by Helen Lowe
I have seen this before, Malian thought, when I looked into Yorindesarinen’s fire. The vision, she recalled, had snatched her away before she could lift the black hair and see the face that lay beneath, but now she felt compelled to complete that final step. A quick survey of the wall showed sufficient cracks and unevenness to provide a route down to the nearest buttress, and from there it was an easy descent to the street.
The ground mist was thicker than it had appeared from the wall—more as she recalled it from her five-year-old vision—and there was a lot of blood, both on Nherenor’s blue-black mail and pooling across the cobbles. A curious smell, half sweet, half acrid, hung over the body, and Malian guessed that this must be residue from the lurker poison. She pulled out the same kerchief she had used against road dust and wrapped it around her nose and mouth, careful to maintain her distance as she unthreaded the hunting knife’s sheath from her belt. Squatting on her heels, she extended the thick leather scabbard to lift back the curtain of black hair, using her free hand to shield her eyes.
She had half thought that Nherenor’s face might have been smashed when his body hit the cobbles, but the head was turned sideways, rather than being facedown as she had always believed. His neck was broken, she realized, but the side of his face that was turned up was relatively unscathed. Her first thought was that in death he looked a little like Alianor. The second, with realization sick in her stomach, was that he looked like her.
The fall of black hair was common enough in both Emer and the River lands to pass unremarked, but the finely sculpted cast of his features could have looked back at her from a mirror. Even the name he had spoken so proudly, Nherenor, Ilkerineth’s son, had a Derai ring—but that did not explain why the face beneath the blood-matted hair could also have been hers. Or why, Malian thought, I am kneeling here with my throat aching for a Swarm adherent, even if he wouldn’t fight me while I was at a disadvantage.
“Darksworn.” She whispered the word that Nhenir had used when they watched Nherenor remove the shadow cloak. She had pushed the word aside then, just as she had tried, over the past five years, to forget her conversation with Kalan in the heart of the Old Keep—the one where he first told her of the Darksworn, the Derai who had been with the Swarm from the beginning. She had not wanted to believe that ancient secret could be true, so much so that she had striven to suppress the knowledge ever since, even within herself. Yet now the bitter truth stared up at her, etched into Nherenor’s lifeless face. His appearance had not altered in death, so she knew he was no facestealer—and she found it impossible to deny that he looked as Derai as she did.
“He looks like me.” She could barely speak the words, her lips were so stiff. Nausea churned in her stomach, and the hand holding the scabbard shook.
Feet thumped to the ground a few paces away and Malian spun around, letting the long hair fall and palming another hideout dagger—then relaxed as she recognized Kalan. Blood was splashed across his wrist guards and one sleeve was soaked red, but he did not move as if he were wounded. He looked weary, though, and a little white around the mouth as he crouched at her side. Silently, he took the hunting scabbard and did as she had, lifting the fall of Nherenor’s hair. She watched his brows twitch together and the set of his mouth twist. “I know him,” he said finally. “Knew him. I saw him yesterday, in the sword ring. He could really fight. Even Girvase couldn’t beat him outright.”
“He’s Darksworn,” Malian said, forcing the word out. She watched for Kalan’s reaction, but he just nodded. “His name was Nherenor,” she added, feeling that it mattered, although she was not sure why. “Ilkerineth’s son.”
“An enemy.” Kalan’s expression remained a mix of grimness and regret, but she could hear his frown reflected in his mindvoice. “But . . . I think he may have wanted to be a friend.”
He certainly had notions of honor, Malian thought, like defeating me in single combat rather than letting the lurker intervene. “We have to get out of here,” she said. “Before the demon comes.” She did not want to invoke Nindorith by speaking the Swarm power’s name aloud. “They had an empathy bond, I think, and if it’s two way . . .”
“Too late.” Kalan’s head came up in the same moment that she, too, felt the first fracture across his psychic shield, heralding Nindorith’s approach.
“Run!” She heard Tarathan’s warning a split second before she saw him, a gray-clad figure emerging through mist and half-light along the parapet that led to the far side of the derelict hall. He had his bow in his hand, and she guessed, even as he slung it over his shoulder and followed her route down the wall, that he must have loosed the arrow that killed the lurker. Energy surged as the herald reached the ground and they all ran, recognizing the bow wave of power that signaled a portal opening.
A quick glance back showed the air boiling, and Malian’s fingers worked into her wallet, extracting an amulet as they pounded toward the corner. Her lips moved, triggering a cantrip for confusion as she cast it behind her, into the center of the lane. The ground mist swirled around it, gathering up dust and rubbish, and began a slow rotating whirl toward Nherenor’s body.
“It won’t stop that dark demon long. He’s too powerful.” Kalan skidded around the corner beside her. “I don’t know how we’ll lose him if we can’t open a portal of our own.”
“This way!” said Tarathan, as fragments of mist, dust, and rubbish blasted out of the lane entrance. A tremendous howl of grief and rage split the growing dawn—and Malian cast a second amulet down as she followed Tarathan around another corner, this time into a wider street with small trees marching along its length.
“Deception,” she mouthed, and set a flock of shadow images flying: north, south, east, and west along other streets, similar to her trick on the rooftop. It might not fool Nindorith for long—would not—but even a little time could make a difference now.
“Head for Imuln’s temple,” Tarathan said tersely. “We can hide ourselves in its greater power.”
Is that where Jehane Mor is? Malian wondered—then flinched as Nindorith’s mindsweep blasted across them like a storm wind, flattening Kalan against the nearest wall. He clung there, his fingers pressed into stone as he held his shield intact. When he lifted his face, his eyes were dark with strain. “I don’t think I can take much more of that,” he gasped.
Last one, thought Malian, extracting a third amulet. “You go on,” she said, and Tarathan nodded, propelling Kalan toward the main avenue that led to the temple bridge and great square beyond. The world was definitely gray now, and soon the first people would be about—those who had not already sprung from their beds as Nindorith’s howl rose above Caer Argent. The amulet between her fingers was lead, with a name rune scratched into the back. It looked like any other sigil made to give away to travelers in Seruth’s name—except his was not the power that Malian had bound into it before leaving Ar.
Now she crouched down and slid a fine wire out of her cuff, her fingers flying as she bound it around the amulet. As her fingers worked the pattern, her mind recalled every detail of the entity that had tried to lure her to her death during the dark of the moon, on a mountain ridge between the Rindle and The Leas. That night had been dedicated to Kan, but she had walked in the Shadow Band’s temple and knew that the entity she had encountered was not the god. Yet it was a power nonetheless, part of the ancient, forgotten legacy of Haarth.
Another mindsweep battered across her, but Malian dared not break her concentration, although this time, further away from Kalan, she felt its pain, like daggers piercing mind and flesh. She clenched her jaw and forced the pain away. Her lips formed the invocation to the god whose name she had carved into the amulet, followed by a binding as she summoned the inchoate power encountered on the mountain. Lastly, she spoke a word of opening, creating a narrow door into the forest of Emerian oak that lay beyond the Gate of Dreams. The white mist there lifted as her lips closed on the final word—and she saw the Haarth entity, summoned by a power greater than
its own, flowing toward her.
“Misdirection,” Malian breathed, and tossed the amulet through the portal she had opened. The dark shape before her stretched, and she could see the reflection of her own form reflected on its surface as she directed it deep into the Emerian oak forest. “Go!” she commanded—and closed the gate into the mists between worlds.
She dared not wait, though, to see whether her ploy would work. Already she was back on her feet and running for the temple square and whatever protection the great dome of Imuln would provide.
Chapter 40
The Dome of Imuln
The temple of Imuln took up one side of Caer Agent’s oldest market square. Soon the wide expanse would fill up with vendors and festivalgoers, but for now the square was empty. The only movement was the glitter of spray from a central fountain, rising into the air, then falling back. Power rippled across the square as well, spreading out from the temple complex: Malian could feel its low hum through the soles of her boots.
Expanding circles, she thought, skirting the open plaza. And layers of power within each concentric ring, with the high priestess occupying the inmost of the nine levels of temple power. Malian knew, from her years on the River, that each circle had prescribed rites and rituals that continued through every day and night of the year, creating the steady hum of power—but that the temple would be particularly active now, for Imuln’s great festival of Midsummer.
Tarathan’s right, she thought, the collective power will disguise our individual sparks.
“Here,” the herald called softly, and she finally saw them both, standing in the shadow of the temple steps, where a narrow alley ran between two arms of the complex. Kalan still looked drawn, but he was no longer leaning on the herald. At first Malian thought the blood from his sleeve must have soaked through onto Tarathan’s tunic, then realized that the red splashes continued across the gray fabric. “We go down first,” the herald said, before she could ask about the blood. “Then up.”
Down, Malian found, meant prying up a grilled hatch at the end of the lane and dropping through one by one. As soon as they were within the temple’s walls, the sense of the world outside was dulled, as though the buildup of power focused on Imuln created a different kind of shielding. Kalan trailed a hand along the wall, and Malian saw that he was frowning as Tarathan led them up a narrow stair. “So much power,” he murmured, following them both up the first of a series of ladders nailed int the walls. “I wonder if that’s why the Oakward has never been centered here in Caer Argent since the inner wards became more peaceful?” He paused, the frown deepening. “I still wish Lord Falk were here now, though.”
Tarathan looked down. “You could reach through to him,” he said. “If you were willing to open yourself to the Gate of Dreams rather than walling it out.”
Malian glanced down herself, in time to catch Kalan’s grimace. She kept hter own expression neutral, but she was shaken by Tarathan’s revelation. Kalan’s love of the Emerian life must be even stronger than she had realized—a great deal stronger if he was walling out the dreams that are part of his Derai heritage.
Her seer’s prescience brushed at her awareness, a feathering of raised hairs along her nape, and she knew that the life of an Emerian knight was not for Kalan no matter how greatly his heart might desire it. She shivered, recognizing the echo of Tarathan’s phrase from Jaransor, five years before. But it felt apt—unless of course she was allowing her own wishes to color her seeing. Malian pulled an inward face at this thought and craned to see further up the ladder. “We must be climbing into the dome,” she said, and caught Tarathan’s brief smile.
“Jehane Mor is already there,” he replied. “It’s a fine vantage point from which to stay in mind contact with others, especially when unprotected yourself.”
“She could draw on a great deal of power here,” Kalan agreed, as they stepped onto a stone walkway between the basilica’s two layers of wall. Small metal grills were spaced every few yards along it, and Malian stooped to peer through the nearest one. The nave, far below, was just a flicker of lanternlight and shadow—Tarathan had already begun to climb the next ladder. She stood up, staring at his ascending back.
“The Swarm envoys spoke of you and Jehane Mor tonight,” she said. “Apparently one of their sorcerers, called Nirn, perceives you as a particular threat.” Perhaps, she thought, because he was one of the Swarm—or Darksworn, she corrected herself, although the word was still bile in her mouth—who invaded the Old Keep: it may be as simple as that. But she wanted to hear what Tarathan would say, what explanation he might offer.
The herald had paused with his hands on a hatch above his head. “Did they say why?”
Malian shook her head, her eyes meeting his as he looked down at her. “No. And Nherenor, the envoy who died, thought you were just heralds.”
“No such thing,” Kalan said from below her, a grin in his voice—and then Tarathan had lifted the hatch aside and they all climbed through into the loft of Imuln’s dome.
The interior, Malian thought, was disappointingly plain. A network of wooden beams crisscrossed the copper dome above a bare expanse of floorboards, liberally spattered with bird droppings,. Four unshuttered openings were set around the low walls, each one deep enough to prevent any but the worst weather penetrating the interior. But not, Malian thought, the birds—in fact she could see two owls right now, roosting high up in the dome. Jehane Mor was standing at the east facing window, but she turned as they appeared, the first light haloing her fair head.
“The demon’s gone,” she said, and her faint, approving smile rested on Malian. “That was clever, what you did with the Gate of Dreams. But the power storm has brought others out.”
“Who?” Kalan asked, crossing to the window.
“Look to your left,” the herald said as Malian joined Kalan at the opening. They had to pull themselves half into the embrasure to see the defensive wall that extended from the palace complex, along the riverbank to the temple perimeter. The first light was just striking the series of old watchtowers that Malian had observed on her first morning in the palace. It also illuminated the catwalk where seven figures stood, the dawn breeze riffling their long hair as they faced toward the city.
“The Jhainarians,” Kalan said. “I thought they never left their queen.”
“She is a priestess of Imuln as well as a queen,” Jehane Mor said, “and will have felt the blasts of power. As will the Seven, through her if they have no individual power of their own.”
Malian peered in the direction of the Seven’s gaze but could only see a jumble of tiled roofs. “The Duke thinks they’re pursuing some purpose of their own,” she said thoughtfully. “Aside from this Great Marriage they seem to think was implied in the invitation given by his grandfather.”
Kalan looked around at her, clearly surprised. “The Duke said that to you?”
“I, um, overheard.” Malian grinned at him, just a little, and he looked shocked and amused at the same time.
“Shadow Band,” he said, half under his breath as he switched his gaze back to the Jhainarians. “Well, they’re leaving the wall now. They must have realized that whatever caused the power storm has departed—for the moment.” He slid out of the window embrasure, back into the dome. “And since it has, I need to get back to the tourney camp. Before anyone sees me,” he added, indicating the blood on his wrist guards and sleeve.
“Of course, you still have to fight today,” Malian said. She had quite forgotten that in the events of the night. Kalan just shrugged, as if saying that he would have to manage.
“Take the vambraces off,” Jehane Mor advised, “and the shirt as well. You can go sleeveless, the way so many of the Aralorn men do.”
Kalan’s expression cleared, and a moment later he had stripped the wristguards and was pulling the gambeson over his head. His sleeveless jerkin followed and then the shirt, his muscles rippling as he pulled the jerkin back on again. He really did look very strong, Malian thought
critically, as heavily muscled as Ombrose Sondargent across the shoulders. And he looked far more Emerian than Derai as he replaced the gambeson and pulled his hair clear of his face with a leather tie.
His gold-flecked eyes met hers as the short sword back on. “Gir return to the palace to make sure one of us stayed close to Ghis last night, and if all goes well today we’ll try and get in again tonight. You said Nherenor was one of the Swarm’s envoys, so I can’t imagine them just letting his death pass.”
No, Malian thought. And Nindorith may have followed the portal I opened into the Gate of Dreams, but he won’t be fooled for long. She remembered the Swarm power’s tremendous howl of loss and grief on discovering Nherenor’s body, and was sure that she would be dealing with blood feud now, not just the desire to root out a spy.
Wood scraped, and she blinked, realizing that Tarathan was lifting the hatch. She wanted to tell Kalan to be careful, competing in the tourney while he was already tired, and not get maimed or killed through a foolish mistake. But you could not say such things, either to a Derai warrior or an Emerian knight. “Take care,” she said finally, temporizing.
Surprisingly, he grinned. “A day of contests after night watch and drills was part of our Normarch training. I’ll be all right.” Or I won’t.
Had she heard the ghost of a thought? Malian wondered—but Kalan was already descending through the hatch. The last she saw of him was a raised hand, and she closed her eyes, hit by a deep unexpected weariness as Tarathan lowered the hatch again. Even behind her lids she remained aware of the heralds’ presence: Tarathan’s fire, and Jehane Mor, cool as deep water. “You’ve got blood on your tunic, too,” she said, addressing Tarathan without opening her eyes.
