The Gathering of the Lost

by Helen Lowe

  “It’s not mine,” he replied, answering her unspoken question. “And Jehane has my cloak. I can wear that back to the Guild House.” He paused, but she kept her eyes closed, letting their heralds’ silence flow around her. “It was clever,” Tarathan said finally, “what you did in the ruin, manipulating the paths of prescience. I, too, am a seer,” he added when Malian opened her eyes, meeting his. “I am beginning to know you as well, so I felt it when you touched the strands of seeing.”

  It was as much Nhenir as me, Malian thought—although she had not, she supposed, allowed the helm the choice of refusal. “Nindorith, the Swarm power that pursued us, is also prescient,” she told them wearily. “The envoy, Nherenor, said as much when he intercepted us. I knew I had to counter that so I worked an illusion through the Gate of Dreams, a smoke dream”—she used the Winter Country term—“so that anyone using prescience would see whatever they wanted to happen, actually happening.”

  “A Haarth trick,” Jehane Mor said, “not Derai. That may have been wise.”

  Malian closed her eyes again. “Wise too late. Nindorith saw me clearly when he first arrived here tonight.” And may have seen Nhenir as well, she thought, although the helm was being coy about that. “I had to use all my power to escape, and although the demon may not have worked out the who and what yet, he will. And then he will track me.” Her lips thinned. “I still have Lord Falk’s commission to protect Countess Ghiselaine to discharge. But once this Nindorith starts searching in earnest—” She shrugged. “Even here, I might not be safe for long.”

  She was not sure why she kept her eyes closed, her head tilted back against the stone of the window frame. “Swarm activity is Derai business,” she said softly, although she suspected many in Emer, from the Duke down, might hold a contrary view. “So I have to find a way to disappear again while still remaining Maister Carick, right here in plain sight.” She straightened, finally opening her lids, and the heralds’ eyes pierced her, just as they had on the night she first met them in her father’s High Hall.

  “There is a way,” they said. Their voices wove in and out of each other, and Malian felt the stirring of power: not just theirs, but the deep magic layered into the dome beneath them, with a taproot into the green heart of Emer. She could sense that heart now, even more clearly than when she had ridden through Maraval wood. But it was not the power that made her eyes widen.

  The heralds had moved together while her eyes were closed and now stood shoulder-to-shoulder, watching her. The light of the new day was behind them in the eastern window, outlining Tarathan’s chestnut braids and the fair coronal around Jehane Mor’s head. Hair like a crown, Malian thought. In her mind’s eye she saw the herald’s arms raised in invocation, summoning Imuln’s new moon to rise early on Summer’s Eve—which only a high priestess sworn to the Goddess should be able to do.

  “They look like you,” she whispered, her eyes shifting to Tarathan. “Or you look like them. The Jhainarians.”

  Tarathan and Jehane Mor said nothing, just continued to watch her, their eyes full of secrets.

  “And it’s you they’re looking for, with all their questions.” She ran both hands over her hair. “So are you going to tell me why? And what exactly this way of yours is, that even mentioning it creates such a current of power?”

  Chapter 41

  Passage of Arms

  Kalan twisted sideways, out from beneath his opponent’s overhand strike, and brought his own sword around in a blow that sent his adversary jumping back. His morning had blurred into a succession of antagonists, into the jar through wrist and arms as sword met sword, and the feel of sweat soaking through wool and leather beneath his armor. The challengers he dispatched with ruthless precision, shutting out the sun’s glare and the blaze of color from the stands, where the rich and great of Emer were gathered. He shut out the ocean roar of the crowd as well, that swelled whenever a blow struck home. His own weariness and the aftermath of last night’s events lay beyond the roar and the color—as well as the knowledge that the black unicorn device had been withdrawn from the tourney.

  But these matters were all for later: now was the time for muscle and sinew and sword, and the hard earth of the sword ring below his booted feet.

  His opponent attacked again, more slowly this time, but he was not, Kalan judged, a defensive fighter—and a moment later the leaping assault came. Kalan beat it aside and slid forward, rolling the other knight’s blade around and beneath his own, before delivering the final flick of both wrists and blade that jerked the sword hilt from his adversary’s grasp. The crowd swayed, roaring as he stepped back, and the list marshal seized his arm, dragging it skyward. The defeated knight picked up his sword and they both made the salute, but this opponent was no Ser Alric. He ducked quickly through the ropes and back to his seconds, disappearing into the crowd of knights and squires.

  It was, Kalan supposed, raising his visor and wiping the sweat from his face, all more serious now, with the Duke’s purse of gold for each individual contest winner and the tourney championship at stake. Ser Ombrose Sondargent was here somewhere, too, defending that championship against the cream of Emer and the southern realms, and had led the contestants’ salute to the Duke at the beginning of the day.

  Kalan stared at the surrounding crowd, taking in merchants, minor landholders, and artisans on the cross benches, while servant girls, apprentices, and men-at-arms packed the embankments. A girl caught his eye and leaned over one of the hurdles that separated the spectators from the competitors, tossing a flower at his feet. He blinked, then picked it up as the girl ducked back, giggling. The bloom was of a kind that grew wild along every roadside and was already starting to wilt, but he worked it into the knot of ribbon around his arm—Ghiselaine’s colors, which reminded him to turn and raise his sword to her, where she sat at the Duke’s right hand.

  “Audin wants us all to wear Ghis’s favor,” Girvase had said, after they rode back into camp that morning. “Queen Zhineve-An is the Duke’s guest and sovereign of a neighboring state, so he’s sure that Ser Ombrose will be wearing her colors and not Ghiselaine’s. Audin,” Girvase had added slowly, “thinks that the champion will be glad to, given the old enmity between his mother’s family, the Sondcendres, and Ormond.”

  They had all known that would lessen Ghiselaine’s standing in the eyes of the Emerian world, however much the Queen of Jhaine was the Duke’s guest. “But if we all compete for Ghiselaine,” Girvase had continued, “that will send a strong message to everyone watching—because Lord Falk is the Duke’s foster brother, and also because Normarch has always held to Caer Argent.”

  And Audin is Sondargent himself, Kalan had thought, so this company, with Alianor and Ilaise added in, represents half the great families of Emer.

  They had all agreed, and Jarna found and bargained with a peddler for enough white and yellow ribbons to knot into Ormondian favors for them all. Audin had sent a pennant bearing Ghiselaine’s guerdon as well, and the lily of Emer on its gold ground fluttered below their Normarch standard as Kalan offered his victory to Ghiselaine. She bowed, smiling, and the crowd cheered—and cheered again when Ilaise leaned forward and blew him a kiss.

  “Next bout,” the list marshal said, and Kalan ran a quick eye along the heraldic shields that lined the hurdle barriers. Ado’s shield was gone, he saw—and frowned, his stomach muscles tightening, as a shield displaying a sheaf of swords was put up beside his. But the Derai who ducked into the ring to face him was the older warrior, whose name turned out to be Gol. He proved a canny fighter, their bout intense and fierce, but the marshals held Kalan the clear winner on points. He fought one of the Allerion knights after that, defeating him in short order, and this time when he returned to his corner he found Ombrose Sondargent watching, his handsome face impassive.

  He must be between bouts, Kalan thought. He hesitated, then raised his sword in a brief salute to the champion. Ser Ombrose nodded, but his gaze was cool as he turned away, moving to the next ri
ng, where Girvase was fighting. Checking out his opposition, Kalan thought: he would do the same himself, given sufficient time between bouts.

  And Audin had been right about the Duke’s champion riding for Queen Zhineve-An. Ser Ombrose had a scarf of burgundy and wheat, beaded with gold, bound around his mailed arm, even though the young queen was notably absent.

  Kalan wondered about that briefly, until one of the tourney pages handed him up a water bag. The water was warm and tasted of leather and sweat—or perhaps that was just the inside of his mouth. He rotated his shoulders in turn, working against his fatigue and the muscle ache that would come as soon as he stopped moving for any period of time. A shield with a black crow carrying a spray of green oak leaves went up beside his, and he handed the water bag back, turning to face the knight climbing into the ring.

  In the end Kalan defeated all his opponents before the sun reached its zenith. He studied the shield wall as the trumpets shrilled out the midday break in competition, and saw that there were only eight coats-of-arms remaining. Both he and Girvase had made it through into tomorrow’s final round. Ser Ombrose’s oak tree and wolf was there, too, beside a sheaf of swords that had, Kalan thought with an inward groan, to be Orth. The next three shields were all Emerian, displaying arms he did not know, while the fourth belonged to a Lathayran knight.

  “A good fighter,” Raher said, as they walked back to the competitors’ pavilion. “He made short work of me. Fortunately I’m stronger in the joust.”

  “I wish I was.” Ado was gloomy because he had lost in his first bout. At least, Kalan thought, he has a family estate to return to eventually. He doesn’t have to make his way in the world through his skill at war or on the tourney circuit. “Still, Ser Rannart said he’d have me back as a knight-at-arms, so even if I don’t do well in the joust, or we don’t get to hire on somewhere as a company, it won’t be the end of the world.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Raher said, “you’ve got a good horse. What?” he demanded, when they all grinned, shaking their heads. “What’s so funny?”

  Kalan gave him a shove. “You are.” But the mention of horses made him think of Jarna, competing in the trial field outside the main tourney ground, and he shaded his eyes in that direction. “I should have time to get there and back before the jousting starts,” he decided.

  “Ser Raven’s over there,” Ado said. “We don’t need to go.”

  But Girvase, who had sat down and begun to eat a pie bought from one of the many vendors circulating through the grounds, got to his feet again. “Hamar’s right. We should see how Jarn’s going, since she’s the only one of us in those events.”

  Raher shook his head. “I’m going to look at the ground for the joust again. And check on my horse.”

  In the end, Kalan, Ado, and Girvase all clanked their way over to the field, where the horsemanship contests were continuing. Jarna was riding when they arrived: they could see Madder weaving his way neatly through of a line of pikes. But a quick survey of the shield display showed that she had not made it into the final six for the horse archery. “Still,” Kalan said, keeping his tone cheerful, “this competition is her real strength.”

  “There’s Ser Raven.” Girvase nodded to the gate where competitors entered and left the field. But the crowd between them was packed close and the view from the knoll where the shields were displayed was better, so they stayed where they were, evaluating Jarna’s progress up the long field. She looked good, Kalan thought, and handled herself well in the one-on-one encounter with a Lathayran horseman. Madder’s superior training showed up well in the small melee, too, where Jarna had to get past three other contestants riding as a company.

  “She’s a fine rider.” Kalan had been aware of someone joining them, but only took in that it was Ser Alric of Vast when the knight spoke. “And obviously has a gift for horses. Anyone who can train destriers to that standard could walk into a horsemaster’s job from here to the Southern March.” Even a girl: the words hung unspoken on the air.

  Ado and Girvase both turned their heads, and Kalan knew their expressions would mirror his own cool, level look. “She’s Ser Jarna,” he said flatly, “not a horsemaster.”

  “One of you, eh?” The knight’s look was shrewd. “I heard she won her spurs in the recent troubles on the Northern March, that you all did, but all the same—” He pursed his lips. “Whoever thrust her into this life did her no kindness.”

  Kalan frowned, although he had often thought the same thing himself. But Jarna was one of their Summer’s Eve company, as the knight had said, and Ser Alric little better than a stranger. From the corner of his eye, Kalan could see that Girvase’s stare remained cool, while Ado’s frown matched his.

  Ser Alric shook his head. “Ay, I’m a presumptuous clod from the Wyvernmark. But look at those lasses over there.” He indicated a group of damosels in their holiday best, perched on hay bales on the back of a wagon for a better view. “She’ll never be one of them, will she? And there’s precious few lords who’ll want her among their men—or knights who will accept her outside your small group. I wouldn’t have her amongst my own men,” he added, matter-of-fact.

  Kalan thought of Yorindesarinen and all the Derai heroes who had been women—and Captain Asantir, in the depths of the Old Keep, casting a black spear against the Raptor of Darkness. He remembered the guard Lira as well, on the last morning he had seen her alive, and felt a savage spurt of anger on Jarna’s behalf.

  “Hamar.” Girvase put a warning hand on his arm. “Ser Alric means no offense.”

  Kalan gritted his teeth and bit back the obvious retort. The Wymark knight eyed him warily. “I don’t think there’s many knights here who would wish to cause any of you offense.” He rubbed at his jaw. “But have you spared a thought for why your captain’s been at all her events these past days, rather than yours?”

  It was true, Kalan thought, even though he had noticed the fact without fully taking it in until now. A quick glance to either side showed the same realization on Ado and Girvase’s faces. If he had thought about it at all, he would have assumed Ser Raven’s presence was the natural extension of the extra training the knight had given Jarna at Normarch.

  Ser Alric nodded, reading their expressions. “I didn’t think so.” He rubbed at his chin again. “Tourney grounds are rough places, full of rougher men whose business is war. As many brutes and thugs as upholders of chivalry, if not more.” The knight’s tone remained matter-of-fact. “Not a safe place to be the one that’s different from the crowd, or a woman alone, even one who knows how to use the weapons she carries. And she’s the only one of you spending time at these fields. The way I see it, your Ser Raven’s sending a message.”

  Kalan looked toward Ser Raven again and thought that he did not look like he was paying much attention to what was happening on the field. But much as it galled him, he knew Ser Alric was right. Just by being there Ser Raven was saying that he took Jarna’s being one of his company seriously—and I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, Kalan thought, not if I didn’t have to. Yet his anger still burned against Ser Alric, all the same.

  “And any commander here,” the Wymark knight said, “will know there’ll always be the possibility for that kind of trouble.”

  But Jarna can’t be a horsemaster, Kalan thought bitterly. He had suggested that to her once himself, idly, when they were working together in the Normarch forge, but she had shaken her head. “Knightly families employ horsemasters,” she had told him, “they don’t become them, that’s what my grandfather says. He would die of the shame, and it would ruin my sisters’ chances of making good marriages.”

  Yet what Ser Alric was saying, without actually speaking the words, was that if they included Jarna in their company in the melee—the usual indication that knights were seeking service as a unit—their chances of finding it might be over before they rode onto the field.

  Ser Alric cleared his throat. “Something else to be mindful of, given it’s your fi
rst tourney, is that the melee’s sometimes been used to deliberately maim or even kill a fellow contestant, by those who’re ill-disposed.”

  The anger Kalan had been holding back flared into red life, sweeping away the weariness of a sleepless night and a morning of back-to-back sword bouts. “Is that a threat?” he asked, all steel.

  The knight from Vast stepped back, raising both of his hands, the palms wide. “Nay, lad, it’s a warning—a friendly warning from one who’s campaigned a few more years than your Normarch crew, no matter how fearsome you and your friend here may be with a sword.”

  “Hamar.” Girvase’s hand tightened on his forearm, his coolness countering Kalan’s rage. “You know we were talking about such stories the other night.”

  Kalan shook off his friend’s restraining hand, but clamped down on his anger at the same time. “I accept,” he ground out, “that it was not a threat.”

  “Ay, well.” Ser Alric eyed him warily, then shook his head. “You’re right, I’ve overstepped the mark. Ser Raven’s your captain here. I should leave such matters to him.”

  Ado murmured something, smoothing matters over, but Kalan didn’t catch the words because he was watching Jarna canter off the field to a few ragged cheers. She had done well, he thought, the aftermath of his fury like bile in his mouth. He could see her patting Madder’s neck as she walked the roan over to Ser Raven, but there was no time to try and make their way through the crowd: they needed to get back for the joust. Ado shook his head as they walked away.

  “What got into you, Hamar? Normally you’re so easy going. But just now—well, you frightened me.”

  I frightened myself, Kalan thought, still feeling that sour aftermath of anger. While he was in it, though, the emotion had felt right, satisfying even. “I’ve been friends with Jarna a long time,” he said finally. “I didn’t like him talking about her like that.”