by Helen Lowe
A bell called from Imuln’s temple, heralding the first night of festival. The sweet clear tone pulled Malian awake to find sunset a splash of amber across her wall—and realize that she had slept through most of the afternoon. She had not thought she would sleep at all when she lay down, with her mind still full of Nindorith, the Darksworn, and Nherenor lying broken in the cobbled lane.
Unsurprising really, she thought, that my dreams were dark as well. She shivered, still feeling the night creature’s terror as Nindorith hunted it through the Gate of Dreams. However ancient and formless on its mountainside above the Rindle, it had been unable to slip the binding that she had made with her amulet and escape the Swarm demon. And she had known that was possible when she used the spell.
Malian covered her face with an arm to shut out the sad weariness she had seen in Yorindesarinen’s face: Is this the person you want to be? Or the leadership the Derai needs?
I was desperate, she whispered to herself again. I have grown in strength since I left the Wall, but I dared not stand against this Nindorith.
Yet she remembered her fear, when thrown through the Gate of Dreams on Summer’s Eve, that it might have been she who murdered Maister Gervon, only not remembered doing so when in the waking world. Tarathan had said that the killing did not have her stamp, but maybe he would say differently now if he knew about the night garden and the detail of what she had wrought with that final amulet. And on the mountainside above the Rindle, she was the one of all their party that the primitive darkness had been drawn to. To its subsequent rue, she thought, if the dream told true—in which case Yorindesarinen had saved it despite its innate dark nature.
“So the Gate gives me paradox,” Malian said aloud—when what she had undoubtedly merited, after the previous night and a morning spent dealing with Zhineve-An, was the sleep of exhaustion. She smiled wryly, recalling how she had barely slipped back into her room, shortly after dawn, before the page, Luin was knocking on her door with an urgent summons to join the Duke in the guest wing of the palace.
A few minutes in the young queen’s company had made it clear that Zhineve-An understood the significance of the power storm that had raged across Caer Argent during the night. “These envoys, the Many-As-One,” she said to the Duke, her hands closing around the arms of her chair as she leaned forward. “We suspected before, but now we know. They are in league with the demons the Ishnapuri seek—the same demons that slew successive generations of queens in Jhaine, during the Dark Years. We will have no more dealings with them.”
“The Dark Years.” The Duke had looked taken aback. “That was a very long time ago.”
“We do not forget,” the queen retorted, drawing herself up. “The demons believed that a priestess-queen of Jhaine would be instrumental in their final fall and so sought to exterminate us all. We did not know,” she added, “that their kind were active in the world again.”
Is that why the queens closed Jhaine, Malian wondered now, and bound themselves to their centers of power—because the Swarm was exterminating them?
“And the Abjured as well,” Zhineve-An had continued fiercely, her hands opening and closing again, “the Forsworn. I felt their power, too. I could not mistake it, despite all here that is foreign and strange.”
“A Queen threat,” Rastem put in, with his hand on his sword. “We cannot protect her against such dangers in the midst of your tournament crowd. The situation is too open, the risk too great.”
“So you don’t wish to attend, is that it?” The Duke had shaken his head. “I will have my guards there—but you are our guest and must do as you wish. I will send more guards to protect these rooms, as many as First Rastem wishes. And Maister Carick here will be happy to answer all your questions about the River lands.”
Happy is not the word I would have used, Malian thought now. The queen had sat for some time, her brows drawn together and her lower lip caught between her teeth, staring at the door through which the Duke had left. When she finally roused herself, it was to spend the next few hours grilling Malian with questions about the River and the Guild, particularly how the herald pairs were selected. When done, Zhineve-An had again just sat and stared through her, to the extent that Malian wondered if the queen had penetrated the illusion spells around Maister Carick.
“The outside world is more complex than we thought,” Zhineve-An had said at last, looking beyond Malian to Rastem. “But today is still the First Night of Midsummer, and the High Priestess has asked me to keep vigil in the original sanctuary. Lore claims,” she continued, her gaze switching back to Malian, “that it was ancient even before the world fell, like our sanctuaries in Jhaine. I have already asked your Countess Ghiselaine to keep the watch with me,” she added, before finally dismissing Malian from her presence.
My Countess Ghiselaine, Malian repeated to herself now, with another wry smile—although, in fact, she would accompany the Countess as far as the temple complex, even though she had business of her own to pursue that night.
There is a way, the heralds’ voices said again in her memory, if you are willing to walk the path, Heir of the Derai. The last phrase, Heir of the Derai had never been spoken in Imuln’s dome—so Malian took the dream’s message to mean that the heralds’ way must be significant, but possibly dangerous for an alien Derai.
She knew she should move but lay still anyway, watching the sunset light on the wall and listening to the distant shrieks of children, playing through the palace’s courtyards and halls. She was lying on top of the bed’s coverlet, beneath her cloak, which smelled of road dust and wood smoke and horses—but right now she found that comforting. A certainty, she thought, in a world that is far from certain. She saw the long road from Ar to Caer Argent in her mind’s eye: the dangers of the Northern March, and last night’s wild rush across the city’s roofs, which had ended in Nherenor’s death—a death first seen in Yorindesarinen’s fire, five years before.
I still don’t know why it was significant enough for me to foresee, though, Malian reflected. Or perhaps it isn’t significant at all, perhaps it’s just one of many things that might be, some of which come to pass while others don’t. She sat up, touching the heavy medallion around her neck. And some, she added silently, that are unforeseen—at least by me. Yet the series of visions seen in Yorindesarinen’s fire so powerful that she almost lost herself in them. It was Tarathan who had rescued her, grasping her hands and stepping out of the fire’s heart in order to show her the path back.
Tarathan of Ar, Malian repeated to herself, and slipped the fine silver chain over her head in order to study the medallion. The face depicted the round disc of the full moon, with a horned crescent in bas-relief against its base. It was the same ornament that Zhineve-An had worn on the morning of the Swarm audience. “The insignia,” Jehane Mor had said, as she placed the disc between Malian’s hands that morning, “of the priestess-queens of Jhaine.”
A gift and a challenge, Malian thought now, her hand closing around it—one she wanted to take up, even while apprehension tightened the muscles in her gut. One I dare not refuse either, she added grimly, since Nindorith may already be hunting me down. And the heralds’ way offers me the chance to alter the essence of who I am, and so disappear while remaining in plain sight.
She traced the face of the moon disc with a thoughtful fingertip and wondered if she had already journeyed too far from the Wall, not in physical miles but in herself. She was Malian of Night—but what would that mean once she took the first step along the path this medallion offered?
“No going back.” Nhenir’s voice was cool as moonlight across her mind.
Malian nodded. “You’re right, although that’s been true ever since I left the Keep of Winds.” My choice, she reminded herself, even if Asantir, Haimyr, and Yorindesarinen all encouraged it.
“I will take you with me to the temple and hide you, so there’s an additional watch over Ghiselaine.” she told the helm. “I’m not sure I entirely trust Queen Zhineve-An.”
She was not certain that she could trust Nhenir either if the helm decided that Ghiselaine’s well-being was not important. But given Lord Falk’s promise with respect to the Lost, it was difficult to see even Nhenir reaching that conclusion.
She slipped the medallion back over her head and stood up, pulling her last clean shirt and hose from her rucksack, and washing with water from the ewer in the corner of the room. The shirt and hose, as well as the sleeveless tunic she pulled on over the top, were black, but of everyday fabric, not the fine clothes she had worn to meet the Jhainarian queen for the first time. She was careful to conceal both the moon disc and its chain beneath her clothes before braiding her hair into the queue favored by River sailors, slipping her hideout weapons into place, and setting Nhenir, in its flat, black cap form, onto her head.
The children had vanished by the time Malian descended the narrow stair from her room, although the courtyard outside the Gallery wing was full of revelers celebrating the first night of Midsummer. She could hear a clamor rising from the city as well, louder than the night before, as Ghiselaine’s party joined with Queen Zhineve-An and four of her Seven to walk to the temple. Rastem and his companions walked to either side of them, with six ducal guards clearing the way ahead and six marching.
Malian had assumed they would go via the ribbon of park that stretched between the palace and the temple grounds, where the rest of Zhineve-An’s Seven were already keeping watch. But Ghiselaine explained that they had to enter by way of a formal gate, so the guards took the route along the mews. Automatically, Malian scanned the rooftops, which remained clear, although the festival clamor was growing. There was even a mixed party of Lathayran and Emerian knights drinking by the fountain in the temple square. “It’ll be the same everywhere,” Alianor said, following the direction of her gaze. “The knights who are no longer competing will drink through to the end of the festival. Although some do keep vigil at Midsummer as well.”
“Not many, though,” Ilaise murmured, and Alianor nodded, her expression wry.
They met the company of Normarch knights by the temple gate closest to the mews and found Audin there as well, with his arm in a sling. He was moving stiffly, but managed a creditable courtier’s bow for Ghiselaine and Zhineve-An. Jarna was fingering the yellow and white scarf around her arm, her expression nervous but excited as she, too, scraped a bow to the Jhainarian queen. A temple priestess, robed in the midnight blue of Midsummer and anonymous beneath a deep cowl, indicated that they should all follow her into a private courtyard, before ushering the vigil keepers toward another, smaller gate. Malian could see tall trees beyond the inner wall and guessed that this must be the enclosed wood she had seen on her first morning in the palace.
“The moon will rise soon,” the priestess intoned, as though speaking the words of ritual. “You must be inducted within the ancient sanctuary before it does.”
Ilaise, the last to pass through the second gate, made a face back over her shoulder, as if to indicate that she had had enough of vigils. Yet Ghiselaine could not have declined Zhineve-An’s invitation without causing offense—something it seemed easy enough to do.
“Luck,” Audin wished them softly as the priestess closed the grilled gate from within. The ducal guards began to file out, their part done, while Rastem and Zorem took up position facing the temple square; their two companions looked toward the inner gate.
“We are the Countess Ghiselaine’s company,” the Duke’s nephew said to Rastem, “so will share the watch with you.”
Their official escort duty had ended when Ghiselaine reached Caer Argent, but the Seven probably would not know that, especially as the Normarchers were all wearing the countess’s colors. Even Raven, Malian thought, surprised. Her eyes had flicked to his face when Audin spoke, but the knight said nothing, and although Rastem did not seem pleased, he did not argue either.
“I can stand two watches,” Ado said, “since I’m not competing tomorrow.” So he and Girvase stayed, while the others walked back to the Normarch town house—since as Audin pointed out, they might as well be comfortable. Malian murmured agreement to this, but excused herself when they reached the mews, saying she must return to the palace. Only Raven did not call out a farewell, although he nodded as she turned away.
She had to wait a few minutes until the narrow street was clear in either direction, before climbing to the roof of the row houses and making her way to the rear wall. Once there, she crouched below the parapet and surveyed the greensward below. The old watchtowers along the river were dark silhouettes, the palace to her right a blaze of lights. On her left she could see the postern into the temple grounds and the remaining three of Zhineve-An’s Seven on watch there. Keeping low, she crept along the guttering between roofs and wall, glad of Nhenir’s ability to help her pass unseen.
The moon was beginning to rise, turning the eastern sky to amethyst as Malian reached the temple grounds. She paused as one of the Seven did a careful survey of the nearby walls and towers, and only slid over the temple wall once she was sure that all three guards were looking away. From there, she hung full length by her hands before dropping the final few feet into the enclosed woodland below. She caught the scent of jasmine, dizzyingly sweet, as she landed, and saw gravel walks twisting between stands of trees. The cupola of the old temple, dwarfed by the bulk of the main precinct, was visible between two of the copses, and Malian made her way toward it, walking on grass to avoid the betraying crunch of gravel.
The entrance to the chapel was on the building’s woodland side, below the cupola. Two dark yew trees guarded a small portico, built to shelter a heavy wooden door. Malian glided from shadow to shadow along the edge of the trees until she reached the far side of the building, but was unable to find any other entrance. Only the cupola rose above one level, but although the narrow windows could be easily broken, the panes were small and the lead between them would take a little longer to force. Secure enough then, she decided, especially with the main temple close by. She placed Nhenir on one of the flat stone sills and was impressed at how her eye slid over its presence. Even when she forced herself to focus, she only saw a lichened stone urn set within the window embrasure.
“Take care, Heir of Night.” The helm’s voice was a chime of ice as she turned away, and Malian almost shivered. She nodded acknowledgment and moved deeper into the enclosed woodland, following the most overgrown paths. The grounds became wilder, until a tangle of elder and may trees opened up, revealing a deep, still pool. The rising moon’s reflection was just beginning to creep across the water, and she could feel the same power that filled Imuln’s dome humming beneath her feet. The power would build, Jehane Mor had told her, as the moon filled the pool—an event that only happened on the three high days of Midsummer.
At first Malian thought that she had arrived too soon and was alone, until a deeper shadow moved beneath an elder tree. She tensed, remembering the dark figure that had watched the inn door in Normarch, but the figure took another step out of shadow and into moonlight, and she saw that it was Tarathan. He, too, was wearing black, rather than herald’s gray, and although he still bore the swallowtail swords, his braids hung loose down his back. As they had when he rinsed off dirt and sweat and blood in the hill fort, she thought, feeling the shiver of that dawn memory run through her.
Tarathan stopped, facing her, but even in the moonlight Malian found it impossible to read his expression. He was carrying a cup between his lean strong hands, and now he held it out to her, neither of them speaking a word. Their fingertips touched as she took it, and she felt the fire that was at the core of both their power spark.
Seeker’s fire, she thought, with a trace of the dizziness she recalled from Summer’s Eve. A warrior’s, too, she added silently, for that was why he was here, to stand as First to her proxy queen in a ritual that was as old as the worship of Imuln in Haarth.
“Although only in Jhaine,” Jehane Mor had told her beneath Imuln’s dome, “are the oldest ways still remembered
. And even there, the true rite that brings together the power of the Goddess and the power of Haarth at the zenith of a Great Year, for the weal of all, is rarely performed.”
The true rite, Malian thought now, that will transform my essence, blending it with that of Haarth so that Nindorith will be unable to seek me out. If I can perform the ritual successfully.
“I will hold a shield from here,” Jehane Mor had told her, “to deflect outside attention—not just Zhineve-An or the dark seeker, but the priestesses in the temple as well. Tarathan will be with you as First and to speak the words of the ritual, the chant that will enable you to walk the Midsummer path of moon and earth.”
Malian glanced back at Imuln’s great dome, dark and unrevealing against the sky, then lifted the cup, scanning its contents with her Shadow Band-trained senses to detect the presence of poison or drugs. Tarathan placed his hands over hers. “It is water drawn from the sacred pool, which enhances the ritual, that is all.”
A ritual of Haarth, Malian thought, which may not accept me—but the touch of Tarathan’s hands was warm, his eyes steady on hers. She placed the rim of the cup against her lips and drank.
Chapter 44
The Path of Earth and Moon
The moon was a glowing, aqueous shield reflected in the heart of the pool as Malian stepped barefoot onto the moon track that stretched across its surface. The water from the cup had been cool fire, traveling down her throat, and now moonlight shimmered along her veins. The weight of Tarathan’s chant wove around her like a cloak, and she could see the threads of power spinning out ahead of her. It reminded her of Yorindesarinen’s silver path through the Gate of Dreams, which Jehane Mor had called a ropewalk across vast deeps. Now Malian felt the rough strands beneath each footstep, even though her eyes told her that she was walking down into the water, descending to the heart of the reflected moon.
