The Heir of Night (22 page)

The hero tipped back her scarred face and looked at the glitter of stars overhead. “
‘Heaven’s shield by the Chosen borne; Terennin wrought me in time’s dawn,’ “
she chanted. “As you say, it was I who bore the weapons and I, too, who deciphered the hieroglyphs on the shield’s rim.
’Terennin wrought me,’
it says. There is no mention of Mhaelanar.”

There was another silence.
“Terennin,”
Hylcarian said at last.
“The Farseer, Lord of the Dawn Eyes. He is also of the Nine, Child of Stars.”

“He is,” Yorindesarinen replied. “And you’re right, the weapons of power would undoubtedly be useful now. Unfortunately, there are still some things that are concealed from me, even dwelling here, and one is where those weapons are. They have been hidden well.”

Tongues of golden flame flicked again.
“Their disappearance perturbed us greatly. Even before the Betrayal, it seemed that all had gone awry for the Derai Alliance since the time of your death and their loss. But our greatest fear was that they had been taken by the Swarm.”

The reflected firelight flared in Yorindesarinen’s eyes.
“Not that!”
she said. Her voice rang out; cold, clear, and true.
“The Derai Alliance abandoned the Chosen of Mhaelanar in the darkest hour and so the god’s gift abandoned the Derai, to await the coming of another One, as was promised. Just as the weapons are dispersed and broken, so also are the Derai
—
and will be until the new Chosen claims her birthright and takes up her fate. Only in that hour will the lost be found and return to the Derai fold.”

The fire died from Yorindesarinen’s eyes and her head bowed. “So be it,” she said, in her normal voice.

Hylcarian echoed her words, sealing the prophecy:
“So be it, in this hour and in the time to come.”

When Yorindesarinen looked up again the familiar, wry humor was back in her face. “So now you know as much as I do, seer or no. They always had a will of their own in any case, shield, sword, and helm. But you will know that better than I, having known them longer.”

“Long enough to know that like all objects of power, they are capable of finding their own path. As it would seem, from your prophecy, they have been doing for some time now.”

“Since the hour of my death,” said Yorindesarinen, dryly, then she shrugged. “Well, I cannot complain. They served me well and did not fail me, even at the end.”

“Some might say,”
Hylcarian observed, matching her tone,
“that they held by you in death, as in life. The prophecy
I just heard clearly suggested that the weapons abandoned the Derai, with attendant consequences, because the Alliance abandoned you. They could, after all, have awaited the next Chosen quite easily amongst the keeps.”

The hero’s dark brows rose. “I had not considered that,” she said. “I suppose I still tend to see them as inanimate objects, despite their power.” Her expression became somber. “But if you are right, then they have punished the Derai far more harshly than I would have done. And despite what legend says, not all fell away. Rithor would have stood with me until the end, except that I commanded him to go—and Tavaral.” Her voice and expression softened suddenly. “I know now that he brought his wing forward, defying his own Earl, but came too late.”

“Ay, that surprised me, even at the time,”
murmured Hylcarian.
“He
was well named, since Tavaral means faith keeper in the tongue of the ancients. But he paid for that faith keeping. He was stripped of his command and all his honors, and from that time to this his line have been barred from regaining them.”

“Thus the Derai mind!” exclaimed Yorindesarinen. “I could despair—except that there is too much to be done, counteracting it! But what of more recent events? What you have been doing, old friend?”

“Not nearly enough,”
the Golden Fire replied
,
“but
I
have uncovered some secrets that you should know.”
Reluctance
, distaste, and even fear mingled in the summer voice.

“Let me see what you saw,” Yorindesarinen replied, “hear what you heard.” She dipped one scarred hand into the fire and scooped out flame, then touched the edge of the golden cloud. The two fires blazed and Yorindesarinen’s dark brows drew together, her expression grim. “I see,” she said at last. “Well, that explains how our enemy came to learn of her existence. You have done well, both to discover this and to guard the child as you have.”

“She is mine to guard, Child of Stars, as is this keep, and there is little that can be hidden from me in my own halls
,
now that I am fully awake. But I cannot act effectively in the New Keep, for in their anxiety to wall off the past, Night shut me out as well. Those wards are down, for now, but I am not grounded in that place as I am in the Old Keep. And until I am stronger, I must stay connected to the heart of my power.”

“Agreed,” Yorindesarinen said briskly. “But you can certainly act now, in the Old Keep, to ensure that the child and her friends return safely to the New. I, too, will bend all my power to that end—but for now, my moon has nearly set. We must both go.”

“Farewell, Child of Stars.”
The fiery voice was full of regret.
“It was good to see you again, if only for a brief time.”

“And you,” Yorindesarinen replied. She let the handful of flame slip back onto the fire in a shower of sparks that flared briefly, then extinguished. Slowly, the moon disappeared from view—and the fire went out altogether as the hero vanished. The golden cloud began to contract, dwindling again into a ball of light before it, too, disappeared; only the trees, and the distant stars, and a circle of charred earth remained. In a while the white mist came flowing in over everything, damp and cold, as though the glade and the fire had never been.

13

T
he fog pressed in, blotting out both moon and trees, so that the four on Yorindesarinen’s path walked in a blank, cold world with no reference point except the glimmer of silver ahead. When Kalan looked back he could see no sign of the way they had come; the pathway behind them had disappeared.

“There is no going back, not through these mists,” said Jehane Mor, whose presence had grown more substantial as the glade disappeared. “Don’t be afraid,” she added, as Kalan shuddered. “Even without this path I would still trust Tarathan to find his way.”

“I’m not afraid,” Kalan said quickly, although he was. He could imagine wandering along this track forever, caught in some endless whorl of time. Frowning, he rubbed at the ring on his finger; it was real, tangible—reassuring, Kalan thought. He might not know the herald Tarathan, but he knew every hero tale that Brother Belan had ever recounted of Yorindesarinen the Bright: the most powerful enchanter ever born to the House of Stars; the Chosen of Mhaelanar, foretold by prophecy; the brightest star in the long darkness of the Derai struggle against the Swarm. And she had slain the Worm of Chaos, which everyone had said could not be done.

Even beyond death, Kalan thought, Yorindesarinen would be a force to be reckoned with. He looked back again and met Jehane Mor’s calm, gray-green gaze. “Are you not?” she asked. “I am. This is a very dangerous place and more dangerous still when the mists roll in. The Great One’s path is like a ropewalk above vast deeps, with no knowing where a misstep might lead.”

Kalan shivered and looked at Tarathan walking ahead. The herald seemed certain of where he was leading them, but it felt strange having to trust in someone who was not Derai. Kalan studied the ring on his finger again and wondered if this was not all some fantastic dream, and whether both ring and mists might vanish when he woke, back in his narrow bed in the novice dormitory.

“It is a hero’s gift,” Jehane Mor said quietly from behind him, “and should not be underestimated, particularly considering the place where you received it.”

But who in the Temple quarter would believe me, Kalan wondered, if I told them the story? He wished he had summoned the courage to ask Yorindesarinen who had given the ring to her, and why—what its story was, since the hero had implied that the ring was already old when it came to her. The history might be hidden in a musty scroll somewhere, but if they were to leave the Wall, he would never get the chance to search for it.

If we leave the Wall… Kalan shook his head, remembering what had happened to other priests who had tried to flee the Wall of Night.

Malian said something to Tarathan, her voice very low, as though she feared there might be hidden listeners in the mist. Kalan reminded himself to concentrate, stretching his keen hearing to detect anything other than their own breathing and occasional murmured word. For a long time he heard nothing, but eventually detected a whisper beneath the white silence. The whisperer was chanting something, a cantrip or a curse, and Kalan sucked in his breath as he recognized that cold, sibilant tone.

Tarathan turned, his eyebrows raised in question. “There’s a voice,” Kalan said, whispering, too. “I’ve heard it before, when the Darkswarm invaded the New Keep.”

“They are searching everywhere, questing blindly through the whiteness for their quarry.”
Jehane Mor’s reply was even softer than the whisper, and Kalan realized, with a sharp little jolt, that she was speaking directly into his mind. He saw the sudden flare in Malian’s eyes as she turned toward the herald and knew that she, too, could hear the mindvoice.

“But they have not found us yet?”
Tarathan’s mindvoice answered Jehane Mor’s.
“Your shield still holds?”

She nodded, but Kalan felt the touch of her mind on his, light as a hand resting on his shoulder.
“These Darkswarm are strong and determined, but you can help me thwart them. You, too, have the shielding power.”

“He hid us from them before.” Malian’s whisper rang in the silence and Tarathan shook his head.

“Do not speak it. Show us.”

So Kalan showed them his memory of the Darkswarm warriors entering the Temple quarter, when he first heard that cold, sibilant voice. He also relived the memory of building a wall of stone and not-seeing between the Darkswarm and his hidden presence, both then and again when he and Malian hid from the were-hunt in the Old Keep.

“Exactly,”
said Jehane Mor, intent on his image of the wall. She showed him how to join his power to hers and support the psychic shield. Kalan, frowning in concentration, followed her step by step. The herald’s power was like water, cool and deep with sunlight sifting through its layers; his own strength, sliding beneath hers, was rock, gray and strong. As soon as it settled into place, the sibilant whisper vanished.

“We have shut it out,”
thought Kalan, full of wonder.

“We have,”
said Jehane Mor, and smiled at him.
“It was well done.”

“But now,”
said Tarathan,
“we must hurry, before they strengthen their search again.”

They pressed on, Kalan very conscious that part of his mind was still tied to the shield. Holding it in place required energy and constant focus and he looked at Jehane Mor with new respect. Like the herald, he remained alert to any threat from beyond the shield’s protective barrier, but detected nothing more. Soon the mists began to thin and then disintegrate, revealing a silver arch above the path ahead. It reminded Kalan of the twelve doors in the heart of the Old Keep, except that the mist within the silver frame was stretched gossamer thin and they could see dark shapes on the other side.

Tarathan stopped, nodding to the arch. “This is your way,” he told Kalan and Malian. “You must step through this gate physically, while Jehane Mor and I take the spirit path.”

Kalan peered through the veil, but the forms on the other side remained indistinct. Malian, too, seemed doubtful. “Will you join us there?” she asked the heralds.

“We will,” Jehane Mor reassured her. “You need not be afraid,” she added, when Malian still looked uncertain. “This portal is an extension of your Great One’s power, formed from her path, and it is your own people on the far side.”

Malian tossed her dark head and stuck out her chin. “I am the Heir of Night,” she declared firmly, then added, much as Kalan had done a little earlier: “I am not afraid!”

“Nor I,” Kalan said at once, not to be outdone.

Both the heralds smiled slightly, mirroring each other, then winked out before his startled eyes. “Perhaps I am a little nervous,” Kalan admitted to Malian.

She grinned in answer. “I am, too! Still, a door into air worked for us last time.”

“I suppose,” said Kalan, reflecting that it had taken them somewhere quite other than their intended destination. But once again, they could not remain where they were. “Ready?” he asked, and stepped forward, Malian keeping pace so that they crossed the threshold at the same time.

For a brief moment they hung suspended, caught between the silver path and a rough, dimly lit chamber. Kalan could
make out Derai warriors standing guard at the two doorways, but for all their watchfulness no one seemed aware of the portal in the air above them. Then one of the warriors turned, eyes narrowing in a keen dark face—and both Kalan and Malian were through the veil of mist and stumbling to their hands and knees on the chamber floor.