by Helen Lowe
“So it was the frost-fire sword all along,” Malian said. “You deceived me through omission. Did you prevent the armring catching fire as well?”
Nhenir said nothing, its silence as veiled as the eyes on its visor. “The crow in Jaransor warned me to be wary of you.” Malian kept her mindtone dispassionate. “So I should not be surprised to find you playing so deep a game. I am not inclined, though, to let the situation continue.” Still the helm remained silent, and she let the layered power within her uncoil. “I could make you speak.”
Her truth sense shivered—telling her she could indeed break Nhenir and then remake it, as Yorindesarinen had done. Yet in the hero’s case Nhenir had been broken in battle, she had not destroyed it herself.
Is this the person you want to be? Or the leadership the Derai needs? Yorindesarinen’s questions, out of her dream.
No on both counts, Malian thought grimly. “Consider yourself fortunate,” she told Nhenir. “But once we have found the Lost, then we will deal with this matter of the sword, you and I—and be warned, I will not accept either silence or deceit when that time comes.”
The helm did not reply, but there was a quality to its reserve that made her brows lift. Thoughtfully, she worked events back against the silence until eventually she nodded. “You are suggesting that the heralds have done much the same by using my need to escape Nindorith to persuade me into their Great Marriage and so make me part of their world.” She made herself consider this. “They are definitely playing the great game, with the fate of this world at stake. But they did not entrap me, they offered me a choice.” She smiled wryly. “One I would likely have taken anyway, even without Nindorith to thwart.”
Nhenir did speak then, its voice moonlight on ice. “This Tarathan is not for you.”
“I know that.” And she did, having walked the path of earth and moon and absorbed its visions, including the nature of the rite. She understood that the Great Marriage was not intended to bind those who assumed the roles of priestess and king forever. It’s not even as though I’ve never had what the Emerians would call springtime loves before, she thought, or lain with a lover. Of course she had, since the Band taught that inexperience of love and the flesh made an adept as vulnerable as ignorance of death, or any other of the arts of Kan.
Yet understanding of the rite and adept’s training or not, Malian was still intensely aware of the memory of Tarathan’s skin, smooth beneath her hands, of his body beneath and above hers, and the fire of his mouth on her lips, his hands moving across her body. Similarly, seeing him working together with Jehane Mor as they healed Jarna, she had felt something quick and difficult turning in the region of her heart. It did not matter that she knew that Tarathan and Jehane Mor had always been together: sometime lovers perhaps, but always friends and comrades-in-arms, bound close by their bond as queen and First, as well as their herald’s oath—and most of all by the purpose they had shared since they were younger than Rastem and Zhineve-An.
He is not for you, the helm had said, and it was right. She and Tarathan each had their own destinies to tread, driven by their foreseeing—and in the end she was Derai and he was not. It had not mattered on Imuln’s Isle, and might not on the River, but it would on the Derai Wall, as her father had found to his cost.
Malian let her breath huff out as she lay down, falling almost instantly asleep. When she woke the shadows had moved past noon—and her mind was full, not of the sword or of Tarathan, as she would have expected, but of Zhineve-An. She was remembering the queen’s constraint when she spoke of Ser Ombrose with Lord Hirluin—and also the way the champion had looked at the young golden girl who was also a queen, the first time they met by the Argenthithe bridge. Had he made overtures to her, Malian wondered, once he knew she saw completion of the Great Marriage as part of her embassy to Jhaine? And had she, far from certain of the Duke, encouraged those overtures? He was the champion, after all, and a Sondargent, both qualities that made him eligible for the rite.
But why, Great Year or not, did the ceremony need to be performed in Emer at all, when a Great Marriage could take place equally well in Jhaine? Malian sat up, frowning as she went over her visions from the path of earth and moon again, and everything, both obvious and subtle, that they had told her about Jhaine.
Nine men had died willingly during the great rite that was performed to bind the Cataclysm—and the nine high priestesses had died, too, draining their power and their lives with it, down to the lees. Yet in the generations that followed, as Jhaine closed in on itself, blood sacrifice had been twisted, through fear and the desire for control, into custom rather than a last desperate resort driven by great need. The victims were chosen by lot or taken by force—and families competed to give their sons to the Ishnapuri tribute.
I spoke truth during the rite, Malian thought. The serpent that is the priestess-queens’ power is strangling Jhaine in its coils. Through perversion, the rite is losing its potency and Imuln has turned her face away. The queens know they must reach beyond Jhaine—for fresh blood, she concluded, disgusted. That’s why they sent Zhineve-An, because they thought the Duke would be unable to resist her youth and beauty.
Malian shook her head, knowing it would never have worked even if the Duke had been dazzled and Zhineve-An had performed the perverted ritual. The Sondargents were not absolute rulers, and the lords and people of Emer would never accept a worship of Imuln turned to blood sacrifice. As for Zhineve-An, she might be young but she was by no means stupid. She had already been working out that the world beyond Jhaine was not as the priestess-queens thought.
Perhaps not quickly enough, though, Malian reflected. Had Zhineve-An allowed herself to be swayed by Ser Ombrose’s ambitions and considered allying Jhaine to his cause? She felt sure the young queen had not plotted Ghiselaine’s death—but did wonder whether the suggestion that the Countess of Ormond accompany her vigil might not have come first from Ser Ombrose. “Although how he thought she would react to seeing Ghiselaine murdered in front of her, I don’t know,” Malian said aloud.
Frowning again, she swung her feet to the floor. “Unless Ser Ombrose planned to kidnap the queen and marry her by force.” The Sondargent wolf, she said to herself, thinking that it would fit with the open use of his own followers and allies in the courtyard, rather than relying on the Darksworn—who had betrayed him anyway.
“War within and without.” She repeated Arcolin’s words to the quiet room. “And Ser Ombrose abandoned once he had set their machinery in motion.” She could not feel sorry for him: he had betrayed his honor and his kin. And would doubtless choose his allies more carefully in future, if he survived this setback.
Malian shrugged and stood up, wondering how much of her suspicions and conclusions she should repeat. In the end, she decided it might be best to let matters lie. If Zhineve-An had played a part in bringing about last night’s events, then it was a relatively small one—and she had lost three of her Seven and would return to Jhaine having failed in the matter of the Great Marriage.
Not just failed, Malian reflected. Tarathan and Jehane Mor could well have opened another fissure in the hierarchy of Jhaine through involving her in the healing below the chapel.
Time would tell—but she felt sure that the Duke would want the Jhainarian alliance more than ever now, with a potential rebellion centered on Ser Ombrose and unrest with Lathayra. Another reason to let whatever part Zhineve-An might have played in last night’s events lie.
Malian splashed water onto her face and decided that it was time to return to the Black Tower, even if she had not yet been summoned. When she reached it, the bustle outside was more purposeful, with a constant stream of messengers coming and going, but the Duke was still in council with his lords and captains. So Malian turned toward the Normarch town house and found Kalan there with the rest of the young knights.
“Jarn’s sleeping,” he said, when Malian asked. “They gave her poppy juice for the pain and said she’ll probably need more when she wakes.
” He looked exhausted, with dark smudges beneath his eyes, but like the others he was checking over armor and weapons, preparing for whatever lay ahead.
“Ombrose has been sighted,” Audin told her. “He was clear of the city and fleeing for the Cendreward with his followers, including the Lathayrans. Lord Bonamark’s already in pursuit, with a force comprising his own men and about half the ducal guard. Ser Alric’s gone with them, because Wymark and Cendreward have old ties and he knows something of the country and the people. And we need to act swiftly, to dissuade any of Ombrose’s Sondcendre kin who are not currently with him from taking up his cause.”
“I assume the Duke will follow?” Kalan said, tightening a rivet in a sword’s haft.
“As soon as the Midsummer ceremonies are over,” Audin replied. “From what I can gather, they’re already marshaling the army, either to besiege Ombrose in his strongholds or force him across Emer’s border and into Lathayra.”
So Emer’s peace looks set to be overturned again, Malian thought somberly.
“I heard a rumor,” Kalan said, his eyes fixed on his hands, busy with the sword hilt, “that they may dispense with the formal rebetrothal tomorrow and hold the marriage instead.”
“I think it likely,” Audin said finally, his voice so neutral that Malian did not dare look at his face either. “The Ormondian peace is more vital than ever now, and we need to show that we’re committed to it—not just to isolate Ombrose, but to prevent any hotheads in Ormond from trying to reopen old wounds.”
Kalan finished his work on the sword and propped it against the wall. The blade was not long enough to be his, and Malian realized that he must have been repairing Jarna’s sword, damaged in last night’s encounter. Her eyes shifted to the mail shirt at his feet and she saw that it had been largely cleaned of blood, although the rent across the links still gaped.
Abruptly, Kalan stood up. “I’m going to the old Sondcendre mansion.”
Raher looked up. “D’you think some of Ser Ombrose’s men might be holed up there?”
“No,” Kalan said. “I think that’s where the missing northerners went. Rather than kicking my heels here, I’m going to find out.”
“We’d better let the steward know where we’re going,” Audin said. “If my uncle does summon us, he won’t want to be kept waiting.”
They all went, though, and Malian guessed that they felt like Kalan, wanting to be on their feet and doing something. The sun was hot, the mood of the city subdued, except when people recognized Audin’s Sondargent jupon and called out their support for the Duke. Although until yesterday they would have cheered for Ser Ombrose equally, throwing flowers to the Sondargent champion as he rode by.
Heat shimmered within the broken walls of the old mansion, and at first glance the overgrown ruins seemed peaceful, until they noticed the clouds of hovering flies. Malian turned away as the others went to investigate, making her way to the narrow lane where dried blood stained the cobbles and the cordite whiff of Nindorith’s power lingered. She knelt down, touching a finger to the blood, and wondered why she still felt melancholy about Nherenor, when the Darksworn youth had clearly been an enemy.
“I thought I’d find you here.” Kalan came along the lane, extending a hand to pull her to her feet. She took it and felt the old link between them reassert itself, stronger than it had been since they left the Wall.
“I’m glad Jarna will live,” she said quietly.
He nodded, his hand tightening on hers. “I don’t think I could have borne it if . . .”
“I know.” His gauntlets were thrust into his belt and she could feel the swordsman’s calluses on his palm. “Are there many dead here?” she asked, withdrawing her hand.
Kalan nodded again. “I think the Sword Derai had the worst of it, but there’s enough of the lightning warriors to call the honors even. We haven’t found Orth yet, but I’ll let Gol and his lot know anyway, so they can bury their comrades.”
Malian wondered if the remaining Sword warriors would return to the Wall now. Personally she considered their private bloodletting here a waste of energy and lives. “But they may have been right in one thing,” she said. “Even if Nherenor was sincere in his embassy”—she paused, finding it difficult to imagine such an alliance really happening —“others within the Swarm are sowing chaos everywhere in Haarth that they can reach. We have to take the war to them, force them to fight on our terms. Otherwise what has happened here in Emer will go on until the whole of Haarth is one great conflagration.”
“I have been thinking that, too, while I sat with Jarna.” His mindtone was somber. “And about why we left the Wall: not to find an easier situation for ourselves, but a place where we could survive and learn to better withstand the Swarm.”
Malian nodded. “You were right, though, to have reservations. Returning to the Wall means risking all that we have become. Because of our bond, I called you to my cause when Rowan Birchmoon died. But the greater part of that debt is mine, not yours, and you can still take the war to the Swarm here.” She met his eyes squarely. “So I release you from any debt, Kalan of the Derai. I take it fully on my honor and my Blood as Heir of Night. You are free to choose your own path.”
She had seen him back on the Wall, five years ago, but foreseeing was only ever about possibility—and now she had opened up another channel in its shifting river. What would he choose? she wondered, curiously detached. Even the day around them seemed to hang motionless, waiting.
Kalan shook his head. “Lesser part or not,” he said, “I still owe a debt. And even the Heir cannot come between a warrior and his own honor. Captain Asantir said that, do you remember? And whether Kalan or Hamar, I know where duty and honor lie.”
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Quite certain,” he assured her, his tone almost light as he took her hand again and raised it to his lips. Raher came around the corner in the same moment, accompanied by Girvase and Raven, and immediately stopped.
“What?” the Marcher youth demanded. “Why is Hamar kissing Maister Carick’s hand—as if Carro were a girl?”
“Or a liege,” Girvase observed, very quietly, but Raven was shaking his head.
“Raher,” the knight said, his rare smile quirking, “you need to use those eyes of yours for seeing with. Our Maister Carick has always been a girl.”
Chapter 51
Reports from the Wall
Raher exclaimed about Raven’s revelation all the way back to the palace. Malian was relieved to finally escape his indignant disbelief, and the others’ covert glances, for whatever questions the Duke might have.
Raven had only been sent to fetch Kalan and herself, because the Duke had spoken with both Ghiselaine and Zhineve-An earlier in the afternoon. “So he knows their stories,” Lord Falk said. He was waiting for them at the entrance to the Black Tower, where Raven left them without a word. In fact, Malian realized, the knight had not spoken at all on the way back from the Sondcendre mansion. The whole journey had been taken up by Raher’s exclamations.
“I warned Hirluin that you were an adept of the Shadow Band earlier,” Lord Falk continued quietly. He was leading them to the stairs that accessed the Duke’s study, Malian realized, rather than to the main council chamber. “I didn’t want him to press you with questions in front of others,” the Castellan added. She nodded, guessing that this was also why they were being interviewed in private. “My foster brother is unhappy that I kept your presence here secret, but not ungrateful for all you have done.” Lord Falk glanced down at her with a slight smile. “I have taken responsibility for the former. The rest I have said, quite correctly, has all been your and my young Normarchers work.” His smile included Kalan, who nodded stiffly, although Malian could tell he was pleased.
Malian paused as they entered the hallway that led to the Duke’s study, her eyes searching Lord Falk’s. “Have I fulfilled my part of the bargain that we made in the hill fort?” she asked.
The Castellan bowed slightly.
“You have. Come to me when you have spoken with the Duke and I will supply the information I owe.” He paused, the expression in his light eyes quizzical. “I may have been ungenerous in my bargaining, given your great service to Emer. I fear that my information will not do you the good you hope.”
She met his look steadily. “You are giving me the opportunity to find that out for myself. That is all I ever expected of our bargain.”
He nodded. “And I will fulfill my part, as you have.” He bowed to her again, but embraced Kalan. “I will see you after, too. But now,” he added, with his fox’s smile, “you must brace yourselves for my foster brother’s questions.”
Sunset was almost upon Caer Argent by the time the Duke let them go. Lord Hirluin had been with his father throughout, his steady, weary gaze assessing them both, although he rarely spoke. A little to Malian’s surprise, Ghiselaine had been present as well, sitting across the table from the Duke’s heir. No one could argue that she was not directly affected by the unfolding events. but she was not yet Duchesss-in-waiting to Emer, either. Perharps, Malian had concluded, keeping her face as gravely attentive as the young countess’s, a message was being sent that the marriage between Hirliun and Ghiselaine was not to be mere sealing wax on the Ormodian treaty, but a union of equals. A bold move—if the Duke could pull it off in the face of Ser Ombrose’s rebellion.
Whatever the intention behind her presence, Ghiselaine spoke even less than Hirluin, although she listened intently throughout. The Duke’s questions had been searching rather than hostile, but he had wanted to know everything, from Malian’s first mission to draw out the facestealers, to the detail of Kalan’s vision the previous night and his involvement in events at the old chapel. In the end, however, he had commended and thanked them both.
“Although,” he added, his heavy gaze resting on Malian, “I would prefer to dispense with your services, Maister Adept. I understand the reasons Falk chose to enlist you in our cause, I even support them—but dancers of Kan, even those drawn from the Shadow Band, are not an aspect of River life I want to see take root in Emer.”
