The Heir of Night (13 page)

The steward shook her head. “How can that be?” she whispered. “Such a thing has never happened before, even beyond the Gate of Stars. Forgive me, but I find it difficult to believe.”

Haimyr smiled. “I must prove it to you, then. We shall find these heralds and see whether or not they will assist.” He quirked a golden eyebrow at her. “Their assent should be proof enough even for you, my doubting Nhairin.”

She drew herself up, flushing a little. “First we have to find them. The Tower of the Rose is on our way to the stables; we should try there first.”

The Rose was the tallest tower in the complex of barbicans and galleries that formed the guest wing of the keep, located not far from the Gate of Winds. There was a time when the whole wing would have been overflowing with guests and envoys but now, when the Derai had grown mistrustful even of each other, the Tower of the Rose was the only part of the complex still in use.

There was romance in the name, Nhairin supposed as she limped up the steps to its double doors, as well as in the legend that it had been built by a long-ago Earl of Night to house his lover from the House of the Rose. Lover or no, it had been a considerable time now since any one from that House had sojourned in the Keep of Winds, although the rose vine was still carved around the tower entrance and stamped in silver on its doors.

No one would think, coming here, that battle had raged
through most of the keep last night. Everything was quiet, peaceful, calm, and yet—the tower had an abandoned feel, Nhairin thought, then instantly derided herself. But she could not quite shake the feeling that there was a focused quality to the silence, as though the tower itself was listening. She was annoyed to find herself keeping her voice low. “Do you think there’s anyone here? It’s very quiet.”

Haimyr was standing in the center of the entry court with his head tilted, listening. “Oddly enough, given their calling,” he murmured, “heralds have something of a reputation for silence.” He gazed at the wooden paneling and mosaic floor as though seeing them for the first time. “But from what the chamberlain told us, they are probably not here.”

“We should check,” said Nhairin, and they mounted the stairs to the suite of rooms where the heralds were staying. Haimyr raised his hand to knock, the shadow of his sleeve casting a fantastic silhouette across both door and floor—but before his fist could fall, the door swung wide, as though inviting them to enter.

A coincidence, wondered Nhairin, peering around the minstrel’s shoulder, or something more?

The room seemed ordinary enough, with rich yet somber furnishings, a bright fire in the grate, and a tumble of traveler’s gear, including saddlebags, cloaks and bedrolls, strewn over chairs and sideboards. There was no sign of the two heralds, however, and the room was filled with the same listening silence as the rest of the tower. “Should we enter?” Nhairin asked.

“The door opened for us,” the minstrel replied, as though that were invitation enough. “But to what purpose?” he added, half under his breath as he stepped forward. He looked around carefully, almost as though he expected to see the heralds materialize out of the shadows, but the room remained empty. Nhairin followed more slowly, casting a doubtful look at the closed doors on the far side of the room.

“They could be resting,” she suggested, but without conviction.

Haimyr shook his head, although he seemed to be listening hard. Nhairin shrugged and drifted toward the fire. There was something strange about that, too, she thought, even as its warmth drew her close. It took her a moment longer to realize that the fire was burning without a sound. The blaze leapt up merrily, but there was no hiss or crackle of burning wood, no sudden snap of sparks. Nhairin moved closer still, fascinated by the clarity of the flames—then drew in her breath in sheer surprise as the patterns resolved themselves into a woman’s face, looking back at her. The eyes, deep and cool, held Nhairin’s gaze.

“Do not touch the fire!” Afterward, she could not be sure whether it was a voice in her mind that spoke, or Haimyr—sharply—from behind her. The minstrel’s hands were hard on her shoulders as her head jerked back, away from the blaze. When she looked again the face was gone, although the silent, jewel-bright flames still burned.

“What happened?” Nhairin asked, shaken.

“You looked into a herald’s ward fire,” Haimyr said slowly, puzzlement banishing his concern. “It shouldn’t have drawn you in like that, though.”

“A ward fire.” Nhairin frowned at the flames with distaste. “Is that what this is?”

“Ay. The silence, if nothing else, tells us that.” Haimyr still looked puzzled. “Heralds use them to ward their camps when they are out in the lonely places of the world, and to watch over their accommodation from a distance. If they are staying somewhere dangerous. Given last night, I should have expected the fire or some similar device, but my eye slid over it, detecting no strangeness.” He shook his head. “I had heard that heralds are masters at tricking the eyes and ears, but now I have proof!”

“I noticed its silence almost as soon as I came in.” Nhairin remembered how first the fire and then the watcher’s eyes had drawn her closer, and frowned more deeply. She
wondered how much she should say about the face in the fire and decided to keep her own counsel, at least until she knew a little more. “So I take it they’ll know we’re here?”

“They will be aware that someone is here but beyond that—” Haimyr shrugged. “The door opened, so we cannot be entirely unwelcome.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Nhairin, “the fire drew me in because they wanted a closer look at us.”

“Perhaps,” said Haimyr, but his tone suggested doubt. “The question is, knowing someone is here, will they now return, or should we seek them out?”

He moved back toward the door in a soft chiming of bells, but paused by the table in the center of the room. It held a scattering of the small, personal possessions that Nhairin would have expected to find on any traveler: a compass, a pile of loose coins, and a book. She protested involuntarily when Haimyr’s hand hovered over the book, and he flashed her a mocking smile. “I was only going to look at it, my Nhairin. If the legend on the cover is true, it is a rarity, an original work of J’mair of Ishnapur.”

“It is not ours to look at,” she said, “or even to touch. The door may have opened for us, but not to make free of the heralds’ possessions.”

“So very scrupulous,” sighed Haimyr the Golden. “So very Derai. I will forgo looking more closely at this treasure, my punctilious friend, but we had best go before temptation proves too much for my slender virtue.”

“Good,” said Nhairin shortly, refusing to unbend as he bowed her out the door with a flourish. She limped down the stairs ahead of him, her boots heavy on the stone treads. “Who is J’mair of Ishnapur anyway?” she demanded, pausing in the tower door.

“Was,” said Haimyr, coming to stand beside her. “He lived nearly a thousand years ago, but is probably the greatest poet produced by any of the civilized lands since the passing of the Old Empire. It may help you to understand my desire to look and touch a little better, my Nhairin, if I tell
you that an original work of J’mair of Ishnapur is a treasure beyond price.”

Nhairin recalled the slender volume’s faded leather binding and shook her head in disbelief. “Beyond price,” said Haimyr firmly, with a flash of mockery for her incredulity. “And that,” he added, very softly, “makes me wonder how it came into the possession of a herald, when their kind are meant to forgo wealth and worldly goods.”

Nhairin shrugged. “A gift from a patron,” she said impatiently, “or a family heirloom? But these heralds—from whom or what exactly, are we seeking aid?”

“A fair question,” replied Haimyr. “I will tell you as much as anyone knows, who is not themselves a herald.” His voice took on the minstrel’s lilt. “The Guild emerged out of the ruins of the Old Empire, when its last vestiges were swept away in fire and fear. But there were still some who sought to hold to their posts, to wrest some form of sanity out of the chaos of those times, which we now call the Anarchy. The old imperial posting corps was one group that clung doggedly to their duty. They strove to maintain communication, at first just between the cities of the River, but gradually along the roads to the north and south as well. The times were savage, though, and the members of the posting corps had to protect themselves. That is when so many of their uncanny skills, such as the ward fires, were developed. Eventually, when the world slowly widened again, they became the official couriers and heralds for all the new realms between Ij and Ishnapur.”

“The Guild of Heralds,” said Nhairin thoughtfully. “Fitting, then, that they should be housed here, given that the House of the Rose fulfills a similar function for the Derai Alliance. Or did,” she added.

Haimyr shrugged. “The heralds, I suspect, are something other than the one-time diplomats and power brokers of your House of the Rose.”

“So you are sure,” Nhairin pressed him, “that one of these heralds is what we would call a seeker? We are not just chasing shadows?”

Haimyr shrugged again. “It is a skill they are said to have developed during the Anarchy, a knack for finding the lost. One of every herald pair has such powers.”

A finder of the lost—and Malian was undoubtedly lost. Nhairin’s hands clenched into fists at her side, flooded with shame at the thought of having to beg outsiders for help. Anger followed, deep and bitter, for once aid was accepted the Derai would owe the heralds a debt of blood and honor that must be paid, whatever the cost. Nhairin bit her lip, frowning darkly. “Yet the Heir must be found,” she muttered. “That is all that matters, to find her!”

Haimyr rested his hand on her shoulder again, pulling her back from her dark thoughts. “Fretting and gnawing away at yourself will not locate her any more quickly, my friend.”

She turned her frown on him. “But what if these heralds of yours will not help us? And can we rely on them if they do?”

“If they will not help us, then they will not.” The minstrel’s expression grew distant, considering. “Still, it is part of their code, to assist those in need. And the one thing that all the stories agree on is that heralds never betray a trust, once they have taken it on.”

“Then we had better find them,” Nhairin said. But her expression, as she shrugged off his hand and limped away, remained unhappy.

8

N
hairin grew unhappier still as the next hour passed. By the time she and Haimyr reached the stables, the heralds were long gone. A passing guard thought they had been seen in the Warriors’ court, but a page said, no—the High Hall. Yet every lead proved empty. “Where can these heralds be?” she demanded. Haimyr shrugged.

“They went in to see the Earl as soon as the priestess left.” Teron nearly bumped into them, more lists and maps piled in his arms, as he came around the corner. His scowl clamped down. “I was excluded from that meeting as well, but I heard there were some strange doings associated with it.”

“The sigil of silence,” murmured Haimyr. “It is as I told Nhairin here, heralds are queer folk.”

Teron’s scowl deepened. “The Nine know,” he muttered, “we have enough queer folk of our own without importing any from outside.”

Haimyr clapped the squire on the shoulder. “You are undoubtedly right,” he agreed. “I have hopes of your wisdom yet, young Teron.”

Nhairin shook her head, exasperated with them both. “Do you know where the heralds have gone now?” she asked.

“Of course I do!” Teron was indignant. “Apparently they intended to depart as soon as their message was delivered, as is their custom, but the Earl has closed the keep. No one,” he said with gloomy satisfaction, “is to leave. The captain sent Garan to see them back to their quarters, but Kyr told me they went by way of the battlement towers.”

“Near the main gate,” said Nhairin, meaning: away from areas where fighting took place. She frowned. “But the battlement towers? Why would Garan take them there?”

“To keep them out of the way? Make sure they don’t see anything they shouldn’t?” Teron shrugged, then shivered. “There’s nothing up there
to
see.”

Haimyr looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not to those who dwell here. But there are so many tales told about the Wall of Night in the River cities, each one stranger than the last. To come so far and not see it, that is not the way of heralds.”

Nhairin pulled a face, but said nothing until they had left Teron behind. “You’d think they’d be afraid, given last night’s fighting and rumors of demons loose in the keep. Or alarmed, to find that they cannot depart at will. But instead they go to the battlements.” She paused. “What if they’re spies?”

She watched Haimyr closely but he only shook his head, half laughing at her as they began the steep, winding ascent to the battlements. It was difficult going but Nhairin gritted her teeth and persevered, wondering what the outsiders would make of the Wall’s bitter peaks and razor-edged crags. Even on a good day the battlements were too windswept for the guards to do more than patrol at intervals. The main watch was undertaken from lookouts placed at strategic points along the keep’s walls.