The Heir of Night (42 page)

He could not help glancing at the cloaked, silent figures surrounding him and remembering the hunters in the tapestry. Their faces, too, had been hidden, concealing both identity and intention. Kalan shivered, remembering how Sister Korriya had said that he need not bring anything with him on this journey—but he could not believe that the priestess would do him harm. Besides, it would have been too easy to have killed his sleeping body while he wandered beyond the Gate of Dreams. No, Kalan decided, this silent journey must lead to some other end. And despite the strangeness, or perhaps because of it, he felt a small thrill of excitement.

They descended a long flight of stairs and then there were more corridors and more stairs, each one caught between darkness and shadow. The hooded figures wove in and out of the dimness and Kalan, who had thought he knew every stone and step of the Temple precinct, now realized how strange even a familiar place could look when passing through it by night.

Finally, after so long a time that Kalan wondered if they had crossed the entire Temple quarter, Sister Korriya led them down a shallow flight of steps and stopped by a steel door. He felt the priestess’s eyes rest on him as she turned, although her face remained shadowed beneath her hood.
When she spoke, she kept her voice low. “This is my journey’s end, Kalan, but not yours. This door opens into a loft above the keep stables; there you will find another stair that leads down into the stalls. From the stable you must make your way to the undercroft below, where others are waiting for you.”

What others, Kalan wondered? His mouth was dry, his heart beating fast and hard. “How will I know,” he asked, “whether those I meet are friend or foe?”

“Two of our company will go with you,” Korriya replied. “They know the passwords and the faces of those who await you.” She stepped forward, resting her hands on his shoulders, and Kalan forced himself to remain still, meeting her searching gaze. He wondered what it was that she was looking for, and whether she found it. “Go well, Kalan,” she said at last, and he heard both fear and hope warring in her voice. She shut off the cone light and pressed it into his hand. “May the Nine guard you, for the path ahead is dark and I am no seer, able to read your way.”

Kalan’s fingers closed around the light and his heart began to hammer as he understood that they really were sending him away—but why so secretly? Korriya held up a hand, forestalling questions, and nodded to one of her anonymous companions to open the door. Kalan followed the hooded figure through, before turning to look back at the anonymous company above him. “Farewell, Sister,” he said softly, and Korriya inclined her head, signaling another of the cloaked figures to join him. The door closed, and the first of his silent companions reached back and locked it.

The loft stair was easy to find and led them down into the warmth and darkness of the stable, with its scents of straw and leather, and the shift and murmur of the horses in their stalls. The place was vast, thought Kalan, and he remembered that it was underground, carved out of the rock of the Wall itself. His companions had used the curved wall to guide them down and Kalan followed their lead, even though he could see perfectly well in the darkness. When
they reached the bottom a firm hand rested on his shoulder and exerted a pressure that said, as plainly as words:
Wait.

Kalan waited, and soon there was a slight scrape of wood against stone. A figure detached itself from the surrounding darkness, moving along the stalls and stopping about ten paces away. Kalan’s companions remained still as stone on the narrow stair; the shadow figure began to whistle, a soft snatch of tune from the
Night March
,a song of the armies of Night. Still his companions waited, but when the same whistle came again, the one with a hand on Kalan’s shoulder whistled the next bar back. The whistler’s face turned toward them and Kalan saw that it was the guard called Lira, whom he remembered from the Old Keep. “The eye has passed,” she said, very quietly.

“And now we must run before the storm,” the first of Kalan’s companion’s replied—a man’s low voice—and Lira relaxed, smiling.

“Well met, my friends,” she whispered. “The others are in the undercroft.” She turned and they followed her to a small door that opened onto another narrow stair. It was the door, Kalan realized, that must have made the scraping sound. The stair twisted down into the undercroft, where the grain and the other supplies necessary for so vast a stable were stored. Lira stopped at the foot of the stair and whistled softly, this time the even more famous refrain from the martial air known as the
Charge of the House of Night. A
lantern flared in answer, and dark figures materialized from behind barrels and grain bins. Kalan stepped forward with a glad cry as he saw Malian appear beside Asantir, but the Honor Captain checked him.

“There is no time,” she said. “You and Malian need to leave at once, before the night grows old. You must take the narrow ways to the Gray Lands and cross as soon as the storm dies, aiming for the Border Mark and the road south.” She turned as a tall woman with a scarred face led forward a string of horses. Lira moved swiftly to help and Kalan’s companions also stepped forward, pushing back
their hoods. Kalan whistled softly as he recognized Garan and Nerys, amazed that they had dared to pass through the Temple quarter, even in secret. But then he saw the horses clearly and forgot everything else.

There were five horses, all black as night and as beautiful, with spirited heads, deep chests denoting endurance, and legs built for speed. All five horses were equipped for a long journey, with a travel roll and journey bags strapped behind each saddle, and they snorted and stamped their hooves as they waited. “But—these are messenger horses!” Kalan exclaimed.

“I know,” said Malian. Her eyes were blazing with excitement. “Asantir says they will outrun and outlast anything else in the keep.”

“But—” Kalan protested. “Messenger horses!”

The scarred woman snorted. “Are you worried about what the Earl will say? Let me assure you, purloining messenger horses is likely to be the least of our worries if the Earl of Night catches up with us.”

“Fear not,” Asantir said quietly. “These horses will not be missed immediately, for they belong to those who come and go from this keep unseen and unknown by all but a close-mouthed few. Like the horses, the way that you will take now is made to serve such comings and goings.”

The scarred woman snorted again, her mouth tight, and Kalan wondered why she was angry with the captain. He remembered seeing her before, when they returned from the Old Keep, and again later, from the other side of the Gate of Dreams. She was the one who had sat by the fire, caught beneath the spell of the siren worm. Her name, he recalled, was Nhairin. “Are you coming with us?” he asked.

“Ay,” she replied. “The Earl said I was to go with Malian anyway, and I’m not staying behind now to tell lies or, worse still, evasive truths to his face.” Her tone was sharp but her glance, sharper still, was directed at Asantir. “Besides,” she added, more mildly, “we could hardly let two such babes ride out alone.”

“Not entirely alone,” the Honor Captain replied. Kalan could tell that she was aware of Nhairin’s anger, but chose not to respond to it. “Kyr and Lira have volunteered to go with you as well. The Wall, after all, is still the Wall and you may need their weapon skills there as well as on the long road south.”

“Hmm,” said Garan, low voiced but grinning as he adjusted a stirrup for Malian. “We can all guess why Lira volunteered—eh, Lira?” he asked, looking at her across the horse’s back. “Are you hoping to kiss the beautiful herald Tarathan again?”

“Just because no one wants to kiss you,” Lira retorted cheerfully, but equally quietly, and Kalan exchanged a covert grin with Malian.

Asantir spoke beneath their banter. “Malian will need you, too, Nhairin, when she walks among strangers, both for your love and for your wisdom.” The steward nodded but did not answer, busying herself with her horse. Kalan looked a question at Malian, who shook her head, so he turned instead to his own mount. The beautiful black head looked around at him with a kindly eye, and he hoped that he could still remember how to stay in the saddle after seven years in the Temple quarter.

A few moments later, they were all gathered around Asantir for her final instructions. “There is a way out of this undercroft,” she told them, “into the paths that lead through the Wall itself and finally into open country. It is only used by those on the Earl’s secret business and very few know of it, but both the High Steward and I are among those few. Garan and Nerys will accompany you to the gate, to let you through, but after that you will be on your own.” She regarded them all steadily. “I will not say take care, for you ride with the threat of pursuit behind you and potential foes on every side. Speed and daring, not care, are your best hope now. But although your steeds are swift and have great hearts, it is your own wit and courage that will bring you through.”

Kalan felt his throat tighten with a mix of excitement and fear, but pride as well, as the Honor Captain saluted Malian. “My honor for your honor, Heir of Night,” she said, “until the end. Learn, and grow strong, and return to us soon!”

“I will do my best,” Malian replied. “I give you my word, Asantir.” She paused, and Kalan saw her gaze flick to Nhairin’s impassive face before she added: “If there is wrong in what we do, to Earl or House or to the Derai Alliance itself, I take it now on my own honor. It need not lie on yours, Asantir.”

The Honor Captain smiled. “Even the Heir cannot come between a warrior and her own honor, although I thank you for the offer, my Malian.” She nodded to Kyr, who would lead the way. “Go now, for it is time and more. And may the Nine go with you!”

They went, leading the horses single file into the tunnel that led out of the undercroft. The guards went first with Nhairin behind them, while Malian and then Kalan brought up the rear. The cobbles underfoot gave way to sand that muffled the horses’ hooves; a breath of cold and dusty air came stealing to meet them. Kalan stumbled over a small stone and on a sudden impulse he stooped and slipped it into his pocket.

A piece of the home earth, he thought with an ironic smile. But the Keep of Winds
had
been home to him, however reluctantly, for seven years, just as Night had, in their own way, taken him in when Blood threw him out. Kalan wondered what Malian was feeling now. He had longed for years to escape but it was different for her; she was the Heir of Night and so this flight must seem like the bleakest of exiles. Even he felt qualms, for in his daydreams he had always ridden out to combat the enemies of the Derai, not crept away as a hunted fugitive. Kalan thought of wyr hounds and shuddered, then clapped his hand over his mouth. “Oh, I forgot!” he exclaimed.

“What?” asked Nhairin, impatient.

“I have to tell the captain that siren worms hunt in pairs!”
he said urgently. “She needs to know that there’ll be another one.”

Nhairin’s expression, as she looked back at him through the darkness, was very strange indeed. “How do you know about the siren worm?” she asked.

“Sister Korriya will have told him,” said Malian. “She was there, after all.”

Nhairin continued to stare at Kalan with narrowed eyes, a kind of weighing-things-up twist to her mouth, but eventually she shrugged. “Tell Garan and Nerys, then, and they can tell Asantir.”

Now that, thought Kalan, as they moved forward again, was careless. He looked across and met Malian’s gaze, which was as speculative as the steward’s had been.

“How did you know?” she whispered.
“Did
Sister Korriya tell you?”

Kalan shook his head. “Later,” he muttered back, feeling far from easy. He was remembering Hylcarian’s message to Malian, bidding her seek out Yorindesarinen’s long-lost sword, helm, and shield—and the warning to be very guarded.

There would, he decided, be plenty of time in the days ahead for more private talk. He smiled, too, because the arms of Yorindesarinen were the stuff of legend and almost as famous as the hero herself. Even the thought of them sent a shiver down his spine, and it would be a marvelous thing if all three could be found and brought back to the Derai Alliance.

Now there, thought Kalan, his heart lifting, is a true quest—a worthy Derai adventure.

A few paces more brought them to the door that opened into the Wall itself. It appeared, Kalan thought, staring at it, to be made of stone; the metal crossbars were so heavy that it took both Garan and Nerys, working together, to lift them down. Kyr gave the quiet order to mount up and they all swung into the saddle, Kalan thankful that he managed successfully on his first attempt. His black horse walked calmly forward, following Malian’s, but Kalan drew rein at the gate, bending to speak with Garan.

“I have a message,” he said, “for Captain Asantir.” He repeated what Hylcarian had told him about siren worms hunting in pairs, while keeping the source of the information to himself.

“In pairs, eh?” Garan said, rubbing at his jaw. “That’s not good news. But thanks, lad. I’ll make sure the captain knows.”

“Don’t forget,” said Kalan, although already he was thinking more about what lay ahead. He looked up to find that Nhairin had stopped as well and was watching him again. She shrugged when he stared back, but said nothing, just turned and rode on.

Malian had stopped just beyond the gate and was looking behind her into the dim corridor that was the last of the Keep of Winds. Her hood shadowed her face, but Kalan sensed her sorrow and loss as Garan and Nerys began to swing the doors closed.

“Farewell, Keep of Winds.” Malian bowed deeply from the saddle. Her voice was soft, but Kalan’s keen ears heard both the words and the longing and regret with which they were spoken.

“Farewell, Child of Night.”
The reply rippled in Kalan’s mind—and he assumed in Malian’s—unheard by anyone else. He recognized the voice at once, even though it was muted by distance.
“I will not forget you. I shall be waiting for your return.”

Malian straightened out of her bow, and Kalan saw her hands tighten on the reins. “I will not forget you either,” she said. “I, too, long for the day of return.”