The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  Mindful of Alianor, Malian just shook her head, swallowing bitterness as she thought about the real Malisande again.

  “Alli—” Kalan met the damosel’s frown. “No one outside this room must know anything of this, not until we’ve spoken with Lord Falk.” He looked at Jehane Mor. “I take it we can rely on your silence?”

  The herald inclined her head, but Malian saw the doubt in Alianor. “It’s Oakward business,” the damosel said slowly, “but—how do you know a dancer of Kan from the River, Hamar? I think that has to be Oakward business as well.”

  “Lord Falk knows the answer to that question, Alli.” Kalan’s eyes remained steady on hers. “Will you trust me long enough for us all to speak with him?”

  She was silent, still frowning, but finally nodded. “So long as I’m there, too.” She made a face as she looked from Malian to Jehane Mor, then back to the squire she knew as Hamar. “I think I deserve that, as the bait in your trap.”

  Kalan looked as though he wanted to protest that it hadn’t been his trap, then he grinned, just a little. “Fair enough.” His eyes, gray with the flecks of gold Malian had first noticed in the Old Keep, five years before, found hers. “So Maister Carick remains in place, I take it?”

  “Until we’ve spoken with Lord Falk, at least,” Malian replied. The moment stretched, a little awkwardly, until Jehane Mor went to the window overlooking the yard and Alianor closed her eyes. Her bloodied knife lay beside her on the settle, and after a moment Kalan picked it up and wiped the blade clean on his already bloodstained tunic. Alianor opened her eyes briefly, then closed them again. She looked exhausted, and momentarily, as he replaced the knife by her hand, Kalan did, too.

  Over five years, Malian reflected, since we said good-bye in the Winter Country and began our separate journeys south—and now we have nothing to say to each other. Yet she was the Heir of Night, born to the Blood that had led the Derai Alliance from the beginning. On the Derai Wall, it would be up to her to bridge whatever gap time had opened up between them.

  Although we are not on the Wall now. But Malian pushed that coward’s thought away. “Before we left the Winter Country,” she said, speaking in Derai again, “we agreed that we must never change to each other. Five years is a long time and the circumstances difficult, I know, but even so . . . I am glad to see you again. My friend.”

  For one hollow instant she thought Kalan might refuse to take the hand she held out, but then the hint of reserve eased and he clasped her hand between both of his. “Malian,” he said into her mind, and this time her name was recognition and greeting rather than an invocation of power. His lips parted, as though he meant to say something more aloud, but Jehane Mor spoke from the window, breaking the moment.

  “The others are coming,” she said quietly. So when Girvase appeared in the doorway a moment later, Kalan was standing beside Alianor, and Maister Carick was back in place.

  Chapter 26

  Fires for Imuln

  The rest of the day was wearily long. Lord Falk dispatched strong patrols to scour the nearby woods and another to secure the Normarch route. Once there, they had orders to join up with Ser Bartrand, who had ridden hard for the castle the day before with an advance guard, and return as soon as possible with carts and horse litters to transport the wounded. Those left behind disinterred the pit beside the stable: the bodies of the outlaws went into another, much larger trench dug close to the edge of the wood, while the Normarch dead were reburied in a long grave outside the fort.

  Too many dead, Malian thought, as she listened to Lord Falk speak the committal: Darin, his remains retrieved from the hill; Gille and Guyon, Arn, Tibalt, and Sark. Malian studied Ghiselaine’s face, pale as skimmed milk against the bright bell of her hair, and guessed that she would be feeling the weight of every name, dead because of her careless folly as much as her place in Emer’s fragile peace. Audin stood close on the young Countess’s right, with Ilaise on her left, as though between them they would shore her up. Knight and battle maid, Malian thought—and look though she might, she could find no sign of the spoilt, feckless Normarch damosel in Ilaise’s expression.

  Both Kalan and Girvase turned their faces away as Lord Falk spoke the final invocation, first to Serrut, the guardian of journeys, and then to Imuln. Jarna shifted closer on Kalan’s other side, and Malian saw his hand reach out and take hers; he did not release it until a dark mound of freshly turned earth was raised above the grave.

  “We’ll come back,” Raher said, his voice ragged, “and build a cairn here, with all their names etched into the stone.”

  Kalan shook his head. “No, a plaque—cast in bronze. I’ll make it, with Welun’s help.”

  But who, Malian wondered, will pass by to see the cairn and read the names? She did not speak the thought aloud, though, just followed the rest as they trudged across the plateau to where a pyre had been raised, close by the pit for the outlaw dead. The bodies of the were-hunters—half human, half beast even in death, but returned to natural size with the failure of their magic—had been piled onto it, while the corpses of the two who had assumed Malisande and Selia’s faces lay together at one end. In Emer, as on the Wall, the bodies of demons and those who had been possessed by them were always burned in order to prevent any trace of the evil lingering.

  Fires for Imuln, Malian thought, as Herun thrust a torch into one end of the pyre and Solaan lit the other—though this was no Summer’s Eve celebration, despite the orange flames licking swiftly through the dry wood. She bit her lip and glanced aside, only to find Raven watching her, the flames coloring his face where he stood behind Lord Falk. She held his gaze for a moment, as though puzzled, and then looked away, because that was what Carick would do.

  The rough-edged knight had slipped into the background now that Lord Falk was here, with little outward sign of the man who had led them safely through the hills in the dark, then into battle at The Leas—and held them together through the night of siege. None of the damosels or squires would still be alive without him, Malian was reasonably sure of that. Normarch itself might not have survived if the horde had not been kept at bay here, but instead swept down on the under-garrisoned castle before Lord Falk could return.

  The Darkswarm, Malian thought, her unseeing eyes fixed on the pyres, had made a bold play. If it had worked as intended, Audin and Kalan’s analysis could well have proven true: the north lost and civil war in Emer over Ghiselaine’s death, cutting the River off from the lands further south. Although it had been Tarathan, in fact, who had drawn the implication for the River. Malian glanced around at the heralds, who were almost as self-effacing as Raven in their travel-stained grays. Not that anyone caught in the siege would be convinced by their quiet demeanor again, having seen Tarathan fight and watched Jehane Mor summon Imuln’s moon early, into the Summer’s Eve sky.

  Something about that niggled as Malian watched the pyre flames roar higher. She could not shake the feeling that she was missing part of a puzzle—and perhaps more than one piece, given her suspicion that Darkswarm agents might have been working against each other on the Northern March.

  Everyone was turning away from the pyres now, all except Herun, Solaan, and a squad of guards who would stand watch until every corpse had burned to gray ash. Lord Falk crossed to where Carick was standing. “You and I,” the Castellan said quietly, “must talk, Maister Carick. We will use the upstairs room, since Alianor wishes to be present.” His gaze found Kalan. “You, too, Hamar. And bring the heralds, if you please.”

  Now, Malian thought ruefully, I have some explaining to do. She glanced at Kalan, but he was already turning toward the heralds and his mindvoice remained silent.

  Five years, Malian reflected again. Maybe he is more a squire of Emer now than he is Derai. She wondered why that possibility had never occurred to her before, even when the distance between Emer and Ar had challenged their few snatched conversations through Nhenir—communication that had eventually stopped altogether as they both became absorbed
in their new lives.

  She had thought Lord Falk’s summons might provoke curiosity from the rest of the company, but most of the squires and damosels were still gathered close together, intent on their own somber conversations. Only Raven glanced around as she started up the stairs, but the knight’s glance was casual as he continued on into the old stable. Malian shrugged inwardly and stepped through the chamber door to find Alianor sitting upright on the stone bench, her hands gripped together, while Lord Falk stood by the eastern window. She inclined her head to the Castellan, who studied her with the same considering stare as the fox mask beyond the Gate of Dreams.

  “Alianor says you’re an assassin,” Lord Falk said, as soon as Kalan and the heralds had entered the room behind her. “Although you have not harmed us yet, she fears the reasons behind your coming here.”

  And you? thought Malian. What do you fear?

  “And I,” Lord Falk continued, as though catching the echo of her thought, “wonder why you felt the need to deceive us with the mask of a River scholar?”

  “Lord Falk—” Kalan began, but the Castellan shook his head.

  “Not yet. I want to hear what Maister Carick has to say.”

  Malian continued to meet Lord Falk’s gaze. “The River scholar is not a deceit,” she replied. “I am an adept of the Shadow Band, but I also trained as a cartographer at the university. I’ve worked the Ijir as a barge hand during the River summers as well.” She paused, deliberately not looking the heralds’ way. “I take it you know what happened in Ij, earlier this spring?”

  Lord Falk did look at the heralds, with a slight nod of acknowledgment. “Yes. The Guild itself sent word via another herald pair that was traveling south. We also spoke with the envoy from Ishnapur when he and his company broke their journey here, on their way to the River. I assume you are familiar with that business, too?”

  Malian nodded, because she had seen the Shadow Band’s reports on the Ishnapuri ambassador and the demonhunter he had brought with him. Cairon, an Elite of the Band, had had eyes-and-ears at their meeting with Prince Ilavine as well, and she had read the account of what was said in the pavilion outside Ij. “The Guild sent out many messengers after Ij,” she said, “including to the prince and council of Ar, who brought in the Shadow Band. We wanted to know how many more such webs had been spun, further afield than Ij, or even the River—and to flush out other facestealers abroad in Haarth.”

  “And at the same time,” Lord Falk said, “my foster brother—conveniently it would seem—sent to Ar for a cartographer.”

  “Yes.” Malian paused again, but no one spoke, although she could almost feel their close attention. “Of all the River cities, Ar has the closest ties to Emer, including those of family since a princess of Ar married the grandfather of your current Duke.”

  Lord Falk’s fox eyes gleamed. “So for reasons of family feeling the Prince of Ar has sent a Shadow Band adept, disguised as a cartographer, as envoy to our Duke?”

  Put like that, Malian thought wryly, it did not sound good. “I am charged with a warning to Duke Caril, yes,” she replied. “But the Elite also thought my journey here, if talked about openly, would offer an apparently easy victim to any facestealer seeking access to the Duke.”

  “So you were bait?” Lord Falk was thoughtful. “That could explain why the wolfpack pursued you so tenaciously through the pass—as well as why the city-reared maister eluded them for so long. And Ser Raven? Is he your accomplice in this business?”

  Malian thought it prudent to let her surprise show. “No. His arrival on the scene was pure chance.”

  The heralds had been listening quietly, but now they spoke as one. “We do not believe in luck. And we feel much the same way about chance.”

  Malian met their eyes. “It was chance for me,” she said. “I had never met him before.”

  Lord Falk was still regarding her closely. “So the bait was taken up, although the attempt on you in the Long Pass failed. Which brings us to Maister Gervon, Selia, and Malisande—a viper’s nest of facestealers, it would seem, with Gervon the only one we already suspected.”

  Malian nodded, remembering what Malisande had said at the last, which tallied with the Band’s report on Sarifa of Ishnapur’s advice to the Ilvaine kin. “I think the facestealing had driven him mad,” she said. Gervon might also, she guessed, have been reacting to some taint of the Derai about her, even if he had not been aware of it.

  “I don’t see how he could have had anything to do with the Long Pass, though,” Kalan put in, “since he was traveling to Normarch with Lord Falk while you were fleeing the wolfpack. But I do think he saw an opening and intended to assume your identity.”

  Malian looked around at their intent faces, Alianor frowning a little but the rest impossible to read. “The Malisande facestealer thought so as well,” she told them. “That’s why she killed him. She said as much before she died.”

  Lord Falk looked more thoughtful than ever. “So Alianor told me earlier. And that this one facestealer, at least, did not want the Countess of Ormond dead. Interesting, don’t you agree?” Malian saw her nod echoed by the heralds, and then by Kalan, before the Castellan continued: “I am not ungrateful to you, Maister Adept, for the part you have played—although I do wish that you had been more open in your dealings with me.”

  Malian bowed, a gesture that mingled apology and regret. “The thing about facestealers, my lord, is that they may assume anyone’s appearance.”

  “Even mine, eh?” After a moment, Lord Falk nodded. “A fair point. Although I think the trap sprung here on the Northern March has turned out to be larger than any of us would have believed.”

  “Yet may only be one part of what is at play in Emer.” The heralds still spoke as one, and Lord Falk nodded again.

  “You’re right. So much hangs on the single thread that is Countess Ghiselaine’s life. We cannot assume that our enemies will stop simply because this attempt failed. I am also intrigued,” Lord Falk added softly, “that these facestealers knew where in Emer to find and infiltrate the Oakward.”

  “Allies in high places.” Kalan’s mindvoice was grim, and she saw the same understanding reflected in the others’ faces. But Lord Falk was watching her again, his expression speculative.

  “Alianor also claims that you’re a young woman, not the man we thought you.”

  “And somehow, Hamar knows her,” Alianor put in, “even though he came to us as your ward, my lord. A Sondsangre,” she added, shooting a defiant glance between Kalan and Lord Falk, “from your liege-hold by Aldermere.”

  Kalan shifted his weight, but said nothing. Sondsangre, Malian thought, amused in spite of herself at the play on Kalan’s House of Blood lineage. Lord Falk smiled at the uneasy damosel. “He is my ward, Alianor, and I gifted the Aldermere manor to him”

  “Since to be a knight of Emer either the knight or his family must hold land,” Kalan explained silently

  Malian had to fight to keep her face impassive. Lord Falk, she realized, had made Hamar Sondsangre real, not just a cover story—and bound Kalan to Emer at the same time. Clever fox, she thought, reluctantly appreciative.

  “But he came to us from beyond Emer,” the Castellan continued. He did not, Malian noted, say “from the River,” although Alianor would probably interpret his words that way. Lord Falk’s gaze met Malian’s again, guileless. “I can see what Alianor means about you, though, now she has pointed it out. Here in Emer we’re taught that magic has largely fled the River, but your illusions are both profound and very well woven.”

  “I almost didn’t recognize you when we first met,” Kalan agreed. She could hear his inward grin through the mindvoice. “But I made sure I was the one who got Maister Carick to bed that first night at the inn. I don’t think even your deep illusions would have fooled Manan long if she’d seen you without clothes.”

  Malian recalled waking that first morning at the inn and wondering how she had gotten where she was—but because of the depth of illus
ion cloaking her, any concern had never been more than a nebulous unease. She also remembered the amusement that had flickered in Tarathan’s eyes when they first met, and her disorientation around both heralds—ripples across the illusion weave because she had known them before and her hidden identity was beginning to rouse.

  “There’s more power in the River than many realize,” she told Lord Falk, before the moment stretched for too long. She glanced at the heralds again. “But for a long time there’s been little need to use it.”

  “And now there is, not just on the River but here as well.” Lord Falk nodded, as though reaching a decision. “A time for alliances perhaps. I, for example, see benefit in continuing the fiction of Maister Carick, who can remain close to Countess Ghiselaine once she journeys to Caer Argent for Midsummer. Or has the Band charged you with other orders, Maister Adept?”

  “No,” said Malian.

  The speculation in Lord Falk’s eyes had become measuring. “But I spoke of alliance, and you will wish for something in return. Something,” he added, switching to recognizable but awkwardly accented Derai, “to meet the personal objectives that brought you into Emer? For you, unless I am mistaken, must be Kalan’s liege, the Heir of the Derai?”

  This time the silence did stretch. Alianor, excluded by Lord Falk’s use of Derai, was frowning, while the heralds remained impassive and gave the appearance of waiting. For what? Malian wondered. What do they truly seek in all this? Kalan had moved to the window opposite Lord Falk, the one that overlooked the courtyard. Checking for listeners, Malian supposed, remembering how keenly he could both hear and see. Although this long deferred meeting between his old and new lives must be difficult for him, so perhaps he just needed to move away.

  “When he took me in as his ward, five years ago,” Kalan said, into her mind, “one condition was that I must tell him my full story. The other was that I teach him Derai.”