The Heir of Night by Helen Lowe

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 thembefore 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, theirfrowns 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