The Heir of Night (25 page)

The Raptor screamed, a furious cry that echoed on and on and made everyone clap their hands over their ears. Cracks ran across the roof and mortar began to fall as the avian shape reared toward the ceiling, its vast wings fanning wide as the Golden Fire lanced into it again. A conflagration ignited, deep within the Raptor’s mass, and the scream became a shriek as the demon was sucked backward, teetering on the edge of its own abyss. The portal shook—then the fiery darkness at its core exploded and the Raptor’s gate collapsed, vanishing completely.

“Well!”
said Hylcarian to Malian alone, and she could feel his sudden focus on the Honor Captain, who was kneeling
on the stone floor, her head bowed.
“Ay, casting
that
spear might well drain her.”

Asantir lifted her head. “Look!” she gasped out. “See—what is happening!”

Everyone followed her upward gaze and saw that the cracks from the collapsed portal were spreading across walls and roof.
“Flee!”
Hylcarian cried.
“Through the gate
—
swiftly! I will stay and hold back the collapse lest it bring the whole keep down, Old and New alike.”
A copingstone fell out of the ceiling and shattered on the floor.
“Run!”
Hylcarian urged again.
“I cannot help you hold the gate open and bind this place together at the same time, not for long.”

They ran. The sound and the strong snatched up their gear and the wounded at the same time; even those who had looked askance at the golden portal before did not hesitate, but plunged through. Soon only Malian and Tarathan remained, still locked into the Golden Fire, while Asantir leaned heavily on Garan’s arm. Another stone fell, smashing into shards beside them.

“Why do you wait?”
demanded Hylcarian.
“Go!”

Tarathan spoke for Malian, who was beyond words. “You must go through,” he told Asantir. “Malian has to wait until the last, for she links our gate to the Fire.”

Asantir frowned, then nodded and stepped through, still supported by Garan. Tarathan looked down at Malian. “Can you hold?” he asked. She managed a minimal nod, knowing she would be all right so long as she remained locked into the Golden Fire. But the pressure on Hylcarian was immense. She could feel his power and strength pouring into the fabric of the Old Keep, trying to halt the process of disintegration—yet he needed more. He needed the power he had lent to her, but she was not sure that she had sufficient strength left to release that power and her connection to the Fire at the same time, without collapsing the portal. She was not even confident of being able to move on her own.

Tarathan, still linked to both her and the Golden Fire,
seemed to understand. He scooped her up and in two swift strides they were in the gate, momentarily suspended there. A split second and another long stride later and they, too, were through. Willing hands reached out to take Malian, setting her gently on her feet. She swayed, but Tarathan kept a steadying hand on her arm. “Not yet,” he said, commanding her. “You must close the gate.”

“That’s … easy,” whispered Malian, and released the link to Hylcarian. The Golden Fire fled away like a tide and the last of the flames around the doorway flickered, then snuffed out with a soft huff of disturbed air. Dark flecks danced before Malian’s eyes and she thought she might have fainted, except for Tarathan’s hand on her arm. Another hand touched her hair, very gently, and she reached out blindly, clinging to the physical reassurance of hardened leather and cold mail. “Are we safe?” she whispered.

“Very safe,” Asantir’s voice said. “It was well done indeed, my Malian.”

“It was your spear that slew the demon, Captain,” said Tarathan, his low tone matching hers, “as much as the Fire did.” Malian lifted her head blearily, trying to focus on their faces, unsure whether Tarathan meant anyone else to hear him. She should have guessed, though, that Kalan, hovering close by, would overhear.

“If that spear was what I think,” he said, a thread of excitement burning through the weariness in his voice, “then it would kill anything, even a Raptor of Darkness.”

Asantir was standing without support now, although she still looked drained. “And what do you think it was?” she asked, with the slightest rise of her brows. Everyone was listening now and Kalan looked suddenly nervous. His reply, though, was steady.

“
‘Of death my song and black my blade, for Kerem’s hand by Alkiranth made.’
Even to touch the edge of such a weapon, the slightest nick or scratch, is to die.”

“But that can’t be right,” protested Var. “The black blades of Kerem were swords.”

Kalan nodded. “It’s true that Kerem’s swords were black blades, but he also had other weapons. And Brother Belan said that because the legend of Kerem is one of our oldest, some variants confuse or intertwine the hero with even older stories, myths even, of the god Tawr, the Spearbearer. In those stories, Kerem had the use of Tawr’s own weapons, including the spear.” He had lost his nervousness, Malian noted, when it became a question of what the histories did or did not say. “But every variant agrees that Kerem’s arms were
all
black blades.”

“Surely,” said Tisanthe, looking confused, “you are not suggesting that the captain’s spear was one of Kerem’s weapons?”

“Even if it was,” growled Sarus, “what does it matter so long as it slew the demon? The Kerem of the stories would say it had been put to good use!”

There was a murmur of agreement, but Asantir and Kalan remained intent on each other. Kalan’s jaw jutted stubbornly, but Malian could see that he was nervous again. She blinked at them, puzzled, and then Asantir smiled, a wry expression that reminded Malian of Yorindesarinen.

“What Kalan is wondering,” Asantir said, “is how I could possibly possess a black blade without anyone knowing, when such a weapon should be an heirloom of the House of Night. Am I right, Kalan?”

Kalan nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on hers.

“The answer,” she continued, “is simple enough. I was never told what it was and nor, I suspect, was any other Honor Captain of Night for many centuries. It has hung on the wall of the Captain’s room and been handed down from one to the other, along with the command—and the counsel that it has potency against the power of the Swarm, but is only to be used in dire need. So when the heralds warned of the dangers that might wait in here, it seemed prudent to bring it with me.”

There was another murmur, this time of approval, and Kalan’s eyes fell. Asantir watched him for a moment longer,
then turned to study the faces gathered around her. Warriors and priests looked back at her wearily, but Malian saw something else in their expressions—the stamp of those who have been into a dark and dangerous place together and come out alive. There was sadness, too, for they had left comrades behind and seen the Derai’s ancient enemy made manifest for the first time. Malian caught more than one quick, covert glance toward herself and Kalan, although Kalan seemed unaware of it. He was still looking down, studying his feet with every evidence of interest. The heralds, as though feeling that their part was done, had moved aside from the Derai.

Asantir rested a hand on Malian’s shoulder, while her eyes circled the others again, warrior and priest alike, pulling them close. “We all know,” she said quietly, “what we have been through together and what we have done, but soon we will return to the New Keep and our comrades there, who will not share that understanding. There is much that we could say to shock them and still more that they will find easier to disbelieve. For these reasons, I believe that we must hold what we know to ourselves, telling only the Earl and those he deems wise. That way, we will fulfill our duty to House and keep while ensuring that rumor, doubt, and fear are not spread through our agency.” Her fleeting grin was twisted. “Rumor will spread abroad quickly enough in any case, without our help.”

Kyr shot a quick, frowning look toward Malian. “Do you mean the Heir, Captain, and her powers? Is that what we should keep silent about?”

“That is part of it,” Asantir agreed, “but only part. The rest you saw as clearly as any of us—the Golden Fire, the power of the heralds, and the powers that the Swarm brought against us.”

She did not mention the black spear, but Malian caught the flicker of Kalan’s upward glance and knew that it was still in his mind. She repressed a shiver, remembering the spear’s glittering hornet song.

Sarus scratched his chin with his thumb. “As you said, it’ll all be out quick enough anyway, especially if the Earl tells those councilors of his.”

“Maybe so,” replied Asantir, when the general chuckle had died away. “Just as long as it does not get about through our indiscretion.”

There was a small silence as they mulled this over, but Malian thought they would follow Asantir’s lead in the end. She could see it in the way the Honor Captain held them in their circle around her. She thought, too, about everything that had happened since she fled the New Keep, strange and frightening and wonderful things, and knew that her life would never be the same again, either in her own eyes or in the eyes of others.

As if in answer to this thought, Garan stepped forward and stood directly in front of her. Probably only Malian, standing so close, caught the infinitesimal tightening of Asantir’s body as the guard drew his dagger. Slowly, his eyes never leaving Malian’s face, Garan drew the tip of the dagger across the palm of his left hand, leaving a fine line of blood. “Chosen,” he said. “Shield of Mhaelanar, Beloved of the Nine. My blood for your Blood, my life for your life, my heart only for you and the Derai cause, now and until my life’s end. If I fail you in this, or if harm comes to you through any deed or word of mine, then may the blood be drained from my body, even to the last drop, and my soul walk naked before the Nine, without succor or respite, forever.”

Malian felt the color blanch from her face as she stretched out a restraining hand. “That is a blood oath, Garan,” she said, her voice harsh in the silence, “binding beyond death. Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

Slowly and deliberately, the guard sheathed the dagger. “I have seen what I have seen, Lady Malian. To my mind, there can be no doubt. You are the Chosen of Mhaelanar, the champion foretold in the old prophecies, the Shield of the Nine sent among us. I have sworn my oath.”

He stepped back and Nerys—Nerys the silent, Nerys the reserved—stepped forward to take his place. One by one the other warriors followed, drawing their daggers and swearing the same oath, even dour Kyr and the sergeant, Sarus. When they were done, Eria held her hand out silently for Garan’s dagger. Just as silently, the guard gave it to her and so the thing was done: All the initiates followed Eria, just as the warriors had followed Garan. In the end, of the Derai present, only Kalan and Asantir had not sworn. But when Kalan made a move as though to step forward, Malian shook her head with passionate intensity. “Don’t you dare!” she said. “Not you, Kalan.”

Kalan stopped, his expression so comical that Garan guffawed, breaking the tense, solemn atmosphere. For a moment his laugh rang out alone—and then everyone was laughing and hugging each other, at first just warrior and warrior, priest and priest, but then Asantir extended her free arm to catch Kalan close. “Well done!” she said, looking from his face to Malian’s. Kalan still held back a little, but Malian hugged the captain unreservedly until she winced at the pressure on her wounded shoulder and cried for quarter. Garan, seeming to think this an excellent example, caught the astonished Eria up in a bear hug.

“Garan just doesn’t like to miss an opportunity to kiss a pretty face,” said the guard Lira, who had a darkly pretty face of her own. “And I am much the same!” she added, stepping up to Tarathan and kissing him on the mouth. The herald looked startled for a moment, but then he laughed and kissed her back. She laughed, too, and shot a half-defiant, half-triumphant glance at Nerys, as she stepped back—and suddenly the hugging and the congratulations and slapping on the back had widened to include everyone.

Malian shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe they did that!” she said to Kalan. “Swore the oath, I mean, not the kissing—but now look at them! You wouldn’t think they had just sworn the gravest of oaths, binding beyond death!”

Kalan looked round at the jubilation and back slapping
that was slowly dying away. “I think they do know,” he said slowly.

“Kalan is right,” said Asantir. “And it is right, too, that they should have this moment, before we walk the last few steps to the New Keep and their oath binds them.”

Malian studied her. “You didn’t swear,” she pointed out.

Asantir nodded. “I am Honor Captain, Malian. I swore my oaths long ago. Did you wish me to swear to you also?”

“No !” Malian said passionately. “I’m glad that you didn’t, and Kalan, too! I don’t want people going around swearing blood oaths, and cutting their hands and other such nonsense, even if I am Heir of Night or the Chosen of Mhaelanar! I was just surprised,” she said more calmly, “that you didn’t stop them.”

The Honor Captain regarded her gravely. “I would not think it right to stop anyone, warrior or priest, who chooses to swear such an oath to the Heir of Night.”

Malian hesitated, wondering if the oath-taking was the outcome that Asantir had intended all along, when she pulled the circle close. She was still considering that possibility when Kalan said slyly, “Well, I hope you realize that you’ve had your last chance with me, Heir of Night. I won’t offer to swear again.”

Malian laughed. “I’m glad that you and Asantir had more sense! Besides, you’re my friend,” she added more soberly. “People can’t be your friends if they swear blood oaths to you.”

Kalan shrugged and grinned at the same time, but Malian could tell that he was pleased. She turned back to Asantir. “Right now,” she said, “I’ve had enough of the Old Keep. Can we go home?”

The Honor Captain smiled, not the terrible smile of the black spear but the one that was wryly kind, and saluted her. “Of course. The way is clear and the place of honor belongs to you and those who brought you back to us: Kalan and the heralds of the Guild. So lead us home, Heir of Night!”