Daughter of Blood (65 page)

It does fit, Kalan thought. But Raven's reference to sleeping outside of time had prompted his recollection of Amaliannarath. “The Cavern of Sleepers and the warrior with the sword,” he said. “Is
that
who you are?” Before Raven could reply, another realization made him swing back to Malian. “And the sword—was it the frost-fire blade all along?”

“It was,” Malian agreed. “I found the Lost, too, but they were not inclined to return to the Wall.” Her tone was wry, while her look said that she knew Kalan would appreciate their sentiment, which he did. He was fascinated by the rest of the story she proceeded to relate, supplemented by the occasional clarification or elaboration from Raven. At the end, he shook his head—although their tale of the frost-fire sword's path to reach Malian was no stranger than his own experience of a spear that had awaited him for what could have been aeons, in a tomb that had manifested on Haarth after having been raised in another place and time.

But still, Kalan thought, with another careful glance at Raven, who met his gaze levelly: Darksworn.
That
took considerable mental adjustment, and Kalan didn't know if he could have managed it without having known Raven in Emer first. “You had the sword all that time,” he said, unable to keep the wonder from his voice. He frowned, though, reflecting on the rest of their story, because Malian could only have rendezvoused with the Patrol and Fire—Kalan shook his head again—around the time he was leaving the Red Keep. “There's no way,” he said slowly, “you could have marched overland in that time.”

Malian and Raven exchanged a glance. “No.” Malian set the scroll aside. “By the time I reached the River, I knew events were moving more swiftly than we had hoped, and that I needed to reach the Wall sooner than the planned muster and march north would have allowed. But even once I understood that Rowan Birchmoon's grave provided a bridge between the Wall and the rest of Haarth, a portal would not
have allowed the passage of sufficient numbers. Especially since,” she added, with a flicker of the former hedge knight's own sardonic humor as she glanced at Raven, “you had extracted a promise that I would take your personal guard with me.”

Two hundred horse, Kalan thought, appreciating Raven's old, imperturbable look. Or three hundred, if the entire vanguard comprised his personal guard . . . “But,” Malian went on, “I reflected more deeply on the way the Wall-Haarth divide exists in both the daylight realm and the Gate of Dreams. I also recalled Yorindesarinen's path through the white mists, and what we know of how the siren worm infiltrated the Keep of Winds, six years ago. I thought further, too, on how I had used the Gate of Dreams to thwart Nindorith in Caer Argent. That it was
possible
to use the Gate in that way,” she explained, meeting Kalan's gaze. “As well as the fact that you and I can pass the Gate in our physical bodies—while Fire has cadres dedicated to turning aside unwelcome attention. I also have Nhenir.”

“So you opened up a way through the Gate of Dreams,” Kalan said slowly, “and crossed over using the bridge provided by Rowan Birchmoon's power?”

Malian nodded. “The way was shaped from the fabric of the Gate, so I did not have to sustain it out of my own power in the same way I would a portal. That meant far greater numbers could pass through.”

“Persuading the Gate to retain that shape,” Raven observed, “still took its toll on you.”

Persuading
the Gate, thought Kalan. He cleared his throat. “I can see how that might be if it allowed the passage of your total force.”

“That would have been a feat!” Malian shook her head. “No, only two hundred accompanied me through the Gate of Dreams. And you're right”—she glanced toward Raven—“even that pushed me to my limit. It was sufficient numbers, though, to fulfill my promise.” Her gaze returned to Kalan. “The two hundred also ensured we'd have a fighting chance if our attempt at stealth failed, or we met a welcoming party
on the Wall side.” Briefly, the ghost of the excitement she must have felt on first working out the Gate of Dreams solution illuminated her face. “Rowan Birchmoon's bridge also meant Fire didn't have to wake on the Haarth side of the divide and
then
march north. We could wake them from this side.”

She paused, growing sober again. “But Wolf was waiting for us near the cairn, and when he told us of the Darkswarm build up and how they were trailing the caravan, we sent out long-range scouts. Once their reports came in we knew we dared not delay, so only roused sufficient of Fire's strength to effect a rescue before we marched. And we had to march.” Malian's expression, meeting Kalan's, conveyed both apology and regret. “The first crossing came close to exhausting me, and I could not have opened another way through the Gate so soon, let alone for a significantly larger force.”

They came as soon as they could, Kalan told himself, despite the grief and bitterness that flared through his fatigue. He was all too aware that power could be exhausted as easily as physical strength, and what Malian had done . . . Shaking his head, he tried to encompass its magnitude. “But if only you could pass the Gate of Dreams in your physical body, how did the two hundred follow you?”

Malian's eyes narrowed—on recollection, he thought, seeing her absorption. “I've managed to take one or more with me at least twice before, most recently with Raven and his horses outside Aeris. So the process of opening up
this
way included persuading the Gate to allow the others through as well. It helped that Fire still has a handful of adepts with some dreaming ability,” she admitted. “They were able to provide support.”

Limited support, Kalan suspected, frowning. “If we're to believe Faro's memories, your ability to create such openings must come from your mother.” Masquerading as Ilai, he thought soberly, remembering both the wounded attendant and the faceless woman from his predawn vision. He stiffened. “If she can do the same thing—”

Malian shook her head. “If she could have, I think she
would by now. But her ability appears to be grounded in the physical realm—like the way she's supposed to have opened through the Wall, twenty-odd years ago.”

The ability to pass the Gate of Dreams in one's physical body
is
extremely rare, Kalan reminded himself. And it was rarer still to be able to take others with you. He was still thinking about that when the clip of an approaching horse, followed by brisk footsteps entering the inner camp, made him turn. At the same time, Raven lifted the tent flap aside. “It's Aithe,” the knight said, looking back at Malian. “She'll have brought dispatches from Valadan, but I'll deal with them by the escort's fire.” His nod included Kalan, and then he was gone, the heavy canvas falling behind him.

For a moment they were both silent. Kalan listened to Raven's retreating footsteps, and then his voice, greeting the newly-arrived officer, while Malian appeared absorbed by the soldered phoenix. Her expression was so noncommittal that Kalan knew she was expecting all the questions about Raven, and her alliance with Fire, that he couldn't ask while the knight—or prince, he corrected himself—was present. Only I'm too tired for that, Kalan thought. Besides, he already knew the most important fact about Malian's new alliance, which was that it had saved the camp. And, he decided, realizing it was true, I trust her judgment.

He spread his hands, flexing fingers that were still stiff from grasping spear and sword. “Tell me about Wolf. You said he was drawn out of the Winter Country by Rowan Birchmoon's death?”

“And our return.” Malian's gaze, lifting from the phoenix, grew reflective. “Partly because of the debt we owe Rowan and the Winter People for our rescue from Jaransor, and subsequent safe passage into the Southern Realms. But also, I suspect, because he wishes to be at the heart of what is coming, not just looking on from the periphery.”

Kalan could understand that. He could also perceive the inherent danger of the wish. “Since he alerted you to the caravan's peril, I'm doubly in his debt.” Wearily, he rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Garan's gesture, he realized, and
wondered if the Night eight had found their fugitive. “Are Garan's eight still with you?”

Malian shook her head. “As soon as our scouts returned, I dispatched them to the Keep of Winds to rouse out Night.”

“I'd better let Tirael know.” Liad can farspeak the Stars force, Kalan thought, sure Tirael would agree that the last thing they needed right now was a Stars-Night confrontation. Rubbing his chin again, he studied Malian. “From what you said earlier, your plan is to concentrate on restoring the Golden Fire?”

“With the Swarm rising and all hope of the shield gone, I have to.” Malian was matter-of-fact. “My only alternative is to summon the Council of the Derai and force the Nine Houses to accept me—and Fire. But that will take time I doubt we have.”

And with the Alliance, it was always better to bargain from a position of strength. Assuming, Kalan told himself, that restoration of the Golden Fire is even possible. Silently, he reviewed the remnants they knew had survived. “
Hylcarian in Night, Yelusin with Sea, Maurid and Blood. I would put coin, though, on there being a remnant in Stars: a strong one, from what I've had seen of Tirael and his knights. And probably in the Rose,
”
he added, his eyes on the walking stick at Malian's side. She nodded and picked it up, reexamining the twisted wood and mother-of-pearl eyes.

“Sea's ships have similar eyes painted onto their prows,” Kalan told her. “In the Red Keep, it's the hydras. They're depicted everywhere, and you can always feel the eyes, watching you. I think that's where the bulk of Maurid's remnant resides, although he acts through the wyr hounds.”

“The old Blood returns, and
we
have chosen the new to raise up with it.”
The mindwhisper was a ghost, its source uncertain. Had the mother-of-pearl eyes glowed briefly, Kalan wondered, or was it just a trick of the light? Automatically, he glanced toward the wyr hounds, but did not catch even the gleam of a ghostly eye.

“Five of the nine entities that once comprised the Golden Fire,” Malian said. “But five isn't enough. We need all nine.”

Kalan frowned, not wanting to contemplate the possibility that some, if not all, of the remaining four Fires might have been extinguished altogether. “If you could bring together the Blood of all Nine Houses, the combined power might be strong enough to wake any remnants that still lie dormant.” He grimaced at her expression, which suggested that would be an achievement of similar magnitude to restoring the Golden Fire. “Even representatives from the Blood of each House might be sufficient,” he continued doggedly. “Although if Xeria could call down all Nine at once during the Night of Death . . .”

“I should be able to restore them single-handedly?” Malian shook her head. “The leaders of all Nine Houses were already gathered that night, with the nine Fires drawn together as well, to foster the desired peace.” Somberly, she traced the twisted strands of the walking stick. “I imagine, too, that by the time Xeria called down the conjoined Fire, many among the Nine Houses would have bound their power to hers in order to counter Aikanor's onslaught. So even once they realized what she intended, they may not have been able to break free. Effectively, though, she would not have acted alone.”

I never considered that, Kalan thought. With an effort, he pulled himself back to his previous line of thought. “If representatives from the Blood of each House
were
enough, then we already have Tirael, Nimor, and Faro. And Rook, too, I believe, as well as you . . .” He shook his head, convinced his frown was in danger of becoming permanent. “But you'd still need some sort of focus for your working—something that unifies all nine entities that comprised the Golden Fire.”

The walking stick revolved between Malian's hands, its mother-of-pearl eyes catching the light. “Like the table in the heart of the Old Keep of Winds,” she suggested.

Exactly
like the table, Kalan thought, excitement stirring with his memory of the twelve-sided room at the Old Keep's heart, with twelve doors opening into mist and fire, and the twelve-sided table at its center. One of those twelve panels
had flared into golden life at Malian's touch, the winged horse of Night in flight across its surface . . .

The caravan would have provided excellent cover, he thought regretfully, for anyone as stealthy as Malian to access the Old Keep—only to realize immediately that she didn't need it. Six years ago they had both departed the heart of the Old Keep by physically crossing into the Gate of Dreams. In light of Malian's path back to the Wall, she should be able to reach the twelve-sided room again in the same way.

For a moment, regarding her, Kalan felt as though the mists of the Gate had already flowed between them. He told himself the urge to shiver was reaction and fatigue, but was still glad to be distracted by Faro, turning in his sleep. The boy soon quietened again, but Malian watched him for several moments more before turning back to Kalan. “The Golden Fire and our larger plans can wait, for tonight. But I'm not sure he can.”

“No,” Kalan agreed. “I'd keep him with me, but that won't ensure his safety. The Alliance would never allow my continued guardianship anyway, since he's kin to the Sea Count—and arguably, the Heir of Blood as well.” Wary of Faro waking, Kalan switched to mindspeech.
“From what I saw of Blood's ruling kin,
they
'll only want him to ensure his death.
But as he's a Son of Blood and Ammaran's heir, Earl Sardon will have the strongest claim to legal guardianship.”
His eyes met Malian's.
“So perhaps the warding should have been left in place.”

Her answering look was steady. “He's called lightning twice now, which means he's a weatherworker like his mother and his training's already been delayed too long. The warding
had
to be undone.”