Free The Heir of Night by Helen Lowe Page B

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 wayacross 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