The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “Besides,” the oldest of the shamans, Wolf, had added, “both smoke and stars show you following disparate paths to your power. Best, then, that we not meddle.”

  He was Rowan Birchmoon’s great-uncle, Malian had discovered, his eyes shrewd in a face that was a mass of weathered seams—and his was the final ruling. So as soon as the weather allowed they would leave as part of separate hunting parties, each band following a distinct tributary of the Wildenrush south toward the River. A journey across the Wild Lands, Malian thought, which Linden says will take most of the summer. Yet only a few short months ago I believed that no one ever went there.

  Despite the separation from Kalan, she felt a thrill of excitement. “One day,” she said, “I should like to go as far as Ishnapur and look out on the great sea of sands.”

  “We should go there together,” Kalan agreed. “One day.”

  They fell silent again, listening to the snowstorm buffet the lodge roof and scream around its entrance. From Ij to Ishnapur, Malian thought dreamily—and Linden will go with me as far as the Wildenrush, so that I may continue what I have begun and learn to read the patterns of smoke and stars like a shaman.

  A vision of the cave of sleeping warriors filled her mind again, wavering into the Keep of Winds emerging out of mist and darkness. I must never forget why I am here, she told herself—that my duty to Night and to the Derai Alliance is why I follow this path. “We mustn’t change,” she said, quick and fierce, then wondered if the need to say the words at all was driven by her fear that Haarth would alter her. She saw the same thought reflected in Kalan’s face as he studied hers.

  “We may have to,” he said slowly, “to survive where we’re going.” His eyes held hers. “But we must never change to each other.”

  No, Malian thought silently, but if we alter in other ways . . . She shivered as the wind gusted again, shaking the lodge.

  Kalan built up the fire. “Spring coming or not, it’s still freezing. Sometimes, I think I’ve forgotten how to be warm.” He remained crouched on his heels, watching the flames lick across the dry wood and spark along a smear of resin. “When I was in the Temple quarter there were stories told. About the Lost.”

  “The Lost?” Malian asked, her inner sight flashing to the cave of sleepers again.

  “Renegades. Priest-kind—those with old powers who managed to flee the Wall and disappear into Haarth.”

  As we’re doing, Malian thought. Her warrior upbringing made her wrinkle her nose at the association, before she reminded herself that she, too, was priest-kind now. “I thought the fugitives were always caught and brought back?”

  Kalan shrugged. “I’ve heard rumors that some find sanctuary well beyond the Wall, although it’s probably just a story we spin to delude ourselves there’s hope. But you should know, just in case.”

  In case I’m recognized as being warrior Derai, Malian wondered, and vengeance is sought against me for wrongs done on the Wall? These Lost would have to know who I am for that—although I suppose if they include seers in their number, they well might. Then again, if the Lost exist, they are still Derai. They might want to return home, if a path of honor opened for them.

  And, she reflected, narrowing her eyes on this possibility, the Alliance is going to need all of those with the old power that it can get, even if most Derai on the Wall don’t realize it yet.

  The day when they did was probably some way off though, as was the time when she and Kalan, let alone anyone else, could even contemplate returning. Kalan grinned when she said so aloud, but soon afterward they both yawned and burrowed into their separate piles of furs. Kalan’s breathing deepened quickly, but Malian kept thinking about the cave with its crystal torches. Time after time, she traversed the rows of sleeping warriors and wondered what it all meant: who were the sleepers and why had her seeking taken her there—and where exactly was there?

  I know I went deep within the Gate of Dreams, she reflected, but are the sleepers of the present, the future, or the past? And why is my name a riddle to the power that guards them? Malian half thought that Nhenir might respond, but the helm remained silent even when she stretched out a hand and touched its curved surface. It was only when she was almost asleep that the ghost of a whisper crept into her mind.

  “You stood in the long ago past, so deep and so long ago that you frightened even me. The dream touches on the present and the future, too, but as for the puzzle of your name—even I cannot resolve that.”

  Riddles, Malian thought drowsily, before she let sleep take her—and so did not hear when the helm spoke again, a shiver across the blizzard’s roar.

  “I wonder, Child of Night, if you could have returned so easily, despite your strength, if you had not had help? And how could you possibly understand the wonder of the help that you received? But then,” Nhenir continued, meditative, “she always was disposed to be kind—although that is something the Derai have chosen to forget.”

  Part I

  Festival of Masks

  Chapter 1

  The Road to Ij

  Spring came to the River in a flurry of blustering winds and driving rain that turned the local roads into quagmires and hurled the first fragile blossoms to the ground. Two heralds were blown out of the city of Terebanth with the weather and turned east toward Ij, following the great Main Road that had endured since the days of the Old Empire. At any other season a river passage would have been faster, but the combination of contrary winds and spring floods, fed by snowmelt in the headwaters of the Ijir and the Wildenrush, would keep the merchant galleys in port for at least another month. And unlike the adjoining local roads, the Main Road was well paved and drained and would not turn to mud in the spring rain.

  Even so, it took the heralds the best part of a chill and dreary month to complete their journey. The rain continued, steady and unrelenting, and they slept in small wayside inns or camped in the leafless woods. Both heralds were swathed in thick gray cloaks, but they and their horses were equally sodden by the time the first watery sunshine appeared, just before the toll bridge and the great Patrol fort at Farelle.

  The bridge, with its seven great arches spanning the river, was a relic of the Old Empire. Together with the fort, it marked the last stop before Ij, which lay an easy, two-hour ride away. The floodwaters had finally begun to recede and the riverbank was lined with barges, while mules, wagons, and foot travelers crammed the bridge. The heralds stood up in their stirrups, trying to make out why the flow of people and goods had slowed to a trickle.

  “Something on the far side,” the first one said, while his companion angled her horse toward a solitary traveler coming toward them. His garb and the lute on his shoulder suggested a journeyman minstrel, and his progress was steady despite the crowd, although he seemed glad to stop in the lee of the herald’s great, gray horse.

  “ ‘The whole world comes to Ij in the springtime’—isn’t that what they say?” He addressed the gray-clad rider cheerfully. “Just my luck to be going the other way as the festival’s beginning! But Arun-En, on the Wildenrush, has lost its minstrel and someone must take her place.” He settled the pack on his back into a more comfortable position.

  “Safe journeying,” the herald said politely. “But what is holding up the Ij-bound traffic?”

  The minstrel pulled a face. “Oh, it’s some bunch of uncouth foreigners from northern parts who don’t understand civilized ways and have taken issue over the tolls. The Patrol were shifting them out of the way as I came through, so things should start moving soon. Mind you, it did look like the Patrolers might have to bang a few heads there for a time, but it didn’t come to that in the end.”

  He raised one hand in cheerful salute and carried on west, against the current of travelers. His prediction proved true, for the congestion on the bridge began to ease and the trickle through the tollgate became a steady flow just as the rain began again. The heralds held up their official sigils as they reached the far end of the bridge and were waved through, but
they, like most others, glanced curiously at the small band of foreigners who had objected to paying the toll. A mounted unit of the Patrol had moved the strangers to one side and were watching, silent behind their visors, as a harassed looking clerk related the lawful charges. It was clear that the foreigners either did not understand or chose not to—and that the Patrol were leaving the business of explanation to the clerk and would only intervene if violence was threatened.

  The heralds exchanged a glance before the woman of the pair turned her horse and rode over. Her hair, within the shadow of her gray hood, was fair, her gray-green eyes tranquil. “Greetings,” she said to the clerk, her tone as calm as her expression. “You appear to be having some difficulty. Perhaps I can assist?”

  The clerk turned, wiping the fine beads of rain from his face, and bowed low when he saw who had addressed him. “Greetings, your honor. Serivis of Farelle at your service. I am trying to explain the tolls to these foreign folk but they don’t seem to understand our language very well. Or don’t want to,” he added darkly.

  The herald nodded. “Jehane Mor,” she murmured, “of the Guild House in Terebanth.” She studied the strangers, her expression thoughtful, and they stared sullenly back. She counted fourteen in their band, all well armed and with two or more horses for each rider, and understood why they would have blocked the bridge once stopped—and why the Patrol had not moved away as soon as the bridge was cleared. “They are Derai, I believe,” she said to the clerk, “from the Wall of Night, far to the north. Many of them do not speak our River tongue, but as it happens, I speak theirs.”

  “Do you?” exclaimed Serivis. “That is wonderful! At least, that is, if your honor is willing to speak with them?”

  “Gladly,” the herald replied, smiling. “Greetings,” she continued in Derai, addressing the warriors in front of her. “Honor to you and to your House.”

  The nearest Derai looked at her from under his brows. He was a bull of a man, very tall and heavily muscled, especially across the shoulders, and his expression was far from pleasant. “Light and safety on your road,” he grated out finally, just before his silence became outright insult.

  She inclined her head. “I am Jehane Mor, of the Guild of Heralds. Perhaps I may help resolve your difficulty here?”

  “Difficulty?” he growled. “We would choose another word. Is it your custom to rob travelers?”

  Jehane Mor’s brows went up. “Do you mean the tolls? They are not theft, but a lawful charge set by agreement between all the cities of the River.”

  The giant warrior slanted another look from beneath his lowered brows, this time at the visored riders of the Patrol, then back to her. “So how much is this daylight extortion of yours?”

  “Extortion is a strong word,” Jehane Mor observed, “as is robbery, especially from a newly arrived visitor.” She met his sullen stare, her own gaze still tranquil, and he was the first to look away.

  “Tell me about these ‘tolls’ then,” he sneered, “since you seem determined to stick your nose—unasked—into our business.”

  The herald’s mouth quirked. “Of course,” she replied meditatively, “a man of courtesy would introduce himself before demanding the help that has already been freely offered.”

  A man laughed and the ranks of the Derai shifted, revealing a bare-headed warrior who had dismounted and was seated on a milestone, apparently at his ease despite the rain and the watching Patrol. “But Orth is not a man of courtesy, Mistress Herald,” he said. “He is a warrior of the House of Swords, untiring in his pursuit of war. But courtesy, no.”

  The warrior Orth muttered under his breath as Jehane Mor studied the new speaker. He was slightly built compared to his hulking companion and far less heavily armed than most of those around him, with only a light mail shirt and a sword beneath his worn jacket. His rain-speckled hair was tawny and cut square across his nape, while the eyes that looked back at her were a warm, bright brown, their expression both humorous and measuring at once.

  A dangerous man, she thought, more so even than the other, because this one is clever.

  The Derai rose and made a slight, ironic bow before coming to stand at her horse’s shoulder. “Allow me to pay the arrears of Orth’s discourtesy. I am Tirorn, also of the House of Swords. My companions and I understood that the roads of the River lands were free to all, but now we learn that we must pay money for crossing this bridge. On the Derai Wall we would call that extortion and so we have refused to pay. Yet it seems,” with a slight jerk of his head toward the Patrol’s impassive riders, “that such a refusal will not be countenanced.”

  Jehane Mor’s brows had crooked together. “Here on the River, we do not consider the tolls extortion. Our cities rule themselves, but the lands between them must be kept safe for travelers and the roads and bridges maintained. Yet if one city were to reach out to control the in-between lands, then that move would be seen as a threat by its neighbors, an expansion.” She could see that this, at least, they all understood. “So the Patrol keeps the peace and the Company of Engineers, from Ar, maintains the road. In order to provide for these services, the cities have agreed that all travelers must pay a toll. The charges are gathered at places such as this, where those who use the road and the river come together at one point.”

  “You didn’t pay,” Orth muttered, “I saw them wave you through.”

  “I did pay,” Jehane Mor replied calmly. “I bought a herald’s pass for my whole journey before I left Terebanth. You could buy similar passes, if you wished,” she said to Tirorn.

  “So we could,” he agreed, “and now that you have explained the matter to us so clearly, Mistress Herald, we will do just that.” His face and voice were smooth but she caught another note beneath it, something that might have been mockery, or even a jeer.

  “You could have done so before,” she said quietly, “if you had wished to understand the clerk. He is a good and patient man and he was trying to help you.”

  The brown eyes met hers and then he bowed again, more deeply this time. “Forgive our discourtesy, Lady Herald, both to you and this”—he paused, seeming to test the word—“clerk.”

  “For my part,” she said, “there is nothing to forgive. It is the duty of heralds to assist in such matters.” She turned to Serivis before the Derai could reply. “If you tell me the charges,” she told the clerk, smiling when he blew out his cheeks in relief, “they will pay them now.”

  All the same, it was sometime later before the process of purchasing passes was satisfactorily completed and the Derai finally clattered off toward Ij. Both heralds watched their departure with thoughtful expressions. “I am certain,” Jehane Mor said, “that they speak our River tongue, despite their display of ignorance.”

  Her companion nodded. “He admitted as much, when he apologized. But why pretend that they didn’t?”

  “Spying out the way of things, I should think,” a cool voice said from behind them. “The Derai are like that, we find.”

  “Aravenor!” Jehane Mor turned, smiling, as a Patrol horse moved alongside hers. The rider wore a captain’s pin on his dark cloak, and the trademark visored helm covered his face. ‘The helm of concealment’ was what River folk called it, for the Patrol never revealed their faces, or entered a city or town, or stayed in any of the inns along the Main Road. They had their own forts close by the major cities and otherwise camped in the woods and fields, keeping to themselves and maintaining the peace of road and river as they had for centuries. Despite the enigmatic visors, it was still possible to tell Patrolers apart by the personal emblems displayed on their black tunics—below any marks of rank like a captain’s bar—and etched onto their helmets.

  In this case, Jehane Mor recognized the rider’s voice even before she saw the striking hawk device and the captain’s pin above it, for they had met many times on the road. The Patrol captain sat relaxed and easy in his saddle, but the focus of his visored helm was on the Derai. “They like to test our resolve,” he said, and the
closed visor turned toward her. “But you and Tarathan both speak their language—and you were sent to their Wall, five years back. I had forgotten that, until today.”

  Jehane Mor nodded. “We bore a message to their Earl of Night. But we had no dealings with any other Derai house.”

  “Night,” Aravenor repeated, then shook his head. “Most of the Derai we’re seeing are from Swords, like this lot, or the clan they call Blood.”

  Tarathan frowned. “You make it sound like they’re coming here in numbers?”

  “They’ve begun to, especially these past few years.” Aravenor glanced around as a wagon wheel clipped the low stone rampart adjoining the bridge and the driver cursed. “There were always some, of course, because of their dealings in specialized armor and weapons. The trade in the metals they mine from their Wall is much larger, but the River merchants have always been the go-betweens for that. Their Derai contacts, if they travel at all, rarely come farther south than Grayharbor.”

  “But not anymore,” Jehane Mor said softly.

  “No. Although until today, the Derai who come have still only been in twos and threes—for the weapons trade, they always say, or heading for the southern tourneys, or simply seeing the wider world.”

  Tarathan’s dark gaze studied the hawk visor. “But you don’t believe the reasons they give?”

  Below the visor, Aravenor’s smile was grim. “How many generations has it been? And yet it is only now the Derai are seized by this desire to see the wider world? No, I do not believe it. Besides, there have been too many whispers out of the north in recent years. One is that the Derai have finally tired of their bitter Wall and are doing what we have long feared—turning their warlike eyes to the rich and peaceful River.”

  “And the others?” asked Jehane Mor.

  “Chiefly that their old enemy is stirring again and they seek alliances.” It was impossible to tell, from the Patrol captain’s level tone, what he made of this. “Perhaps both explanations hold some truth and there are factions within the Derai. But like these Sword warriors today, those we encounter are always pushing to see what they can get away with. So far there’s been no real trouble, but it’s coming, especially if we have more groups of this size—and attitude.” The smile beneath the visor was thin. “Today, though, you drew their teeth, Herald Jehane, and for that I am grateful.”