The Heir of Night (17 page)

“Does this seeker know that we’re here?” Asantir replied softly.

It was Jehane Mor who answered. “My mindshield holds—for now. But the closer we come to another seeker, the harder it will be to block the seeking out.”

Asantir’s gaze shifted back to Tarathan. “How close are we to Malian now?”

“Not close enough,” he said slowly. “There is something strange at work, a sense that she is both
here
and
not here
that is difficult to resolve.”

“But we are on the right track?” Asantir asked. Her frown lifted at the certainty of Tarathan’s nod, but she kept her voice low. “What of these other seekers? Is one of them the Raptor of Darkness?”

“Last night’s demon?” Tarathan’s head moved in a quick negative. “I have not detected its presence. Whoever lies ahead is not someone I have encountered before.”

“But even that,” said Asantir, “is better than knowing nothing.” She looked around. “Sarus, make sure the priests stay in the center, where they’re protected, and strengthen our watch to the rear. I’ll take the lead from now on. We can’t afford to lose either of you,” she added, turning back to the heralds.

Tarathan smiled slightly. “Can we afford to lose you, Captain?” he asked. “Besides, it is difficult enough to seek through this darkness without having either thoughts or jangling armor in my way.”

“I’ll try not to jangle,” Asantir said dryly, “but we can’t leave you unprotected.” She glanced back at the main party where shields were being settled more firmly on arms and swords drawn. “It will definitely be close-quarters work down here,” she added, and drew her own sword in a whisper of steel. She handed the cone light to Nerys, but Jehane Mor extended her hand before the guard could take it.

“Let me do it,” she said. “I have to stay close to Tarathan
anyway, to shield his seeking most effectively. This way, Nerys will have two hands free to defend me.”

Asantir nodded. “Try and keep the light angled so it falls just ahead of our feet. But make sure the beam stays low. We don’t want to risk light blindness.”

She looked over her armed and watchful party one more time, then gave the signal to move on. Every ear was strained, listening for any sound out of place, and the tension in the air was palpable. The priests drew in close behind Jehane Mor and the guards’ eyes flicked to either side, while Kyr and the sergeant kept watch to the rear. Asantir walked catfooted at the front, her sword ready. No one spoke.

It was some time before the attack came. They had descended another long stair and come out into yet another hallway, where the walls were closer and the roof much lower overhead, when Jehane Mor gasped out: “Beware!”

Something streaked out of the darkness, straight as a flung spear. The attacker made no sound; there was just the sudden rush of air, an impression of driving wings and an outstretched, striking beak—and then Asantir’s sword cut up, severing the creature’s neck.

The attacker fell; the next moment a storm of the winged creatures hurtled along the low hall, attacking with vicious beaks and raking talons. Tarathan leapt to meet them, striking left and right with his swallowtail swords while Asantir’s blade continued to bite, precise and deadly. “Draw in!” she commanded, her voice encompassing the entire party. “Shields up!” The guards obeyed, forming a tight circle around the noncombatants and clashing a shield wall into place.

“Roof’s too low,” Asantir remarked conversationally to Tarathan, holding her own shield to cover them both as they retreated, step by cutting step, into the circle of guards. “They can’t get enough height to beat the shields.”

The winged creatures seemed to prefer height, making no attempt to vary their pattern of attack, although they shrieked fiercely as they wheeled and dove. For a while their
sheer numbers kept the battle even, but the shield circle held and the guard’s swords continued to cut, disciplined and steady. The winged creatures either fell or circled sharply away from their blows. Then, as suddenly as the assault had begun, the remaining attackers wheeled around and sped back into the darkness.

“Hold your positions!” Asantir ordered. “Don’t break formation! Anyone hurt?” she added after a moment.

A quick murmured response indicated that there were no serious injuries, although a few guards had sustained gashes from the slashing beaks and talons. “But what in Haarth were they?” someone asked in a shaken voice.

Asantir took the cone light from Jehane Mor and shone it onto one of the fallen creatures, illuminating a lizardlike body between long, leathery wings with sharp barbs at the end of each pinion. The head was bony, with a heavy, serrated beak, and the creature’s short legs were razor taloned. “I’ve never seen them before,” she said, “but I have heard them described. These are fell lizards, which some say are darkspawn but others claim are a Haarth creature corrupted by the Swarm. Either way, their presence usually means that other darkspawn aren’t far away.”

“Scouts, maybe,” said Sarus.

Asantir stood up and handed the light back to Jehane Mor. “They could be hunting on their own, but we take no chances. I want a sharp watch kept while we see to these cuts. Give the alarm if you see or hear anything even slightly strange,” she told the lookouts grimly. “Better that we jump at shadows before they jump us.”

This got a general chuckle as the shield circle broke up and those who were not on lookout duty pulled out bandages and salves. Jehane Mor slid slowly down the wall to sit on the stone floor, her face drawn. Tarathan sheathed his swords quickly and knelt beside her, while Asantir squatted on her heels in front of the herald. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Jehane Mor shook her head. “I’m all right.” But she spoke in a queer, slightly breathless way, like a person who has
been running hard. She drew another, deeper breath before speaking again. “Something—a power—attacked hard just before the fell-lizards struck, so hard it was almost impossible for me to call a warning before it was too late.”

“Was it the seeker?” Tarathan asked quietly.

“But in the moment that it attacked I felt something more, a flash of other powers out there.” Jehane Mor’s eyes met his. “Do you sense them?”

“Others?” Asantir said sharply.

Tarathan was silent a moment, as though listening. “I sense them. Their minds are cold, their purpose dark, and they, too, are hunting, seeking. I suspect that, like us, they hunt for your Heir.”

“The psychic attack was designed to kill anything in its path,” Jehane Mor said, speaking more easily. “But it also felt random, as though the attacker sensed another power but couldn’t pinpoint our location or gauge our strength.”

“A mindsweep,” Tarathan said grimly. “But random or not, it’s almost certain the seeker will have sensed your shield at work.”

Jehane Mor nodded. “And will try and flush me out.”

Asantir stared into the dark, her eyes narrowed. “Our enemies, it seems, still have teeth. Well,” she added dryly, “if I had expected miracles, it would only be the three of us down here.” She glanced around the small band of guards and priests, raising her eyebrows slightly at the sight of the initiate Eria helping Garan bandage his gashed forearm. “So long as you’re sure that the concealing shield still holds, we’ll push on. But we haven’t had to contend with these psychic perils for many generations and I won’t waste lives on a forlorn hope.”

“There is another way of seeking,” Tarathan said slowly, “but we will need to try it now, while Jehane’s shield holds.” He paused, but Asantir simply waited, her silence a question. “One can seek consciously on the physical plane, or one can seek through the psychic level by what we call mindwalking, which is what the shamans of the Winter
people do when they dream through the smoke. But there are not many who have their skill.”

“Or the strength to use it safely,” murmured Jehane Mor.

Asantir frowned. “But surely the psychic plane is where the enemy threat is greatest?”

“It is,” Tarathan agreed. “But my seeking will also be more powerful there, and swifter. And with other powers actively in play, we no longer have the luxury of time.” He met Asantir’s eyes squarely. “I will need Jehane to mind-walk with me, to shield me on the psychic plane. But given the danger here, the seeking will also have to be shielded in the physical realm.”

“So we all bear the increased risk,” said Asantir. “I suppose that’s only fair.” She looked around at the watching priests and guards. “But is it wise?”

Jehane Mor’s eyes followed Asantir’s gaze. “It is necessary, Captain. And although your priests are young and untried, there are eight of them. Together they should be strong enough to shield us on this plane.”

“I’m not sure I like
should
be,” Asantir murmured. But the heralds said nothing, simply looked back at her until she gave a short nod. “Then may Ornorith favor us, since she loves a risk taker. Tell me what we must do to make this mindwalking happen?”

Tarathan nodded, his gaze as dark as hers. “We must find a place where Jehane Mor and I can go into a deep trance. Somewhere defensible,” he added, not quite as an afterthought.

Yet the further they descended the more of a labyrinth the Old Keep became. Every doorway was a lightless hole that opened into yet another corridor, or onto more narrow twisted stairs. Those rooms they did find were small, with only one door. “Deathtraps!” said Sarus. No one disagreed, although they were losing precious time and there was more than one sigh of relief when they finally found a chamber large enough for their purpose. It opened off one of the
wider hallways and also had a second, smaller door leading onto the usual twisting stair.

Garan regarded both sets of doors, which were sagging off their hinges, with misgiving. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Rotten,” said Sarus, rapping his fist against one of them. “We’ll have to see what we can do, construct some kind of barricade.”

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity as packs were swung off backs and Asantir split the guards into two groups. One team, under Sarus, was posted at the stairwell door while their main strength was with Asantir, at the larger entrance. The heralds gathered the priests together and Jehane Mor looked into each of their faces in turn. Some met her gaze, but others dropped their eyes or looked away. The herald’s voice was even as she told the priests what she and Tarathan intended—and what was expected of them. All eyes flew back to hers then, wide with consternation, but no one spoke.

“Well?” Jehane Mor said softly.

The young faces looked at each other and then to Eria, as their spokesperson. The initiate shook her head. “We were proud to be chosen for this mission, Herald Jehane, and to be of service to our House. But now we are here and have seen what you do …” Her voice trailed away and she shook her head again.

“What have you seen?” the herald asked patiently.

“What real strength is,” the young man beside Eria said harshly, bitterness stamped across his broad, blunt face.

“Hush,” Eria said quickly, but the boy on her other side, who had narrow hazel eyes in a thin, clever face, spoke up impatiently.

“Torin’s only saying what we all know, Eria—that Herald Jehane has been protecting us all.”

“Ay,” said Torin, still bitter. “We might as well not be here.”

“Perhaps the High Steward was right,” said the tall girl beside him. “Perhaps we are just a liability.”

“We don’t know why you asked for us at all,” said another young woman, her eyes fixed on her feet.

“What is your name?” Jehane Mor asked.

The bent head lifted. “Tisanthe,” she said, plainly shy.

“And you?” the herald asked the tall girl.

“Terithis,” she answered, bolder than her friend.

“Var,” said the priest with the thin, clever face, in answer to the herald’s look.

“And you are Torin,” the herald said to the young man on Eria’s other side, with a small nod. She looked at the other three, who still remained silent. “Will you tell me your names as well?”

“Armar,” said the lad beside Torin, with a quick bob of his head. Freckles marched across his beaky nose and he was all bony wrists and ankles in his borrowed black clothes. The youth at his shoulder contented himself with a swift upward glance out of eyes that were so darkly blue that they looked almost as black as his hair.

“Serin,” he murmured, quickly lowering his eyes again, while the young woman beside him, who was similar enough in face and coloring to be his twin, spoke at the same time.

“I’m Ilor,” she said.

“So,” said Jehane Mor. She inclined her head gravely to all of them. “We would not have asked for you,” she said simply, “if we didn’t need your help.”

Torin looked at her suspiciously. “You could just be saying that, to encourage us.”

Jehane Mor smiled. “I could,” she agreed, “but heralds of the Guild do not lie.”

There was a brief, abashed silence before Eria, obviously pulling herself together, said, “We will do all that we can, but you must know by now that none of us is very strong in either seeking or shielding. Those particular talents have all but died out in the past century.”

“We may,” said Var, as ironic as Torin was bitter, “be amongst the best the Temple quarter has, but that—unfortunately—doesn’t make us very strong.”

“Individually, perhaps,” said Tarathan, speaking for the first time, “but collectively your small abilities will amount to something far more substantial. You are no different, in that way, from any of the warriors here, who would all be hard-pressed on their own. Yet by standing and working together, they defeated the fell-lizard attack.”

The circle of priests looked at each other, clearly taken aback.

“Tarathan is right,” said Jehane Mor. “And I can teach you a shield form that will help you find your strength. It is very strong if all involved bind themselves to it.”

The priests exchanged another swift look. “Show us,” Eria said.

Jehane Mor reached out, holding Eria’s eyes with her own, and shaped the outline of the initiate’s face with her hand—and then all the young faces lifted as one as the herald’s power rippled over them. “This shielding is called Eight,” she said, her voice light on water. “To build the shield you must open your minds, first to me and then to all your comrades. The weave follows the pattern of the number, which is infinite, a flow without beginning or end. You must become one with that flow so that you are no longer singular and weak, but Eight and strong.”