Daughter of Blood (59 page)

Kalan saw the similarities with his current situation at once: the unending stair that Malian had climbed, and the corridor he ran through now without reaching a destination. “
I move between worlds and time.”
He had quoted the phrase to Nimor, but the crow had suggested to Malian that it was a way of seeing time differently: not as a linear progression like the tunnel, but as a medium through which disparate places could exist in the same space at once. It was, Malian had said, trying to both explain and comprehend it herself, about accepting the oneness of all things. She had done that by seeing herself and the image that existed at the tower's pinnacle as one—which is not substantially different, Kalan thought, than stepping through the Gate of Dreams in my physical body and taking eleven wyr hounds with me. So if I can do the same thing using the sepulchre and will myself there . . .

He stopped running, and again the shadowy images faded. Steadying his breath, Kalan half closed his eyes and settled into a deeper awareness of himself and the hounds—both as unique identities and part of a collective one—within the Gate, before summoning up details of the Grayharbor tomb. First, he recalled the plain timeworn stone of the portico that was barely wider than the lane it stood in, and then the interior that was equally unadorned, down to the empty votive niches and layered dust throughout. He had tracked footprints through it, entering and leaving, and his breath had misted on the chill air as he examined the panel set into the floor . . .

Kalan's breath was misting again when he raised his eyes to the interior of the tomb. The door was closed, so there was no light except the muted glow from the pearl ring and the flame of the wyr hounds' eyes. The silence was profound, the voices of both Hunt and spear gone, and if Grayharbor lay beyond the mausoleum, no sound penetrated within. Kalan's skin prickled, but the Gate had shown the spear being buried here. “In the grave,” he said. The words rang against the silence as he knelt and checked again for a means of opening the panel, but the join between steel and stone re
mained seamless. Frowning, he sat back—and the glimmer from his ring and the hounds' eyes snuffed out.

If it were not for his gift of seeing in the dark, Kalan would have been dead. One moment he was alone in the tomb, the next a shadowy warrior was upon him. Desperately, Kalan dove clear of the silent attack and got his shortsword out, blocking a vicious downstroke even as he rolled again, regaining his feet in the split-second respite. Another frantic block and feint enabled him to draw his second sword—and the black blades sang, absorbing the darkness that had filled the tomb. The glow from Kalan's ring returned, too, and he could see the wyr hounds, holding the milk-white pack at bay as the Hunt strove to materialize through the stone walls.

“Everything in your world will die if the Hunt breaks through Mayanne's weaving
. . .”
The Huntmaster's voice was harsh in his memory. “. . .
If the Hunt is roused, then the Huntmaster must master it.”
And the ring was bound to the Hunt. Kalan understood, in retrospect, that the Hunt must have been waking for some time: at least since the Red Keep and very possibly since Emer. Yet so far he had seen no sign of the Huntmaster.

The shadow warrior attacked again, countering the power of the black swords with his own dark song. This time the contest felt more equal, but like the race through the tunnel, the combat also felt like a dream encounter, without either beginning or end despite the clash of steel and the striving of power against power. Kalan could also sense the wyr hounds' resistance beginning to fray, and responded out of instinct, directing both his urgency and will into the black blades. The shorter sword crooned, absorbing the wild magic that was seeping out of the Hunt and into the tomb. The wyr hounds growled in counterpoint, but the shadow warrior laughed, wild as the Hunt and dark as the spear's voice, and attacked with increased savagery.

“Of death my song and black my blade, for Kerem's hand by Alkiranth made.”
Kalan had quoted the rhyme to Asantir and the rest of the Old Keep rescue party, six years before, and now it reverberated through him as he drove forward,
into the teeth of his opponent's aggression. “
Kerem's arms were all black blades.”
The younger Kalan had said that, too, relating the legend that maintained Kerem had been given the use of the god Tawr's weapons, including his spear.
Kerem . . .
Almost imperceptibly, Kalan checked. His opponent crowed, apparently reading the hesitation as imminent victory. Kalan disabused him of the notion as their blades clashed again and both drew back, maneuvering within the tomb's narrow confines.

“. . . anyone who grasps a Great Spear must be strong, lest the weapon master the bearer.
”
The crow's voice whispered to Kalan out of his first encounter with both Huntmaster and spear. And a spear that had belonged to a god, and whose song meant death, might well be indifferent to the prospect of the Hunt breaking free. Within the Gate of Dreams, it could also be capable of transformation . . . Momentarily the shadow warrior hesitated, before his assault redoubled in fury. Only this time, rather than countering through the black swords, Kalan strengthened and extended his shield perimeter instead.

“‘The Hunt wakes and must be mastered. Even a Great Spear cannot argue with that.'” He grated out the Huntmaster's words. “‘Such weapons choose their bearer.' As you chose me, six years ago, and called me here now, saying that it was time. So either fulfill your own choosing”—now Kalan drew deep, channeling all his remaining reserves of power into the shield-working—“or find another spearbearer who is more to your taste. But I'm done with this game.” And he pushed his psychic shield forward, absorbing the shadow warrior within its aegis.

The sword song soared, filling the sepulchre—and Kalan's adversary disappeared. The Hunt howled, the milk-white beasts flinging themselves forward as the wyr hounds snarled in answer. A column of light rose above the grave, and the Great Spear floated within it: light and shadow played along the blue-black spearhead and across the collar of dark shining feathers.
“Token-bearer.”
The spear's voice hummed, fierce with power, although if the weapon had indeed shaped
itself into the shadow warrior to test him, Kalan could detect no remnant animosity. He dared not relinquish both swords with the Hunt still pressing, but he sheathed the shorter blade and shifted the longsword to his left hand. With his right, he reached into the column of light and grasped the spear that had almost certainly been Kerem's—and might once have been a god's.

Light, strength, and power flowed through Kalan until he felt as tall as the warrior in the shadow play. At the same time, the Hunt drew back, the great heads turning as though to listen—before one milk-white hound gave cry and leapt away, with the rest of the Hunt streaming after. Kalan knew an instant's relief, but already shadows were returning to the sepulchre walls, and the Huntmaster's crow took shape, gazing down on him from a spectral lintel.
“There is always a price,”
the bird reminded him. “
But who will pay? Will you?”

Kalan's hold tightened on both spear and sword, but before he could reply, the beam of light vanished and an explosion tore through all three planes joined by his dreaming: the sepulchre, the Gate of Dreams, and the besieged camp.

M
yr woke, uncertain whether it was minutes or hours since she had lain down, and found only her eyes would move. No wind disturbed the tent's interior, but the tapestry of The Lovers was billowing, and the same mist she remembered from the Red Keep had poured out of the mirror to surround her. The inkiness that limned the haze was deeper than any shadow, and darkness hovered at the apex of the tent and clung to its canvas panels.

Ilai
. Myr tried to call the attendant's name, but her mouth proved incapable of opening. In any case, Ilai was injured and might also be immobilized. I have to help myself, Myr thought, although she could not think how. She was distracted, too, by the incessant whispering that filled the mist, recognizing its purport of insinuation and spite, even though the words were indistinct. It's a dark dream, she told herself: I just need to wake up. Except she knew that wasn't true. Whatever was happening in the tent was real.

In the Red Keep, the mist had retreated into the mirror when Khar appeared, but now long tendrils twitched toward the tapestry, only to scramble back, hissing, as The Lovers billowed out again. Whatever the mist was, it was afraid of The Lovers—but Myr's momentary hope died when she saw
that the tapestry hounds' crimson eyes were locked on her, their savage jaws agape. The crow, too, watched her out of one sharp black eye, while the lovers remained oblivious, absorbed in each other.

“I'm sorry.” Faro's whisper was so loud that Myr would have jumped if she could have moved at all. When her eyes slid sideways, she found him standing amid a wreathing of mist and shadow. Tears slid down his face and he was shaking; only the dagger in his hand was steady. Khar's gift dagger, Myr thought, as if that were somehow the most important aspect of the scene. But Faro was speaking again. “You may thank the Son of Stars for sealing your fate the moment he named you kin.” The words were coming out of the page's mouth, yet Myr was certain he was not the one shaping them. “Ever since Yorindesarinen, we have made it our business to ensure that no more scions of Stars and Night are born into your Alliance.”

The words were assured, but Faro's eyes were desperate, darting around the tent for a way out. Nimor was right to stress caution over the boy's past, Myr thought, and I was wrong. Although if she could only speak, reaching through to the Faro that still struggled, he might break free of whatever held him in its grip. But her voice remained frozen. All she could do was fix Faro with eyes that strove to remind him that she was Myr, who had fled Kolthis and the camp with him. Later they had crouched together in the gully, while a beast-man closed in on their hiding place . . .

“Can't!” The single word twisted out of Faro as if it wounded him, and the knife shook—but steadied again at once.

“I agree, it's a pity.” Myr was unsure who the person speaking through the boy had addressed, but felt sure it was neither her nor Faro. When the boy jerked a step closer, the shadows around him ballooned like The Lovers and Myr glimpsed a warrior through their gloom, his armor honed to spur points at elbow and shoulder. “But even with the mirror present, the Storm Spear's presence counteracted much of my hold, as did the wyrs, always sticking to him like ticks.”

Despite the knife, Myr's eyes were drawn to the shadows that crawled across the mirror's surface, while the mist continued to whisper malice. She shuddered inwardly, knowing both elements must have always been present, although she had never noticed anything unusual until the night Dab was wounded. But the tapestry gusted, pulling her attention back to Faro as he shuffled a step closer.

“They may call you Daughter of Blood,” the entity speaking through the boy continued, “but that means even less now than it did when we gulled the Golden Fire, smelting a shard of your hero's shield into the mirror to disguise its essence, and so work our will on Aikanor. I doubt
you
have any more understanding of the forces shaping themselves around you than the Grayharbor brat, least of all why you must die.” An adult's reflective note infused the child's strained voice. “Although the Derai's current state only makes your camp's resistance more intriguing. It should have been an easy mouthful, yet instead we've broken teeth on its defenses.”

Whatever the Swarm had detected through the mirror and their hold on Faro, they still thought the boy was masquerading as Derai. So you're not infallible, Myr thought, watching Faro's mouth purse in another adult gesture. “More than time,” the one controlling him said, “to be done with the entire business.” The page's body snapped upright, and his next step was smooth. Only two more steps, or one if his stride was long enough, and both boy and blade would be within striking distance. Myr's heart hammered—but still she could not move.

Yet even in her fear, the part that was Ise's student, taught to observe and comprehend, thought how terrible this must be for Faro, his will trapped while his hand slew the person Khar had sworn to defend. She doubted the boy would live long afterward either, and sought his eyes again.
Remember,
she thought, focusing her will through her gaze: remember who
you
are—how you adore Khar, and love Madder and the wyr hounds. Remember your mother, who was the finest
armorer in Grayharbor. Hold fast to all of them and what they mean to you.

As Myr concentrated, the shield's murmur began to acquire meaning. A forest of skeleton leaves rustled, all assuring her that she was no Yorindesarinen to set the worlds alight with her power, just Myr the Mouse, the insignificant daughter of an abject line. All her endeavors, the dead leaves sighed, were doomed to futility . . . But the Myr who had noted that the Swarm was not infallible whispered back, pointing out that mice could slip through the tiniest of spaces—perhaps even one as slender as a girl immobilized on a camp stretcher with only her eyes to save her.
“Heart up, Lady Mouse,”
Taly's voice encouraged her, out of memory. And again Myr threw all her heart and strength into reaching Faro, trapped behind his haunted eyes.

This time it was not just The Lovers: the entire tent shook as though a rogue wind had struck it. The tapestry hounds howled and Faro's eyes bulged, his body locked rigid as lightning forked through the apex of the tent and struck the tapestry. Myr smelled charred wool as more lightning crackled, but could only watch, both absorbed and terrified, as wildfire rippled across the ground. A strangled word that might have been “no,” or “won't,” crawled out of Faro's throat, and he dropped the dagger as if it burned him. The tent was blazing with energy, and Myr cried out, or tried to, as Ise's silver tray sailed through the air like a discus, knocking the shield-mirror to the floor. Wildfire danced across the tray's back as it covered the mirror, outlining a riven phoenix in the silver—while Ise's walking stick sprang up, exactly as if an invisible hand had lifted it, and struck Faro down.

The mist vanished as the boy collapsed, leaving Myr free to move and speak. Her mouth felt as though cloth had been stuffed into it, and her limbs dragged as she sat up. When she looked around, she saw that the lightning had split the lovers in the tapestry asunder, but the crow still watched her from the warrior's half of the web. If a bird could be held to have an expression, Myr felt it looked sad. Faro was groaning, and
she knew she should go to him, then see what had become of Ilai. She had just risen to her feet when sheet lightning flared outside—and the thunder that followed shook the world, tossing her down again.

T
he explosion that tore through the three planes had knocked Kalan off his feet. He could hear screams, shouting, and the clash of arms, but all at a distance. At first glance the sepulchre appeared untouched, but plaster dust fell from his body as he rose, and two of the wyr hounds lay unmoving. The other nine were whining and scrabbling up, their lost comrades' power glimmering about them, while the baying of the Hunt diminished at the same time as the roar of battle swelled.

Urgency drove Kalan, but he still paused when retrieving the spear. The hornet song had quieted, but the blade, which had been uncovered before, was now concealed by a leather hood. Exactly like the Huntmaster's spear, he thought—but the battle clangor intensified, forcing his attention back to the camp. He dared not linger, even to farewell the two dead wyrs, and made do with a parting salute.

The last time Kalan had exited the Gate in his physical body, it had been via a door that Malian created in the air. Now he visualized the interior of the Storm Spear's tent with himself inside it and the Great Spear in his hand, using the battle clamor as a grapple onto the daylight world. The wyr hounds belled their urgency, bridging the realms beside him, and Kalan's eyes opened to garnet-and-gold panels while his mind encompassed the hole that had been torn in his shield-wall. By the time he registered the barricade of Stars' power, spanning the breach, he was already on his feet. So far Tirael's company were holding—but although Kalan's barrier remained in place around the rest of the perimeter, the hole had undoubtedly weakened it. He could sense the magically induced onslaught of doubt and despair seeping through, and knew its trickle soon would become a flood. When it did, it would not matter whether the Star knights held the break or not. Everywhere else, the defense would fail.

Throwing open the tent flap, Kalan emerged into turmoil. The only still point was Murn, kneeling a few paces from the entrance with his forehead bowed against his staff. His head jerked up as Kalan emerged. “You're awake.” The weatherworker hurried to rise and join Kalan as he strode toward the inner barrier. “No matter what I tried, I couldn't enter the tent.”

If the inner camp was confusion, the outer was chaos. As soon as Kalan reached the carts, he saw that the psychic breach reflected a physical opening blasted through the earthworks. The blast had also revealed the tunnel used to reach the camp's perimeter undetected. Most of the enemy dead surrounding the opening were were-hunters, so now he knew where the remnant that survived Arcolin's tempest had gone. Together with their concealing magic, Kalan thought grimly, and cursed himself for missing the significance of their complete absence from the plain—while simultaneously noting that Tirael and his company were defending the breach physically, as well as spanning it with their power.

The rest of the defenders were holding on grimly as well, but everywhere Kalan looked the defense teetered on collapse. On the enemy side, a white-haired sorcerer with two adepts was stationed beneath the Darksworn's command standards, on an area of rising ground. Energy swirled around them as they battered the breach with power, pressing the Star knights hard. Otherwise, the assault was fiercest on the opposite side of the camp, where a section of palisade had come down and fighting swirled in and around the weakpoint—and a tide of magic, cold and deadly, was augmenting the Darksworn's physical attack. Nimor was there, shored up by his remaining escort, but Kalan doubted the envoy could hold for long.

Frowning, he identified Tercel in the midst of the chaos, and realized Taly was with Nimor, riding the bay charger and fighting with the battle fury of legend as she strove to reach Kolthis. The renegade Honor Captain was in the forefront of the second assault with the remnant Blood guards, and he, too, was cleaving a path toward Taly. “The ensign
and Namath were with Lord Nimor and the others when the dike exploded.” Murn's right hand clenched tight on his staff as he followed Kalan's gaze. “And as soon as Taly saw Kolthis, the battle fury seized her.” If it was the true battle fury, Kalan knew that would account for why Taly appeared as indifferent to the aftermath of her watchtower injuries, as she was to the magical onslaught of doubt and despair. Both emotions, though, were stamped deep into Murn's face as he spoke again. “I should be with them, but Lord Nimor ordered me to rouse you, then prepare to defend the inner camp.”

Nimor was right, Kalan thought. “Your presence on the dike would alter little now.” He spoke with a calm he was far from feeling. “But I need you to get Tyun out here. Even from his stretcher he can marshal a defense. Tell him I want everyone in the infirmary who's capable of holding a weapon on the inner barrier, and every bow he can muster to cover a retreat.” If the defenders retreated, they would all be dead soon afterward. In all likelihood, Murn knew that, too, but Kalan did not wait to find out. “Tell Kion and Vael I've ordered them out here with you. Their wounded will have to wait. Get the Adamant boy, too, and Faro. They'll both have to play their part.” Throwing children into the breach, he thought: as if too many scullions and horsegirls and errand runners had not died already. “And look to Lady Myr,” he added—although if she was with the healers, that made her as safe as anyone in the camp.

Kalan started to swing away, but Murn put out an urgent hand. “Lord Tirael shouted something as he left, about an army coming. From the way he yelled at me to tell you, I don't think he meant the Stars relief force.”

If one Swarm legion had gotten through the Wall, then doubtless another could, too—while the Derai Alliance remained preoccupied with internal squabbles. But whatever might be coming, right now Nimor was weakening and more troops were advancing to support Kolthis's offensive, their battle drums rolling. Whistling to Madder, Kalan broke into a run, and the roan trumpeted in answer. Tearing his reins
from the distracted horsegirl clutching them, the destrier plunged to meet Kalan, who vaulted into the saddle.

Tirael and his company were still holding as Madder turned, the breach about them choked with dead. A brief swirl among attackers and defenders revealed Jad and his company supporting them on the right, while Orth wielded his poleaxe to the left of the gap. On the opposite side of the camp, Taly and Kolthis were hacking at each other, locked knee to knee so the battle would not separate them. Beyond them, the blood-washed sun banner streamed above Arcolin as he led the fresh onslaught of troops on his Emerian destrier, surrounded by a knot of were-hunters.