by Helen Lowe
Boras’s gaze darted from Asantir to the blades, while Torlun’s lip curled. “Another crawler,” he said. “Do you think we don’t know how to deal with swords?”
“Fool!” The old woman spoke with asperity despite her cut and bruised mouth. “She’s carrying black blades—that’s how she defeated the siren worm five years ago. That’s where all your power is going now, too, unless I much mistake the matter.”
“Black blades—fables for children!” Boras said, but Garan noticed they had all taken a step back.
Torlun looked openly doubtful now, his eyes shifting to the sword hilts beneath Asantir’s hands. Slowly, he took another step back. “You know this isn’t over.”
“No?” said Asantir. “I think that it is. Quite over.”
Chapter 29
The Commander of Night
Torlun hesitated. Trying to think of a comeback, Garan guessed, although everyone knew the confrontation had ended once he took that first step away. Everyone, that is, except Boras. Torlun’s second snarled something, whether threat or curse, Garan would never afterward be sure, and drew the knife at his belt. The young Morning priestess cried out as Boras sprang, the knife hand rising—and an arrow flew out of the darkness and pierced the Stone priest through the throat.
Nerys, thought Garan, as Boras collapsed to his knees, his hands clawing for the arrow and blood spurting from his mouth. Or perhaps Lawr, but most likely Nerys with so sure a shot. Boras looked surprised, and then blank, before collapsing forward. The other Stone priests brought their staves up, but—“I really wouldn’t,” said Asantir.
Garan wondered how the Stone priests could possibly have forgotten about the Night guards on watch beyond the camp perimeter. But perhaps they had counted on being able to use their power quickly, before anyone else realized what was going on.
Torlun’s hands clenched into fists as his companions picked up Boras’s body. “I claim blood debt for this,” he grated out.
No one said anything. Boras had been party to provoking the encounter and he had drawn a weapon first, so there were no grounds for blood feud under Derai law—but that had not prevented blood feud being called in the past, particularly since the civil war. Torlun and his followers retreated, pausing only long enough for their leader to spit at the huddle of Morning priests. The gobbet landed wetly on the edge of the old priestess’s robe. “Cowards and fools,” Torlun said. “Why should we risk ourselves protecting weaklings? Consider our contract at an end.” He stalked away, snapping out a command to the Stone contingent, who immediately began breaking camp.
“Do we let them go, Commander?” Aeln asked. “He meant it about the blood feud.”
“Murdering them instead won’t help matters,” Asantir said, very dry.
Aeln fiddled with his sword hilt and shifted his feet. Thinking things through, Garan reflected, was not the guard’s strongest point. “What about the Morning priests, Commander?” he asked quietly. “They’ll never survive out here on their own.”
“I know. We’ll have to offer them an escort.” The commander began walking toward the Morning contingent, her boots crunching on the stony ground.
“They’re still Derai,” Garan explained to Aeln, who was looking indignant and perplexed at the same time. “We might as well kill them outright as leave them to make their own way.” He started after Asantir, then turned back. “And get some guards between the commander and that Stone lot. We’re not the only ones with bows.”
Too slow on the uptake, Garan thought, exasperated. Typical of one of Lannorth’s recruits, although at least if you pointed Aeln in the right direction he could usually see his way—like now, as he ordered a cordon of guards forward.
Asantir had sunk onto her heels beside the old priestess. “That mouth looks bad, Mother.” It must be the polite way to address Morning priests, Garan supposed; as Commander of Night, Asantir would know such things. “I have a medic who can look at it, if you wish.”
The Morning priests drew closer together. “We look after our own,” the male priest said curtly.
Not very well, Garan thought, then glanced away, abashed, as the old woman looked straight at him. Could Morning priests read thoughts? he wondered uneasily. Had anyone ever been able to, for that matter, in the long history of the Derai?
The old woman rested a hand on her companion’s wrist. “The commander means no disrespect, my son. Commander, I thank you, but my own people can provide the help I need.”
“That’s right!” a voice jeered from the Stone priest contingent. “Crawl to the Night bitch, you weaklings!”
Some of the Morning priests hunched their shoulders as though this jibe cut, but their leader shook her head. “They only see the stone wall in front of their noses,” she said to Asantir. “But they are right, whether we go on to the Keep of Bells or turn back for our own Towers, we are not equipped to cross these lands.”
Asantir looked from the old woman’s battered face to those of the priests surrounding her. “I will give you an escort, if that is what you wish, Mother.” Her smile glinted. “After all, I think I may owe you. Or did I misread events?”
The other priests exchanged puzzled glances, but the old priestess looked almost mischievous.
“I’ve heard you are a clever one, Commander. My son here thought you were immune, but how could that be, when only the Darksworn, in all our long history, have ever had that power?”
It must have been her broken mouth, Garan thought, that made it sound as though she said Darksworn, rather than Darkswarm. The middle-aged male priest had flushed, but Asantir was shaking her head.
“I am afraid that such matters have not been my study, but I am sure, given your learning, that you are right.”
“Courteous, too,” the priestess said. “Cut from the old cloth, indeed.” Despite her years, her eyes were still sharp. “Well, I’m glad to have met you, after all the stories we’ve been hearing.”
“And I, you,” Asantir replied. “Both for the help and your quick wits, thinking of black blades.”
All the surrounding priests were frowning now. “What does she mean, Grandmother?” the young priestess asked. “What help?”
The old lady made a brief, irritated gesture, but the male priest said, as though requiring an answer: “Mother?”
She looked suddenly tired. “Blocking is not fighting,” she pointed out.
Haimyr had come quietly up beside Garan and was listening, too, despite adverse looks from some of the Morning priests. Most of them, though, were staring at the old woman, their expressions deeply shocked.
“Mother—” the priest began.
She glared at him. “Should I have allowed what that Stone thug did to pass unanswered? Or stood by and let him injure the right hand of the only leader in five hundred years who is actively trying to reunite our people?” Her voice wavered suddenly, cracked and a little querulous.
Asantir rested a gauntleted hand on hers. “Do not fret, old Mother. Or doubt that I am grateful for what you did.”
The old eyes swiveled to her face, their expression shrewd again. “Oh, don’t think you can fool me, young woman, with those ways of yours. I know I did not save you—and that it is Torlun who owes me gratitude!” She peered more closely at Asantir. “What I heard in our Towers was that they really were black blades that you used against the siren worm.”
The Commander of Night smiled. “You know what rumor is, Mother. And stories are little better, for all our hearts beat faster when we hear the great ones told.” Pointedly, she looked at the other Morning priests. “I will let your people look after you now. Tomorrow you shall have your escort to wherever you decide to go.” She stood up, inclining her head to the old woman and those with her, then gazing across to where the Stone priests were finally departing. Amusement glinted again as she met Garan’s eyes. “You look disappointed, Garan. You didn’t really believe I was carrying black blades?”
Garan grinned, following her toward Aeln’s cordon. “T
he old lady was very convincing, Commander. As were you.” His eyes shifted toward the Stone priests “They believed it, after all.”
As well they did, he added silently—and I have always wondered about that siren worm, especially after the spear you brought into the Old Keep. Curiously, he glanced back at the old priestess. “She must be very strong, to block out all those Stone priests. And why didn’t her people know she was doing it?”
“Perhaps you should make it your business to find out, Garan,” Asantir suggested. “An Honor Guard, after all, should learn everything he can about his enemies—which for Night, officially includes the House of Morning.”
“Everyone in fact,” Haimyr put in lightly, “who is not an ally.” He appeared to reflect. “And perhaps all that are as well. One can never be too careful, after all.”
“One never knows what face an enemy may wear,” Asantir agreed, and Garan glanced from commander to minstrel, sensing undercurrents of meaning although their outward demeanor gave nothing away. He twitched his shoulders, listening to the slight ring of his mail shirt as the Stone contingent began to ride out. The Night riders had positioned their horses so they could not be overrun by a sudden charge, and Var and Vern watched intently, alert for power use.
Torlun stopped by the standing stone’s shadowed face and turned his own toward Asantir.
“Blood feud,” he said, “between your kin and mine, your House and mine, until this is done.” His gaze shifted to Var and Vern and he spat onto the ground. “Do not call yourself priest-kind. We do not recognize anyone who has traffic with warriors as priest-kind. Not anymore. We do not see you, we do not hear you: you are dead to us.” He leaned forward. “Expect no mercy if you come beneath our hand. Just as we showed no mercy to the Sea House whore you sent us, twenty years back.”
He leaned back again, smiling, as a stir ran along the Night line. “Did you think we would welcome her? She was already tainted beyond redemption: married to a warrior before he cast her off; contaminated, through him, by association with outsiders.” He did not look at Haimyr but everyone else did, a sideways dart of the eyes. The minstrel’s gaze was hooded, but Garan thought his expression looked unusually rigid. Torlun’s smile widened. “No, we beat her like any other cur and chained her in the kennels with the dogs, to be used like the bitch she was whenever it pleased us.”
Haimyr stepped forward, but Asantir gripped his arm. “I will respect the truce of the road, despite your words,” she said to Torlun, “but you had best leave now.”
The Stone priest threw up his head, half snarling, half laughing—but Innor trained her crossbow full on him and he kicked his horse forward without daring another word. Surprised by the sudden rake of spurs, the horse bounded forward into the darkness and the rest of the Stone priests followed in a rush, as though they had the sense to fear remaining behind.
“Commander, are you sure?” Aeln demanded. “You heard how they insulted Night! Surely only blood can answer such words?”
“You know,” Haimyr said, his voice silk, “I am inclined to agree.” The commander, Garan noted, still had not removed her hand from his arm.
“Technically,” Asantir said, “they did not insult Night—much as they sought to do so—since the Old Earl formally expelled Lady Nerion from our ranks. And the Earl, in case any of you have forgotten, has explicitly forbidden us to duel or skirmish with retainers from other Houses, no matter what the provocation.”
Innor frowned. “They will say that we are weak, Commander.”
“They are already saying it,” Morin added gloomily.
“But you know it is not true,” Asantir said. “As I know it. The Earl of Night has set a cause and a purpose on us: which of you would be the first to let him down?” She lifted her hand clear of Haimyr’s arm—and Garan was startled by the golden blaze of the minstrel’s eyes, although his familiar mocking smile was back in place.
“You are wise as always, Commander of Night,” Haimyr said, and his tone, too, was lightly mocking. “We will play the adults here and show restraint.”
“What do you mean ‘play’?” Garan demanded. He shook his head. “Nine knows, the Derai Alliance needs someone to be adult!”
Innor and Aeln immediately demanded to know what he meant by that as Nerys and the other guards came in out of the darkness, arrows still ready on their bows. They had not heard Torlun’s parting words, so had to be told. Then more hot words were spoken until Asantir cut them off by ordering the Night camp relocated into the lee of the hills, with fresh watches set around the perimeter of the Border Mark. She and her company had to eat as well, and by the time their meal was done the edge had gone from the honor guards’ anger.
The Morning priests had moved back to their former place, but there was little conversation between the two groups. Haimyr did not play again, but stood for a long time with his face turned in the direction the Stone priests had taken. Almost, Garan reflected, as though Torlun’s taunts had stung the minstrel’s honor as the Earl’s friend—an unsettlingly Derai response for an outsider, even one who had lived amongst the Derai for over twenty years.
It was not until those who were not on watch had settled down to sleep that the minstrel came back into the circle of their camp, and even then he sat staring into the fire, his eyes hooded. Asantir materialized out of the darkness and sank onto her heels beside him, holding out her hands to the flames. The two heads, one dark, one golden, were limned with copper as they gazed into the fire. When the minstrel spoke, his tone was thoughtful.
“So is there any truth in what the Stone priest said? That Tasarion has run mad? Is that why you called me back?”
“He’s not mad.” Asantir was matter-of-fact. “This blow has hit him very hard, though. And there have been so many others.” She met the minstrel’s eyes. “You are the only one of us who does not serve him, who can be just a friend.”
The minstrel’s golden brows drew together. “Even so, there’s something more, isn’t there—more than the Winter woman’s loss?” The angle of his head was a question, and Asantir nodded, her expression a mix of regret and distaste.
“The loss was sufficient reason. You’ll see when you meet him. But—with impeccable timing—we’ve been offered a marriage contract at last. A Daughter of Blood, so not the alliance we’d hoped for—and very young with it.” Abruptly, the Commander of Night stood up. She tossed the dregs from her cup onto the flames, which hissed then leapt up again, baleful against the darkness of the plain. “Given everything else, I wanted you back before I presented him with that.”
Part IV
Midsummer
Chapter 30
The Welcome Cup
A fist banged on the outside of the wagon where Malian was sleeping. “Wake up, Maister Carro,” Ado called. “We’re starting at sunup today whether everyone’s breakfasted or not.”
Malian burrowed deeper into her hollow between sacks of grain for the horses, armor and weapons stitched into oiled cloth and wrapped inside quilted sacking, and bales of brightly colored tourney pennants. She had been dreaming deeply, reliving the rain-spattered evening five years before when she and Linden, the Spring singer of the Winter people, had walked into the River’s northernmost trading post on the Wildenrush and found Cairon of Ar sitting by the autumn fire.
Even now, Malian wondered by what diverse means a message had gone out from the Winter Country and brought an Elite of the Shadow Band so far into the wilderness. But information, she had learned since, ran through Haarth like a river, often following its own secret, underground path and reemerging far from where it had disappeared. The years following that first, fireside meeting with Elite Cairon had been like shooting rapids on the Wildenrush, learning to follow the flow of that secret river and become one with the shadow world of the Band—while establishing the persona of Carick the scholar at the same time. Living in the sunshine, Malian thought drowsily, remembering Carick’s summers working the River barges. But whether shadow or sunshine, she un
derstood Kalan’s reluctance to return to the Wall.
She had left him the freedom to choose, five years ago in the Old Keep, when she refused to let him swear a blood oath of loyalty to her. Because I wanted a friend, Malian thought now, not just another Blood-sworn retainer. She made a face, mocking herself.
“A decision that did more credit to your heart than your head.” The voice of Nhenir, the moon-bright helm, was as cool as its name. “And being swayed by the heart is a luxury that the Heir of Night and Chosen of Mhaelanar cannot afford.”
Malian grimaced again and sat up, fully awake now, as a fist banged on the outside of the wagon again. “Last call, Maister Carro,” Raher sang out, sounding cheerful at the prospect of her missing breakfast.
“Coming!” she shouted back and stood up, smoothing the worst of the wrinkles out of her clothes and combing at her hair with her fingers. “Lord Falk has promised me the whereabouts of the Lost if I get Ghiselaine safely through Midsummer.” She paused, halfway through dragging on a boot. “Now if you were able to hunt out even a whiff of your comrades-in-arms, Yorindesarinen’s sword or shield, at the same time . . .”
Nhenir remained silent as Malian pulled on her second boot. Her adept’s weapons were already concealed about her person, but she eyed the helm sourly as she settled Maister Carick’s belt dagger into place. “To claim my birthright,” she said silently, “I will need power at my command. More than what you bring me on your own.”
Again, the helm did not reply, and Malian wondered, not for the first time, whether Nhenir simply did not want to concede any blindness to portents or events. She studied its current disguise—as one of the winged silver caps newly fashionable amongst the young men of Ar—for a moment longer, before stooping to unlace the wagon flap. But the decorative wings had made her think of the pattern tattooed onto Raven’s forearms, and the hair on her nape prickled.
