The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  The Morning priests nearby exchanged uneasy glances, but Garan simply nodded, as though the man had spoken courtesy rather than its opposite. He let his horse move off and the rest of the Night riders followed, although they were careful not to turn their backs on the Stone contingent.

  “So the rumors are true,” Ter murmured, when they were far enough away. “They are worse then Blood warriors.” Nerys snorted, but no one else spoke. The risk of their words carrying back to the Stone priests was too great.

  They pitched camp quickly, getting the horses fed and watered and their campfire built up before twilight became full night. Keron and Eanar were on cooking duty, while Ter and Innor, both experienced boundary campaigners, wove together a brushwood screen against the wind. “It’s easier than the loose stones we have to use on most border patrols,” Ter said, when Haimyr came to see how they did it.

  Innor made a face. “Not that we’d need it, if we’d found more civil company here and could camp in the lee of the hills.”

  Haimyr glanced at the outline of the surrounding hills, low and rounded in the dusk. “Ay, that would be pleasanter—although your screen does keep off the worst of the wind.” He pulled his cloak more tightly around him and settled into the shelter of the brushwood, unwrapping his harp and beginning to test the strings.

  “It’s always like this in the Gray Lands,” Eanar said, looking up from the vegetables he was peeling, although the small knife continued to move deftly. “The wind never stops blowing. It’s always a sly wind, too. The only place it eases off is close to Jaransor, although it doesn’t pay to get too close to those hills.”

  As the High Steward Nhairin found out, Garan thought. He repressed a shudder, remembering the physical and mental wreck of the former steward, whom Westwind scouts had found on the borders of Jaransor the summer after the Heir was lost. Even now, Garan wished that he had not been one of those chosen to escort the Earl to Westwind, and so seen what the scouts had brought back. Many on the Earl’s council had called for Nhairin’s death as a traitor, but the Earl had invoked the old tradition that said the mad were sacred to the Nine and could not be held accountable for their crimes. The council had decried his decision as unwarranted mercy, but Garan had seen the Earl’s face as they left the Westwind tower room where Nhairin was being held. Privately, he still had his doubts about the mercy.

  “Dark thoughts,” Haimyr said. His tone was light, but Garan heard the question beneath it.

  “Old ones,” he replied shortly, because it was not something he wanted to talk about. Besides, the minstrel was as close to a friend as the Earl had, which was why the commander had sent them to fetch him back from the River. But who really knew how much it was safe to say either to or around him? Although, Garan reminded himself, Haimyr had also been Nhairin’s friend once. “Best not play any of our Night songs with that Stone lot so close,” he said, changing the subject. “Who knows how they’d take it?”

  Haimyr just shrugged, but when he did begin to play later, after they had eaten and night closed in, he chose a wordless melody that Garan had never heard before. The notes were delicate and pure, curving beneath the occasional snap of the flames and out into the surrounding dark. The tune was simple, both sweet and sad at the same time, and Garan could see the heads of the Morning priests silhouetted against their own campfire as they turned to listen. The Stone priests kept their faces turned away.

  The minstrel’s hands fell quiet on the strings, and Garan wondered if everyone listening felt the same way he did: like a prince in one of the old stories, waking out of a trance. “What song was that?” Innor asked finally, and the golden head lifted.

  “It was composed by a minstrel of Ij who served a great lord, but fell in love with the lord’s wife. The melody was written for her and has endured beyond many works that were grander and more imposing.”

  Simple tunes often did, Garan reflected, like the marching airs of Night that were still sung by the guards, while the sagas and song-cycles of the great Derai heroes were only heard on special occasions.

  “It would be pleasant to be loved like that,” Asha said softly, and the others grinned, because Asha was renowned in the barracks for always wanting stories about romantic vows and doomed love. She had been promoted from the Keep garrison after the Swarm attack five years before, one of the few guards who had managed to survive the ambush that killed the former Keep Commander and most of his troop. Her shield comrade, Lawr, another survivor of that disaster, was on watch with Ter in the darkness beyond their camp perimeter.

  “Well, the minstrel’s love did the lady no good,” Haimyr said, “as is so often the way in these cases.”

  “What other River songs do you have?” Eanar asked, and Garan realized that he had never heard that question asked before, either on their journey here or in all the years the minstrel had been playing for them in the Keep of Winds. Always, they asked him for the old Derai songs or the new ones he had made for them.

  Haimyr played a stern sonorous chord. “The Patrol refrain, from the River Merchant cycle.” A ripple of notes followed. “A rowing song, from the River galleys. And this”—the tune became eerie, with a thread of darkness through it—“is the opening sequence from the ballad that tells of the founding of the Shadow Band to ensure that Kelmé, the child prince of Ar, lived to grow up.”

  “Play us that one,” Innor said. She stretched her hands toward the fire as a thin bark coughed out, somewhere in the darkness. A moment later the coughing bark repeated and the Stone priests were on their feet, staves bristling.

  Garan stood more slowly, in case one of them had a bow. “Rat-fox,” he said, pitching his voice so they could hear. “They live in burrows beneath the plain and come out at night.” He did not add that Night’s patrols into the Gray Lands used the coughing bark as a signal. “They call like that if they’ve been disturbed. Someone’s coming.”

  The Stone priests did have bows. Garan caught the movement as arrows were fitted onto strings. “They may be friends,” he cautioned.

  “And they may not!” the leader of the Stone priests retorted.

  He’s right there, Garan thought. He himself would not be happy to see more Stone priests right now.

  The rat-fox bark came again, followed by the brief twitter of a disturbed bird: Ter or Lawr letting them know that a small company of riders was approaching. Garan looked to Nerys and saw that she already had her bow ready. “Take Asha and Eanar out with you—and stay there even when these others come in. We leave nothing to chance until we’re sure.” He saw that the Stone priests had formed a square, two rows deep, around the Morning priests they were escorting—useful for a close quarters attack, Garan thought grimly, but not if someone else has archers out there in the night.

  Nerys and her companions melted away, joining Ter and Lawr in the brush, while the rest of the Night guards looked to their weapons. Haimyr seemed absorbed by the need to pack his harp away. Garan could not see his expression, but the minstrel was a cool one: he would keep his head and his nerve. The rat-fox barked again, twice in quick succession, and was answered from further out on the plain. “Night riders,” Innor said softly. “They’ll not like that,” she added, without looking at the Stone priests.

  A few minutes later shod hooves rang against stone and a voice called out, confirming the newcomers as Night. Ter answered, pitching his voice to carry to the camp as he named the Houses present at the Standing Stone. You could always rely on Ter, Garan thought—he had warned whoever was out there what awaited them, while keeping his tone matter-of-fact. Garan hoped it might persuade the Stone priests to relax a little, but he saw no evidence of that in the brief seconds before the newcomers rode in. The Morning priests, in the center of their escort’s square, looked strained and nervous, and Garan felt a brief flash of sympathy. Morning was not a warlike House and yet here they were, out in wild country and likely to be caught—or so they must fear—by the bitter enmity that lay between their escort and their unwelcom
e fellow travelers.

  “Keep an eye on those Stone priests,” Garan muttered to Innor. He moved as close to the camp edge as seemed prudent—and then the riders were there, emerging out of the darkness almost on top of him. Mainly black horses and black gear, but not messenger horses: Garan recognized Aeln, Sergeant Sarus’s second in the Honor Guard, with young Morin carrying the pennant, and then the Commander of Night, Asantir herself, rode into the light of their campfire.

  Garan snapped to the salute, thinking how grand his former captain had grown. Asantir’s clothes and armor might still be plain black, but Night’s winged horse insignia on her breastplate gleamed with gold, ruby, and diamond. Even the cuffs of her gauntlets were worked with gold thread—necessary, Garan knew, for the prestige of Night, but out of keeping with the Keep Commander’s austere expression and keen dark eyes. “Commander!” he said.

  “Garan.” Asantir acknowledged the rest of the guards’ salutes as well, her gaze taking in the hostile company of Stone priests before finally resting on Haimyr. “Well met, my friend,” she said to the minstrel. “Light and safety on your road.”

  Haimyr bowed, all grace. “Honor to you and to your House,” he replied, his use of the formal response instantly putting the Stone priest’s earlier ill manners to shame. Garan thought someone in their ranks cursed, but could not be sure above the movement of the horses. Asantir was already swinging down from the saddle to embrace the minstrel, the formal gesture of a guest friendship that had lasted for more than twenty years.

  “Why are you out here?” Haimyr asked. “Surely you’ve not come to meet me?”

  Asantir stepped back. “I have. Eria told us that her half of the talisman she gave Garan for the journey had begun to glow, so we knew you were close. There have been several incursions along the passes already this season, so I decided we should strengthen your escort through them, back to the Keep—and at the same time give Var and Vern added protection on the most dangerous stage of their journey to the Sea Keep.”

  Garan, looking past her, saw the two young priests toward the rear of the company. They still wore the silver-gray robes of initiates, although with the black trim and winged-horse emblem that denoted those who kept the new five-year-old watch on the portals between the New Keep of Winds and the Old. Vern was studying the Stone priests, his expression serious, but Var smiled slightly when he caught Garan’s eye.

  “Asantir the Apostate—so called.” The head of the Stone contingent had left his defensive square and moved forward, flanked on either side by two of his fellow priests. The priest to his immediate right had a knot of burgundy on his tabard: the second-in-command, Garan guessed. “The great Commander of Night nursemaids a River catamite while her Earl locks himself away, mad with bitterness and grief for his outsider whore.”

  Something’s not right here, Garan thought, as Asantir turned to face the newcomer. The House of Adamant’s hostility toward the warrior Houses was one of the major divisions that had defined the Derai Alliance for centuries, but assassination and blades in the back was their style, not open confrontation. Unless—and here Garan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry—Adamant had finally decided to break the treaty that had ended the civil war five hundred years ago: the one that bound all Nine Houses to never again use the old powers against other Derai.

  Before Asantir could reply, three of the Morning priests had left their place within the Stone priests’ square and hurried forward. The central figure was elderly and obviously stiff, using a stick for aid. A woman, Garan realized as she stopped beside Torlun. It had been difficult to tell at first glance, because just as the Stone priests all shaved their heads, those from Morning wore theirs cropped very short. A middle-aged man and younger woman accompanied their elder, and although they kept their faces calm, Garan saw the rapid pulsing of a vein in the man’s temple, and the tremor in the young woman’s hands before she thrust them into the folds of her robe.

  “Torlun, no,” the old woman said. “This is no time or place to pick over old quarrels.”

  “Isn’t it?’ Torlun looked down his nose, his eyes still fixed on Asantir. “I say differently. In any case, this is Stone Keep business, old woman, not yours.”

  “You are contracted as our escort,” she protested.

  His answering laugh was short. “You are under my orders for this journey to your House of Peace kin—that’s in the contract, too, if your old eyes are capable of reading the print. Just as Stone Keep business must always take precedence.”

  “And what,” Asantir put in calmly, “is the Stone Keep’s business with me?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? The Keep Commander of our greatest enemy.” Torlun widened his stance a little. “A meddling, interfering Keep Commander, always riding here and riding there, seeking to erode our power base with new alliances for Night. Don’t think we don’t see what you’re about.”

  Asantir’s expression was thoughtful. “Is the House of Night your greatest enemy?” she asked. “What of the Swarm of cursed name?”

  Torlun sneered. “Yes, we know how hard you’re peddling that story along the Wall. ‘If Night falls, all fall’: that’s worked in your favor for a long time, but some of us just don’t believe in it, or your failing House, anymore. Time for Night to fall, we say, so a more fitting House can lead the Derai.”

  “And that would be you?” Asantir asked, so mildly that the three Morning priests relaxed a little.

  “Why not?” Torlun demanded. His expression grew predatory. “Night used to be powerful in the magics that define the Derai, but now Stars, ourselves, even your Sea House lackeys, are stronger. You’ve abrogated your right to lead the Nine Houses.”

  “Unless,” his second said, “you can prove otherwise.” His smile was unpleasant. “Of course, if you can’t, you’ll be dead.”

  “Boras!” the old Morning priestess said again. “Torlun, this is unacceptable—”

  Without looking around, Torlun backhanded her across the face. He did not wear a mailed gauntlet as a warrior would have done, but he was a big man and the old woman was knocked sprawling, blood welling from her mouth. The younger priestess sprang to support her, while her male companion stared at the Stone priests, anger, shock, and fear warring in his face.

  “We have waited for this opportunity,” Torlun said. “We won’t let it pass us by.” His lip curled. “And you needn’t think those bedtime stories the warrior Houses are peddling—the ones about your tampering with the Oath—are going to save you.”

  “I tamper with nothing,” Asantir said. Garan recognized her dangerous edge, like the sheen of a blade before battle, but wondered if the Stone priests did. They had evicted the remaining Morning priests from their armed square, which now formed a compact knot behind Torlun and his escort. The Morning priests were huddled around their elderly leader, looking as if they had woken to find a nightmare real.

  “The bedtime stories are true,” Var said, urging his horse forward while Vern followed more slowly, his dark face set.

  “Bootlickers,” Boras said contemptuously. “It’s as we’ve always thought, you’ve abandoned your birthright to grovel at the warrior kind’s feet.”

  Var went white. “That’s not true—” he began, but Asantir checked him with a gesture.

  “They’re baiting you, Var,” she said quietly. “Don’t let them.” The young priest nodded, pressing his lips together tightly, but Vern was frowning at the Stone priests.

  “Commander,” he said, the rough burr in his voice pronounced, “they’re building power against us within their square. I can feel it.”

  “They are,” Torlun mocked. His grin was sharklike. “And what can you do about it, just the pair of you? As for the rest—” His gaze flicked across the assembled Night guards, contemptuous. “You’ve actively disarmed yourselves all these years. Now you pay the price.”

  Garan had to force himself not to show his unease, because he could feel something now, a sensation as though the air itself was push
ing at him. He knew the other guards would be feeling it, too, although Asantir still seemed very calm, almost . . . indifferent, Garan decided, puzzled. Var and Vern were both sweating, their expressions set. Trying to block whatever the Stone priests were doing, no doubt—but as Torlun had said, there were only two of them to oppose sixteen, and Garan could feel the pushing sensation building. Stay steady, he told himself: follow the captain’s lead.

  Asantir was still watching Torlun, and Garan thought there might be an assessing quality to her stare now. He could not be sure without moving to get a clear view of her face—and movement, he reflected, might well trigger the Stone priests into all-out violence: not a winning strategy right now. Torlun’s stance remained assured as he met Asantir’s gaze, but the line of his mouth had tightened. He frowned sideways at his second-in-command. “Boras, this is taking too long.”

  “Someone is helping them,” Boras said tightly. “Deflecting our force.” He swung around to glare at the Morning priests. “If it’s you—”

  The young woman raised a protective arm. “We’re not!” she said. “You know we are forbidden to fight.”

  The old Morning priestess had propped herself into a sitting position, and her gaze darted between the Stone priests and the Night company. Her male companion’s eyes were narrowed on Asantir. “She must be immune to power,” he said slowly. “It would explain that story—how she could have slain a siren worm.”

  Everyone stared then, even the Stone priests. Asantir’s brows went up. “Even if I were,” she said, “I doubt the effect would stretch to cover all my companions.” Which was undoubtedly true: Garan saw the recognition of that in all the priests’ faces. “Perhaps,” Asantir went on, addressing Torlun, “your powers are not so great as you thought. But although your companions of Morning may be forbidden to fight, we are not.” Deliberately, she shifted her hands to the hilts of the two blades—one long, one short—at her belt.

  “Commander, I beg of you—” The old Morning priestess threw out an imploring hand. “Do not draw those swords.”