The Heir of Night (4 page)

“I’m glad he remembers me,” said Malian, but felt her father’s eye and added quickly, “I am glad, too, for your continued health and safe return.”

“Ay,” said the Earl, less formally. “We saw few signs of any enemy and lost no riders to either skirmish or accident. Our only injuries resulted from the journey itself, a sprained ankle and a fall from a horse. Still, we were glad to see the Gate of Winds again.” He inclined his head, formal again, before moving on to his own chair. The white hound wagged a polite farewell to Malian and trotted after its mistress.

The Earl did not sit, but remained standing beneath the great banner of Night. He held his right hand up, palm facing out toward the waiting hall, and when he spoke, his voice was strong. “House of Night, whence came we and why?”

The gathering, led by Malian, raised their hands in response and replied with one voice: “From the stars we came, where we fought the long war against the Swarm of Dark. In battle after battle we fought them, in victory and defeat, until the great portal opened and we came through into this place.”

“And what do we do now, on this world of Haarth?” the Earl asked.

“We garrison the Shield-wall of Night,” they replied. “We keep the long watch for that hour when the Swarm of Dark will rise again and seek to overrun this world, as it overran so many others beyond the stars. When that day and that hour come, we will stand forth against the power of the Swarm, as we have always done.”

“Why, then, do we call ourselves Night, who oppose the
Swarm of Dark?” The Earl’s voice carried the length of the hall.

“The Swarm rose and spread across the face of the stars,” they answered him. “One by one it blotted them out, sucking all light and life into its maw. The great darkness stole night’s beauty and replaced it with fear and dread. We were the first to stand against it, taking the name of Night in memory of what had once been beautiful and without fear.”

“We are first,” the Earl said, slow and sonorous. “First of all the nine Houses to serve in this cause, just as we stand foremost on the Wall of Night, keeping the long vigil. I charge you, House of Night, to neither fear nor falter, but hold to the Wall.”

“We will not falter!” Their roar filled the vaulted roof. “We shall keep faith!”

“So be it,” the Earl replied, “until our vigil is done.”

How stirring it is, thought Malian, with the thrill that always coursed along her veins when she spoke Night’s creed. Surely we shall not fail in our duty, even if those in the other Houses waver?

The feast was brought in with a clatter, and the hall soon became filled with an ocean of noise as Night celebrated the safe return of friends, comrades, and kin from the dangerous boundary patrols. Even the Earl and his household, generally more reserved, seemed relaxed. Nhairin smiled her twisted smile at some joke of Haimyr’s; Gerenth, overhearing, brayed out a laugh.

Malian watched them wistfully from her place down the hall. Derai custom demanded that the households of Earl and Heir be kept separate:
‘Ware to those who lose Earl and Heir in one night
, the proverb ran, and history had proved its truth. Even before the civil war, Derai annals had been full of assassination attempts by the Swarm, with its tracking sorceries and insidious, creeping magics. Since the Night of Death, the Derai had added their own record of blood feud and knives in the dark to that bitter history, and the custom of separate households was strictly enforced. Once
the Heir would have been surrounded by siblings and Blood kin, but Malian was the only child of the Blood of Night born into her generation, so her household comprised Doria, the maids, and various tutors, with no friends or companions her own age. She had been told that the Earl of Blood had a daughter of similar age and knew she had second cousins in the Sea Keep. But sometimes she longed to be like Yorindesarinen, growing up Heir of Stars in a citadel where Blood kin were as numerous as the constellations—although that hadn’t helped the hero when she faced the Chaos worm. Yorindesarinen had fought and died alone, all the stories agreed on that.

The first course was being cleared away when Malian heard a distant tolling from the keep gates. She saw Haimyr’s head lift, and her own surprise was mirrored in the faces around her. It was late for anyone to come beating at the Gate of Winds and there were no visitors expected from Night’s outlying holds, or emissaries from the other Houses.

Odd, thought Malian. She knew that no traveler would be turned away, here at the Wall’s farthest bounds, although the Lieutenant of the Gate would also never let any visitors proceed further until satisfied of their good faith. So she was not surprised that some time elapsed before the hall gong sounded.

“Tarathan of Ar and Jehane Mor, heralds of the Guild,” one of Nhairin’s stewards roared out, above the hubbub. “From Terebanth, on the Great River.”

Absolute silence crashed down as every face turned toward the man and woman who stepped through the door. The man had multiple braids of chestnut hair flowing below his shoulders, while the woman was fair, with a single plait twisted around her head like a crown. They were both of middle height and clad alike in gray, their long cloaks cast back. A badge pinned each cloak on the left shoulder and a dagger was sheathed at their belts. Both their faces were drawn and weary, their clothes mired from the road, but they walked steadily through the watching, silent hall until
they stood before the Earl’s chair. There they stopped as one and bowed, first to the Earl and then, slightly lower, to the woman at his side. Malian’s eyes widened, and she saw the faintest of mocking smiles on Haimyr’s face, but no one else appeared to have noticed the graded courtesy.

The heralds straightened. “Hail, Earl of Night,” they said, their individual tones weaving together as if they had only the one voice between them. “Honor to you and to your House.”

“And light and safety on your road,” the Earl responded. He did not seem surprised that they knew the Derai greeting. “What brings heralds of the Guild so far into the Wall of Night?”

“We are charged with a message for you,” they replied. “It is held under sigil of silence, so you alone may hear it or know the sender, and no other may command it to be spoken.”

There was a collective hiss of breath, but the Earl held up his hand, commanding silence again. “Indeed?” he said. His dark gaze measured the two before him, who simply waited. Malian leaned forward, fascinated: heralds of the Guild actually
here
, on the Derai Wall! For a moment she even thought her father might break tradition and leave the feast. She held her breath, but released it, half disappointed, when he spoke again.

“You have traveled a long, hazardous road and I will hear you, but not now. This is a Feast of Returning, which our custom demands should not be broken unless we come under attack. Besides, you are weary.” He raised his voice so everyone in the hall would hear. “Heralds of the Guild, I welcome you as guests of Night. Eat now, and then rest. I will hear your message in the morning.”

The heralds bowed and spoke again as one. “As the Earl wills, so shall it be. For Night’s hospitality, we thank you.”

The watching Derai sighed and turned back to their feasting, while a page led the heralds to a place by one of the fires. The Earl and his household, too, resumed their conversation
as though nothing unusual had happened. Malian pushed a piece of dried fruit around her plate. Open curiosity would be beneath her dignity as Heir, but she could feel the surreptitious intensity of the hall’s interest, matching her own, and was sure that the heralds must sense it as well.

Even on the Wall there were a great many stories told about the heralds of the Guild. According to the legends heralds rarely failed in their duty, no matter what difficulties were encountered, and would only reveal a message to the designated recipient. It was said that heralds had died rather than break that trust. The message must be of considerable importance then, to justify sending a herald pair so far from the cities of the River—but the Derai had their own messenger corps, so the message must also have been sent by an outsider. Malian’s eyes narrowed, full of speculation, for the Derai had few dealings with outsiders.

She glanced at her father who was listening to Gerenth, his expression courteous but unrevealing. He looked as though he had dismissed the heralds from his mind, although Malian was sure that he had not. Almost against her will, she found her eyes drawn to the gray-clad figures sitting by the fire. They looked ordinary enough as they concentrated on their food, but Malian suspected that appearances were deceiving. As if in answer to her thought, both heralds looked up before she could glance aside. Their eyes met and held hers, keen-edged as lances.

Malian wanted to wrench her eyes away, except that would suggest she was afraid of the power in their gaze. So she made herself bow instead, a grave inclination of the head that they answered as gravely. Yet Malian could not shake that suggestion of power. She wanted to know more, to speak with them herself—but right now the gathering was calling for Haimyr. The clamor fell into an expectant hush as he rose to his feet.

Malian—looking from the corner of her eye—saw that even the gray-clad heralds were leaning forward as the minstrel waited, holding the hall in his silence. Then his hand
touched the strings and the golden voice soared, sweeping them into the old, old tale of Kerem the Dark Handed and Emeriath of Night. Kerem was one of the elder heroes of the Derai, a solitary hunter and warrior who wreaked great havoc amongst the Swarm and rescued Emeriath from the Maze of Fire. It was a dark story, like all the great hero tales, but with a rare bright ending, for Kerem and Emeriath won clear of the Maze, despite desperate odds.

Malian found herself caught up in the emotion and power of the tale, even though she had heard it many times before. When it was done, everyone cheered and clapped, calling for more, but Malian found herself yawning. She was tired from her explorations in the Old Keep, and one benefit in being underage was that she need not remain at the feast until the Earl left. Malian caught his eye and he nodded, half raising a hand in salute as she stood up to make her formal bow. Teron said something and her father turned, allowing Malian to slip away while the hall’s attention was focused on Haimyr.

She did not think that anyone else had noticed her departure, unless it was Asantir, who noticed everything. Yet when she paused by a side door, she saw that both the heralds were watching her, their faces colored by the fire. Again, their light-filled eyes held hers and Malian paused—but a page bowed, offering the heralds more food, and the moment was broken. Malian turned and left the hall.

Despite her earlier tiredness, Malian could not shake the memory of the heralds’ eyes. She stood quietly while Doria helped her out of the black dress and combed out the cloud of her hair, but her thoughts were busy, circling the puzzle of the gray-clad strangers.

I should go to the old library, Malian told herself. The records there are bound to hold something about the heralds and their guild.

She waited patiently after Doria left her, letting the comings and goings in the outer room die away and watching until the last light was extinguished. Eventually, she heard
a chorus of gentle snores from the nurse’s chamber and slipped out of bed, pushing a pillow down under the covers so it would seem that she slept—at least so long as the room remained unlit. The legend of Kerem claimed that he could see in the dark, and Malian longed for the same ability as she groped for her clothes, bruising her shins against a chair. She made her way by feel to the back of the room, moving her fingers carefully across the wooden panels until she found the place she wanted, and pressed. The panel swung silently back and she felt the cool air from the narrow passage beyond, which led into the maze of spyruns that crisscrossed the keep.

Malian had discovered the maze long ago and like the Old Keep it had become one of her favorite places. She had scored trails along the different routes with her dagger so that she could find her way by touch, even in the dark. She had never met anyone else traversing its secret ways and so had come to think of it as hers alone. Now she clicked the hidden door closed behind her and moved along the narrow route, her fingers tracing her blazed trail, to enter the library by another concealed door.

The chamber was disused and dusty, with books and parchments crammed from floor to ceiling around all four walls. The first thing Malian did was light a lamp, which cast a small circle of golden light and threw mysterious shadows over the bookshelves. The library was so rarely used that she was sure that no one else would come in, especially not tonight, but she locked the door into the corridor anyway. She took off her jacket as well and pushed it into the crack between door and floor, because it would only take one overly zealous guard to investigate the light and find her out. Then Doria would scold, and Nesta would frown, and Nhairin would talk sternly about the responsibilities of being Heir. Her father would punish her, too, if they told him, for disobeying those he had set in authority over her. Malian pulled a face and checked the bolts on the inside of the door a second time.

It took some time to find a book that held any reference to heralds and she judged, from the mildewed cover and archaic hand, that it was very old. She ran her forefinger under the thin, spidery writing, working out the sense of the words, and realized that it must have been written in the early centuries of the Derai arrival on Haarth.