The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  A group of courtiers strolled past and Malian moved with them, assisting Nhenir by adjusting her pace and the rhythm of her walk to theirs. The guards waved them through, their expressions half bored, half envious. A short distance from the gate, the street opened out into a square, with a statue of some long dead Emerian hero at its center and plane trees around the periphery.

  Malian caught a stronger whiff of the Darkswarm taint at the corner, as though the shadow she followed had lingered there. She paused herself, searching for any evidence of assassin activity, but could detect none. The Normarch company had dismounted outside a town house of creamy stone on the far side of the square, with Lord Falk’s fox banner above the gate, while Girvase watered his horse at the trough outside a nearby inn. Malian waited, letting the courtier band move on without her.

  She was not surprised, a few moments later, when the heralds appeared in the gateway to the Normarch house, because Ilaise had said they intended accompanying Audin into the city. But she did blink at the little rush of gladness she felt as the torchlight cast a halo across Jehane Mor’s familiar, calm expression, and Tarathan’s clubbed braids.

  Malian began to work her way toward the house, easing from group to group with every shift and sway of the evening crowd. She would occasionally pause, as though listening to gossip or watching children play draughts beneath a tree. Once, she tossed a coin to a girl strumming a lute; a few paces further on she bought a skewer of grilled fish from a vendor’s stall.

  Odd, Malian reflected, enjoying the sweet-sour mix of the sauce, to be feeling momentary nostalgia for the small gray world of Normarch, when Caer Argent and the rivers of information that flowed through the Midsummer festival had always been her goal. Perhaps it was simply that the Normarch life had seemed so certain, the issues of survival on the edge of Emer clear-cut. She licked her fingers, letting her gaze move across the square—and saw a blot of darkness stir in the entrance to an unlit alley.

  Her seeker’s sense told her that the watcher’s attention was focused on the group outside the Normarch house. She shifted position so she could still see the alley while also taking in the town house entrance, where Raher was talking to the heralds. Kalan and Jarna had crossed to a booth selling Midsummer fruit, and Malian saw Jarna smile as Kalan hung long-stemmed cherries over her ears. They swung when the girl moved her head, glowing richer in the lanternlit dusk than any jewels worn by the great ladies of the Emerian court.

  Kalan leaned close, saying something, and Jarna ducked her head shyly, but she was still smiling. Malian, watching, was conscious of a pang that she had not felt before. Of something lost? she wondered. Or the confirmation, if she had needed it, that Kalan more than half belonged to Emer now? She bit her lip as Jarna glanced up again, the young knight’s feelings written all over her face for anyone who happened to be looking.

  Girvase led his horse back to the Normarch gate and the company mounted up. The heralds must have advised them not to disturb Audin, Malian supposed—but now the dark shadow was moving, too, following the Normarchers again although it kept well back. Malian sauntered in the same direction, keeping to the densest part of the crowd. A group of young men passed her, laughing as they headed toward the inn, and again she adjusted her pace, using their movement as a shield to reach the far side of the square. She found the watcher more quickly this time, pressed into a door arch halfway down the road the Normarch company had taken. Malian waited, ostensibly watching a noisy game of dice at the boundary of street and square, until the company disappeared around a corner and the shadow left the sheltering arch.

  Now it moved more swiftly, but no one in the evening crowd appeared to notice anything amiss. Malian moved quickly as well, slipping into a side lane and scaling the nearest house wall. From the wall, it was easy to reach the dwelling’s chimney and swarm up the roughly stacked stone. A cat looked down at her, surprised, then sprang away as she raced along the edge of the parapet, jumping the narrow gaps between the close-built houses until she could peer down onto the street the Normarchers had taken. They were just turning off it into another thoroughfare, but the shadow was still with them. Keeping to the rooftops, Malian ghosted after them all.

  The city’s Maraval gate was open and the watchmen there barely looked around as the Normarch company rode through. This time, though, the dark watcher turned away, finding another narrow alley and flowing up the walls and onto the rooftops. Malian pressed herself flat against tile and stone, only following when the shadow began to move away from her, eastward across the city. It gained speed as it went, billowing out like a cape, and she wondered exactly what kind of Swarm minion it was.

  The silent journey over the rooftops of Caer Argent ended in an area dominated by the homes of prosperous merchants, with the houses rising three and four levels to meet the sky. The garden into which the shadow descended was warded by sorcery. Malian could feel the grid of power from her rooftop on the far side of the street, and her lip curled at the unmistakable Darkswarm taint. Delicately, she let her awareness trace the rim of the wards, searching for any hint of weakness.

  The garden below the wall was cloaked in darkness, but stone steps rose out of it to join a small terrace, with lamplight gleaming through the floor-to-eave shutters beyond. Malian waited, patient, until the shadow glided up the steps and tapped on the shutter, a precise tattoo that carried clearly in the quiet night. She committed the pattern to memory, her fingers repeating it against the roof parapet as she counted silently, timing the seconds until the shadow watcher knocked again. The second sequence replicated the first exactly, she noted, as one panel of the shutters folded back.

  Malian recognized the figure that stepped put onto the terrace to search the night with a seeker’s mindsweep, although the last time she had seen its like had been in a dream. She remembered the long trailing robes and the head that was completely shaven except for the hank of plaited hair that curved down the right side of the androgynous face. Yet she was as sure, now, that the seeker was a woman as she had been in the white mists on Summer’s Eve.

  The seeker’s voice hissed and the shadowy figure replied. Malian noticed a hint of impatience in the low tone, just as she registered that the seeker’s sweep did not extend much beyond the line of established wards. Another voice spoke from inside, a man’s deep tone, and the hissing voice replied. The mindsweep probed the night again before the robed figure stepped aside, allowing the newcomer to enter.

  The air around the dark watcher bent, the shadows billowing outward again—and a human form emerged, stepping away from the smoky swirl of darkness and folding what looked like a cloak across his arm. Nherenor, Malian thought, recognizing him from the audience with the Duke—and could have laughed out loud for the sheer surprise of the shadow cloak. They were in all the stories, but until you saw the transformation take place . . . And it explained how Nherenor had blended into the light as he passed the torch above the castle courtyard.

  The mail corselet the young man wore over his otherwise plain black clothes rippled like the scales of a living fish as he stepped into the lighted room, lifting a hand to push his long hair back. He doesn’t look like a Swarm minion at all, Malian thought—which I suppose makes it certain he’s another facestealer.

  “Darksworn.” Nhenir’s mindvoice was sure, and Malian’s lips thinned. Another figure moved into the narrow frame of the open shutter before she could respond and she recognized Arcolin, wearing similar robes to the woman. He was holding what looked like an Ishnapuri calligraphy brush between gloved hands, and Nherenor looked away from it, his expression one of distaste as he moved to close the shutter.

  “Time to get closer,” Malian said to Nhenir, deciding that it should be possible. The wards were strong, but bound to the perimeter of the property—and a great elm formed the whole of the neighboring garden. “I may need your help to listen in, as well,” she added, and began the descent from the roof.

  Chapter 38

  Hide and Seek


  A few minutes later, Malian was concealed amongst the elm’s branches and could see more of the house where the Swarm envoys were staying. A graveled walk ran the length of the building, linking the rear garden to a formal courtyard at the front, and a feature window of colorful Ijiri glass was set into the wall of the shuttered room. The colored panes made it difficult to see clearly, but she could make out the three Darkswarm, their shapes clearly distinguishable whenever they stood between the lanternlight and the glass. One of the elm’s lower branches extended over the boundary and would bear her weight; she should be able creep along it as far as the wall without triggering the protective wards.

  Carefully, Malian eased forward, almost to the wall, then reached up to touch the helm. Whatever form Nhenir presented to the world, her fingertips always felt its true shape: the visor wrought in the shape of Terennin the Farseeing’s dawn eyes, and the inlaid wings that swept up and wrapped around the back of the casque. “Ready?” she queried, and lowered the visor.

  “ . . . I don’t know why you waste time watching the Normarchers.” Arcolin’s voice was amused, and as clear as though Malian were standing beside him, which she might as well have been. “They must be the most uncouth of all this land of savages.”

  “Savages that thwarted Rhike and the were-hunts in the north.” Nherenor was cool, and Malian heard the woman hiss. “And someone used power today in the sword ring, to stop the Derai before he killed the Duke’s nephew.”

  “I thought that might have been you.” Arcolin sounded idle, but Malian did not miss the note of steel. “I am glad that it was not. Bad enough that you feel you must compete in their petty games of war.” Malian watched his hand rise in a checking gesture. “Oh, I know that it is politic. I even agree that it may serve our cause—but these Emerians are nothing more than short-lived insects. Never forget that, or who you are: who we are.”

  “Insects with some power,” Nherenor returned, although he sounded stung.

  “Atavistic animism,” Arcolin replied, and Malian saw his shrug. “We have slain their Oakward before, in the past, and will again at need.”

  “Emuun,” the woman hissed, with considerable venom, and Arcolin nodded.

  “He likes to play his games, and at the moment Nirn’s hand remains over him. But he will undoubtedly pay, sooner or later, for the wreck of your work in the north.”

  “Work,” Nherenor pointed out, “that went against what we try to do here.”

  Arcolin shrugged again. “We play for high stakes and need more than one strategy for the game. I am willing to try Nindorith and your father’s way here, although both Aranraith and Nirn oppose it.” He turned away from the window. “Yet I confess to being puzzled at why Nirn believes this one herald pair are important enough to let Emuun run amok.”

  “I saw them today at the tourney ground.” Nherenor was hesitant. “They have some power, of the kind our people on the River report of their Guild, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not that I could detect, anyway.”

  “Nirn sees,” the woman hissed again.

  “And may also be quite mad,” Arcolin answered, deep and dispassionate. “Still, I concede that this pair evaded our hunters for a long time in the north. And I understand your anger, Rhike, because driving them into Emuun’s hand should have been enough. But the fist refused to close.” The envoy’s voice grew contemplative. “Even so, it was not herald magic that stopped our agents on the Northern March. The Oakward had a hand in it, but there was at least one other power in the mix that we cannot place. And the hint of a Derai taint.”

  “Derai?” Nherenor sounded as though he was frowning. “How is that possible?”

  “It’s not impossible,” Arcolin replied. “Not many of their power users escape that cursed Wall, but there’s a suggestion some do—and that they’re harbored by interests within Haarth.” Rhike hissed again. “Ay, if we come across them, we’ll stamp them out like rats. But finding them is not our priority. Not yet.”

  “But that moon . . .” Nherenor dropped his voice. “Nindorith says it may have been of Haarth itself.”

  “Then let Nindorith deal with it,” Arcolin said, almost with a snap. “For now, we have other business.”

  “Nindorith.” Nhenir’s voice was a sliver of ice across Malian’s mind and she nodded, taking the warning. Emuun, she guessed, must be the warrior she had seen beyond the Gate of Dreams. What she could recall from Summer’s Eve fitted with the implication that he was playing a deep game. But what game, and why: the same questions that could be asked about Arcolin, in particular, but also Nherenor.

  “Who is Nindorith?” she asked Nhenir.

  “A great power.” The helm’s mindvoice was a chime of ice and darkness again, but Malian’s head turned, her enhanced hearing catching the clip-clop of hooves. Four horses entering the street, she thought, calculating, or was it five? The hooves fell silent and a sharp knock sounded from the gate.

  The three Swarm silhouetted against the window paused as though listening, and then Nherenor moved out of Malian’s sight. No one spoke, but she heard an internal door open and close. A moment later, wood scraped across stone from the direction of the main entrance. The front door was concealed, but Malian could make out the gate onto the street if she craned forward. A tall warrior in blue-black mail and a white surcoat crossed from the house and drew the bolts, letting in four dark, cloaked figures. As soon as the gate closed again, the hooves clipped away.

  The newcomers had deep hoods pulled well forward and their cloaks were long, almost touching the ground as they walked toward the house. The foremost visitor must have moved too close to the paving’s edge, for he cursed when his left foot slipped, his cloak snagging on a shrub as he regained his balance. He paused to unhook it and Malian saw that one leg was clad in emerald green, the other peacock blue. Many men in Caer Argent were wearing the fashionable, parti-colored hose, but still . . . sapphire blue and emerald green were expensive dyes, the sort only the richest men could readily afford. It might be coincidence that Ser Ombrose had been wearing those exact colors during the Swarm’s audience, and again today, but Malian doubted it.

  Admittedly, it was no secret that the Duke’s champion was the official liaison to the Swarm delegation—but to visit so secretly and late at night, when he had let the Duke believe he would be retiring early because of the next day’s tournament . . . Malian shook her head, thinking that it did not look good.

  “At last,” Arcolin said. “But you had better leave, Rhike, before Nherenor brings them in. We don’t want to scare our guests off.”

  Rhike bowed her head to him, then stiffened. “Nindorith comes,” she hissed.

  The portal tore open almost directly in front of the elm branch where Malian lay. She recognized the power that surged through from the grounds of Tenneward Lodge—and that what she had encountered was only the shadow of the entity that was arriving now. For a split second it reminded her of Hylcarian, but the flames that ignited around the edges of the portal were black, and the force behind it was greater than anything she had ever felt before, even in the heart of the Old Keep.

  Unfettered power, she thought dizzily, as darkness swept over her; the backwash of energy nearly knocked her from the branch. An outline danced in the heart of the black fire, shifting like the shadow cloak—as though whatever being had just stepped through into the Caer Argent night could adopt whatever shape it chose. Malian let her own mind grow clear and still, her awareness flowing into seeing the true form that lay at the heart of this unknown darkness.

  “No! He will percieve you, even through me!” Nhenir’s denial blocked her as the flames roared, twisting serpentlike around the portal. For a moment the shape at its core looked like a giant horse with a sweep of fire instead of a mane, and blazing meteors where Malian expected eyes. Sparks flew from igneous hooves, and the great head turned: the long, razor-sharp horn extending out of its forehead pointed directly toward her heart.

  He does see me, she realized, frozen i
n place. Even wearing Nhenir, he still sees me.

  Her body began to shake with the effort of holding the dark regard at bay. The power that buffeted at her was immense, snatching away both her breath and her grip on the tree. She fell, tumbling through twigs and leaves, and only just managed to catch at her strength and training in the last moments, landing in a crouch on her feet.

  Power gusted again and a jagged line ran through the wall that separated her from the house used by the Swarm. The next moment, the wall came tumbling down in a thunder of bricks and clouds of mortar dust. It was the touch of the horn that had done it, Malian knew that without needing to be told. She could see that the portal was closing, too, but not before more warriors in blue-black armor swarmed through behind Nindorith, silver-white lightning bolts striking down on either side of their closed helms. The Swarm demon had grown formless again, but she could feel his will, grasping for control of her mind. Grimly, Malian threw him off—and felt Nindorith’s ripple of surprise.

  “Who are you? What?” The voice of power cracked around her, crashing into her head like storm waves so that she almost fell again. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stay upright. Her hand and mind moved instinctively toward the sustaining cold of Yorindesarinen’s armring, because right now all that mattered was escape and Nhenir had gone completely silent, inert as any base metal. Hiding, she realized, recalling how Nindorith had looked through illusion and shadow and seen her.

  Malian’s lips moved, mouthing an incantation that thickened the cloud of mortar dust as she slipped sideways into the elm’s shadow. The lightning warriors were spreading out across the wall’s fallen bricks as Nindorith grasped for her mind again. The shutters along the terrace had been pushed back and someone inside the house was yelling. Malian caught the words “intruders” and “enemy attack” as she flung off Nindorith a second time. But she knew she could not fend him off for long.