by Helen Lowe
Lord Tirael was gleamy, Rook conceded, now the blood and battle grime were gone from his silver-and-pearl armor. His fair hair, riffled by the wind from the plain, was almost as bright as the pale sunlight, even when he entered the tent. Hooking a stool close with his foot, he seated himself beside Rook. “How are you feeling?” he inquired, and Rook sensed Rigan grinning—inwardly, he hoped—at the Son of Stars’ drawl.
“Much better,” he replied, although the truth was, he still felt drained and shaky. He hesitated, wondering if he should try and apologize for the failed farspeaking, but Khar had checked his attempted apologies last night and he sensed Tirael would do the same now. “Namath said there’s a Night force coming?” he said instead.
Tirael nodded acknowledgment to the marines. “Apparently so, which means the time has come for decisions, including what to do about you, young Rook.”
Rook nodded, trying to appear adult and calm, although his pulse had quickened again. “I would bid you ride with me,” Tirael said, “but that could create difficulties since I’m bound to honor the agreement between Adamant and Stars. If Adamant chooses to break it because of my part in these events, that will be different, of course.”
They won’t, Rook thought: they want the Stars alliance too much. But he suspected Tirael knew that. He would have liked to tell the Son of Stars that he must under no circumstances agree to marry Yhle, whose disposition resembled Torlun’s—but despite Tirael’s smile and easy manner, it felt like presumption, especially with the other convalescents listening. “Vael,” Tirael continued, “tells me you have a considerable gift for healing.” Namath had suggested the same, Rook recalled, catching the marine’s nod from the corner of his eye. “He says you must go to Peace, where you will get the best teaching.” Tirael paused. “Peace would probably take you anyway, but my father is of that House. If you wish, I can ask him to sponsor you.”
I do wish, Rook thought. If another priestly House accepted him, that would help his family, and if he did well there, Adamant might even rescind his banishment—one day.
“I can see that’s settled,” Tirael said, smiling, and Rook nodded hastily. “But,” the Son of Stars added, “I’m afraid there is a price.”
Rook’s breath caught, and he heard Rigan snort and someone else gasp. When he stole a glance at Tehan and Namath, they were both blank faced. Tirael tilted the stool back, relaxed and apparently oblivious to the surrounding disapproval, although the glimmer of a smile hinted otherwise. “Lady Malian needs a shaving of your hair,” he said, “while I . . . I would like you to tell me more about Onnorin.”
The marriage was for the best, Kalan told himself, returning to the camp after the brief ceremony that had formalized the union between the Heir of Night and Pha’Rho-l-Ynor, Ammaran’s heir of House Blood. Nonetheless, he felt its unexpectedness, even if it was no more surprising than the alliance Malian had struck with Raven and Fire. Or Faro putting the Sea scroll that held Kalan’s death name together with a way Malian could weave the Blood of the Nine Houses into her quest to restore the Golden Fire. She had told him she intended departing on that mission ahead of Night’s arrival, and in view of the furor that was about to break loose among the Nine Houses, Kalan judged that he, too, should quietly withdraw.
But not without you, he told The Lovers silently, leaving the wyr hounds outside Myr’s former tent while he folded the tapestry small enough to fit into his travel roll. When a pebble scuffed outside, he turned an instant before Tirael appeared, his plumed helmet under one arm. “So you’re leaving, too,” Kalan said, and the Son of Stars nodded.
“Needs must. Lady Myrathis was my kinswoman, but she was also pledged to Night, so honor and protocol both dictate that we defer.” He shrugged. “Liad has farspoken the Stars’ relief force, as you asked, and halted their advance. Night’s Commander is reputed to be level-headed, but I see no point in testing either her or the individual warriors on either side. Our troops will be far better employed investigating whatever’s been concealing this new way that’s opened near our Wall border.” Tirael spoke with his usual drawl, but his eyes belied his manner. “I’d be glad of you at my side when we do so. Come with me, my brother.”
“I’m sorry,” Kalan said, with genuine regret. “I have business that calls me elsewhere.”
“The offer stands if you ever have need of a refuge, or simply for friendship’s sake. Or it may be that I’ll call for the Storm Spears’ help to close this new way.” Tirael smiled, before growing serious again. “For what it’s worth, I think you have done the right thing by the boy. Nimor does, too, and we’ll both hold what we know close.”
Kalan nodded. “Thank you. And what becomes of Rook? Will he go to Peace?”
“He will. And Vael’s support will allow him to ride with us now, at least as far as Stars’ territory.” Tirael glanced to where his knights were mustering, his mouth tightening as he regarded the riderless horses among their company, before he turned back. “Whatever transpires, I don’t regret answering the call of Kin and Blood, but I don’t want to provoke Adamant unnecessarily either. So Rook’s traveling in our garb, and I’ll send him straight on to Peace from our border. I am hoping,” Tirael added, his smile returning, “he may recommend me to his kinswoman, Onnorin. Apparently she’s one of the few people in the Keep of Stone who laughs.” The smile deepened into self-mockery: “As well as being another of their Earl’s many granddaughters and of the First Line of Adamant’s Blood.”
“So this alliance also includes a marriage?” Kalan said.
“So long as the current agreement holds—but I’ve drawn the line at living in the Keep of Stone. The Bride of Adamant will have to bear with the Citadel of Stars as well as with me.” Tirael shrugged. “So I should be there when whatever business you’re about is done.”
“When it’s done,” Kalan agreed. He did not say that would only be when his business with the Wall and the Swarm was at an end, and after he had freed Myr’s spirit from the tapestry, but he could tell Tirael sensed his reservation.
“You must not blame yourself for Lady Myr’s death,” the Son of Stars said, meeting Kalan’s eyes with uncharacteristic gravity. “You did all that anyone could, then far more.” Kalan shook his head, not arguing, but Tirael’s expression clouded. “The Citadel of Stars will always be open to you,” he said, and embraced Kalan formally. “Light and safety on your road, my brother.”
“Honor to you and your House,” Kalan replied, returning the embrace. He thought there could be no question of the honor in Tirael’s case, and watched from the tent entrance until the Son of Stars mounted and the whole shining company, with a still-pale Rook in their midst, passed the inner barrier. As he, too, must go, having already charged Nimor with responsibility for the camp until Night reached it. Since Kalan doubted he would journey to the Keep of Winds any time soon, he had also left the black swords with the envoy, to be returned to Asantir on her arrival.
“He’s right, you know.” Taly was standing just clear of the tent entrance, so Kalan did not see her until he stepped beyond it to watch the Stars company depart the outer camp. Her battered face was healing, but she was still wearing her winter look; he guessed it would be a long time before that thawed. “About Lady Myr, I mean. You did do all that anyone could.”
“I had thought you, of all people, would hold me to account.”
Taly shook her head. “There’s nothing you need account for. If you failed, then we all did. And you were the captain, you had to be on the perimeter. Whereas I could have stayed with Lady Myr during the final assault, but I didn’t.” Her straight, stern gaze met his. “I keep going over what happened, but no matter how many times I do, it never adds up to your failure.”
“And if our places were reversed?” he asked. “Would you be telling yourself that you had done all you could?”
“Probably not.” Her straight look continued to hold his. “But I would hope to have a friend, or many friends, who would continue to insist otherwise.
”
A friend, Kalan thought. He could say comrade-in-arms just as easily, but sister still felt like an unknown country. At one level, the questions were there: about their father and siblings, and what had befallen them. At another, he felt the weight of the years between them, almost fourteen now, and the heaviness of that first exile, sinking questions before they were asked. And always, the memory of his father’s closed face and cold voice: You are no more son of mine!
“Look after Faro for me,” he said, and she nodded.
“I will. He’s a Son of Blood and should have one of his own House to guard him. It helps, too, having a new service.” Taly did not add that it would never replace the old. She did not need to. Visibly changing the subject, she looked past him into the tent. “Lady Malian said you would take the web. The goods in the wagons are Faro’s by right, now that he’s signed the marriage contract, but most of them will be of no use to him so I’ve asked Nimor to see them returned to Blood. That’ll create fewer arguments, too,” she added. “But when Aiv hunted out the manifest, I saw Night’s betrothal gift to Lady Myr listed: a suit of ceremonial Night armor. When I asked Faro, he agreed it should go to Lady Malian, by way of being returned to Night.”
“She’s Faro’s guardian now and Heir of Night,” Kalan said. “It’s for her to say.”
“You’re still Honor Captain,” Taly pointed out. “And it was a personal gift to Lady Myr. Until you quit the camp, it’s for you to say.” She paused. “On the way here, I saw Jad and the others with your horses. He said to tell you they were ready, whenever you wish to leave.”
So they are coming, Kalan thought. “Yes, to the armor,” he said. Stepping back inside the tent, he finished tying his travel roll around the tapestry. Lifting the roll onto his shoulder, he picked up the black spear. “Tell Faro I’ll ride by Lady Malian’s camp. And I’ll be with Jad and the others soon.”
Taly saluted before turning away, while the wyr hounds rose and padded beside Kalan to the garnet-and-gold tent. Two of the marines, Tymar and Koris, had replaced Tirael’s Star knights on watch, but stepped aside to allow Kalan entry.
In a saga, the minstrel would doubtless say that Myr looked peaceful in death, or serene, but the truth, Kalan thought, was that like Palla, or Orth, or any of those lost in the siege, she simply looked dead. He had told Malian that Myr meant more to him than he realized—he had loved Jarna, in Emer, when he knew that he was not truly free to do so. Worse, he had let Jarna love him in return. So he had not permitted himself to love Myr, even when she grew dear to him, and deliberately steered his affection into a fraternal channel. Yet even if he had allowed stronger feelings, there could have been no good end to such a love, not for her and not for him either, given the places they both occupied in the Derai world.
If Myr were alive, Kalan would have bowed over her hands. Now he simply bowed before her bier, formally, as a champion bows, and an Honor Captain. He could have wept as well, but did not, because tears would do her no good, and there was no more time for weeping. “I will free your spirit,” he said, to her dear, dead face. “I swear it, in my name and by all the Nine Gods. If I fail you Lady Myr, Lady Mouse, it will only be because I, too, am dead.”
And the six remaining wyr hounds—that had once borne the essence of Maurid, the remnant Golden Fire of the House of Blood—howled their song of farewell.
When Kalan crossed into the outer camp, it was not just Jad and the remaining exiles, but Kelyr and a dozen caravan survivors, including Darrar and Aiv, who waited to leave with him. His brows rose at the sight of Kelyr, and the Sword warrior shrugged. “Fighting is what I know, but I doubt I’ll be welcomed back into Swords. Kin and Blood was just an excuse,” he said, before Kalan could ask. “Another of our number, Gol, had already sent written word of Tirorn’s loss before we left Ij.”
Kalan had met Gol in Emer but saw no need to say so. “You know what I am,” he told Kelyr. His steady gaze went beyond the Sword warrior, first to Jad, then Rhanar, Machys, and Aarion, and finally to the caravan survivors. “I’m not only a Storm Spear, but an unbound power user as well, in defiance of the Blood Oath. A renegade,” he said, to make the matter clear.
Kelyr shrugged again, cynical where Tirael would have been light. “You’re confusing me with Orth. He was the one who hated power users, whereas most in Swords hold the Oath more lightly. Besides, I saw what you did here. Without you, the Sea pair, and the Star knights, this camp would’ve been lost. And now that I’m forsworn for a lock of hair,” he added, “I may as well go all the way.”
Several puzzled looks greeted his last words, but mostly it was nods. Jad and the exiles’ expressions said they had made their choice long since and were ready to ride. “And you?” Kalan asked the caravan survivors. “You fought well, but fighting is not your business. It’s what lies ahead, though, for anyone who rides with me.”
“Yes, sir.” Darrar cleared his throat. “With respect, if Lady Malian is the Chosen of Mhaelanar returned, then war’s all that lies ahead for everyone.” His boyishness, Kalan thought, had slipped away in the assault, erased by the shadow that lay on all their faces.
“You’ve been in the Red Keep, Captain,” Aiv said, “so you know the ruling kin will make us suffer for the failure of their plans. And you needn’t fear we’ll hold you up. Envoy Nimor’s given us Sea’s spare horses, enough for all of us.”
Any of them, Kalan knew, could be Blood agents—but the hounds were still wyrs and remained unperturbed. He looked at Jad, since the consequences of agreeing would fall heaviest on him. “What do you say?”
Jad grinned. “I think we can knock them into shape.”
“You’d better be ready to go, then,” he told the volunteers, with a glance at the horses mustered behind them, “because I’m leaving now.”
“Yes, sir!” they chorused.
“Kelyr told us we’d have to be,” Darrar added. Kelyr’s expression was part irony, part self-derision, but he wiped both clear and saluted when Kalan looked his way.
“Then let’s ride.” Kalan tied on the travel roll, then swung into Madder’s saddle before sliding the spear across his back. His small company formed up behind him, and Aarion unfurled the oriflamme. When Kalan turned Madder in a trampling circle, he saw that the rest of the camp was forming a ragged avenue along their route to the perimeter. Nimor raised a hand from the entrance into the inner camp, and although the rest of those gathered did not cheer, the words “Storm Spear, Storm Spear” were murmurous as the sea.
Madder tossed his mane and snorted, but stepped out smoothly. Jad followed immediately behind, together with Aarion and the banner. In only a few seconds they were past the lines of intent, watching faces and clear of the earthworks, crossing what had been killing ground to the Fire encampment.
The two hundred, too, were breaking camp, although Raven had promised Kalan a rear guard would remain on patrol, only falling back once the Night force arrived. A guard of honor was drawn up by the road, and he saw Malian waiting there, with Taly and Faro beside her. A moment later Faro broke away—or perhaps they had let him go—and pelted toward Madder, on a trajectory that seemed certain to end beneath the roan’s hooves. Drawing rein, Kalan dismounted, and the boy ran full tilt into him.
“Promise,” Faro whispered, his arms a stranglehold around Kalan’s neck. “Promise me you’ll come back. And that you’ll come and find me. Promise me you’ll live!”
“I promise to try,” Kalan said, because it seemed easiest in the face of so much fierceness. He thought he might have to disengage Faro’s arms, but even before Taly arrived, the boy had stepped back, his smile valiant despite a face wet with tears. Kalan remounted and saluted him, before signing for the oriflamme to dip: first to Faro, and again to Malian. And then he let Madder carry him away, from the Daughter of Blood that he had not saved, and the Son of Blood that he had, from the sister he could not acknowledge, and from the Heir of the Derai.
Epilogue
Wolf was waiting when Mali
an arrived back at Rowan Birchmoon’s cairn just on the eve of Autumn’s Night. The shaman had vanished about his own business while Malian was seeing Faro and his new household, accompanied by a sixty-strong Fire escort, safely on the first stage of their journey to southern Aralorn. Passing the Border Mark had been hard for Nhairin—but it’s better for her this way, Malian told herself, as it is for Faro. Raven had rejoined Valadan, but the two hundred from his personal guard, including several of Rhaikir’s cadres, were still with Malian. The adepts would establish an inner perimeter about the cairn, shielding what she was about to attempt.
Falath came to greet Malian as she dismounted in the gathering dusk, but drew back again as Wolf emerged from the nearby rocks. “Remember your debt.” The wolf’s eyes glowed topaz as the shaman’s voice spoke in her mind. “You promised Rowan to do all you could to save Haarth. Do not use her bridge to bring another Cataclysm.”
“I have not forgotten,” Malian replied. “I seek to honor both my debt and my promise to her in what I do now.” She could feel Maurid and Yelusin’s power, concealed within hers—and the thread of answering magic from the walking stick in her left hand, imbued with the name of its parent Fire—Kamioriol—that lay hidden in the one surviving rose vine in the Court of the Rose. The two soldered shards of Yorindesarinen’s riven shield she carried on her back.
“Ammaran may have sought power in Haarth,” she told Wolf, “but I am the Chosen of Mhaelanar, and even without Yorindesarinen’s shield I still have Nhenir and the frost-fire sword, as well as my armring. I’m carrying the essence of three remnant Fires as well.” Briefly, Malian’s gaze shifted to Rhaikir, who still regarded her with reserve from among his adepts, before returning her attention to Wolf. She touched the breast of her jacket, where the seven rune scrolls from the Blood camp lay above her heart, together with the two from Morning and Peace: one for each of the Nine Houses of the Derai. “I have these, too. But I still need Rowan’s bridge into Haarth as my anchor. Because,” she admitted, “I don’t know how deep into the Gate of Dreams this journey will take me.
