The Heir of Night (21 page)

Malian and Kalan both swung round, peering into the woods as a shadow that was darker than the tree trunks shifted, moving toward them. After a few paces they saw that it was not a shadow at all, but a man. A moment later and Malian recognized the herald, although he was clad all in warrior’s black now, rather than Guild gray. His face, which had been clear to her in the fire, was blackened like a warrior’s, too, but there was no mistaking the braided hair and the dark, penetrating eyes. Both she and Kalan watched intently as he crossed to the fire and bowed low to Yorindesarinen. His manner was contained, but he managed to look formidable nonetheless, even dangerous. “Hail, Great One,” the herald, Tarathan, said, straightening out of his bow. “Honor on you and on your fireside.”

“And light and safety on your path,” Yorindesarinen replied. She smiled faintly, as though seeing or hearing something for the first time, and said: “Your friend is well concealed. Even I did not sense her until you drew near. Yet she, too, is welcome at my fire.”

Again, Malian craned to look, but at first saw only moonlight and shadow, before finally making out another figure standing motionless in the wood. “Jehane is holding
a mindshield to hide us from our enemies,” Tarathan said quietly, “and would have to let it go to enter your enchanted circle. She is afraid that if she does so, she will not have the strength to build the shield again.”

Yorindesarinen nodded. “Ay, your enemies are powerful, both on this plane and in the Old Keep.” Her eyes were pools of night, unfathomable, as the herald squatted on his heels and held out his hands to the blaze, studying Malian and Kalan in turn.

“So,” Tarathan said, “two of you.” He inclined his head, very slightly, to Malian. “Well met again, Heir of Night. But who”—he quirked an eyebrow at Kalan—“are you?”

Kalan looked back at him, half defiant, half shy. “I’m Kalan, from the Temple quarter. Who are you? And how did you find us here?”

“All fair questions,” murmured Yorindesarinen, and the herald nodded.

“They are indeed,” he agreed. “I am called Tarathan of Ar and I am a herald from the Guild House in Terebanth, in the lands of the River. Amongst other things, I seek out the hidden and find the lost. It is difficult to hide from me, but you two have done well so far. Now, which of you, I wonder, was responsible for that?”

“Mainly Kalan,” said Malian, and Kalan blushed.

“I stumbled into this by accident,” he muttered, as though feeling an excuse was required. “Although I did help with hiding us both in the Old Keep. Mostly, though, I think it’s been the Golden Fire and this lady doing the concealing.” He bobbed his head at Yorindesarinen, who grinned at him.

“I called them here,” she said, “but they found their own way through the mists, as must all who would pass the Gate of Dreams. But what of you? What brings a herald of the Guild beyond the Gate and into the heart of my fire, Tarathan of Ar?”
Tarathan’s smile was a little grim. “The Heir of Night,” he said, and told them about the search party that had gone into the Old Keep, the brush with the dark seeker, and the decision

to look for Malian on the psychic plane. “But we never expected,” he finished wryly, nodding to Malian across the flames, “to find you sitting at the Great One’s fire.”

“But, then,” murmured Yorindesarinen, “so little in life is what one expects, after all.”

The herald shot her a quick look and Malian thought there was a great deal of caution in his expression. “No,” he said, then gave a sudden shrug and a half laugh. “No indeed. Still, some things are more unexpected than others, even when one passes the Gate of Dreams.”

Kalan looked from one to the other. “Why do you call her the Great One?” he asked Tarathan. “How do you know her at all?”

“Say rather that we know of her,” Tarathan replied, with a respectful nod to the hero. “Heralds of the Guild have known how to pass the Gate of Dreams for a long time. We also have some experience of the powers, some wise and bright, but many fearful and terrible, that may be encountered here. So we knew that one whom we recognized as great dwelt here amongst the folds and mists of time, on the threshold between worlds, but we did not know
who
she was.”

“Or what,” murmured Yorindesarinen.

Tarathan smiled, very slightly. “We did not know who you were,” he reiterated firmly, “or that you were of the Derai.”

“But how
can
you dwell on the threshold of Haarth?” Kalan asked Yorindesarinen. “You died long before we ever came to this world.”

She smiled at him, her eyes kind. “So I did, my Kalan. But as the herald says, this place lies between worlds and time.”

“So are we in a dream, after all?” he asked. “How can we all be dreaming the same thing?”

“Does this feel like a dream?” she asked him. He shook his head and the hero smiled again, but it was the herald who spoke.

“This place is called the Gate of Dreams because that is
the only way most people will ever access it. But dreams are haphazard and notoriously difficult to control, so most of those who wish to pass the Gate voluntarily do so by means of what the Guild calls mindwalking—spiritwalking to the Winter shamans. That is how Jehane Mor and I have come here now.”

“But you seem substantial,” Malian pointed out. She was remembering the strength in his hands as they grasped hers in the fire. “We all do.”

Tarathan nodded. “A strong mindwalker can give him-or herself substance and form, while those who are weaker or less well trained often appear as shadows or wraiths, pale images of themselves. Yet mindwalking is not the only way to come here. There are some, a very few, who have the power to walk here in their physical bodies, traveling from one place and time to another.” He paused, studying them, then continued quietly, “I believe this is what you and Kalan have done. You are both here in your physical bodies, which explains why I couldn’t find you on the physical plane.”

Malian and Kalan looked at each other. “Well,” the boy said eventually, “that’s a relief. I’ve been dreading waking up and finding myself back in the Old Keep, without food or water, in a room with impassable doors.”

Yorindesarinen laughed, a sound so infectious that the others laughed with her, even the herald. “Fear not,” she said. “I think you will find that there are few doors, on this plane or any other, that will prove impassable for the two of you. Particularly,” she added, sobering, “when you come into your full strength.” She looked up at the moon where it hung low amongst the trees. “But now you must go, before my moon sets, and find the friends who are waiting for you. I will provide a path back through the layers of the Gate, but you must remain watchful, for the mists can deceive the unwary.”

She rose in one graceful, fluid movement and led them to the edge of the glade. The second herald retreated before their approach, a shadow amongst the trees, and Yorindesarinen’s
gaze pursued her. “It takes strength,” she murmured, “to hold a shield beyond the Gate of Dreams, let alone when mindwalking.” Her dark gaze shifted to Tarathan of Ar. “And you walked through my fire to find Malian, which also demonstrates considerable power.” She paused. “You know that word of what you have done will get out, not only amongst the Derai but also amongst their enemies? The attention that draws to your Guild may be unwelcome.”

Tarathan nodded. “Word always does get out, does it not?” he replied. “Jehane Mor and I considered this, but felt that our involvement was required, all the same.”

“It was essential,” Yorindesarinen agreed, “although not all would act as you have, if similarly placed.” Her voice was tranquil, but the darkness in her eyes was vast and comprised both memory and pain.

Malian, knowing the old, grievous story, thought she understood that darkness, but she wondered if the herald did. To her surprise, however, he took the hero’s hand and bowed over it, in what Haimyr had once described as the grand manner of the River; the hand, Malian saw, was crisscrossed with old scars.

“Life,” said Tarathan of Ar, “is a risk and so is death and one cannot avoid either. Jehane Mor and I are one in believing that a time for taking risks, perhaps even great risks, is upon us all.”

Yorindesarinen was smiling now. “It is a very long time,” she said, “since anyone kissed my hand in that way. It is not a custom of the Derai. You are quite right, though, it is indeed a time for risks, both the great and the small—although your Guild may not see that as clearly as you and your comrade do. But see, here is your road.” She pointed, and they all saw the path, silver touched, curving away between the trees.

The hero knelt and took Malian’s face between her scarred hands. “I am glad, Child of Night,” she said, “to have seen you at last. I believe we may meet again, but whether it will be soon or late, I cannot say.” She rose to her feet, her dark eyes crinkling into a smile. “But you must
not go without a gift, something to remind you of me in the times ahead.” She unclasped a wide band of silver from her wrist and handed it to Malian, who turned it over in her hands. The armring was plainly wrought, except for a pattern of stars worked into a spiral around the band. “It will always fit you,” said Yorindesarinen, “but wear it around your upper arm for now, under your sleeve where it will be hidden from prying eyes. When you come into your power, you shall wear it on your wrist as I did. I have kept it for you a long time, so bear it well, Child of Night.”

“I will,” murmured Malian. “Thank you.”

The hero turned to Kalan. “And you,” she said, smiling at him. “What gift shall I give you, my unexpected friend?”

The smile deepened when he shook his head. She tugged a ring off her finger and closed his hand over its three strands of black metal, plaited together around a misshapen black pearl. “A friend gave it to me, long ago,” she said, “and he had it from another in his turn, down the long years. But you need not hide it as Malian must the armring: No one will remember it anymore.”

Kalan flushed and nodded, looking as though he would like to say something but couldn’t find the words, while Malian sank to one knee. “Farewell,” she said. “Even if this meeting does turn out to be just a dream, I will remember it forever.”

Yorindesarinen raised her up and kissed her on the forehead. “The path will become clearer, Child of Night, I promise you.” She gave Kalan a quick, comradely hug before he could either kneel or bow in his turn. “Farewell,” she said. “I will not say, ‘stay with her,’ for I think your two paths already lie together, without contrivance or encouragement of mine.”

Kalan nodded, sliding the ring onto his finger, but it was Tarathan who spoke. “We must go,” he said. “I fear for the safety of those we left behind.”

Yorindesarinen nodded. “Go well, my bravehearts, until we meet again—and do not leave the path!”

“Farewell,” Malian and Kalan called together, looking back as the mist thickened. “The Nine be with you!” The brume swirled higher, catching and echoing their words: “Farewell! Farewell!”

The hero turned and walked back to the fire, seating herself beside it again. She glanced up once at the moon, now very low amongst the tangled branches, but otherwise seemed absorbed by the play and flicker of the flames. If she noticed when the mist at the glade’s edge coalesced into a ball of golden light and drifted toward the fire, she gave no sign. As the ball moved, it grew until there was a small cloud hovering above Yorindesarinen. It was only then that the hero looked up. “Welcome, old friend,” she said. “It has been a long time.”

“Greetings, Child of Stars,”
a voice of light replied, out of the cloud.
“I was worried when I saw that the children had been drawn this way, until I realized who was charting their path.”

“Oh, they found their way with little enough help from me,” the hero said. “But you, my Hylcarian, have been busy as well. It gladdens my heart to see it.”

“Ay, but I am weak, Child of Stars. I cannot do all that I would have done once, or wish to do now.”

“You were hurt very badly on that night five hundred years ago, and then abandoned.” Yorindesarinen shook her head. “It is little wonder your recovery has taken so long. And now, when the Derai need the Golden Fire as never before, there are too few of the Blood left to bring you back to your full strength. So you must strive to rebuild that strength on your own. That is not how it is meant to be, I know, but there is no other choice.”

Hylcarian was silent and the hero’s fire burned lower.
“You are sending the child away,”
the fiery voice said at last.

“She must go, old friend. You know that as well as I,” said Yorindesarinen.

“You seem so sure,”
Hylcarian replied.
“You were always
so sure
…
But who
,
beyond the keeps, can teach her what she needs to know?”

“Who can teach her in the keeps?” Yorindesarinen inquired dryly. “She must make her own way, find the allies that wait for her in the world beyond the Wall. That is her destiny—and the fate of the Derai Alliance, and of Haarth itself, is tied to it.”

Silence fell again until lightning crackled through the golden cloud.
“Have you
seen
this, Child of Stars?”

“I see many things,” Yorindesarinen replied, “and understand only a few. But yes. I have seen it, both in the fire and in the stars.”

“So much lost,”
Hylcarian murmured.
“So much broken or gone forever.”
The light-filled voice paused briefly.
“The weapons of your power are lost, too. Sword, helm, and shield all vanished when you fell. Yet how can she hope to withstand the Darkswarm without them?”

“There is always hope, old friend,” the hero replied gently. “You should know that better than any. Just as you know that it is heart and wit that make the hero, not swords and helms, however powerful.”

“All the same, the weapons of power would be very useful now. And they are her birthright, since it was for the benefit of the prophesied One that Mhaelanar sent them into the world.”

“So legend says,” agreed Yorindesarinen.

Again, lightning darted through the cloud.
“Do you, who bore them, doubt it?”