The Heir of Night (54 page)

K
alan woke with a start to find that the night had already become gray shadow and the ashes of their fire were cold.

Only just dawn, he thought, sitting up. But we have to get moving. We’ve got to keep ahead of the Night Mare. The air was so cold that his teeth chattered as he combed a hand through his hair, feeling the pull of his wound. A quick glance showed him Malian’s empty blanket, the wool full of twigs and damp leaves. Kalan frowned at that, puzzled, then yawned deeply.

She should have woken me, he thought. She shouldn’t have gone out there alone, not without making sure that my shield still held.

The two black horses watched him expectantly, their breath misting the air, as he got stiffly to his feet. “Ugh,” Kalan said, as his own breath huffed out in a cloud. “It must be really cold up there.” His stomach growled and the horses snorted, a reminder that they, too, needed to be fed. Kalan hoped that there had not been enough snow to cover the grass, because he knew they had little food left, either for the horses or themselves. “And no idea how far it is, still, to the Border Mark. I’ll come back for you soon,” he
said to the black horses, “but I need to scout outside first.”

Kalan shivered as the colder air crept down the tunnel to meet him. He found Malian just beyond the entrance, sitting on a large block of fallen stone and surveying a morning that was lightly powdered with white beneath a washed-out sky. The wind had died away in the night, and there was no sign of either the Night Mare or the Hunt; even the carving over the archway was little more than a dim outline of hounds and hawk. Malian smiled as he came to sit beside her, but Kalan thought she looked tired, with dark shadows beneath her eyes. “How’s the wound?” she asked.

“Better,” he replied. “It’s still sore and the arm’s awkward to move, but at least the cut doesn’t feel infected.”

“You definitely look better than you did last night. Although we should check the wound again anyway, before we leave.” Malian’s fingers were busy as she spoke, braiding her hair. She smelled of woodsmoke and sweat, and Kalan regarded his grimy hands ruefully, supposing that he must smell the same. But Malian was looking out over the white and gray world, wonder in her eyes. “How beautiful it is,” she said softly, “despite everything.”

“Yes,” agreed Kalan. Their breath clouded and mingled together on the still air.

I feel alive here, he thought. You can breathe and there are no walls, just the hillside falling away and the empty air. Almost empty air, he amended, his eyes finding the black speck that was the hawk, hovering far above them. Malian followed his gaze and frowned. “The shadow of the hawk,” she murmured, still staring up into the pale sky.

Kalan was frowning, too. “It has to be some sort of spy,” he said, and stood up. “We’d better get going.”

“Yes. But we should eat first and check your wound.” Malian finished pinning the braid around her head. “If you keep watch here, I’ll fetch the horses.” She half turned away, then paused, turning back. “We should cut our rations,” she added slowly. “Try to make them last.”

Kalan nodded, listening to her footsteps crunch away,
then frowned out over the snowy hills until she came back with the horses. The wound was clean when she checked it; afterward, they ate their scanty breakfast in silence, watching the horses pull at the rough grass. Kalan frowned again as they packed up their gear. “You didn’t have that before,” he said, nodding at the old-fashioned and rather dented pot helm that Malian was tying to her saddle bow.

“No.” Malian hesitated, as though deciding how much to say, then she shrugged. “I had a very strange dream last night. Although maybe it wasn’t a dream, it might have been a farseeing. I could hear hounds barking, and then it was like I was back in the keep again and the second siren worm was there. I watched Asantir kill it.” She frowned, as though something about this memory bothered her, then shrugged again. “And then I woke up, but I could hear this voice calling me. It had been in my dream as well, but this time I was awake and I knew I had to answer it, to find out what it wanted. So I did. I went outside and found a shadow tower where the ruins are now.” Malian paused and the look she shot him was defiant, as though she didn’t think he would believe what she was about to tell him. “Yorindesarinen’s armring showed me how to climb the shadow tower, but there was a crow here as well. It spoke to me, helped me work out what I had to do—” She stopped. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Kalan said quickly, then shook his head. “No, it isn’t nothing. Are you sure the crow spoke to you? Was it all that you met out here?”

Malian crossed her arms. “I know it sounds strange, more like a dream than reality, but it was definitely real. And the crow was all I met at first, although later—” She broke off again. “But you wanted to know about the helmet. I should tell that part first.”

Kalan glanced at the dented helm and nodded, then felt his eyes widen as Malian told him about what the crow had said to her, and finding the moon-bright helm at the top of the hidden tower. “It was the helm that had been calling to
me,” she said.
“Yorindesarinen’s
helm, Kalan. I wish you could see it like it was then, both darkness and light, glowing on the black plinth.” But Kalan was shaking his head from side to side and she stopped again. “What’s wrong?”

“I am,” he replied bitterly. “I was supposed to
tell
you that the lost arms of Yorindesarinen would be seeking you, and that the armring would help you find them. Hylcarian told me,” he said, seeing the question in her face. “I was dreaming a lot in those days before we left the New Keep—because of the siren worm, I think, but it was all jumbled at the time. But I met Hylcarian in the dream and he gave me the message for you.” Kalan wondered if he looked as miserable as he felt. “But I wasn’t allowed to let anyone else know, so at first I didn’t dare risk telling you. And then with everything else that’s happened, I just forgot.”

Malian was nodding as though pieces of a puzzle were falling into place. “So that’s how you knew about the second siren worm! I saw you in that dream, although I thought that was all it was at the time, just a dream—probably because you were with the hunt that was on the tapestry in my room.”

“The Hunt of Mayanne,” Kalan said, and knew from her expression that she must have seen the hounds and the Huntmaster last night, as well as the crow. “The only times I’ve seen a crow, it’s always been with the Huntmaster.”

“It was last night, too.” Malian looked around the hilltop. “It told me that this was the Hunt’s place.” After a moment she folded her arms again, tight across her chest. “When I put on the helm,” she said, her voice very low, “I saw Kyr and Lira, dead in the snow.”

Kalan nodded, feeling the sharp ache of her grief, answering his own. “I know,” he said gently. “I saw them, too, in a dream.”

Malian’s eyes were fixed on the distant speck that was the hawk, but Kalan could see the glitter of her tears. “You’re right,” she said, not looking at him. “We should go. Carry on, like Kyr said.”

They swung into the saddle, but Kalan looked back at
the faded carving over the archway one more time, trying to reconcile the ruined tower with the power and deadly beauty of the Hunt. “Come on,” Malian said, a little sharply, and Kalan nodded, letting his horse follow hers.

She’s upset about Kyr and Lira, he thought, and Nhairin as well. He was upset himself, about the guards, and knew they were both worried about the weather and their supplies lasting, on top of the Darkswarm pursuit. “What about a portal?” he asked abruptly, as his horse drew level with hers. “Could you open one to the Border Mark? According to the accounts I’ve read, power-wielders from the Blood didn’t need to be in a keep to use those sorts of abilities.”

Malian grimaced. “I’ve thought about that, but back in the Old Keep I knew my destination well. I’ve no knowledge of this country or the lands to the south. And there are too many stories of people who opened portals at random, without reference points, and never came out again.” She shivered and Kalan did, too, thinking about the void that had swallowed the Raptor of Darkness. “Besides, I had help in the Old Keep: you, the heralds, the other priests. Opening a portal large enough to carry ourselves and the horses over that sort of distance—” Her look was apologetic. “I just don’t know if I could do it on my own. It could act like a beacon for our enemies as well, who might have the power to follow it—unless you could shield them out?”

Kalan shook his head and Malian sighed. “I wish we could, though,” she said. “Open a portal, I mean.” Kalan just nodded.

The day, although windless, was still cold as they climbed higher into the pass beyond the watchtower. Snow-speckled hillsides rose steeply to the overcast sky, throwing deep shade across parts of the road; the horses’ shoes rang loudly on every stone and rib of rock. Kalan could no longer see the hawk, but uneasiness prickled along his shoulder blades and the horses seemed nervous, laying back their ears and showing the whites of their eyes, although there was no sign of pursuit.

“I’ll be glad to be out of this pass, “ Malian said, her voice low.

Kalan nodded. “It’s going to snow again, too, before long.”

The pass snaked on through fold on fold of hills, but after a while the steep slopes pulled back and a creek twisted out across a narrow flat. Like the much larger Telimbras, it was wide and shallow, with braided channels that twisted between shingle banks. The ford was in the center of the flat, at the creek’s widest point, and the rushing water looked very cold, although low enough to cross in safety.

“We should refill the water bags here,” Kalan said, as they approached, “since we may not find another stream for a while.” He heard his father’s voice, an echo out of the past, telling him that a warrior always did the hard things first, lest they became too hard to do at all. “We should cross first, though,” he added, looking down at the water’s cold swirl.

The creek purled past the horses’ knees as they waded through, but they crossed to the far bank without mishap. “I’ll scout up past that first corner if you look after the horses and the water bags,” Kalan said, as they dismounted. The path rose again toward the end of the flat, bending out of sight around a sheer bluff, and the trees on either side grew taller, making it difficult to see what lay ahead. A solitary snowflake floated down, settling on Kalan’s nose as he walked forward.

Behind him, one of the black horses screamed, and Kalan whirled to see both animals rear high, tearing their reins out of Malian’s hands. They came down in a lunging run, straight toward him, and he jumped for the side of the track as they thundered past. But his attention was all on Malian and the creature of nightmare advancing across the ford.

It was shaped approximately like a horse, only larger, with four legs, a mane, and tail—and it was black as the heart of night. The demon’s eyes were no longer viridian flame but opaque and gray as pebbles; its nostrils flared scarlet as it quested the wind for scent. The mane was a mass
of writhing serpents, each individual head darting at the air; the tail was a long supple lash with a spike at its tip, and the legs ended in claws rather than hooves. Instead of walking on those claws, the Night Mare drifted above the water like smoke, the horselike head swinging toward Malian. When the velvet muzzle opened, Kalan saw a double row of razor-edged fangs.

He could see five riders now, waiting a short distance back from the ford. Four of the riders wore armor and closed helms, each one shaped in the likeness of a grotesque bird or beast; the fifth, cloaked in black on a black horse, sat silently beside them.

The Night Mare, Kalan thought, must have used a concealing spell to hide them all. Far too late, he remembered the Huntmaster’s warning about the demon’s uncanny tracking ability, even though it was practically blind by daylight. The blank eyes were fixed on Malian now, and the distance between the two had narrowed; the Night Mare looked as though it could reach her with little more than one bound off its powerful hindquarters. The hideous head snaked forward, the serpent mane twisting and snapping in anticipation.

Kalan forced himself toward the creek, although his limbs felt like lead and nausea churned in his stomach as he caught the first rotten-meat whiff of the Night Mare’s scent. He stopped, choking down a surge of bile, and stooped to pick up a rock. It was pathetic, Kalan knew—a rock against armed warriors and this Swarm demon, but he held on to the rock anyway, willing himself forward again.

Malian had stopped backing away from the Night Mare, as though she recognized that retreat would not help her. She stood very straight instead, her head high as she looked beyond the Swarm demon to the five riders. “What are you doing with Nhairin?” she demanded. “She is a retainer of the House of Night. Release her at once!”

Kalan wondered why he had not realized sooner that the cloaked, silent figure was Nhairin. Her messenger horse
seemed restless and reluctant. Its head was being held on a close rein by one of the other riders and a line of foam ringed its mouth. Nhairin, however, did not move or react in any way.

“What have you done to her?” Malian said, her voice ragged.

“You are in no position to make demands, Heir of Night.”
A voice of smoke and terror, filled with echoes, boomed in Kalan’s mind. He shivered, clutching his rock, and wondered how Malian could face the Night Mare without flinching, or retching at its stench. Yet her back, which was all he could see of her, remained resolute.

“Night is true to its own, Darkspawn! Whatever you have done to Nhairin, you may not have her!”

“Fine words,”
the mind voice sneered,
“although you may find there is little enough left to have. But first, shall we see what you can do against me, little Heir? “

Malian’s fists clenched. “Perhaps nothing,” she said. “But I intend to try.”

The Night Mare lifted its terrible head and the opaque eyes glittered. Power sliced into Kalan’s mind like an ax and he reeled, almost dropping the rock. He heard the echo of malicious laughter as Malian swayed. A gray miasma billowed out from the Night Mare, creeping toward her across the water—and then everything happened at once.