The Heir of Night (38 page)

The fire in the red and white room leapt up with a snap, throwing out a cascade of sparks and the woman by the fire came to life with it, cursing as the sparks smoldered on her tunic and in her hair. The siren worm turned with a hiss as the double doors into the chamber burst open and the Honor Captain, Asantir, strode into the room. She was flanked on one side by the tall austere figure of Sister Korriya and on the other by a golden, fantastic creature who could only be the Ijiri minstrel, Haimyr the Golden.

“See?” the Huntmaster said, and relaxed his arm, letting Kalan step free.

Kalan nodded, all his attention focused on events unfolding on the other side of the veil. The woman by the fire was struggling to rise from her chair while Asantir advanced into the room with her swordsman’s step, her blade drawn. Guards fanned out behind her as Korriya and a group of young priests formed a wedge inside the double doors. The Huntmaster shook his head. “Your heralds taught them how to work together but they will still be hard-pressed to match the worm’s song, given their limited powers.” He paused. “One of them, that dark boy, seems to have some strength—but they need to attack now, not defend.”

He’s right, Kalan thought. The siren song had not weakened as the worm moved swiftly to elude its enemies, blending into the half-light around the perimeter of the room. Asantir continued her soft-footed advance, but the worm still had too much room in which to maneuver its flexible body and venomous head. “A simple warrior will never corner it,” the Huntmaster said, “not while the song holds your own power users back.”

“Stalemate,” Kalan muttered, wondering who would move to break it first. A flicker of gold caught his eye, but it was only the Ijiri minstrel tossing back his fantastic sleeves. No one in the room paid him any attention, but something about the movement and the minstrel fascinated Kalan. He stared at the golden figure and blinked hard, then blinked again, for there in the exact spot where the minstrel had stood before, sat a great, golden cat with lambent eyes.

“A powerful transformation,” the Huntmaster murmured.

Kalan shook his head, puzzled. “But no one else seems to have noticed it at all.” The cat began to pad gracefully around the perimeter of the room, in the opposite direction to the guards.

“Ay, they still see the illusion of the minstrel, standing by the door. Except,” the Huntmaster added, with harsh satisfaction, “for the worm, of course.”

The worm had indeed turned its head and was watching the cat with baleful eyes. The golden beast growled, a low
rumble that reverberated in counterpoint to the siren song. The hounds pricked up their white ears, listening; their crimson eyes followed the prowl of the cat with intense interest. “How is it that we and the worm can see it,” Kalan asked, still puzzled, “when the others can’t?”

“Siren worms are masters of illusion,” the Huntmaster replied, “so it is difficult to deceive them with such magic. And you and I stand very deep within the Gate of Dreams. It is hard for any illusion to withstand this place and harder still to cloud the eyes of one who bears Terennin’s Token on his hand. But look to the worm!”

The rumbling growl of the cat had gained in strength and its tail began to lash as the siren worm struggled to hold the thread of its song. Kalan leaned forward. “It’s not going to escape, is it?” he said. “Not with both guards and priests on one side, and the cat on the other.” He glanced at the hounds, thinking that the worm would not dare risk the tapestry.

The growl of the great cat deepened until the room shook. Kalan wondered how the others there could not feel the vibration, even if they did not see or hear the cat. The siren song fractured into a series of harsh dissonances, finally dissipating altogether, and the silver fire sprang up again, incandescent. The worm shrieked.

“Bitter!” it wailed and there was no sweetness left in its voice. “Starbane!” These words seemed to finally release the woman by the fire from the remnants of whatever spell held her back, for she, too, stumbled toward the worm, grasping for her dagger. The silver light grew until its brilliance filled the room and any shadows that might have protected the siren worm fled. Asantir came coldly on and the worm darted away from her, closer to the tapestry.

“The silver light is anathema to it,” the Huntmaster observed. “The worm cannot endure it, especially now that its own sorcery has been broken.”

“But surely,” Kalan said, “it cannot have forgotten the Hunt!”

They watched the worm hesitate, its head darting rapidly
between the tapestry and the half circle of its attackers. The golden cat sat back on its haunches, watching its prey with gleaming eyes. Suddenly, a slavering muzzle pushed its way through the fine membrane of the veil and snapped at the worm, missing it by inches. The Huntmaster snarled, hauling the hound back as the siren worm wailed again, a shrill cry of desperation and fury. The sound was abruptly cut off when Asantir—taking full advantage of the distraction—brought her booted foot down on the siren worm’s neck, pinning its head to the floor. The worm’s body thrashed, but it could not escape and the captain’s blade swept down, severing head from body.

The Huntmaster gave a short, approving nod, but the hounds howled in outrage at being thwarted of their prey and surged forward as a pack. For the first time Kalan saw them straining in fury against the Huntmaster’s hold, striving with all their strength to break free. The Huntmaster did not speak or move, but Kalan could sense the powerful ebb and flow of wills and for a few brief, terrible moments he doubted whether the Huntmaster would prevail. Slowly, however, the hounds were drawn back to the master, heads lowered and tails clamped, to stand at his side, resentful still, but defeated.

Kalan swallowed. “What happens if you can’t control them?” he whispered.

The Huntmaster held up the stump where his left hand should have been. “There was only once when the matter hung in the balance. But it will not happen again.”

Kalan shuddered and looked back at the red and white chamber, but the veil had already thickened and the people in the room could only be seen dimly, like figures through a mist. “The Gate closes,” said the Huntmaster. “Our part here is done and now we must go.” He turned and strode away, the black cloak flaring and the crow flying above his head. The hounds flowed at his heels like a white tide with the hunters gliding along in their wake. Reluctantly, Kalan trailed after them.

At least Malian is safe, he thought. Then, with a sudden
burst of pride: I saved her. I, Kalan, saved my friend, the Heir of Night—with the Huntmaster’s help, of course!

He turned one last time at the edge of the trees and saw what looked like a wisp of mist detach itself from the main fabric of the Gate. As he watched, it drifted across the hilltop, toward the protection of the forest and the blanketing fog. “What is that?” he asked.

The Huntmaster stopped. “Well, well,” the harsh voice said. “I had forgotten that siren worms have the power to detach spirit from body at death. That is what you see, the ghost of the worm or its soul, call it what you will, trying to return to its masters.”

“What shall we do?” Kalan asked. He felt uneasily certain that something must be done, aware of all the information that such a ghost could pass on to the Swarm: about Malian and the silver fire, or himself and the Huntmaster, even the mystery of the great, golden cat. It could not be allowed to escape.

The black mask looked at him. “No indeed,” agreed the Huntmaster. “But the remedy is easy enough. Here beyond the Gate it is safe enough for me to let the hounds slip their leash. The Huntmaster must still remain with the Hunt, but you dare not. You must go now, and swiftly, back through the woods to whatever portal you used to enter this place. Do not stay or turn aside for any reason, lest you be trapped here when the Hunt is loosed. Even I and the Token you bear may not be able to save you if that happens.”

Kalan shivered, all too aware of the hounds’ bloodlust, then hesitated. “I don’t know your real name,” he said, “but thank you for helping Malian. And me as well.”

He was aware of a deep amusement behind the blankness of the mask. “You are the Token-bearer, boy—Kalan. It was you who roused the Hunt and once that happens then the Huntmaster must also wake and master it, lest Mayanne’s binding unravel. As for my name, which concerns you so greatly, that goes with the ring, which should be clue enough for you. Now go! Time is pressing!”

He turned away with the white hounds pouring after him, their red eyes glowing. Kalan could just make out the pale ghost of the siren worm slipping into the woods, and thought for a moment that it might get away, after all. Yet even as he watched, the Huntmaster whistled and cried out to the hounds in his harsh voice. They answered with a deep, belling note and sprang away, streaming through the trees. The Huntmaster looked back. “Do not wait, boy—you won’t like what you see. You must go, before the door closes again or the Hunt seeks new prey. So run now! Run!”

Kalan ran and the tangled forest of his dream closed in around him again. He had forgotten, when walking in the Huntmaster’s shadow, just how dark and wild it had first seemed. Now the tree roots grew thicker and more contorted as he ran, conspiring to trip him, while the bare branches leaned down, clutching at him with twiggy fingers. He carried on, mindful of the Huntmaster’s admonition, but the path grew increasingly narrow and the way ahead darker until the forest closed in around him entirely, hemming him inside a dense, impenetrable thicket. Kalan stared up at the tangled canopy through which no stars shone, his throat very dry, and swallowed hard.

“What do you want?” he asked, but his voice sounded thin and insignificant, lost in the pressing tangle of the forest. No voice answered, although the acute, listening quality of the silence deepened. Kalan drew a deep breath. “I know you can hear me!” he said defiantly.

Something moved in the darkness between the trees, slowly coming into focus. Kalan held his breath, both hoping and half expecting to hear the fierce hum of the great spear—but the movement resolved itself into the black mask of the Huntmaster. The mask floated amidst the tangled arms of the trees and the hollow eyes regarded him, fathomless and dark. “It is a wise person,” the mask said, “who knows the face of his enemy.”

“Not again!” said Kalan in disgust. “Why bother me with this now, when you yourself told me to begone?” But
the mask was already fading back into the twisted web of branches. The trees shifted as though a secret breeze walked through them, the leafless branches creaking. A crow hopped onto a bough where the mask had been, preening its wings and turning to look at him with a small, bright eye. “Token-bearer!” it cawed. “Token-bearer!”

Kalan stared at it, exasperated. “What?” he demanded, but the bird only gave another caw and fluttered off. “What does it mean?” Kalan asked, only more softly this time, speaking to himself.

“Can you not guess?” a familiar voice asked from above his head, and he looked further up, meeting the down-bent gaze of Yorindesarinen. A crown of spring stars, misty and bright, gleamed in the dark coronal of her hair and her armor was burnished silver. She floated cross-legged in a space between two large trees and he could see clear sky behind her head, where only a few moments before there had been a tangled thicket.

“You’re not really here either, are you?” he asked.

“Not really,” she agreed. “Not in the way that you are here, at any rate.” Her smile was as he remembered it—warm and friendly, a comrade’s grin. “You have made your way very deep within the Gate, young Kalan, and this is not my wood. It is much wilder, older, and stronger; even I have difficulty imposing my will here.”

Kalan rubbed a hand across his forehead. “But can you make it let me go?” he asked.

“Not easily,” the hero replied, “unless it is ready to do so, but I think it could be persuaded. Besides, I have summoned help.” She tilted her head, as though listening to something he could not hear. “Ay,” she murmured, “I know. You are ancient and deep-rooted and you do not like to be disturbed. Yet now the Hunt has been loosed and the Huntmaster, too, has awoken.” She looked down at Kalan again. “These things have not happened for a very long time and the forest sees that you have had a hand in them.”

Kalan shifted. “The Huntmaster said that, too,” he admitted.
“He told me it was because of the ring that you gave me, which he called the Token. He said that Terennin himself made it, time out of mind ago.” He met her dark eyes squarely. “Did you know that, when you gave it to me?”

“I knew,” she replied, with the ghost of a smile, “that the ring was an ancient treasure, but not that it had a direct connection to the Huntmaster. It was given to me by a friend, as I said, and that, too, was a long time ago now.”

“The Huntmaster,” Kalan said abruptly, “also said that he was older than you, and much, much darker. But not,” he added conscientiously, “necessarily stronger.”

Yorindesarinen chuckled. “Did he really?” she asked. “Well, that is an admission indeed!”

“So do you know who he is, exactly?” Kalan asked. “I have never heard of him before, or read about him in the annals of the Derai.”

“No?” Yorindesarinen replied. “But then, as you have already learned, not all the powers that walk beyond the Gate of Dreams are Derai. The Hunt and its master are an ancient power and a very strong one, whatever he said to you. They dwell deep within the layers of the Gate and rousing them has disturbed the peace of this forest, which is a thing not easily done.”

Kalan looked around at the trees that were still crowding in on him. “So is the forest angry with me?”

“Angry? Not exactly,” said Yorindesarinen, “but it associates the cause of its present unease with you, perhaps even resents you a little. You will have to be wary when you go walking in your dreams in future, my Kalan, for there are other forces like this forest, both ancient and vast, beyond the Gate. It is not wise to disturb them.”

“Perhaps,” said Kalan, very boldly, “I might be a less disturbing influence if I had not accepted the gift of a hero’s ring.”

Yorindesarinen grinned. “Indeed you might,” she agreed. “Nonetheless, it would still be prudent to remember that the
Gate is a dangerous place for the unwary, however innocent their intentions.”