The Heir of Night (3 page)

Malian made a face at the polished reflection in the mirror. “I do look like a scion of the oldest line, I suppose.” She kicked the train out behind her. “But can you imagine Yorindesarinen wearing anything so restrictive?”

“That skirt would make worm slaying very difficult,” Nesta observed, and Malian grinned.

Doria, however, frowned. “Yorindesarinen is nothing but a fable put about by the House of Stars to make themselves feel important.” She sniffed. “Just like the length of their names. Ridiculous!”

“They’re not all long,” Malian pointed out. “What about Tasian and Xeria?”

The nurse made a sign against bad luck, while Nesta shook her head. “Shortened,” the maid said. “Why should we honor that pair of ill omen with their full names?” She pulled a face. “Especially she who brought ruin upon us all.”

Doria nodded, her mouth pursed as if she had filled it with pins. “Cursed be her name—and completely beneath the attention of the Heir of Night, so we will not sully our lips with it now!” She gave a last tweak to the gauze collar, so that it stood up like black butterfly wings on either side of Malian’s face. “You look just as you should,” she said, not without pride. “And if you hurry, you’ll be on time as well.”

Malian kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” she said, with real gratitude. “I am sorry that I gave you all so much trouble.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and Doria looked resigned. “You always are,” she said, sighing. “But I don’t like your gallivanting off into the Old Keep, nasty cold place that it is. Trouble will come of it—and then what the Earl will do to us all, I shudder to think.”

Malian laughed. “You worry too much,” she said. “But if I don’t hurry I really will be late and my father will make us all shudder, sooner rather than later.”

She blew a butterfly kiss back around the door and walked off as quickly as the black dress would allow, leaving Doria and Nesta to look at each other with a mixture of exasperation, resignation, and affection.

“Don’t say it,” the nurse said to the younger woman, sitting down with a sigh. “The fact is that she is just like her mother was at the same age—too much on her own and with a head filled with dreams of glory. Not to mention running wild, all over the New Keep and half the Old.”

Nesta shook her head. “They’ve been at her since she was a babe with all their lessons, turning her into an earl in miniature, not to mention the swordplay and other skills required by a warrior House. I like it when she acts like a normal girl and plays truant, for all the anxiety it causes us.”

Doria folded her arms across her chest. “But not into the Old Keep,” she said, troubled. “That was her mother’s way, always mad for adventure and leading the others after her. We all know how that ended.” She shook her head. “Malian is already too much her mother’s daughter for my comfort.”

Nesta frowned. “The trouble is,” she said, pitching her voice so that no one else could hear her, “does the Earl realize that? And what will he do when he finds out?”

Doria sighed again, looking anxious. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I know that Nhairin sees it, plain as I do—and that outsider minstrel, too, I’ve no doubt. It’s as though the Earl is the only person who does not see it.”

“Or will not,” Nesta said softly.

“Does not, will not,” replied Doria, “the outcome is the same. Well, there’s nothing we can do except our best for her, as we always have.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Nesta. Her dark eyes gazed into the fire. “Although what happens,” she asked, “if your best is not enough?”

But neither the nurse nor the fire had any answer for her.

2

T
he High Hall lay some distance from Malian’s apartments, and like its counterpart in the Old Keep it was an enormous chamber of stone, with soaring pillars and a high, vaulted roof. The hall, like the keep corridors, had no windows onto the outside world but was lit by lamps and chandeliers of jeweled glass that shone like a thousand stars. Huge fires blazed in the many fireplaces set along the length of the hall, warming the vast space and casting a further glow over the walls. Banners floated down, long and bright from the ceiling vault, and the walls were hung with tapestries and heraldic shields. But there were no weapons to be seen anywhere. They were not displayed on the walls or stored by the doors for ready use, a prohibition that was enforced in every stronghold along the Derai Wall.

Malian knew the story, of course. Every Derai child was taught it young. It had happened at the end of the civil war, nearly five hundred years before, at the feast intended to confirm a lasting truce. The cup of peace had gone round, but rather than drinking, some of those present had snatched up weapons instead, cutting down their guests. The shadow of that night of death still lay over the Derai Alliance, haunting the nine Houses with its legacy of blood feud and mistrust.
The divisions had been passed down from one generation to the next, setting House against House, warrior against priest, kin against kin.

Malian saw that she had beaten her father’s party, after all, and stopped in the shadow of the hall doors, studying the great banner that hung directly above the Earl’s empty chair. The winged horse device of Night, depicted in the moment of springing into the air, had been worked into the black fabric with silver and diamond, and the unfurled wings gleamed where it caught the light. Malian’s heart quickened as it always did when she saw the banner of her House, knowing that the same ensign had led the Derai Alliance from the beginning, for the threads of the old standard were always painstakingly unpicked and rewoven into the new cloth. The heroes Telemanthar and Kerem had fought beneath its shadow and this same winged horse would have followed Yorindesarinen when she led the Derai.

Quietly, Malian made her way to the Heir’s Seat, set on its own canopied dais halfway down the long hall. The warriors and retainers of Night began to crowd in around her and the buzz of anticipation grew. There were no clerics, of course. The Keep of Winds had its Temple quarter, but those who served there were forbidden the everyday life of the keep—as they had been for five hundred years.

It was five hundred years, too, since the walls of the keep had last flared with the Golden Fire that had once been the heart and strength of the Derai Alliance. The loss of the Fire was not much talked about now, except in whispers, although some said that it still slumbered, deep in the heart of the nine keeps, and would reemerge in the hour of the Derai’s greatest need.

It was a comforting story, but Malian’s doubts had grown as she became older and learned that the Golden Fire could only be summoned and wielded by those Derai known as the Blood. The Blood comprised the Earls of the nine Houses and their blood kin, but their numbers had diminished generation by generation since the civil war, eroding the Derai’s
ability to command the Golden Fire—should it ever return. Malian’s uneasiness had only deepened on those nights when she lay awake, listening to her guards and servants talking in the outer room. “What if the Fire doesn’t slumber at all?” they would ask each other, fear in their voices. “What if it burned to gray, cold ashes on the Night of Death? What will become of the Derai Alliance then, when the Swarm rises again and the tide of their darkness comes flowing in, strong and cold across the Wall?”

“What indeed?” Malian asked herself now, and shivered. The conflict between the Derai and the Swarm had been in stasis ever since their arrival on this world, but she knew from history that such stalemates never endured—and she had seen the reports from Night’s scouts that suggested the Swarm’s dark power was stirring again. Yet the stasis had lasted so long now that there were many in the Alliance who questioned the very existence of the Swarm. The darkness along the Wall, these Derai claimed, was simply a phenomenon natural to this world of Haarth. Similarly, the foul creatures that dwelt amongst the passes and ravines of the Wall must also be natives of Haarth and not the scavengers and foragers of the Swarm. The real problem, according to the doubters, was not these infestations, but the internal enmities that had preoccupied the Derai Houses since the civil war.

It was Malian’s father who had explained this situation to her, on one of the few days that was calm enough for them to walk on the pinnacled battlements of the keep. Malian had stared out across the great expanse of the Wall, range on towering range of jagged peaks as far as the eye could see—and wondered if their long history of struggle was truly only a myth. She had wondered, too, how the Derai could possibly hope to withstand a renewed onslaught by the Swarm, if so many in the Alliance had lost faith in their ancient vigil.

The Earl had nodded when she shared this thought, chill humor touching his eyes. “Ay, the Derai who promote these claims tend to live in those strongholds that sit far behind
the outer Wall—and we slay the Swarm skirmishers before they breach their borders. Yet every report I get suggests that incursions are on the increase. We should be strengthening our Alliance and our vigilance, not turning our backs on the Wall.”

Malian mulled over this discussion again while the life of the hall swirled around her. She sat at Night’s council table and knew it was her duty as Heir to understand the perils that beset her House, even if many still treated her as just a child. Yet she longed to prove her worth, to perform some great deed or face down a dire foe, so that all knew she was the Heir of Night in truth, not just in name.

A gong sounded, clear above the din, and the gathering fell silent as Nhairin stepped through the great double doors. She paused, surveying the throng with her somber gaze, then cried out, in a voice that filled the hall: “The Earl of Night comes into his High Hall! All rise for the Earl of Night!”

The gathering rose and Malian, too, turned toward the doors as her father walked through. He was a dark man, tall like all their kin except Malian herself, and walked with the trained grace of a swordsman. But his expression was shuttered—cold, even, thought Malian: he holds the whole world at arm’s length, including me. But then her eyes slid to the woman at his side. Almost the whole world, Malian amended, keeping her expression neutral.

She knew the rest of the Earl’s household as well if not better than her father. Gerenth, the Commander of Night, strode in first behind the Earl, with Asantir, the Captain of the Earl’s Honor Guard, at his side. Teron, the senior squire, walked behind them, but checked his brisk stride to remain in step with Jiron, the Earl’s scribe. Jiron, Malian observed with an inward smile, looked as disheveled as ever, with ink stains on his fingers and his russet cloak slipping half off one shoulder. Haimyr brought up the rear of the immediate household and fell in beside Nhairin, just ahead of a small army of squires and pages, all wearing the black uniform and winged-horse badge of the House of Night.

Malian watched their progress up the hall and was struck again by how alien her father’s consort, the Lady Rowan Birchmoon, looked amongst the Earl’s dark-clad, dark-visaged household. Her skin was almost as white as the snows of her own Winter Country, her eyes gray and clear beneath slim brows. Pale brown hair hung down her back in a long braid, with pieces of shell and small feathers plaited into it; her long tunic and leggings of supple white leather were embroidered with beasts and birds. There was usually a white hound running at her heels, or a spotted, tuft-eared hunting cat pressed against her legs. Tonight, Malian saw with a pang of envy, it was one of the feather-footed hounds.

She did not, however, envy the ripple of disquiet that followed Rowan Birchmoon down the length of the cheerful hall. The scandal of her coming, three years before, had rocked the Derai Alliance to its foundations. It was unheard of, completely unthinkable, for any Derai, let alone an Earl, to take an outsider as the companion of his body and his hearth. Yet here she was, Rowan Birchmoon of the Winter people, bearing the unprecedented title of Lady Consort and sitting at the Earl of Night’s side in the High Hall, as well as sleeping in his bed. At least he had not married her, the whispers ran, and given her both the title and full powers of Countess of Night—at least he was not so bewitched as that.

How many Derai, Malian wondered, still believe she is a witch and my father ensnared in her spells? She sank into a deep curtsey as the Earl’s party stopped at the Heir’s dais, but although her father’s eyes met hers as she rose, he did not smile.

He never smiles, Malian thought. “Welcome again to this hall, Father,” she said, initiating the formal exchange that convention required. “The Heir rejoices in the Earl’s safe return.”

“The welcome is warmer for the Heir’s presence, honoring this High Hall.” The Earl’s voice was cool in the listening quiet, his expression austere.

“The Heir’s first duty is to uphold the honor of the Earl and of this House,” Malian responded.

The hall murmured its approval and Malian turned to Rowan Birchmoon, but her greeting was forestalled by the hound, which thrust a cold wet nose into her hand. Malian laughed, stroking the silky head, and the Winter woman smiled. “Falath is remiss in matters of tradition,” she said, in her clear voice, “but very attentive in friendship.”