The Heir of Night (30 page)

So much detail in one tapestry, thought Malian, really noticing it for the first time, although she must have walked past it a hundred times, at least, this past half week. She looked at the horned deer again and pulled a face, because she, too, felt trapped, beset, with nowhere to run and no friend to turn to.

Despite the oaths sworn to me in the old High Hall, she thought a little sourly. But perhaps everything that happened in the Old Keep meant nothing—or I dreamed it all.

If Night falls, all fall.
The old saying whispered in Malian’s head as she turned back to the table, because Night was vulnerable, shockingly so, with only three of the Blood left and one of that three already bound into the Temple quarter. She stared down at the path of the Ijir, gleaming in gold, but did not see it.
If Night falls, all fall.
“Is that why the Swarm struck at me?” she whispered. “What if it wasn’t because I’m the Chosen of Mhaelanar at all, or not
just
because of that? What if the Darkswarm saw the opportunity to trigger the ancient doom by striking at the remaining Blood, leaving Night and the whole Derai Alliance exposed?” A stratagem that must count as partially successful, she supposed, if she were to be exiled and shut away for the rest of her life.

Slowly, Malian’s head came up. She would not let that happen,
could
not, if everything that Yorindesarinen had told her was true. And even if it wasn’t, if she really had dreamed it all—Here Malian shook her head. She hadn’t dreamed it, but she had let this suite cage her mind as well as her body, so that she thought only as her father did, in terms of Oath and law and duty.

“And look at where that’s got us.” Malian frowned. “There must be another way, a way around the Oath that will save Night without sacrificing my honor.”

Yorindesarinen herself had said that she must leave the Wall and surely the greatest hero of the Derai would not counsel a path that led to dishonor? Automatically, Malian’s hand circled the silver ring on her upper arm, hidden beneath her sleeve. What if she escaped, rather than passively waiting to be sent away? But where could she possibly go?

She wondered what Kalan would say if he were here. She had tried several times to reach him with her mind, but without success. Now she wondered whether the distance from the Earl’s quarter to the Temple precinct was just too great, or if they needed an intermediary, the heralds or Hylcarian, to make the mindspeech work?

Malian paced slowly back to the fire and sank into a wide armchair, her chin propped on her hands. She needed someone to talk to that she could trust, not just with her thoughts about the future but also with everything that she had discovered in the Old Keep: the Golden Fire; Yorindesarinen; and not least, Kalan’s suggestion that there were Derai renegades amongst the Swarm—that there had been since the beginning. Even the eldritch sorcerer, she reflected uncomfortably, had looked Derai, despite his emaciation. Malian wondered what she would have seen if she had looked beneath the closed visors of the dead. Would the faces have been recognizable as Derai, or deformed by their long association with Darkswarm evil? Would there have been faces there at all?

Malian thrust out of the chair to pace again, tense and uneasy. She had hoped to discuss some of her Old Keep experiences with Nhairin, but the steward had been terse and distracted, almost distant, on her brief visits. And
why
were Haimyr and Asantir keeping away? Malian stopped, chewing at her lip and staring into the heart of the fire—and realized that for the first time in the three days she had been fully awake, she could hear the crackle of the flames. The storm’s roar had died away.

“It must be the eye,” Malian murmured, knowing that three days was too soon for a Wall storm to blow itself out; the calm could not last. The raging winds would be on them again before the swirling mass of Wall debris that surrounded the keep could settle. Malian shuddered, thinking of Doria’s tales of Darkswarm demons that rode shrieking on those winds. She still didn’t entirely believe her nurse’s stories, but after everything that had happened since the attack she was no longer prepared to dismiss any possibility out of hand.

There was a bustle beyond the doors, loud in the unexpected quiet. Malian listened intently, then let her breath out on a half laugh as she heard the tinkle of golden bells. The door was flung wide and Haimyr stood on the threshold, his hands on his hips and his head held high, a glint in his golden eyes.

Making his entrance, Malian thought, amused—and her heart rose.

Haimyr waited, simply looking at her, while a guard leaned in and closed the door behind him. Then the minstrel took a step forward and opened his arms wide, and slowly, wearily, Malian walked into their golden circle. “Oh, Haimyr,” she said, and that was all.

“Did you think I had forsaken you, my Malian?” She could hear the steady rhythm of his heart, the familiar lilt in his voice. “Alas, your father in his infinite wisdom ordered a full honor escort to accompany the heralds to the border—in recognition of their service to Night, he said. I was one of
those he asked to ride with them, and Asantir herself commanded the guard.”

Malian stepped back. “That was honor indeed,” she said, puzzled, “even for those who have done great service to the House of Night. And out of character for my father.”

Haimyr looked down at her with a crooked smile. “Do you think so? I would say that he mistrusts the heralds’ power, which is so like those of your own priests—and he distrusts the opportunity they have had to influence you even more. At the same time, his honor as Earl will not allow him to overlook what they have done for your House, at considerable risk to their lives. So we must all ride forth, in the narrow chasms and paths that run through the mountain wall, with the howl of the storm far above us, to bring the heralds of the Guild safely to the Derai border—and very far from this keep and from you.”

“I see,” said Malian slowly. Put like that, it did fit. She shivered at the thought of riding those narrow, twisting ways in the claustrophobic dark of the storm. “Well, I am very glad that you’re here now.”

“Yes,” the minstrel replied. For once, the sheen of mockery was absent from his face. “I can see that you are. Has it been very bad, my Malian?”

Malian’s eyes met his. “Yes,” she said simply, “very bad. I thought,” she added after a moment, “that both you and Asantir had deserted me.”

He drew her to sit on a couch opposite the armchair, as they had sat together so often since she was a very small child. “I was afraid of that,” he said. “I believe Asantir may have been, too, given the grimness of her silence. But even Honor Captains and minstrels must obey an Earl’s command, at least some of the time.”

Malian smiled, a little stiffly. “Tasarion the Terrible. That is what Nhairin would say.”

“Would she?” queried Haimyr. “She is brave, our Nhairin. But then she and your father have known each other since they were children. Outsiders such as myself, and
gleemen desperate for a lord’s golden coin, must be more circumspect.”

“You?” demanded Malian. “Circumspect? I do not think so, Haimyr the Golden.”

“Do you not?” he said. “I assure you, it is a chancy thing being a minstrel in the court of a great and stern lord, an Earl of the terrible and warlike Derai. There are days when I am almost too frightened to sing another note lest I give offence and be turned out to beg along the Wall.”

Malian looked at him. “I do believe,” she said carefully, “that you are trying to cheer me up, Haimyr.”

“I believe,” he replied, profoundly grave, “that you are right.”

“Well, I do feel more cheerful,” Malian admitted. “But I think that is because you are here, not because of all the nonsense you talk.”

A lean hand stroked her hair, gentler than his mocking face or satirical eye. Malian sighed deeply, relaxing for the first time since she had sat beside Yorindesarinen’s fire. “You know,” she said conversationally, “that my father will send me away.”

“I fear so,” he answered. Haimyr never wasted breath denying the obvious.

“It is the Oath,” Malian continued sadly. “It rules us all and cannot be gainsaid. But I do not want to be sent away to a keep that is not my own and locked up in a temple there for the rest of my life.”

Haimyr laid one finger against his lips in warning before rising and picking up a lute that lay on a chest against the wall. He turned it one way, then another, smiling a little at the red and white ribbons that trailed from its neck. “A pretty toy,” he murmured, “but it will serve.” He shook his head at Malian when she started to speak and began to tune the instrument, all his attention bent on the strings and pegs beneath his fingers. Eventually he gave a small nod and began to play.

It was an odd tune, almost dissonant in its stops and starts
followed by a sudden rush of notes that buzzed and hummed before spiraling sharply up, then falling back into another vibrant, murmurous rhythm. Malian thought it curiously like the sharp humming song of the black spear, although without the spear’s ferocity. She shook her head to clear it of the buzzing sound and stared at the minstrel, puzzled. His eyes smiled into hers, a long, slow, lazy smile with a good deal of mockery in it. A gesture of his head invited her to step closer, but his hands never stopped playing and the strange tune spiraled around them both.

“What is this, Haimyr?” Malian whispered. “Is it some sorcery the heralds taught you?”

His eyes gleamed. “Not they, my Malian. We have our own charms in Ij; tricks for those who do not trust in walls or doors to thwart prying ears.”

Malian thought of the secret ways and listening posts that riddled the New Keep, and nodded. But the minstrel’s eyes still held hers, searching and intent.

“You have told me,” he said, “what you don’t want. But what fate, Malian of Night, would you choose instead?” He held up one forefinger, warning her not to speak too soon. “Not as a Derai or as one of the Blood of this House, nor as daughter to your father, or in fulfillment of any other obligation that has been drummed into your short life. What is that you desire for yourself?”

Malian stared at him, transfixed, and was seized with a sudden wild longing to run away, to leave the Wall and all it stood for, bidding farewell to the Swarm and the bitter legacy of the Great Betrayal. Most of all, she longed to be free of whatever destiny Yorindesarinen had seen for her in the fire, which felt too dark, too heavy for her slight shoulders.

Yet even as she felt this, another thought came winging in: But what would happen if every Derai forsook the Wall for a life that seemed easier, more pleasant? What would have happened if Yorindesarinen had not shouldered her duty and stood forth against the Worm of Chaos? And if she,
Malian of Night, really was the prophesied One but abandoned the House of Night and left the Derai Wall to stand or fall without her, then it would not matter where on Haarth she dwelt. Night would fall everywhere.

Malian closed her eyes, shutting the minstrel out. “It’s no good,” she said. “I suppose that is my father’s lesson: If we believe in the Darkswarm and the Wall, then we must remain committed to our vigil here. But if I accept that—” She opened her eyes again. “If I accept that,” she repeated slowly, “then it follows that I must learn to use the power within me effectively, even if it means leaving this keep and everyone I love.”

“A paradox,” Haimyr murmured, and Malian nodded, her eyes falling away from his to frown at the honeyed grain of the lute. When she lifted them again, her look was challenging.

“As you say, a paradox. But that does not mean I must meekly accept exile to a place my father has selected, where I will be little better than a prisoner for the rest of my life.” She shrugged. “I cannot see how that will help me or the Derai Alliance. If I go, it must be to a place of my own choosing.”

“Ah,” said Haimyr the Golden. He spoke softly, but Malian thought that he looked satisfied.

“Will you help me?” she asked quietly.

He inclined his head. “Of course. But it will not be easy. The Wall is a harsh environment at the best of times, and it will be harder still if the Derai are on the hunt for you.”

“And they are bringing wyr hounds here,” said Malian, “which will make escape far harder, if not impossible.” She thought about what Yorindesarinen had said to her. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter where I go, so long as I can find someone to teach me. Once I would have thought that meant I had to stay on the Wall, but having seen what the heralds can do, and now you …” Malian leaned toward him, keeping her voice low. “I could go south and lose myself in the
cities of the River, or in any of the lands between Ij and Ishnapur.”

Haimyr nodded. “You could,” he said. “And it seems that the heralds of the Guild share your way of thinking. They gave me this message, before our ways parted:
’Tell Malian of Night that we will wait for her by the stone pillar that marks the border between the Gray Lands and the world beyond. For the turning of one moon we will wait, so that we may bring her safely to the River
—
if that is what she wishes. But even if she misses us, tell her that she has only to ask at any Guild house to find succor. We will pass the word.’
Then Jehane Mor added,
’Tell her not to come alone, but to bring the boy.’
Now why,” Haimyr finished, “would that be, do you think?”

Malian shrugged. “They work in pairs themselves and they know I would not have survived the Old Keep without Kalan.” She frowned again. “But bringing him with me is easier said than done when I am locked up here and he is in the Temple quarter. In fact, it’s hard to see how we’re going to get out of the keep at all, let alone reach the Border Mark or the River!”

“Difficult,” murmured Haimyr, “need not mean impossible, my Malian. There is usually a way if one has the will to find it.”

Malian frowned and bit back a tart reply, wondering whether any of the spyruns extended into the Temple quarter. But even if they did, she still did not know of any route out of the keep—and it would take time to explore the spyruns exhaustively, time she did not have. “It might,” she said, thinking aloud, “be easier to escape my escort once I am sent away. I just need to find a way of getting Kalan exiled with me.”