The Heir of Night (9 page)

A low, disturbed murmur ran through the surrounding guards, but Asantir held up her free hand, checking them. “The point,” she said calmly, “is that it has been driven off. Does Sarus need more troops?”

The runner shook his head. “He said it was not essential,
Captain, although more would be welcome if you could spare them.”

Asantir nodded, turning to one of the guards beside her. “Kyr, take another twenty and reinforce Sarus. Tell him I’ll be along myself as soon as I’m done here.”

She turned immediately to the next runner, who gasped out that he came from Lannorth, who was with the Earl. Asantir’s brow cleared a little. “How goes it there?”

“Lannorth reports that the fighting has been fierce,” the runner replied, “but they’ve driven the invaders back and the Earl is safe.”

“And the Heir?” Nhairin put in sharply. “What news of Malian?”

Asantir looked around. “None,” she said wearily. “We’re looking, but we have to secure each area as we go through and it all takes time.”

Nhairin limped over to her. “What of the Old Keep?” she asked.

Asantir’s mouth set in a grim, hard line. “That,” she said, “is where the enemy came through—and it’s the bolt-hole they’ve retreated into as well. We can’t pursue them in there, not until we have the New Keep secure. And that’s not yet done.”

Nhairin frowned, biting her lip. “What of Gerenth?” she asked. “Perhaps he could free up more troops from the main garrison?” Her voice faltered as she saw Asantir’s expression. “Dead?” she whispered.

Asantir nodded. “The invaders rigged an ambush and Gerenth’s troop bore the brunt. I’ve taken command of the keep in his stead, but there are no troops to be spared, Nhairin.”

“But what if Malian’s been captured?” Nhairin protested. “Even now these invaders may be bearing her away, or worse.”

The Honor Captain shook her head. “It’s possible, but so far not many intruders have actually lived to escape. Most fought on like cornered rats, rather than fleeing. Even at the
last they were still trying to cut their way forward into the New Keep, as though hunting for someone or something more vital than their own lives. Such behavior,” she pointed out, “doesn’t fit with an enemy who has a hostage like the Heir of Night to bargain with. And they took no other prisoners, quite the opposite in fact.”

Given these circumstances, Nhairin conceded silently, it was unlikely Malian
had
been captured—although her whereabouts remained as great a mystery as the identity of whoever had sounded the keep’s alarms. Ornorith, the goddess of Luck, had shown both of her two faces to the Derai that night: Many had died in the unexpected attack, but warning had been given before it was too late.

It did not pay, thought Nhairin, to underestimate the enigmatic, two-faced deity. And was the vanished Heir further evidence of Ornorith’s influence, or had some other power come into play?

The steward shivered. Too many unanswered questions, she said to herself. But it’s unthinkable that the Heir of Night should simply disappear. She must be found, and quickly.
Quickly
, before it’s too late!

She must have spoken the last words aloud, because Asantir nodded. “I agree. But we must secure the New Keep before we venture into the Old. We are doing our best, Nhairin.”

“I know you are.” Nhairin looked around as another guard troop tramped in. “What can I do now to help you here?”

“Here? Nothing,” said Asantir. “But if you could accompany Kyr to the Temple quarter, see what aid they need there and do something to organize it, I would be grateful.”

It was not far to the Temple quarter, but the way was strewn with battle debris and Kyr and his fellow guards moved cautiously, checking every side corridor, alcove, and stairwell. When they did finally arrive, Nhairin was dismayed to see that the great iron gates, which had been sealed shut for five hundred years, were wrenched nearly
off their hinges and slewed sideways at a drunken angle. Beyond them, she could see a wreckage of timber, stone, and bodies spread out across the concourse into the first of the nine temples.

Nhairin steadied herself against the still intact stone of the gatehouse, reluctant to proceed any further. She could hear activity at a distance, voices and shouted orders and the sounds of debris being cleared, but here all was silent. There was an eerie quality to the air—as though, Nhairin thought, remembering the runner’s story, all the life had been sucked out of it. A shudder crawled across her skin, but she supposed that she had better follow Kyr’s troop in. She straightened, gathering herself together, and realized that someone was watching her.

The watcher, swathed in a gray, hooded cloak, was concealed in the shadow of the gatehouse opposite, on its temple side. The cloak blended with the surrounding walls and the watcher stood so still that for a moment Nhairin thought the silent figure
was
stone. Her skin prickled, sensing a keen scrutiny from within the shadowing hood. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same questions,” the watcher replied, in a woman’s voice. “Except that I know the answers to both, Steward Nhairin.” As she spoke, the watcher lifted the hood back, revealing a face of indeterminate age. Deep lines tracked the corners of eyes and mouth, and like every face that morning, the watcher’s was etched with exhaustion.

Nhairin’s brows rose. “Korriya,” she said, then cleared her throat. “But that still doesn’t answer my second question. What are you doing here?”

“In the Temple gate, do you mean, or what is left of it?” asked the priestess Korriya. Her voice was low pitched and slightly husky. “Officially, watching to ensure no stragglers slip through this way. Unofficially, I am waiting for someone like you, who is close to Tasarion.”

“Why?” Nhairin asked bluntly.

The priestess gathered her cloak and picked her way
across the debris until she stood barely an arm’s length from the steward. She did not, however, cross the line of the broken gates, nor did Nhairin step closer to her. “I need to speak with him, Nhairin,” she said. “Urgently.”

Nhairin shrugged. “The keep has been invaded and the Heir is missing. He will say that he has no time for Temple quarter nonsense.”

Korriya’s eyes searched Nhairin’s. “Is that what you say as well?”

“I only tell you what he will say.” Nhairin fingered the scar on her face. “It might help, I suppose, if he knew
why
you want to see him?”

Korriya shook her head. “This is for his ears only. You could,” she added, her tone as devoid of expression as her face, “try telling him that the Temple quarter received special attention in this attack and has paid a bitter price for that distinction.”

“And so he owes it to his honor, as Earl, to hear you?” said Nhairin. “I don’t think that will help. There are too many others who have suffered, too many matters demanding his attention right now, not least his missing heir.”

“I see.” Korriya cast her eyes down, her lips compressing, and then she drew herself up so that she stood straight as a spear. Her gray eyes were stern, her voice sterner when she spoke. “Then tell the Earl of Night that I do not ask. Tell him that I name him First Kinsman and call on the Right of Blood to speak with him
now.
He may speak with me here or I will come to him, if he grants permission for me to pass the gate.”

Nhairin took a step back and almost lost her balance on the rubble. Her breath hissed out. “Is this wise?” she asked, recovering.

“It is necessary.” The priestess was unyielding. “I am not asking, Nhairin. By the Blood, I bid you go!” She did not wait for a reply but put up her hood and turned, stalking back into the concealing shadows. Nhairin cursed under her breath, but she too swung away.

It took her some time, after a terse conversation with Asantir, to find the Earl, and then she dared not disturb him. He was in the Hall of Silence, walking the long lines of their dead, his black armor hacked and dented and the pressure line from his helmet still livid across his forehead. His expression, as he walked the silent rows, was forbidding. Lannorth, the lieutenant of the Honor Guard, paced a careful distance behind him. Otherwise even Teron, the senior squire, hung back by the door, clutching the Earl’s visored helm and black shield.

Nhairin surveyed those present with a fleeting but comprehensive look from beneath lowered lids. Jiron, the Earl’s scribe, stood beside Teron, but both Haimyr and the Winter woman were absent. Nhairin shrugged inwardly. One could expect no better of outsiders: They were not Derai, after all. She moved to stand at Jiron’s shoulder and he turned his head with a quick, unhappy smile.

“Not good?” she murmured, and he shook his head.

“Very bad,” he replied, equally softly. “We have won the battle it seems, but at a bitter cost—and he knows now that the Heir is missing. There’s to be a council of war as soon as he’s paid his respects here.”

“Unfortunately, it’s going to get worse,” Nhairin muttered. Jiron looked reproving, and Teron scowled. She shrugged and folded her arms, wondering how to deliver what she knew would be a far from welcome message. Another thought intruded and she leaned closer to Jiron’s ear. “Where is the Winter woman? Surely she’s not been …?”

Jiron shook his head. “No. She was with the Earl throughout the fighting and did considerable damage with her bow and her beasts.” He shuddered, dropping his voice lower still. “Apparently there was a were-hunt with the attackers and her beasts took them on. Four hounds were slain and a wildcat badly wounded. She tends to it now but will join us for the council.”

Nhairin frowned sharply at Jiron’s mention of a were-hunt, but the Earl had turned and was striding toward them
before she could ask more. She shot one quick look at his face and decided that her unwelcome message could wait; there was nothing worse than being the bearer of unwanted news. She limped in the Earl’s wake instead, trying to catch his conversation with Lannorth.

“I want Asantir here. Now! With Gerenth gone, we must have the Honor Captain at council.”

“I’m not sure—” Lannorth began, but the Earl cut him off.

“Find her, Lieutenant. And get her here. That’s all.”

Nhairin caught Lannorth’s eye as he summoned a runner. “She’s in the halls above the Heir’s wing, or gone on to the Temple quarter. They were hit hard there,” she added, watching for the Earl’s reaction, but his expression did not change although he lengthened his stride. Nhairin cursed silently, struggling to keep up.

The Earl’s private council chamber, like the larger and more formal Great Chamber that had once hosted conclaves of the nine Houses, adjoined the High Hall. The Great Chamber glittered with inlaid metal and precious gems, and gleamed with rare woods. The Little Chamber was plain by comparison, with a long table scarred by centuries of use and chairs that were worn and comfortable. It was also one of the few places in the keep with glazing, long skylights that looked directly onto the iron skies of the Wall. They were veined with metal and protected from the Wall’s blasting winds—and whatever rode them—by elaborate steel grilles, but still let in more natural light than was usual in the keep. Now a pallid daylight illuminated the faces of the Earl and his companions, showing up lines that had been graven overnight and the shadows left by too much horror and death.

The table was strewn with plans of both the New Keep and the Old and the Earl leaned both fists on the tabletop, studying them with a deep frown between his brows. There was a fire on the hearth and food set out on a side table, but nobody ate. Instead they gathered round the table, their
frowns matching the Earl’s. Nhairin was the only one who went to warm herself by the fire, studying the room as guards came and went and the councilors gathered.

The chamberlain looked like he had not slept in a month, and the Master of Night’s messenger corps was staring woodenly at the tabletop. Khorion, the Lieutenant of the Gate, simply looked bleak. It must be hard, Nhairin supposed, when one expected to bear the brunt of any attack, to be tied to the main gate while a major battle was being fought inside the keep itself. She shrugged, turning away from the faces around the table and holding out her hands to the flames, which danced rose and orange in the grate.

“They are beautiful, are they not?” The voice that spoke was low, but very clear, and Nhairin looked around into Rowan Birchmoon’s face. The Winter woman’s expression was calm as a winter’s morning, but Nhairin noticed that she still carried her bow over one shoulder. A hound stood in her shadow, gazing at Nhairin with dark, warning eyes.

Nhairin shrugged again, a little sourly, because she had not noticed either the woman or the hound come in. “Very beautiful,” she said mechanically, although inwardly she did not think it mattered whether the flames were beautiful or not. Her own voice sounded harsh as a crow’s and seemed to distract those around the table.

The Earl looked up, but his gaze went straight to Rowan Birchmoon, its dark austerity softening into something close to warmth. “How is your beast?” he asked.

Rowan Birchmoon shook her head. “She may live, if the gods are kind.”

“Ay.” His voice was somber. “It has been a night for the Silent God. We must trust that the day will belong to Meraun, the Healer.” His dark gaze thrust past her. “Nhairin,” he said, a recognition but also a question, as if wondering why she alone had nothing to report.

Now, thought Nhairin, would be the time for me to speak up, deliver Korriya’s message. She began to marshal her words, but before she could speak there was a sudden clamor
from the hall outside. A moment later the doors swung wide to admit Asantir, her helm tucked under one arm and blood staining the rough wadding on her shoulder. Haimyr the Golden slipped through in her wake as the Earl’s dark, measuring gaze swung to meet his Honor Captain. “At last!” the Earl said.

The chamberlain leaned forward. “Ay, your report is vital, Captain. There’s so much we need to know. Is the keep yet secure? And the Heir—has she been found?”

“The New Keep,” Asantir said, speaking to the Earl, “is secure. The invaders were cleared from the Heir’s quarter by dawn and we’ve now been right through the Temple precinct and the surrounding areas as well. Only a handful of the attackers survived to flee into the Old Keep, but what reinforcements they may have there, I cannot say.” She made to shrug, then stopped as fresh blood seeped through the wadded bandage. “We have secured every portal between the two keeps, but our losses have been heavy. There are just no troops to spare for the Old Keep yet.” She paused, her eyes steady as they met the Earl’s. “You received my dispatch regarding Commander Gerenth’s death?’