hands, its mother-of-pearl eyes catching the light. “Like the table in the heart of the Old Keep of Winds,” she suggested.
Exactly like the table, Kalan thought, excitement stirring with his memory of the twelve-sided room at the Old Keep’s heart, with twelve doors opening into mist and fire, and the twelve-sided table at its center. One of those twelve panels had flared into golden life at Malian’s touch, the winged horse of Night in flight across its surface . . .
The caravan would have provided excellent cover, he thought regretfully, for anyone as stealthy as Malian to access the Old Keep—only to realize immediately that she didn’t need it. Six years ago they had both departed the heart of the Old Keep by physically crossing into the Gate of Dreams. In light of Malian’s path back to the Wall, she should be able to reach the twelve-sided room again in the same way.
For a moment, regarding her, Kalan felt as though the mists of the Gate had already flowed between them. He told himself the urge to shiver was reaction and fatigue, but was still glad to be distracted by Faro, turning in his sleep. The boy soon quietened again, but Malian watched him for several moments more before turning back to Kalan. “The Golden Fire and our larger plans can wait, for tonight. But I’m not sure he can.”
“No,” Kalan agreed. “I’d keep him with me, but that won’t ensure his safety. The Alliance would never allow my continued guardianship anyway, since he’s kin to the Sea Count—and arguably, the Heir of Blood as well.” Wary of Faro waking, Kalan switched to mindspeech. “From what I saw of Blood’s ruling kin, they’ll only want him to ensure his death. But as he’s a Son of Blood and Ammaran’s heir, Earl Sardon will have the strongest claim to legal guardianship.” His eyes met Malian’s. “So perhaps the warding should have been left in place.”
Her answering look was steady. “He’s called lightning twice now, which means he’s a weatherworker like his mother and his training’s already been delayed too long. The warding had to be undone.”
Kalan’s mouth thinned, reflecting on the unpalatable reality that untrained weatherworkers almost always went mad, unable to counteract the weather’s sway over their power. He was surprised Faro’s foster mother had not foreseen that risk. But perhaps because the boy looked all Blood, and if she saw no warning signs, Kara may have assumed his inheritance of power came solely from Ammaran. Still, at least the weatherworking should strengthen Sea’s ability to claim custody—particularly since Blood’s practice of banishing power users would negate Faro’s right to the Heirship.
“But regardless of the Oath,” Kalan told Malian silently, “Blood’s ruling kin will seek to ensure their tenure remains unassailable. So they’ll still want Faro dead.” He paused. “And once they realize that your claim to the Heirdom of Night and leadership of the Derai may overturn the Oath anyway . . .” He let the implication hang.
Malian nodded, her expression deeply thoughtful. “Faro does need to be trained, and the sooner the better. It may not have to be on the Wall, though.” Slowly, she rotated the walking stick. “The Lost declined rejoining the Derai, but I believe they would accept him. They are more than capable, too, of dealing with any Blood agents that reach them. Although with the Patrol, the Shadow Band, and the Oakward in between, I doubt there’s much danger of that.”
“No Sea ship would carry them south either. Yet the Alliance may say”—Kalan was wry—“that we have stolen him from his rightful guardians.”
Malian’s expression remained reflective. “Best, then, if we remove any grounds for such a charge.” The stick circled slowly left, then back to the right. “With your permission, of course,” she added.
I know that look, Kalan thought: she’s up to something. “It’s not my permission that matters,” he said quietly, “but what’s best for Faro, which h
as to include what he wants.”
“I’ll speak with him in the morning.” Malian set the stick aside and retrieved the scroll. “But in the meantime, I believe he’ll be safest in our camp.”
Yes, Kalan thought, feeling the night’s chill as he nodded. By tacit agreement they both stood up, but Malian put out a hand before he could turn to leave. “Besides Wolf, there’s someone else with us that you know.” She paused, a flicker of the very young Malian, from the Keep of Winds’ days, in her gaze. “Kalan, I’ve found Nhairin.”
62
The Gift
Faro, poised to sit up and declare that he wasn’t leaving Khar, froze at the quality of the silence that followed Malian’s words. A dangerous quiet, he thought, his skin prickling, and had to fight to keep his eyes closed. When Khar finally spoke, his voice was as hard as when he found Lady Myr dead. “Nhairin. Who betrayed us in Jaransor. Or does she blame it all on the Madness?”
Hearing that harsh note, Faro was thankful Malian had lifted Thanir’s compulsion and allowed him to explain that he had not betrayed Lady Myr. Or not deliberately anyway, he thought, desolation returning with the memory of the Darksworn’s hold over him. Outside, feet tramped past and voices spoke, momentarily distracting him as the guard changed. The honor watch for Lady Myr would be changing, too—but Faro knew that no matter how many came and went, Taly would not stir from her vigil.
I should be with her, he thought, before Malian reclaimed his attention, saying something about the Madness having played its part. “But she and Nerion share an empathy bond, Kalan, one very like ours.”
Kalan, Faro repeated silently, hearing the name for the second time. “Their bond is also one way,” Malian went on, “in Nerion’s favor. And Nhairin has no power, or no other power, so could not close her out at need. When she first saw me at Rowan Birchmoon’s cairn, she was terrified, believing Nerion had found her again.” Malian paused before continuing, her tone as measured as the guards’ tread. “From what I’ve learned since, Nerion was able to blur Nhairin’s recollection of the times when she entered her mind and manipulated her will, but could not erase the occurrences completely. So to Nhairin, they seemed like dream memories.”
“While her bond to Nerion provided a chink in Night’s defences,” Khar said, still harsh. “One the Darksworn prised open.”
“Once they learned that Nerion’s true father, my grandfather, was of Stars, not Night,” Malian agreed, “and that for all their vigilance, a new Chosen of Mhaelanar had been born into the Derai.”
Because of what Thanir had said about why Lady Myr must die, Faro understood that Malian’s House of Stars heritage would mean the Swarm wanted to kill her, too. He lay very still, and when Malian spoke again, he thought she sounded sad.
“Nhairin loved Nerion, and loves her still, I believe, although there’s too much bitterness now, piled on betrayal, to be sure. And she held my father at fault over Nerion’s fate, and perhaps her own—but you heard that in Jaransor.” Malian hesitated. “Yet because Nhairin always loved me as well, and was still Derai, she became a person at war within herself.”
“If their bond’s like ours, Nerion would always have known where she was, too. No wonder the Darksworn were able to follow us so unerringly.” Khar’s grimness sounded more tempered now. “I take it you’ve blocked their link?”
“I have. Otherwise Nerion could use Nhairin again in exactly the same way, now the Madness has lifted. That’s why she was so terrified at the cairn.” When Malian fell silent, Faro could hear the rise and fall of the wyr hounds’ breath, their absorption matching his. “If that happened,” Malian added, very softly, “I think it would destroy all that’s left of my Nhairin.”
“Probably.” The tempered quality in Khar’s voice strengthened. “But you know she may never have been your Nhairin. From what you’ve said she was always Nerion’s—and could easily be so again, even with the old link closed off, if they ever meet in person.”
“I do know that. Nhairin can never return to Night, regardless of whether my father would pardon her for what happened.”
When Khar spoke again, Faro thought he sounded bleak. “Do you think Nerion ever cared about Nhairin at all, or only saw her as a tool?”
This time the silence was so prolonged that Faro risked peering through his lashes. “I don’t know.” Malian’s expression was shuttered as she tapped the scroll she was holding against her opposite palm. “There’s too much I don’t know. Except,” she added, with another brisk change of tone, “that you have a vigil that honor and the Code demand you keep, while we need to get Pha’Rho-l-Ynor to Fire’s camp.” The scroll tapped again as Faro hurriedly closed his eyes. “I may need this. I’ll take the stick, too. And the tray, which is in a sense my own.”
The wyr hounds rose as Malian spoke, but their voice spoke in Faro’s mind, preventing him doing the same: “Be still.” Startled, he opened his eyes to a glow of gilt-edged light haloing all six beasts. Light surrounded Khar as well—and Faro, transfixed, thought it looked like sunshine, glittering on the face of the sea. When the Storm Spear spoke, his voice was wrapped about with power. “The road to the Keep of Winds is no longer my path.” Khar’s eyes were intent on the wyrs, so Faro guessed he was speaking to them. “Nor is the restoration of the Golden Fire my task.”
“No. But my thanks to you, Kalan-hamar-khar: Storm Spear.” The Sea fleet’s mindvoice resonated through Faro, as it had when he returned the essence of Pha’Rho-l-Ynor to the Ships’ Shrine. From Malian’s expression, he guessed she could hear it—hear her, Faro corrected himself—too. He almost forgot to breathe as the light about Khar rose into a single shimmering flame, then flowed toward Malian. The bracelet on her wrist blazed silver, and Faro thought he saw fire glimmer in her eyes, too, before the halo of sunlight disappeared.
Into her, Faro thought, wide-eyed—as it must have been in Khar all this time. But Malian’s armring was still burning, and the light surrounding the wyrs was rising above their bodies, as it had whenever a hound died in the assault. Faro wanted to cry out in protest and beg the light not to abandon the wyr hounds and him, even though he guessed this was why the hounds had left the Red Keep. “Be of good heart, Pha’Rho-l-Ynor.” The acknowledgment was a feather touch across his mind. “You are right, this was always our purpose. Yet if all goes as we hope, it will not be farewell.”
What if it doesn’t, though? Faro thought, feeling the slow slide of tears. But Maurid’s light was already gone, streaming across the tent and into Malian of Night, and the six wyrs were silver-eyed hounds again, but nothing more.
In the end Faro was too drained to offer more than token argument when Khar insisted he go with Malian and Raven. He stumbled several times in the short walk to the escort’s horses, and did not complain when he was put up in front of Raven and the warrior wrapped his cloak about them both, to thwart the cold and prying eyes. When they arrived in Fire’s camp, Faro was given his own tent, and a warrior called Duar showed him how the flap lacing worked, so he could come and go as he pleased. But not leave, Faro thought, because when he checked he saw guards at the rear of the tent, as well as at the front. Everyone who spoke to him was kindly enough, but stern, and when they left him alone, Faro cried for the second time that night.
In the morning, he resolved, sniffing, he would find a way to persuade Khar to take him with him, after all. Or maybe it would be better to hide away, as he had on the Che’Ryl-g-Raham, until it was too late to send him back—although that would mean finding a way to escape from Fire’s camp first. Somewhere in the middle of casting about for a means of eluding his guards, Faro fell asleep. When he woke, daylight was rippling across the tent canvas, and the surrounding camp was awake. He lay still, listening to its sounds, the same way he used to lie in his narrow bed above the armorer’s shop and listen to Grayharbor waking.
When Mam was alive, Faro thought, tears pricking again. To comfort himself, he recalled the Ships’ Shrine again, and the memory of all the vessels in t
he Sea Keep harbor welcoming him, as the Che’Ryl-g-Raham had welcomed him in Grayharbor. On the sea journey north, the ship had told him tales of the winds and tides that bore the ships up and down the long coast and out into deep waters, where they battled storms and monsters to keep the world safe. In the Sea Keep shrine, the ships had told him another story: how the vast power loose in the storm the Pha’Rho-l-Ynor sailed into, together with Ammaran’s sacrifice of his life and power trying to save the ship and Taierin, was what had woken what remained of Yelusin—first in Pha’Rho-l-Ynor, and then in the rest of the Sea House fleet.
Raven had given that power a name, Faro thought—which he could not remember now—amid a great deal more that he did not fully understand. But he remembered the ships saying that Ammaran would have been trying to save him, as well as Taierin and the Pha’Rho-l-Ynor. Just like Lady Myr tried to save me, Faro reflected, feeling the ache of yesterday’s events return. He knew what his mam would have said, though: that if he truly wanted to honor their memories and their sacrifice, then he needed to get up and shoulder his duty as they both had.
Only I have no duty, Faro thought. But he got up anyway, and confirmed that the guard about the tent remained in place. Because I’m important now, he told himself, and tried to decide how he felt about being a Son of Blood. On one hand, the House of Blood meant Khar and Lady Myr and Mam, and his father Ammaran. On the other, there were all his memories of the Red Keep, most particularly Parannis and Sarein—and Earl Sardon, whom he had heard the Sea Keepers say was prepared to see his own son slain on the Field of Blood. Faro couldn’t quite understand what was so terrible about that, since the son was Parannis, but he was prepared to accept it was bad if the Sea Keepers thought so.
Now Khar and Malian believed Blood’s ruling kin might try and have him killed, too. Faro had gleaned that from their voices and the pauses in their speech, as well as Malian’s reference to Blood agents. As for Khar not being good enough to look after him, just because the Storm Spear wasn’t one of the Derai’s horrible nobility—“He’s better than the lot of them!” Faro declared, then jumped as one of the guards outside bade someone good morning.
