The Heir of Night (45 page)

Malian nodded.

“Well,” he continued gruffly, “Jaransor’s like that, especially for all the hold brats growing up in Westwind. You can see the hills, blue with distance but still clear, from the
hold’s battlements. And the ban only makes the place more alluring, more of a challenge. All the young ones naturally head this way as soon as they’re old enough to go hunting. My friends and I usually stayed around the foothills and the river, but on one trip I ended up going much further in and discovered the old road that we’re following now—mainly because the deer I was hunting went to ground in the thick scrub of the escarpment.” He shrugged. “I went hungry that night, but I had my fill of adventure.”

“And you came back safely,” Malian said.

“Yes,” Kyr agreed, “I did. But not everyone does. Some never come back and some—well, it is as though something in here drives them mad.” The gleam of amusement crossed his face again. “Perhaps I have too little imagination for the madness to take hold.”

Malian did not think he really believed that any more than she did. She turned her eyes back to the evening hills. “Yet you still see Jaransor as being the lesser of our current dangers?”

Kyr nodded, his expression grim again. “I do,” he said heavily, “for we are few and far from help, and our enemies, from what Lira’s seen, have numbers. Jaransor has been kind to me in the past and I hope it will aid us now, the Nine willing. Nonetheless, I want you to promise me something, Heir of Night, should matters go badly.”

“What?” asked Malian cautiously.

“If I give the order,” said Kyr, “or Lira does, I want your promise to flee at once. Do not hesitate, or wait for anyone, or look back, just go as swiftly and secretly as possible. The others and I—we will follow if we can. If not, you must do your best to survive on your own and reach safety.”

“And where,” Malian asked soberly, “should I look for safety in these hills?”

Kyr’s reply was unhesitating. “You must get to a watchtower, for there is power in them. I felt it often when I hunted here as a youth. If there is any strength in this land to protect you, you will find it there.”

“If there is strength,” said Malian, “and if it will aid me. And if not?”

“Your goal is the Border Mark,” the guard replied, “but if you can’t reach it then you must turn north again and run for Westwind. It’s better than being caught by the Darkswarm,” he said, seeing her expression, “and at least you will be amongst our own people. So, do I have your promise, Heir of Night?”

Malian hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of leaving the rest of you in danger while I run away. It doesn’t seem right.”

Kyr snorted, a short grim sound. “I’m afraid that is what it means to be Heir, Lady Malian. It’s you they want, so that makes it both our duty and yours to make sure they don’t get you.”

“And what of Kalan?” asked Malian, conscious that he could overhear, even though he had moved away. “He’s at risk, too.”

“But he isn’t Heir of Night,” Kyr told her. “I said that you must not wait for anyone and that’s exactly what I meant. The boy will just have to do his best, like the rest of us. Still,” he added, with a glance toward Kalan, “I doubt you’ll have to worry about that one. He’ll stick close.”

Malian nodded, knowing he was right. “Very well,” she said. “You have my word, although I hope you won’t need it.”

Kyr stood up. “We all hope that,” he said. “But remember what I told you—do not wait or turn back for any reason. Flee as fast and far as you can.”

Malian looked up and saw that his mouth was shut hard, his eyes cold. She stood, too, and placed her hand on his forearm. “Kyr,” she asked quietly, “have we been betrayed?”

She felt a muscle jump beneath her hand, but when he spoke his voice was uncertain. “I don’t know, Lady Malian. But given the circumstances, it doesn’t look good.”

“No,” agreed Malian, “it does not look good.” She felt lost again, hollow and empty, but this time it was not because of the vastness of the land.

Kyr gripped her shoulder. “We are not done yet, Heir of Night.” He looked around him slowly, an expression in his face that Malian could not remember seeing there before, and which she struggled to name. “Neither is Jaransor. That is something I do trust in, no matter what they say. It always felt like a good place to be, when I was young.”

He turned back toward their campsite, but not before Malian had managed to put a name to the expression that did not quite fit with the Kyr she had always known. “Mystery,” she murmured, and wondered what this Jaransor truly was, that it could touch even the Derai.

26

M
alian stood motionless for some time after Kyr left, the taste of suspicion bitter in her mouth. She did not know which was worse: the thought that the traitor might still be in the Keep of Winds, close to her father and all his councils; or out here, wearing a familiar face and riding close beside her.

But not Kalan, she thought. Him I can trust. I think.

She drew a deep breath and caught his eye as she turned back to the water tank. “Just watching?” she inquired ironically. “Or listening?”

“Both.” His shrug was apologetic. “I really can’t help it, you know. I hear exceptionally well and the empathy seems to enhance that.”

“Which could be useful, I suppose,” Malian said thoughtfully. “Although it would be better if it were more of a two-way process.”

“That may still happen,” Kalan said, “if it really is the old empathic bond. From what I’ve read, it often took longer for one partner to develop than the other.”

“But sometimes it just stayed one way. I’ve read about that, too,” Malian replied. Her voice became a half chant. “Telemanthar and Errianthar had the bond, and Kerem and
Emeriath did as well, after their flight from the Swarm. But the link between Antenor and Maron was only one way, even though they were sworn closer than brothers.”

“And so,” finished Kalan, “Maron did not know to turn back when Antenor was ambushed. Sister Korriya says that their story teaches us that gifts are exactly that, an extra tool to aid us—not a replacement for everyday common sense and intelligence.”

“My First Kinswoman,” said Malian, “and yet you know her better than I do. She sounds a little daunting.”

Kalan grinned. “She can be very daunting, but she is pretty fair, too, most of the time.”

They were both silent, then, until Nhairin came limping over with the water bags. She did not stoop to fill them, but stood with her head tipped back, studying the last of the sunset and the black speck that still hovered in the sky. “We have ridden all day beneath the shadow of that hawk’s wings,” she said. “Under the circumstances, I question whether that’s a coincidence.”

Kalan and Malian’s eyes flew to the sky and then to each other, startled and worried. “Kyr did say that hawks live in these hills,” Kalan said slowly.

“But,” said Nhairin, “you’d have expected it to have dived after prey or drifted away at some stage, wouldn’t you? Yet it hasn’t left us at all. I didn’t question it either,” she added, as though someone had queried her silence, “not until I realized it was still up there, even at this late hour.”

“It could be just chance,” Kalan said. “All the same—”

“Indeed,” agreed Nhairin. “Whose is it?” she muttered, frowning up into the sky. “Whom does it serve?”

“Why would it serve anyone?” Malian asked curiously.

The steward started. “I don’t know,” she said, “but there is power here. I feel it, bound into the roots of the hills.” She shuddered, turning her face away from them. “It eats at me,” she whispered. “But the hawk—I do not know.”

Malian stepped closer to her. “Are you all right, Nhairin? You look very tired.”

“I am tired,” the steward said, still in that same low voice as though speaking to herself. “So very weary.”

“We’ll help you with the water bags,” said Kalan, reaching for them. “You shouldn’t be carrying so many, not with your bad leg. And we should all go back, get some food.”

Nhairin smiled wryly, her full attention caught. “I’m not done yet, young man,” she said, but she let him help anyway.

Malian watched her covertly during their quiet supper and thought that Nhairin did seem exceptionally tired and drawn. It’s this journey, she decided, feeling her own fatigue. It’s wearing us all down.

As soon as it grew dark, Kyr and Lira slipped off to scout their backtrail again, while Malian, Kalan, and Nhairin waited by the vine-hung entrance to the small camp. The wind that had followed them out of the Gray Lands had died away and the first stars were out, white and clear. There was still a very faint wash of color along the western rim of the sky, but that was all. Night had fallen on Jaransor.

So this, thought Malian, peering up, is what we mean by night’s beauty—what the House of Night swears to in the Keep of Winds and all our holds along the Wall.

She made no effort to speak and the silence stretched until Kalan broke it, his voice diffident through the darkness. “Do you mind very much,” he asked Nhairin, “being the Earl’s High Steward rather than a warrior anymore?”

Nhairin sighed and stretched her leg, as though considering her answer. “I am not precisely the Earl’s High Steward anymore,” she said dryly. “But no, I don’t mind. I was only ever a moderately competent soldier, but I am a good steward. To be honest, I only became a guard because it was expected in my family. What I do mind,” she added with sudden intensity, “is being lame and disfigured, and the pain that has gone with both those things. At times like these, one cannot help but feel that even a moderately competent soldier would be more useful than a lame steward, however able.”

Beside her, Malian felt Kalan shift. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” said Nhairin, “I think you should ask. You are young and dream of battle glory and the warrior life, I can see that. It is only right that you should know the truth of what you wish for. The songs and stories never tell you about the agony when steel slices through your flesh, or the long, weary years afterward for those who survive, living with their pain and trying to eke out an existence on the fringes of keep and hold life. I was one of the lucky ones. I had the use of my limbs still and a place of honor in the Keep of Winds. It might have been very different, though.”

“Why is that?” asked Kalan. His voice sounded remarkably sober, as though he, like Malian, was digesting the bleak picture conjured up by Nhairin’s words. Malian’s thoughts had flown to all the wounded veterans in the keep, recalling the menial make-work they did around stable and hall, and how they always sat furthest from the feast tables and the great fires.

Nhairin is quite right, she reflected uncomfortably. I have never even considered their situation before, let alone questioned it. “Why might it have been different?” she asked, echoing Kalan’s question when the steward remained silent.

She felt Nhairin’s hesitation. “Well, why shouldn’t you know the story?” the steward said finally. “Everyone else does, although no one speaks of it. It was the Old Earl himself who wounded me in his rage, because I was standing guard outside the Heir’s quarter on the day he tried to slay both you and your mother. He cut me down because I held to my post and would not obey his order to stand aside.”

The air in their small camp was suddenly tense and the beauty of the stars seemed colder, remote with distance. Malian spoke carefully into the charged atmosphere. “I thought you said that it was my father who stopped him from killing us?”

“That was later,” Nhairin replied. “He was out with the guard when it all blew up, training in the mountain country
around the keep. I was part of the Heir’s Guard at that time, as was Asantir, and we were both on duty outside his quarters that day. One of the pages came running to tell us that the Earl had gone mad and sworn to slay his daughter-in-law and grandchild. I wanted to flee at once with both of you, but Asantir argued that doing so would be contrary to our oaths and honor. Her solution was to find the Heir with all speed and bring him back, in the hopes that he could restrain his father, while I stayed and tried to reason with the Earl. Not,” she added, “that he was ever susceptible to reason, even at the best of times.”

“So that is what you meant the other night, with Asantir?” Malian murmured.

“Yes,” agreed Nhairin. “It was what you might call an old argument.”

“I take it,” Kalan said cautiously, when the silence stretched out again, “that the Old Earl was not open to reason that time either?”

Nhairin gave a hard laugh, almost under her breath. “That is one way of putting it,” she said, “although he did take the time to curse me as a traitor and an oath breaker before he cut me down. Unfortunately, he was a formidable swordsman, so I was not able to hold him off for long.”

Malian hesitated. “I can’t help wondering, given your relative skills, why it was Asantir who went and you who stayed?”

“There were many reasons, in the end,” said Nhairin dryly. “One of the more compelling being that if Asantir had held that door, then none of those who tried to take it by force would have survived—including the Old Earl. And even though Nerion was my dearest friend, neither I nor Asantir was brave enough to take the matter that far.”