The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “Their heralds were here,” Tarathan replied, his dark eyes speculative. He studied the plain a moment longer, then stiffened—and Jehane Mor felt the same cold shadow cross her own mind.

  “Demonfinder!” he hissed as she pushed her shield between their minds and the shadow.

  “We need to leave.” Jehane Mor was cool. “Who knows how much the demonfinder glimpsed before I shut her out.”

  “Her, is it?” Tarathan was grim as they slid back down the first steep slope of the ridge. “But what in Imulun’s name is an Ishnapuri demonfinder doing on the River? We’ll have to go inland after all,” he added, stooping through the gap between a fallen tree and the hillside. “I might have risked the Patrol’s lines by night, but not with a demonfinder in their midst.”

  They plunged back down the long hill they had climbed so laboriously, keen to put distance between themselves and any pursuit from the plain. Moving as quietly as they could, they remained alert for any noise from the road below, but heard only the normal woodland sounds. Even so, they slowed their pace through the final stretch of forest before the small crossroad and its cairn to Seruth—which this time was not empty. The six riders of the Patrol sat there, still as statues on their armored horses, while another four rode toward them down the side road. The heralds crouched low, watching, then moved away from each other, melting into the thicker brush.

  There was a brief, quiet exchange between the two Patrol groups before one of the riders from the side road swung to the ground. Much as Tarathan had done earlier, the rider circled the intersection and then went down on one knee, speaking over his shoulder to the others. One answered briefly and the rider on the ground grunted, studying the tracks again. After a moment the spiked helm came up and its secret gaze pierced undergrowth and mist, looking directly at where Jehane Mor lay. Slowly, the rider stood up, and as he did so the sunlight fell across his visor, outlining the striking hawk device.

  High overhead an Ijiri bellbird flitted from one canopy tree to another. A moment later its bubbling song poured out, but Jehane Mor’s attention remained fixed on the striking hawk device. “Aravenor,” she thought and knew, despite his silence, that Tarathan had also seen the hawk insignia.

  The rider took a step forward and then stopped, his visor focused on the concealing wood. He appeared to be listening intently, and Jehane Mor lay utterly still, aware that Tarathan was working himself further away from her position, noiseless as a wood snake beneath the scrub and fern.

  “Jehane Mor,” the Patrol captain said, very quietly. “Speak to me, if you are here.”

  What, the herald wondered, had led him to guess that she was there? What had he heard or seen—or was it some sixth sense that guided him? The bellbirds call fluted out again, breaking the long, listening pause that had followed Aravenor’s words. The Patrol captain stepped closer to the trees, spreading his hands wide as if to emphasize that he intended no harm. When he spoke again his voice was still low, pitched to carry no further than where she lay. “News comes swiftly to the Patrol, whether on road or river. We know what happened in Ij last night and that you and Tarathan survived it. I guessed you might try crossing the river to escape, and ours is only one of many units out looking for you both.”

  How could the Patrol have learned what happened in Ij so soon? she wondered. And why turn out patrols for two stray heralds, especially given the sort of numbers deploying on the plain outside the Road Gate? There was something strange at play, something very odd indeed . . . She continued to lie motionless, waiting.

  Aravenor took a third step forward, and his visor seemed to look directly at the place where she lay. “You need not fear our motives.” His voice was still quiet, calm. “All know of the Patrol’s oath to preserve the peace of road and river, but we swore to another as well, nearly a thousand years ago, when we first took service with the Masters of the River cities. Few remember that pledge now, but it binds us to uphold the law that exempts the Guild from blood feud and vendetta, and to succor and protect its heralds with our lives.” He paused, and now even the birds were silent. “Nor,” he added, when only silence answered his words, “do we forget the friendships made on road and river—or that friendship, too, has its obligations.”

  Inwardly, Jehane Mor sighed. Trust is a risk, she reflected, but there are some risks that must be taken. She rose to her feet, brushing more leaf litter and soil detritus from her tunic and meeting the inscrutable hawk visor with an unwavering look of her own. “Aravenor of the Patrol,” she said, “do you really expect me to believe that the massive display of military strength marshaled on the plain before Ij has anything at all to do with our chance-met friendship of the road?”

  The mouth beneath the visor twitched. “I do not,” Aravenor replied. “But it has a great deal to do with the massacre that took place last night.”

  “I see,” she said, and waded her way through fern and bracken until they stood facing each other. “How did you know I was here?”

  This time he definitely smiled. “Did you know that your boots leave a distinctive print, the particular style of the Guild’s bootmaker in Terebanth? I saw the half-obscured impression of just such a boot in the mud beside the crossroad. As for the rest . . . ” He shrugged his armored shoulders. “One develops a certain sense for the watching eye and concealed presence after the length of time I have spent patroling road and river. I didn’t know for certain that you were there: it was an intuition, perhaps even a hope, that’s all.”

  Jehane Mor nodded, studying him. It was impossible to read a Patroler through the helm of concealment, but the tone of voice occasionally revealed something, and Aravenor’s words seemed plausible enough. “I’m still not entirely clear, though,” she said, “how you knew to look for us here.”

  “I know you both, a little, from the road, and I thought what I would do in your place. I sent searchers south, as well, and there are watchers at the seaport, in case you tried that route instead.”

  “Very thorough,” said Jehane Mor.

  His eyes met hers through the slits in the hawk visor. “We have sworn an oath,” he replied evenly, “to the Masters of all the River cities, not just to Ij—just as those Masters gave their own undertaking to your Guild.”

  The herald shook her head, seeing again the long, heavily armed columns on the plain and the galleys blockading the river. She wanted to shiver, thinking of such a long ago oath waking into life beneath the spring sun, but she kept her gaze thoughtful, cool. “I am not ungrateful, Aravenor, but I have come to have a certain . . . regard . . . for the balance of power in the River lands.”

  “As have I,” he replied. “There has been a long equilibrium between city and city, as well as between the cities and ourselves. But the Guild of Heralds is also part of that balance, and we cannot let the murders that took place last night go unanswered.”

  “No,” she said. “I have no intention of doing that. But there are other aspects of these events that I find very troubling.”

  He nodded. “I agree, which is why I judged that the Patrol’s response must be unequivocal. But I don’t think that it will come to our investing Ij, if that is what you fear, for even as word of the massacre reached us, the Ilvaine and others among the Masters were moving.” His smile was grim now, beneath the visor. “It seems that the threads of kinship were pulled tight last night, even into the School itself.”

  Jehane Mor remembered the assassins fighting each other across the rooftops while Athiri and Katrani warred in the street below. “Civil strife in Ij does not mean that the situation is resolved,” she said quietly. “Also, if the Ilvaine and their allies have moved this swiftly, it begs the question as to how much they already knew of what the renegades intended—and how much they allowed to happen, to suit their own ends.”

  The same could be said of the Patrol, she reflected, a chill feathering her spine.

  “A question,” said Aravenor, “that I have not overlooked. But I understand that the city guard now ha
ve the streets largely under control and that Prince Ilvaine and the Masters with him have sent word to their fellows in the city, calling for the Conclave to begin at once.”

  The herald held herself very still. It would not truly be over, she thought, until all those who knew of last night’s strike, as well as those who executed it, had been brought to account. “You say that the Patrol has sworn an oath,” she said. “Does this mean that you, personally, will stand surety for Tarathan’s continued safety, and mine, from now on?”

  “Yes,” said Aravenor. The hawk visor examined the forest around her. “But given that the two of you hunt as a pair, I would feel a lot more comfortable if Tarathan were somewhere to be seen right now.”

  Jehane Mor kept her face impassive. “Trust,” she said, looking past him to the row of silent, watching horsemen, “is always a risk, is it not?”

  Aravenor turned, following her gaze, as Tarathan rose up almost beneath the hooves of the horse nearest the treeline, materializing out of little more than long grass and the last, lingering strands of mist. “So it would seem,” the Patrol captain said, very dryly, as the horse snorted and snaked its armored head around. “The world is indeed turned upside down when the Patrol is ambushed by heralds.”

  Tarathan sheathed his dagger and walked forward, skirting the horsemen. “It wouldn’t have been much of an ambush with only a herald’s dagger against armored cavalry. Even less so given the numbers we saw outside Ij.” He paused when he was a pace away from the Patrol captain, his dark gaze searching. “Numbers, I heard you say, that you judged necessary. Yet I thought only the Lord Captain of the Patrol could authorize deployment on that scale?”

  Aravenor nodded. “Your understanding is correct. I am the Lord Captain of the Patrol.”

  The herald’s eyes narrowed. “You?” he said slowly, and Jehane Mor could hear his surprise, echoing her own. “So why,” he continued, “would the Lord Captain himself be out scouring the road for two heralds, when you have an army to do such work?”

  The hawk visor looked from one to the other. “There are several reasons, but we can speak of them as we ride. If, that is, you are willing to accept my safe conduct?”

  The heralds inclined their heads. “We accept,” they said as one. “We must go west with all speed, to bear word of events here to both the Guild and the other River cities.”

  Aravenor nodded. “We can send you on one of our galleys,” he said. “That way, no one will outdistance you. But I have already sent word upriver—I did so as soon as I learned of the attack.” He paused. “If you were willing to delay, both I and the gathered Masters would greatly value your firsthand account of last night’s events. And once we have spoken together you may be able to take a more detailed report to your Guild.”

  Jehane Mor and Tarathan looked at him without expression, and again the two of them spoke as one: “What more can be added to this account of law breaking and murder?”

  The Lord Captain held up one gauntleted hand. “I do not ask you to soften that message. But Prince Ilvaine wishes the Masters to hear first-hand of the attack on yourselves and the Guild House. There may also be pieces of the puzzle that you do not have.” Again he looked from one to the other, as though sensing the secret flow of their thoughts. “The pledge of safe conduct remains, whatever you decide to do.”

  “He is right,” Tarathan said. “We need to learn more of what is happening here. Find out who is playing what part, and why.”

  Jehane Mor did not look at him. “If we can trust the Patrol. And you saw the Ishnapuri banner. Meeting with the Masters will almost certainly bring us into direct contact with the demonfinder.”

  She felt his mental shrug. “I am curious to learn what has brought one of that kind so far from Ishnapur. The trick will be to meet her in the company of others.”

  “And hope Aravenor’s safe conduct holds.” Outwardly, Jehane Mor bowed to the Lord Captain. “We will delay,” she said, “and meet with the Masters. But after that, we must and shall go upriver.”

  “I’ll make sure you do.” Aravenor turned and strode toward his horse. “We have no mounts to spare,” he added over his shoulder, “but the distance is short enough for our horses to carry double. If you ride behind me, Herald Jehane, Arin will take Tarathan.” He swung into the saddle, then extended a hand for her to mount, while a rider with a coiled serpent on his helm did the same for Tarathan.

  The horses stepped forward briskly, leaving the crossroad and the cairn to Seruth behind. For a time the only sound was the clatter of hooves on the road, the creak of leather and clink of metal, and the occasional birdsong from the forest. The last of the mist vanished from between the trees as they rode and the day grew warm. Jehane Mor ran a hand over her wet hair and turned her face to the sun, but her mind flashed again to the memory of pulling aside black-clad bodies while Naia’s eyes stared up, unseeing, from beneath them.

  The herald deepened her breath, consciously seeking calm, then made herself look at Naia’s dead face again—and at all the slain in the Guild house court. At the same time she remained aware of the fall of sun across the forest trees, the movement of the horse beneath her, and the intermingled smells of steel and leather, sweating horse and sweating human. She felt the touch of Tarathan’s mind on her own, half reassuring, half grim. “How many years has it been?” she asked him, without turning her head. “How many dead?”

  “Too many,” he replied, but his tone conveyed his acceptance of violence and death as an inevitable consequence of the path they had chosen.

  “That is your strength.” Her mindvoice was grave. “And my weakness, that I never can.”

  “I do not call it weakness,” he replied, matter-of-fact.

  “No, you never have.” A bird whistled from a nearby tree, a piping trill of sound, and she listened to it for a moment, her eyes focused on the black wool of Aravenor’s cloak, noting every detail of the weave. She waited until the bird fell silent before she spoke. “You haven’t told us why you came looking for us in person. Shouldn’t the Lord Captain of the Patrol be with his legions, mustered outside Ij?”

  Aravenor half turned his head. “I have a very able second outside Ij,” he said. “Besides, you and Tarathan are more than just another herald pair.”

  “Really?” said Jehane Mor. “How is that, Lord Captain?”

  She was almost certain that Aravenor smiled. “Firstly, you survived,” he said, “when we are not sure that any other herald in the city did. And may tell us, therefore, what no one else can about what happened last night. Also, I know you by sight and speech, which few other of my captains do.”

  “True enough,” Tarathan commented. “Few other Patrolers on the road ever speak more than necessity demands.”

  “The intelligence we’ve had from the city,” Aravenor continued, and now his tone was thoughtful, “also suggests that of all the heralds in Ij, you two alone were singled out by name.” The shrill chatter of a jay filled the brief silence. “Do you know why?”

  Jehane Mor shook her head. She could hazard several guesses, but none were certainties. “No,” she replied, before adding: “I still find it difficult to credit that you are the Lord Captain. One expects more outward show, I suppose.”

  “It is enough that the Patrol knows who its Lord Captain is.” Arin, the rider with the serpent device, spoke with calm assurance. “We don’t need to put on a display for the world.”

  “Here’s pride,” observed Tarathan, amused.

  “Well, they always have been closed, with their visors and their forts, dwelling apart from the rest of the River.” Jehane Mor was thoughtful, but at that moment their small troop clattered out of the trees and onto the plain, moving past rank on rank of the mustered Patrol. The columns all saluted as Aravenor rode by, dipping their ensigns, but it was clear that every company was on a war footing, their attention focused on Ij. Tarathan, looking around, directed Jehane Mor’s attention to sentry posts spaced along the wood shore and back into the hills.


  “A cat at every mouse hole,” she agreed, then said aloud: “I see we need not fear our attackers’ net being cast wider.”

  Arin nodded. “We stopped heavily armed riders who left the city sometime after midnight, riding down the guards at the Road Gate. Also a river galley, without identification or lights, that tried to slip upriver before dawn.”

  Aravenor spoke over his shoulder. “A solitary messenger may have left earlier, or taken the long way via forest and hills. But we have the blockade in place here and have raised the boom across the river at Farelle, so numbers will not get through. As yet, though,” he added, “we have received no word of disturbance anywhere else.”

  “Which makes sense,” Arin said, “since whoever wishes to control the River must first secure Ij.”

  “And you think that is what this is about?” Tarathan asked, frowning. “Controlling the River lands?”

  The Patrol leader looked around at him. “Or destabilizing,” he said quietly. “Don’t you?”

  Tarathan made no reply, for they had reached the colorful but orderly ranks of the Ilvaine and their allied kindred, with halberdiers, crossbowmen, and plumed and gilded cavalry deployed around the two central pavilions. His gaze lifted to the pennants fluttering on the light breeze, narrowing on the pale green banner as it rippled overhead, revealing a silver lion device beneath a crown of stars. “Not just the green of Ishnapur,” he said, “but the imperial insignia itself. This is a morning for surprises.”

  “They are an embassy,” said Aravenor. He waited for Jehane Mor to dismount then stepped down himself, handing his horse’s reins to another rider as Tarathan came to stand beside him. “Apparently they traveled overland in secret, assuming the guise of Ishnapuri merchants seeking new markets, and only revealed their true identity at our southernmost border post, three days ago. The ambassador requested our escort to Ij, but also asked that word be sent to Prince Ilvaine. You may recall,” he added, “that the prince journeyed to Ishnapur many years ago and was received by the Lion Throne.”