by Helen Lowe
Darkness stirred at the edge of his eye and he whipped around, his sword blade arcing ahead of him and slicing a lurker in half as it dropped from the chapel eaves. The Swarm minion keened as the sword bit, a high thin wail abruptly cut off—and the garden around Kalan erupted as a wave of black-clad warriors surged toward the portico. There must be fifteen of them at least, maybe even twenty, he estimated, racing forward as well. Given those numbers, they must eventually overwhelm the lone defender, no matter how great his courage and skill.
The defending warrior came to meet his attackers with a sword in one hand and dagger in the other, wielding both like an extension of himself. He used the yews and the portico entrance to define the fighting space, limiting the number of enemies who could assail him at one time—but he was still going to be overrun. Kalan could see the Darksworn seeker now, a tall androgynous woman surrounded by power’s aura, although its use had clearly failed against her opponent in the chapel entrance. Now she was coming at him though the Darksworn warriors instead, the steel rod she had used to ward the enclosed woodland and the chapel grasped like a weapon in her hands. More power shimmered along the hieroglyphs tempered into the metal, and one end was sharpened to a thrusting point.
And that, Kalan realized, is why the assailants are hemming their enemy in, rather than killing him outright—so their seeker can finish him with the sorcerous stake.
He shouted the Normarch battle cry, drawing some of the attackers onto himself, and sank into the seamless whole that was body and mindshield, sword and will, flowing together as one. He opened himself to the thrum of power beneath his feet and let the energy wash through him, erasing the aches and weariness of the past days and deflecting the sorcery the Swarm adept flung his way. A blur of cut and thrust followed, until the knot of attackers broke apart and Kalan saw that he was on the fringe of those surrounding the defending warrior. They had him pressed back against the wall now, and the nearest assailant had just aimed a massive blow at the bestial helmet.
If it connected, Kalan knew, it would crush both helm and skull—but the defender was already dropping and the blade glanced off the helmet’s rim, pushing it askew. The warrior swept with his sword, trying to fend off antagonists and pull the helmet clear at the same time. Kalan shouted, attacking again, as the Darksworn seeker lunged for her enemy like a tiger, her teeth bared.
The defender flung the helm aside and Kalan shouted again as he recognized Ser Raven, then in denial as the seeker’s eyes flamed, drawing back the rod for a death thrust. “Traitor!” she shrieked—even as Ser Raven’s sword came back on line, forcing the rod aside. The sorcery that crackled from the runes flowed harmlessly to either side of his body, and the knight followed through without hesitation, driving his dagger up beneath the seeker’s rib cage.
A direct thrust to the heart—she should be dead, Kalan thought, even as he downed another opponent himself. Yet impossibly, the Darksworn was still alive, staring into Ser Raven’s face as confusion replaced the flame in her eyes.
“But—” Blood bubbled along her lips. “You’re not . . .” Realization and shock followed in quick succession, and then an emotion that Kalan could not place before another Swarm warrior snarled into his face. The clash of sword meeting sword jarred along his arm as two more warriors came at him from the side, tying him up in a furious flurry of blows even as he became aware of another, more distant clangor of fighting.
“She comes.” Cool fire brushed his mind as he dispatched another opponent—and almost checked his next stroke as the empathic link to Malian slid back into place. More voices shouted, this time from the direction of the postern, and now he and Ser Raven were fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with the portico behind them. They were still outnumbered, but the Darksworn warriors were falling back anyway.
That shouting must mean reinforcements, Kalan thought, even as the last of the attackers broke and ran. Ser Raven’s face was stone as he watched them, the Darksworn seeker’s body at his feet, but after a moment he stepped forward and began to remove another of the bestial helms from a dead warrior.
“They’re good helmets,” he said. “I got that first one from their rearguard by the postern.”
So the Darksworn did leave a lookout, Kalan thought. “How did you know—” he began, but the knight cut him off.
“We need to find out what’s happening in the courtyard.” The sound of more distant fighting was coming from there, Kalan realized—but he had only heard it once the Darksworn seeker’s spell dissipated, following her death.
“I’ll go,” Ser Raven told him. “Once you’re sure it’s friends at the postern, make sure all’s well with Queen Zhineve-An and the Countess. The door was unguarded when I reached it,” he added, “the attackers already coming through the grounds, but from what I could see at a quick glance, the damosels must have barricaded themselves into the cupola.”
Kalan kept his sword in his hand as he watched Ser Raven disappear around the corner of the building and waited to see who would arrive from the postern. He risked a look inside the chapel, but could make out little beyond bare stone walls and a wooden altar. The silence weighed on him, and he drew back as Audin and a ragtag following appeared through the woodland, keeping to the more open areas between the trees.
No ducal guards, Kalan thought, his heart sinking, but Audin looked confident rather than harried, and a moment later he recognized Ser Alric on his friend’s left. Those with them comprised a mix of knights and archers from the tourney camp, and even, he realized, blinking at the sight, Gol and a handful of the Sword warriors.
“My uncle took his personal guard and rode out,” Audin told him. “No one knew where or why so I commandeered Ser Alric and his men—I’ll explain later,” he added quietly, seeing the glance Kalan shot toward the Derai.
Kalan nodded. “There’s still fighting at the courtyard gate,” he told them. “Ser Raven’s gone to see what he can do, but could probably use help.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Ser Alric said. “But I’ll leave you some archers to watch this entrance and the perimeter of yon wood.”
He organized the rest of the tourney camp company with a few quick words and they headed toward the courtyard. Kalan caught Audin’s eye. “The northerners,” he asked, low voiced. “How did that happen?” He could not add that his dream had shown him Sword warriors and Darksworn hunting each other through the old Sondcendre ruin.
“It’s a little complicated,” Audin replied, just as softly. “But they do seem willing to fight.” He peered past Kalan’s shoulder into the chapel interior. “Have you seen Ghis and the others yet?”
The silence inside the ancient walls was even more profound once they stood inside. Smoky light and ragged shadow leapt across stone as Audin lit a torch, illuminating the narrow windows and a door built into the tower wall, behind the altar. The door appeared intact, and Kalan guessed it must lead to the cupola.
Audin lifted the torch and examined the chapel again, but it was completely empty. “I suppose,” he said, “we’ll have to go through some form of cleansing rite, just for having been in here.” His voice echoed softly off the surrounding stone.
“Not half so great a cleansing,” Kalan replied grimly, “as if we let Ghis and the queen die out of respect for the sacred precinct.” He could feel a draft of cool air, although the door behind the altar was closed. A heavy metal ring was set into the wood, but nothing happened when he turned it so he rapped against the timber with his sword hilt. “It’s Hamar,” he called, “and Audin. Is anyone in here?”
The silence resettled and he wondered if Ser Raven was wrong about the damosels barricading themselves in. A slight scratch sounded—or a scuff, he thought, someone creeping as silently as possible down stone stairs. He listened intently and felt the other’s presence on the far side of the door, also tense with listening. “Alli,” he guessed. “It’s really us. You can come out now; the attackers have gone.”
He heard a hiss of breath before Alia
nor called back. “What’s the name of my horse?”
Kalan grinned. “Sable. Ask me something difficult, like Rolan, the name of your first puppy when you were a little girl.”
“Hamar!” He heard the sound of bolts being drawn back and had to hold his sword as Alianor threw her arms around his neck.
“Where’re the others?” he asked, seeing the empty stair behind her.
“Is Ghis there?” Audin spoke at the same time.
“I’m here.” Ghiselaine came down the steps, sheathing her dagger as she saw them. Like Alianor, her expression was strained. “Aren’t the others with you?”
“No.” Kalan felt his heart begin to pound again as he turned, his gaze sweeping the empty chapel. “What happened? How did you get separated?”
“The ancient sanctuary’s below us,” Alianor said quickly. “In a cavern. The entrance is through the floor, at the other end of this chamber.” Creating that draft I felt, he thought ,as Alianor pushed her hands wearily over her hair. “Everyone went down there except me. I stood guard up here, by the entrance to the cavern. For hours everything was quiet—and then Jarna yelled a warning and I heard Ilaise scream, ‘Run!’ ”
“The chapel below is as big as this one,” Ghiselaine put in, “so Jarna was on one side, Illy on the other near the stair. I heard a sound, but Jarna must have seen something because she was yelling a challenge, and then Iliase grabbed me and pushed me up the stairs. I thought she and Zhineve-An were just behind me as I went up.”
“We ran for the door,” Alianor said. She did not need to state the obvious: that her priority would have been to save Ghiselaine. She looked at Kalan, her eyes shadowed in the torchlight. “But I felt your warning, and the sense of danger from outside, so we shut ourselves into the tower instead. By that stage,” she added, “we knew that only Ghiselaine had made it out of the sanctuary. And then we heard the fighting.”
“Ser Raven,” Kalan told them, “guarding the door.” He thought about what might have happened if other attackers had come at the knight from behind. “Did no one pursue you?” he asked.
Ghiselaine glanced at Alianor. “We thought that was what the fighting was,” she began slowly. “That it was Jarna and Illy holding them at bay—but Alianor wouldn’t let me help them,” she continued, biting off every word. “She shut me into the cupola itself until I promised to do as she said!”
If he hadn’t been so worried, Kalan would have laughed. “You know she was right,” he said to Ghiselaine, then looked at Audin. “We need to go down there, find out what’s happened.”
“I’m coming, too,” Ghiselaine said with determination. “Illy and Jarna were only there because of me. And Zhineve-An is Emer’s guest,” she added.
Audin was shaking his head. “We’d just be putting you back in danger.”
“And that can never be allowed to happen,” she returned bitterly.
“Oh, Ghis,” he said, and Kalan could hear the mix of fear and exasperation and love in his voice. “You know it can’t. Not if we have any other choice.”
“I’ll go down,” Kalan said to him. “Send someone after me as soon as you can, but one of us needs to get Ghis and Alli to safety as soon as possible. I’m sorry, Ghis,” he added, seeing her bleak expression.
She just nodded, and he headed for the far end of the chapel without looking back. The grill made to fit over the opening still lay beside it, and the entrance in the floor gaped. Kalan strained both his eyesight and his hearing to discern what lay below, extending his psychic awareness at the same time, but everything was perfectly still. He could smell the hot wax of recently burning candles, but guessed they had been extinguished when Ilaise got Ghiselaine out.
But why didn’t whoever attacked them follow? he wondered. This opening is easy enough to find.
The voice out of his dream whispered, cool as silver into his mind: “As if I, who remained concealed from both Swarm and Derai for thousands of years, despite all their efforts to find me, could not deceive the weak-minded.” The trace of smugness in the voice deepened. “Those who ward out others’ minds should be more careful about protecting their own.”
This has to be Nhenir, Kalan thought. The moon-bright helm had never spoken to him before, but he knew Malian had been using it to help watch over Ghiselaine. “Nhenir?” he queried silently, and felt the ghost of an assent. “Where’s the queen? And Jarna and Illy?”
The helm did not answer, and the muscles along Kalan’s jaw clenched tight as he wove a shield cloaked in stone and dry, cold air, one that would deflect the eye away from his moving shadow. He listened again, and when he still heard nothing from below, began a cautious descent.
The cavern reminded him of the cave below the tower in Jaransor, although no ancient depiction of the Hunt of Mayanne flowed across its walls. The altar was a great slab of lichened stone, and the tall candlebras to either side had been knocked to the ground. Kalan could see the trail of congealed wax across the floor. But there must be another entrance, he thought—then whirled, his keen ears catching the almost soundless footstep behind him.
“There’ll be concealed tunnels,” Jehane Mor said, as though overhearing his thought. A match flared, lighting the torch in her hand. “All these ancient places have them—behind the stair most likely, as well as the altar. And probably one more.”
Kalan stared at her, a number of thoughts chasing through his head: that she could not have been protecting Ghiselaine and Zhineve-An with her trance; that he had never seen her without Tarathan before; and that weariness had left its stamp on her habitual calm expression. In the end, he decided to keep them all to himself. “Not the stairs,” he said, “because Ghiselaine said Illy was there and got her out. Jarna gave the alarm first and she was somewhere opposite Illy.”
“So not the altar either.” Jehane Mor crossed to the wall opposite the stairs and knelt down. “Here,” she said. And then softly: “Kalan, I’m sorry.”
This opening was in the floor as well, and an entire square of stone had been lifted out, revealing broad steps that descended to a circular room. Ilaise lay at the top of the steps, her long dagger fallen a few inches clear of her hand. Jarna was collapsed half over the foot of the stairs, half across the floor of the room below.
Kalan’s first thought, seeing how much blood had soaked through her surcote, was that she couldn’t possibly be alive. She had taken a sword cut through the shoulder that had severed bone as well as flesh, and another slash across the stomach—but when he dropped to his knees beside her and felt for a pulse, his fingers found the slightest of flutters. “She’s alive,” he whispered.
“Only just. And even moving her may kill her now.” Jehane Mor was grim as she knelt opposite him. “Ilaise is alive, too,” she added.
As if responding to her words, the damosel groaned, and they were both beside her in an instant. Ilaise moaned again and her eyelids lifted slowly, as though struggling to focus. Her lips moved. “Ser,” she whispered. “Ser . . .”
Kalan wanted to encourage her, but held back, afraid that he would speak too roughly out of his anger and fear.
“Tell us,” Jehane Mor said, in her voice that was cool as water.
Ilaise’s eyes fixed on the herald as though she were a spar in a flooded river. “Ser Ombrose,” she whispered. “It was . . . Ser . . . Ombrose . . . going to . . . kill Ghis.”
“And Queen Zhineve-An?” the herald asked.
And Kalan realized that the Jhainarian queen was still missing.
Chapter 48
A Place for Troubled Times
Malian crossed from the Gate of Dreams into utter blackness, with Tarathan still at her side. At the last moment the Gate twisted, pulling them away from the sacred pool, which she was using as her focus point. She tightened her grip on Tarathan’s hand, fighting to maintain their course, while a detached corner of her mind remembered every story of portal use gone awry. The Gate twisted again, like a horse trying to throw them off, but now Malian could feel the ropew
alk path underfoot—and sense that it, too, was changing course, bringing them out someplace else.
Somewhere safer? she wondered, as the flow of power ebbed. Or where we are needed? Her instinct insisted that they had still emerged close to the temple woodland and the pool, but the darkness around them was so absolute that she could not be sure.
“You must learn to eat the dark lest it eat you.” She recognized Nhenir’s allusion to the long-ago dream when she had found the cave of sleepers, but the helm’s voice sounded far too complacent to be a memory.
“Or you could tell me where I am,” she retorted, putting out her right hand and touching rock. The air here was cool, but dank. On brief reflection, she decided they must be close to the river. “We’re underground,” she said softly, and Tarathan’s hand tightened briefly on hers before he released it.
“Think it,” he told her. “I will always hear you now, because of the rite.”
And she could hear him: the link was not only one way. She wondered if he would hear Nhenir as well, through her. “Only if I choose to be heard,” the helm informed her, sounding superior now, as well as complacent.
“Ghiselaine?” she queried back, but Nhenir’s prompt assurance of the Countess’s safety was so bland that she wondered what it was not passing on. Beside her, Tarathan had begun a delicate exploratory mindsearch, and she linked her own awareness to his, gradually realizing that they had come out in a network of tunnels.
“Beneath the temple of Imuln, I think,” Tarathan said. “All the ancient temples have something of the kind, but Caer Argent’s are extensive.”
“Can we seek our way out? Or Jehane Mor guide us?” She sensed rather than saw his head shake through the darkness.
“We set aside our link for the duration of the rite,” he replied, almost absently. “A pity, because we’re not alone down here.”
She let her seeker’s sense follow his and detected someone hiding, frightened and alone, and a darker presence hunting through the tunnels. Her fear leapt instantly to Nindorith, but she quelled it, realizing that this power was subtle and focused, but not as strong. “We shall have to be careful,” Tarathan added, and she knew what he meant: without shielding, their seeking would be easily detected by a powerful opponent.
