The Heir of Night (34 page)

“I thought this spear was destroyed,” Kalan said, without taking his eyes off the black blade, “when Captain Asantir used it against the Raptor of Darkness.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dark mask watching him.

“It is not the same spear,” the hard voice replied at last, as though grudging the answer, “although it is like enough to be its twin.” He paused, as though weighing some other thought, then added, “This is a Great Spear. Such weapons are not to be used lightly.”

Kalan frowned, thinking about what had happened in the Old Keep. “Was it wrong, then, for the captain to wield the other spear against the Raptor of Darkness? Was that using it lightly?”

The mouth beneath the mask twisted again, in what Kalan suspected was meant to be humor. “Boy, anything that slays a Raptor of Darkness is never used lightly. Do you have any idea how powerful an enemy that demon was? Hylcarian himself, given his current strength, would have struggled to destroy it outright, even with all the smaller powers from your keep gathered in. Make no mistake, it was the cast with the Great Spear that made the end certain, for even the slightest touch from such a blade is death.”

Kalan continued to frown, while his eyes drank in the terrible beauty of the spear. “The Darkswarm must have placed great importance on that raid,” he said eventually, looking around, “to have brought such an ally with them.”

The eyeholes studied him, wells of darkness in the surface of the mask. “Ah, so you are thinking now, are you? I was beginning to wonder if that was something the Derai had forgotten how to do. But you are right. I would call that raid a great cast of the dice, one made for very high stakes.”

Kalan’s thoughts raced back to what Yorindesarinen had said in the glade between worlds; he did not even try to conceal the memory from his companion.
“She
said that Malian is the Chosen of Mhaelanar, the One who will finally defeat
the Swarm, once and for all—but that the Swarm knows her identity now. They must have thought a Raptor would make certain of her death.”

The lip beneath the black mask curled.
“If Night falls, all fall.
Did you think it was just an old saying, boy?”

Kalan’s chin jutted. “No,” he said. “But even if they had killed Malian, there is still the Earl and Sister Korriya after him. Malian alone is not Night.”

The mouth’s hard curl became sardonic. “She is the Child of Night, the single thread on which prophecy suggests that the fate of both the Derai and the Swarm is balanced. Without her, at best the stalemate continues; at worst, the balance tips toward the Swarm. High stakes, indeed, and worth more than a little risk, especially if one can weight the dice in one’s favor with a Raptor of Darkness. And if the Golden Fire had not pushed the Raptor back, that night in the Temple quarter, then there would have been no Sister Korriya. Night and the Derai would have hung by a single thread—and I think your enemies had plans and to spare for him.”

A chill crept along Kalan’s spine. “For the Earl of Night?” Annoyed when his voice came out between a whisper and a croak, he tried again. “What plans?”

“Vengeance served very cold, boy, out of the darkness of the soul, what else?” There were echoes in the harsh voice that had not been there before, like the distant grumble of thunder when a storm was brewing along the highest ramparts of the Wall. Echoes of power, Kalan thought with a shiver, and had a swift flash of long years spent gazing into the void between worlds. But the spear’s fierce song twined into his mind, pulling him back from that edge to concentrate on what his companion was saying.

“Oh, yes, they had their plans for your beleaguered Earl and none of them a quick death upon the blade. The gradual destruction of his House and keep around him, that would have begun it; then the inexorable erosion of trust and the attrition, one by one, of all those whom he loves. Perhaps then his enemies would have been content with the smaller
pleasures of capture and torture and finally, in absolute and utter despair, death. But then again, perhaps not.”

Kalan shuddered, feeling the bitter chill of the void tearing at the edges of his soul, but he kept his voice steady. “How do you know all this?”

“I?” the other answered. “I know many things, as do all who dwell within the folds and mists of time. You have spoken with the star-bright hero already, yet I have dwelt here longer, and deeper, too, in the twists and turnings of the mist—perhaps the deepest of all. There is little that is hidden from me, especially of the darkness that eats at the soul, brooding and festering in on itself. And there are too many who walk here heedlessly, sure of their own power: They never think to ask who may ghost through the mist beside them, or overhear when their words or thoughts plummet like stones into the deep places.”

The hard voice was dispassionate, yet Kalan shivered, mesmerized by the black mask. In above my head, he thought, and shivered again. He cleared his throat. “Does that mean you’re stronger than Yorindesarinen, then?” he asked.

There was a moment’s complete silence and then the Huntmaster gave a short, rasping bark of laughter. “What a boy’s question! Even I would hesitate to put it to the trial, never having gone up against a Chaos Worm.” The voice grew sober again. “I am older, boy, that is all, and much, much darker.”

Kalan struggled to comprehend how old that would be, and the crow uttered a small, derisive squawk. Even the spear song thrummed with dark amusement as the questions swarmed through Kalan’s brain. But the hound bayed again, much closer now, and his companion turned. “There is no more time,” he said. “The Hunt wakes and must be mastered. Even a Great Spear may not argue with that!” He paused. “Such weapons choose their bearers and it has shown itself to you, but the time is not yet, boy. It would kill you, if you grasped it now.”

The spear, Kalan saw, was drawing back into the surrounding mist, its song fading. He felt a wild impulse to reach out and seize it before it vanished altogether.

“Nay, young one. The Huntmaster is right; the spear will choose its own time and place. Presume not lest it turn against you.”
The voice was scarcely more than a whisper, a faint rasp speaking directly into his mind. Kalan started, staring at the tall figure beside him, but the black mask was intent on the fading spear. Only the crow moved, ruffling out its feathers and cawing again. Perplexed, Kalan turned Yorindesarinen’s ring on his finger. He could not help hoping that one day the same hand
would
hold the black spear.

“Perhaps.”
The mind voice was still faint.
“But anyone who grasps a Great Spear must be strong, lest the weapon master the bearer. You are not yet ready for that trial.”

Kalan remembered both the terrible, compelling lure of the song and how drained Asantir had been after she cast her black spear into the Raptor of Darkness. But his feet dragged anyway as he turned to follow the Huntmaster, who was already striding away from him through the trees. Now that the black spear had gone, Kalan could hear the distant belling of hounds, rising to a clamor that was as dark and terrible as the spear’s song. There were voices, too, hallooing and urging them on, and the sudden clear winding of a horn.

The mask looked back over the black-cloaked shoulder. “Hark at the sound, boy!” the harsh voice said. “The milk-white hounds with their blood red eyes give voice, for the first time in many a long year. The Huntmaster may not tarry once the Hunt is awake—and they are well awake now!”

The ground grew steeper, and Kalan felt the strain in his legs and heard the quick gasp of his breath as he struggled to keep the black cloak in sight. The fog cleared and the wood became more open as the hill rose; the moon shone through and turned the world to silver. The pearl in Yorindesarinen’s ring glowed in answer as the ground leveled and Kalan put on a burst of speed—then came to an abrupt halt.

He was standing on the edge of a wide, open hilltop that was filled by a pack of milling hounds, a band of hunters behind them. The beasts were white as milk, and huge, with eyes the red of rubies and deep, belling voices.

“Blood!”
the deep voices bayed, a clamor in Kalan’s mind.
“Blood and death!”

20

K
alan stood very still. He noticed that the crow had come back to rest on the Huntmaster’s shoulder, where it did not twitch so much as a feather.

“Are they wyr hounds?” Kalan whispered, not daring to speak any louder. He had never seen a wyr hound, for the Earl of Night would not have them in his keep, but knew that they were both a power and a terror of the Derai.

The Huntmaster snorted. “Wyr hounds would turn and run with their tails beneath their legs if they met this pack!” The dark eyeholes bored into Kalan. “Will
you
dare the Hunt, boy?”

Kalan scowled, because it was impossible not to be afraid of the savage, restless hounds, but he was tired of being challenged and told what to do without having any of his questions answered. He folded his arms. “Aren’t both you and they simply a figment of my dream?”

“A figment of my dream,”
the Huntmaster mimicked. “So that’s what you think this is.” The harsh voice turned savage as the hounds. “Is that what the Derai have come to, the elder Token on the hand of an ignorant boy? Think! You are a dreamer. You can pass the Gate of Dreams in your spirit and in your waking flesh. There is no such thing as
just
a
dream for you, not ever—and most particularly not when you bear the Token on your hand. See how it glows, boy! Did you truly think it was chance that brought you here to me and roused the Hunt?”

Involuntarily, Kalan glanced down at his hand, then swallowed, for like the moon overhead, the ring was getting brighter. But, a token? He tried to remember what Yorindesarinen had said when she gave it to him, about it belonging to a friend and that people would not remember it anymore. Some other thought niggled as he looked at the ring, something that he was missing or forgetting, but he could not place it.

Slowly, his head came up. “My name’s Kalan,” he said, “not boy. You needn’t tell me your real name if you don’t wish to, but I at least have one.” There was a pause while he held his ground and his stare. “I don’t understand any of this,” he continued more quietly: “the Hunt, you, this ring, although I know I need to.”

The Huntmaster shrugged. “Why waste time with names? It is deeds alone that matter when you follow the Hunt.”

“So you say,”
the faint, slightly hoarse voice said, although this time Kalan was not sure that he was meant to hear it. The Huntmaster’s head turned slightly, as though listening.
“But then, you have forgotten what it is to be young
—
and perhaps even your own name, since you speak it so seldom. The boy is right. He needs to know what part he must play here.”

A part? Me? Kalan wondered, alarmed. The Huntmaster was studying him, the mask and its eyeholes equally blank.

“Our time grows short and you have much to do, so listen well, boy—Kalan. These are no Derai beasts. They are wild hounds, untamed and untameable, that used to hunt across the void between the stars, baying for vengeance and blood, feud and war. Fierce they were, and terrible, the milk-white hounds and the wild, merry hunters. All were afraid of them, even the gods, or so the legends say. Who knows, it may even have been true. But in the end, the Nine mastered them
to save all worlds, binding them into the web that Mayanne wove. Yet even the Nine dared not bind the Hunt completely, for Mayanne warned that everything in the worlds and between them has a purpose that must be fulfilled.”

“There must be an out, she said, one loose end that is not tied off lest the whole snap and tear—and the very fabric of reality with it. So Terennin, the great Artisan, the Artificer of the Nine, made the ring—the Token as it is called—so that the power of the Hunt might be loosed at need. Both the Hunt and the Huntmaster are bound to that Token and will rouse to its call, within the bounds set by Mayanne’s web.” The Huntmaster’s voice grew somber. “Terennin also foretold that it would not be forever, this binding, and that the old weaving would be replaced by a new that would allow the Hunt back into the circle of worlds and time. That, too, Mayanne wove into her design—although it has not happened yet.”

“No,” said Kalan. He looked sidelong at the milling hounds and was inclined to hope that it would not happen for a long time. His mind was reeling, trying to take in the significance of the ring upon his finger and wondering whether Yorindesarinen had known all this when she gave it to him. Surely she must have. And since the Nine had mastered the Hunt and the Derai served the Nine, that must make the Hunt a potential ally, not an enemy …

“Make no mistake,” the Huntmaster said, cutting across this reasoning, “they hunt for themselves, lest a strong will bind them. The chase itself is all they care for, the wildness and the joy of it, the warm blood and the kill at the end.”

“So why,” Kalan asked, puzzled, “have they woken now when I didn’t even know that I bore the Token? And I certainly didn’t call either them or you!”