The Heir of Night (16 page)

Truthsayer.
The word buzzed in Malian’s head, sharper than the pain. Truthsaying was one of the old powers, like mindspeaking—and casting fire, although at least she hadn’t done
that
yet. The other two powers were more than bad enough. Deliberately, Malian closed her mind to everything she had done—
was
doing—would mean once she returned to the New Keep. Right now, all that mattered was finding a way to return at all.

“Help me up,” she said, grasping Kalan’s arm. “I want to take a closer look at those doors.”

The agony that knifed through her head as she rose was so intense that Malian nearly fainted again. She wavered, white faced, and Kalan supported her until the waves of pain and the accompanying nausea receded. His arm felt like rock, holding her up, but once her vision cleared Malian could see the fear and uncertainty in his eyes. She gave him her best attempt at a smile. “I’ll manage,” she said, trying to strengthen her voice. “Truly.”

She circumnavigated the room with agonizing slowness, stopping at each of the twelve arched portals. It was exactly as Kalan had said: The veil of mist that had shimmered across each doorway had been replaced by a wall of impenetrable fog. The whiteness looked soft and yielding, as though she could put her hand into and through it easily, yet each time she tried the barrier was hard and cold as marble, repelling her touch. Malian peered at the detail of letters and symbols carved deep into the doorframes and realized that each door was different, as though every arch had a unique message to communicate—unmistakable as the distinct shock of power beneath her hand. At some doors, the primary feeling was one of indifference; at others hostility or a mix of emotions. But not one door would let Malian through.

“Twelve doors,” she murmured at last, still leaning heavily on Kalan’s arm. “And twelve sections to the table. But why twelve? If it had been nine the puzzle would be easy: one door and one section of the table for each of the nine gods, or the nine Houses, or both. But twelve?”

She heard Kalan’s breath catch and felt the sudden tension in his arm. So he knew something, then, or was guessing at it. Malian waited, counting the tiles in the floor and keeping her own breath calm and steady to conceal her impatience. She felt rather than saw the turn of his head toward her, but kept her eyes down. “What if,” he said, “there
were
twelve Houses, not nine?”

Her head jerked up, but the movement was too sharp and the pain bit deep. When she could speak, the words were gasped out. “But there’s only ever been nine!”

Kalan looked unhappy. “I was told,” he said, as though taking no responsibility for the veracity of his words, “that when the Swarm first rose and covered the heavens, not all Derai refused the lure of its power. It is said that there were those, even among our own people, who sought out the lightless dark and pledged themselves to its service—three of what were then the twelve Houses of the Derai, in fact. They became Darksworn, shadow warriors serving as the vanguard of the Swarm. Few know of it now and those who do are bound to secrecy with many oaths. But Brother Belan’s wits wandered in his last years and he spoke to me of much that he should not have, including this. He even showed me the secret scrolls that record the story. It is called the Great Sundering and beside it, he said, even the Betrayal is as nothing.”

Malian stared straight ahead with eyes that saw nothing. “How can that possibly be true?” she whispered. “If it were, then surely I, as Heir, would have been taught of it?”

Kalan shook his head. “It is forbidden,” he answered. “The knowledge is permitted only to the very highest levels of the priesthood and possibly to the Earls—although I would not wager on that, these days. Brother Belan said that
the truth, if widely known, would shatter the Derai Alliance. How could we continue to defend the Wall, believing that we alone have always stood against the Swarm of Dark, if we knew that Derai were also its foremost servants? How could we continue to believe ourselves the champions of the Nine?”

“How indeed?” echoed Malian, her tone hollow. She looked at Kalan intently. “And you really believe all this to be true?”

He shrugged, looking away. “Brother Belan used to be one of our greatest loremasters. And I have seen the records. I also saw the attackers when they first entered the Temple quarter last night.” The glance he slid toward Malian was quick, uncertain. “At first, I couldn’t recall where I had seen depictions of their armor before, but I remember now. They looked like us; not as we arm ourselves now, but as we used to do.”

“They could have been our own Derai enemies,” she said slowly, “from the House of Adamant or the House of Stars.” But she remembered the were-hunters and the Raptor of Darkness and did not believe it herself.

“No,” said Kalan. “I felt the Swarm taint, its mix of cold and evil that has been recorded so many times. The invaders were Darkswarm … but there was something of the Derai about them as well.”

Derai amongst the Swarm. It was unthinkable—and yet Malian could not dismiss the conviction in Kalan’s voice. Perversely, she could even be glad, a little, that the attackers were not from another of the nine Houses, particularly the House of Stars. Even the possibility of Derai amongst the Swarm was preferable to the heirs of Yorindesarinen, in their far-off citadel, plotting to kill her.

Malian stretched out a hand to steady herself against the nearest door arch, trying to think through the implications of what Kalan had told her. “Your Brother Belan was right,” she said at last, her tone hollow. “This news would shake the foundations of the Wall itself.” She wondered if that was
part of what the attackers had intended—a strike at the Alliance on more than one level?

“Malian, look! Where your hand is!”

She saw the blaze of excitement in Kalan’s face and realized that the doorframe had turned to gold beneath her hand. The script carved around the arch was alive with small, dancing flames and the symbol at the apex resolved itself into the image of a winged horse glittering with light. Puzzled, she looked more closely at the inscription and watched the letters waver, then shift, transforming into words that she could read.

“‘
I
carry Night through void and flame,’ “
She murmured the words aloud. “‘
I
move on more than one plane.’
Of course!” She turned to Kalan. “What if we are on one plane here, but the keeps, both Old and New, are on another? That would mean that the Fire, if it is to protect us, would have to concentrate its presence on the plane where our enemies are located.”

“And we have to get back to that plane if we are to have any hope of being found by a rescue party.” Kalan studied the door uncertainly. “It’s like the lights and the table, it seems to respond to your touch. But can we trust ourselves to it without the Fire actually being here?”

“We can’t wait for the Fire to return,” Malian replied soberly. “We don’t even know that it will. We must find our own path—and I think it lies through this door.”

Kalan shook his head. “I knew you were going to say that. Not that I have any better suggestions.” He frowned at the wall of mist. “How to get through, though, that’s the question.”

“Mmm,” agreed Malian. “But if the arch responds to my touch, like the table did … The Fire said that I must touch the table with both my hand and my mind and join my other hand to yours.” She curled her fingers around Kalan’s. “Well, my mind and one hand are on the door and we have each other. Shall we try our luck?”

He returned the clasp of her fingers, his frown lifting.
“Why not? Particularly given the unheroic alternative, which is to wait for something that may never happen!”

Malian smiled at him and the pain behind her eyes receded. “Waiting and staying alive can be heroic, if it thwarts your enemies. But dying slowly of starvation and thirst because you are afraid to act, is not. Now we must be bold.”

“Then lead on,” said Kalan. “I’m with you, Malian of Night.”

10

“T
here’s something out there,” Tarathan said, low voiced to Asantir.

They stared into the deep gloom of the Old Keep’s lower halls and then back at the waiting file behind them: all black clad, with blacking on what would otherwise have been the pale blur of faces. There had been trouble over that when they set out, for not all those gathered behind them were Asantir’s handpicked twenty, drawn from both the keep garrison and what was left of the Honor Guard. There were eight young priests, as well, all wearing the silver-gray robes of initiates—and their presence had caused quite a stir at the entrance to the Old Keep, both amongst the twenty and the few who had come to see them off.

Nhairin had been the first to protest. “You have the heralds,” she had said sharply, but Asantir had remained firm.

“Two heralds,” she had pointed out, “who have asked for the help, given what we may find in the Old Keep. You would not expect me to rely on just two warriors,” she had added, with a touch of humor. She had leveled a dark, keen eye at Nhairin’s frown and the disapproving faces behind her, her brows lifting a little. “They are coming with us,” she had said, as cool and final as a steel blade.

No one seemed to have anything to say after that, except for Nhairin and even she was more guarded. “Initiates!” she had muttered, as she turned aside. “Green as grass and nothing more than a liability!” Most of the guards had looked as though they agreed, and the nearest of the priests had flushed deeply. But nothing more had been said until their small party reached the old High Hall and Asantir sprung her second unpleasant surprise—making it clear that she expected the priests to blacken their faces, too, and don the same garb worn by the warriors. Her sergeant, Sarus, had produced the required gear from his pack amidst a sudden, shocked silence.

It was Kyr who found his voice first. “This is warrior’s gear. I know these heralds are wearing it, but priests? That can’t be right, Captain, begging your pardon.”

Even the slight, dark priestess who had accompanied Korriya earlier in the day, and who seemed to be the leader now, protested nervously. “Surely, Honor Captain, this is forbidden?”

“There is nothing in the Oath about clothing that I can recall, Initiate Eria.” Asantir’s sardonic gaze had swept the group. “And I’m really not prepared to have any of our number showing up like targets in the dark.”

The warriors had exchanged reluctant shrugs and the priests, after a moment’s hesitation, pulled off their full outer robes and replaced them with the black tunics and leggings. “Much more practical,” Tarathan of Ar observed, to no one in particular, “if we have to run or fight.” He, at least, seemed prepared for trouble, with the multiple braids of his hair clubbed into a knot and a pair of short, curved swords strapped to his back. Asantir’s brows had risen again when she saw them, for swallowtail swords were a weapon of Ishnapur.

“And Jhaine,” Tarathan had answered, when she said as much, “but they are popular now in the cities of the River.” He had taken a blacking pot when Sarus handed them out and carefully spread the paste over his own face, before
turning to help Eria with hers. It was plain that it was something he had done before, and equally clear that the young priestess had not. Asantir had shaken her head at her guards’ expressions but said nothing, simply picked up a second pot and moved to assist another of the priests.

The guards had hesitated a moment longer before Garan rose with a shrug and went to help as well, closely followed by dark, silent Nerys. The blacking had been completed quickly after that, although in strained silence. They had then descended steadily through the Old Keep, scoring route markers into the walls as they went, and the only sounds were footsteps, breathing, and the occasional low-voiced conference between the heralds and Asantir. Tarathan had taken the lead from the beginning and led them unerringly, a file of shadows within shadow as the twilit gloom deepened toward full dark. Eventually, Asantir had given the reluctant order for light.

The young priests had exchanged glances as the guards unpacked storm lanterns, then Eria had brought out palm-sized cone lights that were secured by a strap across wrist and hand. Silently, she had offered one to Asantir. The cones had caps that could be flicked off with a thumb, emitting a shielded beam that fell no more than a few feet ahead of the holder. “Useful,” was all Asantir said, but the look she had given Eria was very keen, and the storm lanterns were packed away again.

“Where do you think they got those?” Kyr had muttered to Garan. “They’re plainly made for stealth work.” But the younger guard just shrugged.

They walked on, light-footed and tense, hands resting on sword hilts and eyes seeking to penetrate beyond the narrow fall of light. The chill air seemed to thicken as they descended further, and every stumble or spurned pebble came back to them in eerie, hollow echoes. They were crossing a wide hall where all could sense, rather than see, the vast, soaring vault of stone above them, when Tarathan murmured his warning to Asantir.

They both listened intently. “There’s another seeker,” Tarathan said. “I can sense the power.”