by Helen Lowe
Jehane Mor and Tarathan looked at him remotely. “We are heralds of the Guild,” they said, their voices weaving in and out of each other, “and we do not lie.”
The Derai behind Orth stirred, and Kalan could almost smell their uneasiness. Some of them, at least, had the sense to know they were out of their own world and must tread carefully. But Orth’s head lowered, glaring at Jehane Mor. “Don’t think I didn’t see it, that day at the bridge. You put your evil eye on him—you and your cursed familiar, that pretends to be a man but can’t even talk for himself!”
Tarathan of Ar sighed. He will fight, if he has to, Kalan thought, reading that small, weary sound. He has done it before, and not just from rooftops in the dark.
“I can speak for myself,” the herald said, in his dark voice. “If I choose to. When last we saw Tirorn he was alive and well, as Jehane Mor has already told you.”
A gust of wind set the nearby tent flaps fluttering, but Kalan kept his eyes on the Sword line. The older warrior, Gol, stepped closer to Orth. “Perhaps,” he said, speaking in Derai, “we should wait until after this tourney truce is done. It will not help our work if we are banished from this realm. Or dead.”
“Do you take their part, Gol?” Orth growled back. “Tirorn was my kinsman as well as our captain. I claim right of blood to slay these vermin.”
Kalan could see the man was poised to explode into violence—and once a one-to-one challenge was issued in a language the watching camp could understand, there would be no going back. The Emerians were like the Derai in that respect as well: herald or not, Duke’s law or not, Tarathan would have to fight.
Facing the Sword warriors, Raher already had a fighting glint in his face, and Kalan knew without looking that Girvase would be wearing the cool, sword’s-blade look that said he was ready to finish whatever business the Derai started. He could feel his own blood rising as he recalled Audin and the sword ring yesterday, and contemplated the pleasure of doing his level best to pound Orth’s face into the dirt. Yet his head, cooler than the surge of adrenaline along his veins, reminded him that if he gave in to that impulse, then he, Girvase, and Jarna would all be disqualified from the tourney finals.
I can’t do that to Jarn, he thought, gritting his teeth—and it would be disastrous for Ghiselaine as well, after her very public salute to our company. He did not even want to imagine how heavily the Duke’s wrath might fall on those who broke the tourney truce as well as their knightly word. So think, Kalan told himself, choking back the desire for violence. And stay calm. Try not to seem either aggressive or afraid.
“What happened to your captain?” he asked, pitching his voice across the tension and making eye contact with Gol.
Orth twitched his shoulders as if a fly had stung him, but did not reply. Gol cleared his throat and spoke in the River tongue. “The last time we saw Tirorn he was going to their Guild house in Ij. He never came back. We went there ourselves, looking for him, but everyone in the house was dead and the city a hornet’s nest.” His eyes flicked from Kalan to the heralds. “But now these heralds turn up here, alive and well.”
Kalan nodded, seeing how to them that would not look good. “We know about that massacre,” he replied, keeping his voice steady although his heart was hammering. “Tarathan and Jehane Mor escaped because they were elsewhere in the city at the time.”
“Our captain was seen with them that night,” Gol persisted.
“But no one saw him killed? And you have not found a body?” Kalan was aware that the focus of their tableau had shifted away from Orth now to center on him. He kept his eyes on Gol. “Did anyone see these heralds vanish him?”
Gol frowned. “No,” he said, and a tiny ripple ran through his companions.
Thinking at last, Kalan hoped—although Orth was still the danger point. “So,” he said, very carefully, “you have no actual evidence, no reports from others, that these heralds harmed your captain?”
Orth roared. “They’re priest-kind! That’s evidence enough!”
The rest of the Derai looked considerably less certain. “Orth—” Gol began, but the giant warrior shook his head.
“What do we care for their pathetic laws and truces? We are Derai.” He switched back to his rough version of the River dialect. “I swore by kin and blood that I would kill these two when I saw them next.” Deliberately, he drew his sword and took a step forward, his gaze raking the small Normarch line. “Who amongst you will prevent me?”
Tarathan dismounted. “They will not have to,” he said. “I will fight you, if I must.”
A cold voice spoke from behind Kalan. “If it’s blood they want, we will give it to them.” Tall figures in blue-black mail, with lightning bolts on their closed helmets, moved past the Normarch knights. Some carried spears, while the rest had their hands on their sword hilts. The Sword warriors snarled and snatched for their weapons, apparently recognizing their adversaries as Swarm despite the closed helms.
“No,” said Ser Raven, stepping from between two tents. “You won’t.” His expression, as he looked from the Derai to the Darksworn, was similar to the one he had shown Girvase during their confrontation at the Rindle. “All competitors have sworn to the truce, so if you force a fight here you will be oath-breakers and guests who have abused the hospitality of Emer. For that, any sworn knight present can have you shot down like the curs such actions make you.”
“We are not competitors,” the lightning knight returned, “and our envoy, who did swear your oath, is dead. Do not think,” he added to the Sword warriors, “that we missed the cursed Derai stink about that business.”
“Does your envoy’s death make his word valueless?” Ser Raven asked. “And if he was an envoy, as you say, then you should take your claim for retribution to the Duke. But there will be no disputes here while the truce stands.”
Ser Raven gave no obvious signal, but at his last words a circle of archers emerged from between the tents. Ser Alric was with them, an arrow notched to the longbow he carried, with more bowmen from Wymark on either side—but Kalan could see the badges of Bonamark, Allerion, and Tenneward as well, and several of the tall, quiet men from Aralorn. He could not see the Darksworn’s faces, but a look at Orth convinced him that it was only the archers that had stopped him. The Sword warrior did not look like he cared a clipped coin for any truce, even the Derai’s, if it did not suit his purpose.
“This isn’t over,” Orth grated out, his stare fixed on the heralds.
“No,” they said, in their joint voice. “We didn’t think it was.”
“Now that,” Ser Raven told Orth, “inclines me to just shoot you and have done.”
Orth’s glare swung toward the knight, and Kalan could almost feel the torrent of his hatred, switching course. Slowly, the giant ran his tongue over his lips, studying their Normarch line. He looked poised to utter more threats, but his companions surrounded him, much as they had at the sword ring the day before, and forced him away.
The Darksworn leader’s attention was fixed on Ser Raven. “You play a very dangerous game,” he said, and if his voice had been cold before, now it was wintry. He jerked his head toward the Derai. “And keep poor company.”
“I am not of their company,” Ser Raven returned. “I took service with Falk of Normarch this spring, and through him, the Duke of Emer. And I hold to my oaths.”
“As do we all.” The Darksworn’s voice was level. Until the times comes to break them.
Kalan almost jumped, but no one else appeared to have heard the chill thought. He found that he was shaking, both from the unexpectedness of the situation, coming at the end of a grueling day, and the coiled tension. But the Sword warriors were retreating, keeping Orth pinned between them, and the Darksworn, too, had stepped back.
“We will respect your tourney camp truce,” their leader said to Ser Raven, “not because of your arrows, but for the boy’s sake.” He must mean Nherenor, Kalan thought. “But we will still have blood—including yours, if you get in
our way.”
“You dare threaten—” Ser Alric began, but Ser Raven stopped him.
“Words mean nothing,” he said. “Let them go.”
Kalan let his breath out again in an almost silent huff, but Ser Raven was right, the Darksworn were withdrawing. The knight watched them go, his expression impossible to read, while the heralds were still looking in the direction the Derai had taken. “They are unworthy of their former captain,” Jehane Mor said, and despite her cool tone, Kalan thought she sounded sad. The inclination of her head toward Ser Raven managed to include all the archers. “For your timely intervention, we thank you.”
Ser Raven’s answering smile was grim. “For sparing Tarathan the trouble of killing him?” he inquired.
Jehane Mor shook her head. “One can never tell how these matters will turn out,” she murmured. “And there was the truce to be considered as well.” She turned to the rest of the Normarch company. “Under the circumstances, it’s probably best if we return to the city now. We would like to be there before moonrise in any case, since tonight is the beginning of Midsummer and Countess Ghiselaine is to keep the First Night watch with Queen Zhineve-An.” She smiled at Jarna. “That was our second commission from the Countess. She asks if you will share guard duty over the vigil with Alianor and Ilaise, since no man may enter the temple’s inner precint, not even the queen’s Seven.”
Jarna had to try twice before words came out. “I would . . . I would be honored,” she said finally. “Let the Countess know that I will join her before moonrise.”
They all watched as the heralds rode away, the gray horses joining the steady stream of people returning to the city. “That was clever, to think of archers,” Girvase said to Ser Raven. “But how did you know what was happening?”
“One of Ser Alric’s men brought word of trouble brewing.” Ser Raven nodded at the other knight. “He did the rest.”
“Half my company are archers,” the knight of Vast said. “I didn’t have ’em all with me, but they rounded up a few more easily enough. Archers never mind bending their bows against the knightly kind, given opportunity,” he added with a wink, and everyone laughed, even Raher, who could be tenacious over knightly dignity.
“You’ll share our dinner, of course,” Ser Raven said, “as thanks for your help.”
The meal was a mess of bacon and onions, quickly fried up with reheated stew from yesterday’s dinner, and followed by a Wymark cheese that Ser Alric and his archers brought out. Most of the other archers had stayed as well, and the talk quickly became cheerful as everyone discussed how the tourney had gone so far and what might happen in the final events. Some of them glanced sideways at Jarna, but no one said anything amiss—had better not, Kalan thought, since she was one of the handful present who had made it into any of the finals.
Several of the bowmen wanted to know whether they would get to see the Jhainarian queen the next day, given Ser Ombrose was wearing her colors, which brought a burst of speculation as to why she had not been there today. “Lord Hirluin, too,” a Bonamark archer added. “Isn’t the formal rebetrothal on the last day of the festival?”
Ser Alric cleared his throat in the suddenly awkward silence. “Those northerners’ll cause you Normarch lot trouble in the melee. That’s my pick.”
Kalan and Girvase exchanged looks. “First we have to survive the sword contest.” Kalan tried not to answer shortly. “One of us is bound to have to fight Orth there.” If we haven’t expired from exhaustion first, he added silently.
“Oaf Orth!” Jarna said, with unexpected venom.
Raher plucked moodily at a clump of grass. “I don’t care for these northerners at all.”
“No one does,” said Ser Raven. “They are brutal and bigoted and care only for their own.” His expression was dark, and Kalan glanced at him curiously.
“Have they been to a tourney here before?” he asked.
“Never, that I’ve heard of.” Ser Alric’s tone said that they could stay away in future, too. Kalan made a face at his plate, because he was still Derai, no matter how much he would prefer not to be. Yet he found it hard to deny that Nherenor had seemed worth ten of Orth and his companions. A Darksworn, Kalan reminded himself quickly, wincing as the tart cheese stung his bitten mouth.
Ser Alric and his archers left soon after that, and the other bowmen, too, gradually drifted away. “We need to get you to the temple before it gets dark,” Kalan said to Jarna, stretching against the single dull ache that was his body. His muscles were already stiff, but he forced himself to his feet, and Jarna joined him without a word.
“We should all go.” Girvase got to his feet as well. “We can see Audin—and the way the camp’s going, we should probably take most of our gear to the town house anyway.”
Kalan suspected that he did not want to leave the outer watch over the temple sanctuary to the Jhainarian Seven, and with Darksworn present he felt much the same himself. They both glanced at Ser Raven, but he nodded rather than objecting.
“I can ask Ser Alric’s men to watch this site. And you’ll probably get more sleep in the town house, even if it means an early start.” As if to underline Ser Raven’s point, a nearby gathering roared out a drinking song, one famous for its innumerable verses.
“Let’s get the horses,” Kalan said to Jarna, as the others began collecting up saddlebags and armor. He had not really expected the horselines to be more private, but there were already knights drinking along the poplar row that separated the field from the camp. No chance to even snatch a kiss, Kalan thought regretfully, and could not help remembering stolen moments at Normarch and the sweetness of Jarna’s lips on his, unexpectedly soft in her sun-browned face.
“Say hello to Audin for me,” she said, as they finished saddling up. “And keep on Raher in line.”
Kalan grinned. “Impossible,” he replied. He fought back the impulse to kiss her anyway, joking with her instead as they led the horses back to the camp and helped the others with their gear. The western sky was vermilion as they mounted up, and Ado whistled a tune as the camp fell behind.
“Not long now until Midsummer’s moon rises,” he said, letting the whistle die. “But we’ll reach the temple first,” he added hastily to Jarna.
“Imuln’s moon,” she said softly, and Kalan wondered if all their thoughts had flown to Summer’s Eve and the horned moon rising.
“Imuln’s luck,” Girvase replied, and everyone except Ser Raven nodded.
“Luck’s what Lathayrans say a Great Marriage is about,” Raher said abruptly. “Though in their dialects it could just as well mean well-being, or even survival.”
And Kalan, listening to the steady clip of their horses’ hooves and the first hoot of an owl through the gathering dusk, thought that perhaps all survival was luck.
Chapter 43
Moonrise
The scent of night earth and rotting leaves filled Malian’s dream, sifting through the green canopy of Maraval wood and tree trunks shifting to hide a vision of Yorindesarinen. The formless thoughts and tiny pulse beats of small night creatures formed a web around her—only to be torn apart, their minute energies fragmented by an explosion of dark power that blasted her into a forest of fog and Emerian oaks.
Now she had become a hunted creature, darting and dodging between black-barked trunks and along deer paths with the dark power in pursuit. She had power of her own, tied to old, hidden corners of the land, but if the pursuing terror caught her it would extinguish her with a thought. Desperate, the fleeing creature plunged into a deep fog bank, flowing beneath a long-fallen tree and out the other side.
The trees here were taller, their vast trunks soaring skyward around a narrow glade with a small fire burning at its heart. A woman with stars in her hair sat beside the fire, the hood of her cloak thrown back as she played cat’s cradle with the flames. The creature hesitated, but the pursuing darkness was close behind, crackling out power like a lightning storm. Terrified, the creature darted toward the fire, co
wering low as the woman rose to her feet. Her expression was grim as she surveyed the being crouched at her feet. “Someone,” she said, “has used you hard.”
The woman looked through the fog toward the approaching storm and raised her right hand, still with the fire in it. The flame roared, leaping skyward, then twisted into a ribbon that circled them both. In the distance, hounds yowled, and the fire blazed hotter, becoming a conflagration. The star-crowned woman’s smile was thin. “Even Nindorith,” she said, “will not like to meet that hunt.” She turned the other way and the flames parted, opening onto a rugged mountainside in northern Emer. “Go,” she bade the creature at her feet. “And stay away from the Derai in future, for we are not kind to those who cross either our will or our path.”
The creature slipped away, disappearing into the Emerian dusk. The fire roared again, reforming into a mirror through which Yorindesarinen’s scarred face studied Malian, who gazed back at her through the medium of the dream. “You have grown hard, child,” the hero said, “to sacrifice others so ruthlessly for your need.” Her expression changed, becoming weary instead of grim. “Is this the person you want to be? Or the leadership the Derai needs?”
I was desperate, Malian wanted to cry out. I had to elude Nindorith, or be captured or killed outright. But the flames twisted again, sweeping across the mirror and shutting out her vision of Yorindesarinen. The hounds bayed for blood and death as wakefulness tugged at her, yet the fiery mirror still burned. And this was the first time Yorindesarinen had spoken with her in five years.
If only to rebuke me, thought Malian, grieved. A fresh wash of fire crossed the mirror and the flames cleared again, but it was no longer the dead hero that looked out. Instead, Tarathan of Ar and Jehane Mor gazed at her with light-filled eyes. “There is a way,” they said, their voices blending together in the way that spoke to Malian of truth and power. “If you are willing to walk the path, Heir of the Derai.”
