The Heir of Night (14 page)

She had stood watch there herself in years past and knew that the gritty wind could turn knife sharp in an instant. And on a bad day—well, on a bad day no one even looked out onto the battlements, let alone walked them. The guards would batten the storm shutters closed and huddle in their cloaks, closing both ears and minds to the tempest’s berserker voice.
Some claimed that voice could drive the unwary mad, and the wind itself was violent enough to flay flesh from bone.

Today, however, was mild and the storm shutters were open, allowing Nhairin to look out through reinforced glass, across the massive battlements, and up into gray, swirling sky. It was a gloomy, oppressive scene and she was not surprised that the heralds had not stayed.

“A forbidding place,” Haimyr commented, but his tone was light.

“Yes.” Nhairin turned to go, ignoring the knowing looks exchanged by the guards. She had given such looks herself once, but now she simply felt relief as the inner and outer doors of the watchroom thudded closed, shutting out the wind’s low whine. Both she and Haimyr descended in silence, emerging into the network of galleries that ringed the Warriors’ court.

It was here, finally, that they found Garan and the heralds, stopped to watch the hive of activity in the garrison’s training hall. Weapons were being brought in and stacked along the walls, supplies sorted and packed, and guards allocated into squads. Nhairin glanced sidelong, wondering whether the heralds should be seeing all this, and saw that their attention was focused on a solitary figure on the training floor, immediately below. The warrior seemed oblivious to the noise and bustle, her expression remote as she flowed through the training forms. Every movement was smooth, powerful, and seemingly effortless, despite the bandage around one shoulder.

Asantir, thought Nhairin, recognizing the characteristic style even before she saw the warrior’s face. The patterns were as familiar to her as breathing, but she too felt their spell as one form melted into another in a ritual that was at least as old as the Derai Alliance.

“Really,” Haimyr murmured, “she is very good.”

Nhairin hunched one shoulder, but it was Garan who answered. “Good?” he said, with friendly contempt. “She is the best of us.”

The fair-haired herald looked up. “What does it take,” she asked, “to be the best of you?”

Her voice was beautiful, like cool water running over stones, and Nhairin could not help looking to see if the face that went with the voice was the same as the one in the ward fire. She thought the eyes seemed alike, both luminous and deep—and difficult to meet. Nhairin let her own eyes slide away, focusing on what Garan was saying instead.

“Aptitude, of course, but that’s not enough. You have to train relentlessly, every day from early childhood on. But that’s not enough either.” Garan paused, then shrugged. “She’s the Honor Captain, that means she’s the best. And if we didn’t know it before,” he added, half under his breath, “we do now, after last night.”

“How so?” the other herald asked. He spoke quietly, but his voice was resonant and dark as the tone of a bronze bell, pulling Nhairin’s eyes around to meet his gaze. His eyes were as dark as his voice, and clear and fierce as a falcon’s. She stared, unable to look away until he shifted his attention back to Garan, who was speaking again.

“We all fought bravely last night, but that wasn’t enough. We needed a strategist, someone who saw the patterns in the chaos all around us and made the right decisions at the right time.” Garan rubbed a thumb along his shadowed jaw. “Commander Gerenth got himself and the keep garrison’s vanguard cut to ribbons; Captain Asantir pulled the remains of his company out and regrouped our forces. The rest you know.”

“Garan,” Nhairin warned. Her tone said:
Be careful what you say;
she particularly meant,
before outsiders.
She caught the glint in Haimyr’s eye that said that he at least understood her unspoken caution, but Garan met her eyes squarely. “It’s no secret, Steward Nhairin. Everyone knows.”

Nhairin bit back a tart rejoinder, to the effect that the heralds at least might not have known—and that to call the Honor Captain a strategist, setting her alongside the legendary Derai war leaders, was going too far. Garan held her
gaze a moment longer, his humorous face unexpectedly serious; but after a moment, as if by unspoken agreement, they both turned back to the training floor.

“She trains in the old way,” Nhairin said at last, grudgingly, as Asantir snapped through a series of movements that were clearly designed for combat at close quarters, then spun, somersaulted, and kicked from one side of the floor to the other in an explosion of power.

“What way is that?” asked the dark-voiced herald. With an effort, Nhairin remembered his name: He was Tarathan of Ar, that was it, and the woman was Jehane Mor.

She avoided his falcon’s stare. “We call it the Derai-dan, the armed and unarmed combat forms that have been with our alliance from the beginning.”

“But the old way,” Garan added, when it was clear Nhairin did not intend to explain further, “is where will and intention are as integral to combat skill as ability with weapons.”

“But a warrior’s will and intention
are
weapons, are they not?” Tarathan of Ar replied. “Or so we believe.”

Nhairin and Garan both looked around at him. “Do you have similar forms?” the guard asked, surprised.

The herald nodded. “Tradition says that our forms came down to us out of the Old Empire, but there are few, now, who keep the ancient skills alive. The assassins of Ij are amongst their number, and some say the Patrol also, although I cannot be sure of that.”

“And parts of the old forms,” Jehane Mor added, “are still taught in the temples of Jhaine and amongst the Shah’s elite, in Ishnapur.”

The flow of movement below had stopped and Asantir was standing on the edge of the training floor while others of the guard gathered around her. Tarathan of Ar’s gaze shifted from Nhairin to Haimyr, and then back again. “But you have other matters to discuss with us, have you not?”

Nhairin was shocked into staring at him again, then looked as quickly away. “You gazed into the ward fire,” Jehane Mor said quietly, “so we knew to expect you.”

Nhairin frowned. “So it
was
you, in the fire.”

The herald shook her head. “I cannot tell what you saw.”

Nhairin flicked a quick look at Haimyr. “We should go somewhere private,” she said. “Such talk should not be overheard.”

The minstrel had been watching them with the familiar glint in his eye, but now he straightened. “Down first, I think. The captain needs to hear this, too. If you will,” he added, with a bow sketched somewhere between the two heralds.

There were still guards around Asantir when they reached the ground, and Nhairin’s lips compressed as several more moved out onto the floor to train. “I thought you were meant to be focused on finding Malian.”

Asantir looked up. “We are,” she replied quietly. “But we need numbers if we are to search the Old Keep effectively, and it takes time to assemble and equip numbers. We are doing that work now, as you can see if you look around. In fact, we are nearly done. But none of us are made of iron and the training floor helps us to relax—and to loosen up after last night’s fighting.” Her tone softened. “Trust me, Nhairin. The search will begin very soon.”

Haimyr forestalled Nhairin’s reply with a dramatic gesture. “It may be, Captain, that you will not need numbers, after all.”

Asantir threw aside the towel she had used to wipe away sweat. “Why is that, Haimyr the Golden?”

“We need to speak in confidence,” he told her more seriously. “You, Nhairin, and I—and these heralds.”

Asantir raised one winged brow. “We should go to the Honor room, then. Garan, find Sarus and let him know that I’ll be a little longer than expected.”

The Honor Captain’s room was located close to the training hall and was a well-worn space with not much furniture but an impressive array of weapons, including twin swords in unadorned black scabbards set on top of a battered war chest; an equally plain black spear was mounted on the wall
above them. Asantir perched on a corner of her desk, swinging one booted foot, while the others disposed themselves on timeworn camp chairs and—in Tarathan’s case—the war chest itself. A delicately carved silver lampshade, which was the only decorative element in the room, threw a filigree of light and shadow over them all.

“Now,” said Asantir to Haimyr, “why may I not need numbers for the Old Keep, after all?”

“
‘One to seek what is hidden, and to find; one to defend and conceal
—
both to bind.’ “
Haimyr’s gaze was enigmatic. “The rhyme is an old one, Captain, but it refers to the heralds of the Guild.”

“He thinks,” Nhairin interrupted, “that one of these heralds is a seeker who could pinpoint Malian’s location.”

“Ah.” Asantir looked from Jehane Mor to Tarathan of Ar. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Jehane Mor replied calmly. “Tarathan is the seeker. I am the one who shields and conceals.”

“I see,” said Asantir. She drew a deep breath and ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair. “Indeed, I do see.” Again she looked from one herald to the other. “I know little of your ways, except what I saw earlier today, but would it be possible to obtain your aid? For we, as you may know, need to find someone important to this House, who is also very dear to us all.”

Jehane Mor nodded. “You seek the child who fell into darkness.”

“What do you mean, fell into darkness?” Nhairin asked sharply. “What do you know?”

“We know many things,” the herald said. “What is it that you wish to learn, Steward Nhairin?”

Asantir held up a hand, forestalling Nhairin’s reply. “We seek the Heir of Night, the Earl’s daughter whose name is Malian. What makes you believe that she is this child that you say fell into darkness?”

“We saw her for the first time last night, in your High Hall,” Jehane Mor replied, “and felt the touch of her mind
on ours, like a star in the twilight of this Derai Wall. We felt that touch again, last night, when the first alarm sounded and the demon hunted through the keep. They fought each other, the hunter-in-darkness and the girl.”

Nhairin thought that Asantir seemed remarkably calm, despite this alarming speech. It was Haimyr who asked the question that burned in her own throat. “You said before that the child fell into darkness? Does this mean that she is dead?”

Jehane Mor shook her head quickly. “No, she lives. But she would have died if she had not had help, for the hunter’s strength was terrifying and the child, although very strong herself, is untrained.”

Asantir was watching both heralds intently. “Who helped her? Was it you?”

The herald inclined her head. “We did help, but even Tarathan and I could not have defeated the demon on our own.”

Nhairin ground her teeth, wondering why they could not simply tell everything they knew without the need for these riddle games. If Asantir felt impatience, it did not show in her face or voice. “But,” she said musingly, “you were not alone.” Her keen gaze met the herald’s luminous one and Nhairin could not help feeling that they understood each other in some way that was hidden from her. “And the child,” Asantir continued, “what became of her?”

“She was not overcome by the hunter,” answered Jehane Mor, “but she fell into a hidden place. I slowed her fall, but lost contact at the very end.”

The others looked at each other. Nhairin cleared her throat. “So you don’t know where she is.”

“No,” said Tarathan of Ar, speaking for the first time. “But we have both felt the touch of her mind on our own, so there is good hope that she can be found.”

“Hope!”
Nhairin exploded. “Do you have any idea how vast the Old Keep is? And how can we be sure that this child is Malian anyway, rather than some stray from the Temple
quarter? Perhaps you’re just saying what you know we want to hear?”

Haimyr touched her arm with light, restraining fingers. “Heralds do not lie, Nhairin. It is unwise to accuse them of deceit.”

Nhairin folded her arms, held silent by Asantir’s look. “Nhairin speaks sharply out of her fear for Malian,” the Honor Captain said, “which reflects my own. We intend no discourtesy and ask your forgiveness if offence has been given.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Jehane Mor said quietly, but the subsequent pause stretched, becoming awkward, before Tarathan spoke again.

“It may still take some time to pinpoint her location, if the Old Keep is as vast as the steward suggests. But once I do, I should be able to lead you directly to her, unless physically prevented.” He shrugged. “Jehane will be able to conceal my seeking and can shield a small search party from another who seeks as I do. But it will not help if we come face-to-face with armed enemies.”

“I’ll deal with that,” Asantir said crisply. She drew a deep breath. “But if you are quite certain of this, then Haimyr is right. It changes everything.”

Nhairin could not keep silent any longer. “But why
should
they help us? What is Malian to them?”

“What indeed?” echoed Jehane Mor. She looked at Tarathan, an almost tangible silence flowing between them, and when she spoke again, her voice was reflective. “It is true that it is not the way of heralds to take on the troubles of others. We have our own sworn duties and must discharge those.”

“But then,” Tarathan replied, “the Earl of Night has named us as his guests and we must repay the sacred bonds of hospitality.”

“Should we simply turn our backs and ride away,” asked Jehane Mor in counterpoint, “because the lost child is Derai and has no claim on us?”

“That,” said Tarathan with finality, “would be contrary to the code of heralds.”

Nhairin folded her arms, refusing to be impressed. “And what is the price,” she asked deliberately, “for your aid? Heralds of the Guild, I’m told, do not come cheap.” She heard the jangle as Haimyr moved sharply beside her, but Tarathan spoke first.

“Everything has a price,” he said. “But who can predetermine what the price will be or who will pay it?” The falcon’s stare raked Nhairin and involuntarily she drew back. “We have already spoken of the terror that stalked these halls last night, but what if we should meet it again, or others of its kind? Then Jehane Mor and I risk being subsumed by the hunter-in-darkness, a worse fate by far than physical injury, or even death.”