The Heir of Night (35 page)

The Huntmaster’s tone was dry. “Maybe we should look to your star-bright hero for the answers. But the Nine wrought both web and ring, after all. Perhaps it is not surprising that if something disturbs the web, it will rouse both the Token and the Hunt.”

Kalan remembered his dark, restless dreams and the sense of imminent danger stalking through them. The feeling that he had forgotten something important stirred again. “What did disturb it?” he whispered.

“You wear the ring,” the Huntmaster said. “See what the hounds see. Then you will have your answer.”

Reluctantly, Kalan focused his attention on the Hunt. He could feel the hounds’ wild power, straining as though at some invisible leash, in stark contrast with the band of hunters who had neither moved nor spoken since he and the Huntmaster arrived. It was as though, despite the hounds that surged and bayed around them, they were frozen in place. Kalan’s eyes narrowed, for although the hounds’ movements were restless, all their attention was focused in the one direction. He turned, following their avid gaze, and saw that the hillside beyond the pack was bounded, not by more forest but by a shimmering curtain of air. At first glance, Kalan thought that the curtain was just a skein of fine mist, but as objects beyond the shimmer came into focus he recognized the red and white room—and memory and horror came flooding back together.

A fire burned brightly on the hearth and a woman sat motionless beside it, her gaze fixed on the flames. The firelight flickered across her scarred face and over the red-and-white canopy of the bed that stood against the opposite wall. A black-haired girl lay beneath the canopy’s shadow, deeply asleep, but a silver light, brighter than the fire, shone around her and had spread out to form a circle of clear, cold flames around the bed.

The girl, Kalan realized, with a queer sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, was Malian; the silver fire, he surmised, must be coming from Yorindesarinen’s armring. It was holding back a dark, sinuous form that probed at the margin of the flames, trying to find a way through. Seeing it, the hounds bayed as one and crowded close to the edge of the veil, their crimson eyes aflame.

Now, finally, the hunters began to move; but in the slow
manner of sleepwalkers, or like people wading through sand, coalescing around a man with a stern, resolute mouth. They all wore half-masks, Kalan saw, and one hunter stood aside from the main group—a figure swathed in a great hooded cloak with neither face nor mask visible beneath the cowl. The other hunters seemed unaware of their lone companion, except for one who lingered at the rear of the group and had half turned back, holding out a hand as though in supplication. Kalan stared at them, bewildered, then switched his attention back to what was happening in the red and white room.

“What is that thing?” he whispered fiercely. “Why does the woman by the fire do nothing? Can’t she see that it’s after Malian?”

“It is a siren worm,” the Huntmaster replied, “a creature of the Swarm. Although it cannot be compared to a Raptor of Darkness, it is still a master of stealth and sly but powerful magics. Siren worms change form at will, and few can withstand their venom if bitten, falling first under the worm’s power and then dying when it has no further use for them. In this case, it may simply have cast its siren spell over the woman so that she remains blind and deaf to its presence, saving its venom for the girl.”

Kalan’s fists clenched. “First it must overcome the fire that protects her!”

“True,” the Huntmaster replied, “but it will do so eventually. The silver fire is only generated by a device, however powerful, while the siren worm is a power wielder, able to call on spell and counterspell until it prevails. It must have hidden in the tapestry,” he added, “blending itself into its surroundings after the manner of its kind, without realizing what the web was. Once there, its presence will have woken the Hunt, which hates the Swarm and all its minions.”

“Then let the hounds have it!” said Kalan fiercely. “Isn’t that why you’re here? What are you waiting for?”

“Gently, boy.” The Huntmaster’s voice was stern. “The hounds must not pass the Gate, for the blood of the worm
alone will not sate their thirst. Everything in your world will die if the Hunt breaks through Mayanne’s weaving. It must remain bound to this place.”

“So we cannot pass through and save Malian either!” Kalan wanted to pummel the veil-thin barrier, forcing it to let him through. “What is the point of the Token and being a dreamer if all I can do is stand here and watch her die?” He groaned aloud as the siren worm reared into the air and began to sway from side to side in a slow mesmeric sweep. Its shadow lengthened with every pass, coiling around the silver fire like a wreath of oily smoke—and very slowly, the flames wavered and began to contract. The hounds threw themselves against the veil, howling and trying to push their way through, but the worm appeared oblivious to their presence.

Kalan swung round on the Huntmaster. “There must be something we can do!”

“It is not we,” the Huntmaster replied quietly. “It is you, boy—Kalan. You bear the Token and you must rouse the hunters to act. My part is to bind the hounds so that you may do your work without being torn apart.”

Kalan swallowed, looking at the straining, slavering hounds, then his eyes darted back to the red and white room and the dwindling silver fire. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “What can the hunters do? Aren’t they bound, as well, being part of the Hunt?”

“As I told you,” the Huntmaster said, “the ring you bear is an outlet for the Hunt’s power. The hounds are too powerful and dangerous to ever be let loose, but the Token allows the power of the hunters to work on more than one plane. No one knows who the Merry Hunters were originally, or what, but now they serve as a reflection, an image of the forces playing out in the world on the other side of the web. Right now, those forces are focused inside your Keep of Winds, on the Derai Wall.”

Kalan frowned, concentrating on the hunters in their strange tableau. “They are all masked,” he said. “Like you.”

The Huntmaster shook his head. “Not like me. When the hunters wear masks it means that the forces at work on the other side, the purposes and motivations of those they represent, are concealed. But every one of those masked hunters represents someone who is close to the Child of Night in the world beyond the Gate. What we do not know is whether they are they friend or foe.”

“And I,” said Kalan wretchedly, “don’t know any of those close to Malian well enough to tell the difference.”

“Nonetheless,” said the Huntmaster, and his voice was stern, “you are the Token-bearer and you alone have the power to walk amongst the Merry Hunters. Those you touch with the ring will rouse to action beyond the Gate, but whether to save the Heir of Night or to harm her will depend on your wisdom. Only you can discern who will act as a friend to the Child and who would destroy her.”

“How can I possibly tell between them?” Kalan asked, despairing. “I don’t even know who they’re meant to be!”

“If you wish to save your friend, you will find a way.” The Huntmaster was dispassionate. “The wise person knows the face of an enemy—and of a friend, even when hidden behind a mask. The Child of Stars gave you the Token, Kalan. Now you must prove worthy of it.”

It would be useless, Kalan supposed, to say that he had not asked for the ring; in any case, that would not save Malian. “All right,” he said, more desperate than determined, and took a step toward the hunters. He did not look at the hounds, but he sensed the sudden switch in their attention. The Huntmaster stepped forward at the same time, his black cloak swirling, and spoke to the hounds in a language that Kalan had never heard before. He tried not to listen to it, or to the fierce, bloodcurdling answer from the hounds, but continued walking until he stood on the fringe of the group of hunters.

The harsh voice came floating after him. “Choose well, boy, or the Child of Night will surely die.”

Kalan scowled, shutting out everything but the hunters.

The light from the black pearl began to intensify, like a full moon shrouded by clouds, rising on his hand.

Terennin’s ring, he thought. That information was hard to take in, let alone accept. Yet Yorindesarinen herself, the Child of Stars, had given the jewel to him, and all knew that the House of Stars served Terennin first amongst the Nine. Yorindesarinen was a seer as well, so perhaps she had foreseen this attack on Malian and sought to thwart it through her gift.

Don’t think about that now, Kalan told himself sharply. It’s not helping. Just get on with what you’re supposed to be doing here.

He stared at the faces around him, but only the mouths and chins beneath the half-masks revealed any expression. Kalan studied each one closely, seeking some clue to the nature and purpose of the mask wearer. Sternness, bitterness, resolution, sorrow—these were all plain enough to read. But there were other faces that he could not make out, like the one concealed by many masks that were constantly shifting, metamorphosing every time Kalan tried to focus on one or all of them. Another figure stood close behind this hunter, its face concealed by the other’s head and shoulder. Every time Kalan tried to move in order to see the hidden mask, the hunter in front would also move and the many masks would change again: now black, now gilded; now of leather, now of feathers; now feline in cast, now reptilian.

Kalan became disorientated by the constant transformations and turned away, giving up on the hunter in the concealed mask as well. This brought him face-to-face with the hunter who stood alone, so deeply cloaked and hooded that Kalan could make out nothing of the person beneath. Cold fingers walked along his spine and he turned quickly toward the hunter with the bitter mouth, the one who always had one hand extended, either in invitation or entreaty—or perhaps in both—toward the one who had just made him shiver.

Kalan paused and looked around the masked faces again,
thrusting aside his awareness of time passing. For Malian’s sake, he could not afford to panic and choose wrongly. But it was an impossible task.

The stern mouth, he supposed, did not make him shiver, but the hunter seemed cold and untouchable, remote as the moon. The one with the sorrowful mouth seemed more approachable, but Kalan sensed a deep-seated caution in that figure, and weariness as well, which made him hesitate. He definitely hesitated over the hunter with the many masks that kept shifting from one thing into the other. Shifting, after all, could well mean shifty—and
could
one be shifty and yet be a friend?

Kalan did not know, so he walked around the hunter with the shifting masks again, trying to obtain a better look at that other hunter, hidden behind. Yet still the many masks melted from one shape into the next, always moving so that the second hunter remained concealed. Kalan cursed, turning away for the second time.

As he turned, a small movement caught in his peripheral vision and he saw the hidden figure clearly for the first time. Kalan stood rock-still, and although he could not make out the mask’s details he gained an impression of something very plain: worn and dark with age. He sensed clarity, too, coupled with firmness of purpose in the wearer. He moved slightly so that he could see the other hunter as well, the one with the multitude of masks. For an instant a great cat seemed to look back at him, lambent eyed and amused; slowly, and quite deliberately, the beast winked. Kalan whipped around, determined to catch it out, but the cat had already vanished in another flurry of shifting masks.

“Nine!” Kalan exclaimed, then took a deep breath and forced himself to assess what he had seen. “Strength of purpose and humor. What else?” he wondered aloud. Outwardly, he let his attention appear to drift while inwardly he remained alert, and this time he saw the real kindness in the curve of the mouth that spoke of sorrow and regret. “Strength of purpose, humor, kindness,” he muttered. “That
will have to do.” And walking forward, he touched the three hunters in turn with the ring.

Each time Kalan reached out the pearl flared in smoky incandescence, but when he finally stepped back, expecting the hunters to move or take action, nothing happened. Kalan frowned, wondering if he needed to touch them again, but a gloved hand closed over his arm.

“You have done enough,” the Huntmaster said, “and done well. There are not many who can see to choose at all, let alone rightly or wrongly.”

“But surely,” protested Kalan, “they should do something now, act in some way.”

The Huntmaster shook his head. “It is as I told you.” The harsh voice was almost patient. “The hunters as you see them here are only a metaphor, a reflection of the people and forces at play in your world beyond the Gate. Now we must wait to see how well you have chosen. But even if we cannot act on that plane ourselves, we can at least let this worm see us, perhaps even distract it a little!”

Kalan turned, and saw that while he had been concentrating on the hunters, the Huntmaster had brought the hounds under his control. The hooded spear was rammed butt-down into the grassy hillside alongside the veil of shimmering air, and the hounds were gathered in a knot around it. Their eyes still glowed red but they were fixed on the Huntmaster now, and the line of their bodies and the angle of their heads showed that, however reluctantly, they were obedient to his will. When he walked back to them they came pressing and crowding around, and although they continued to growl deep in their throats at the siren worm, they no longer hurled themselves at the barrier. Kalan kept a wary eye on them, all the same, and stood as close as possible to the Huntmaster.

The tall black-cloaked figure raised his hand and placed it against the veil, which rippled and then grew clear as water. Kalan felt that if he, too, stretched out a hand he would be able to reach through and touch the red and white furnishings. For the first time, too, he could hear the sweet, cloying
song of the siren worm. There was a hint of rankness beneath the sweet tone; it reminded Kalan of fruit that appeared sound but had turned to rot beneath the skin.

Despite that, the tune was alluring, mesmerizing … Kalan felt his concentration begin to drift, and a lethargy crept over him as the song whispered of the infinite desirability of ruin and decay. He longed for the slow demise of hope and life, and although the silver fire still burned, it seemed paler: forlorn, pathetic, futile. “It is doomed,” Kalan muttered. “She is doomed. There is no hope.”