Daughter of Blood by Helen Lowe Page B

seer’s vision showed him back there all along. Yet if what Tarathan had said about foreseeing being uncertain was correct, then Kalan could see that, by her lights, Malian truly had been trying to leave him free to choose. “When,” as Jehane Mor had pointed out, by one of their quiet campfires on the road to Port Farewell, “she has very little choice herself. Who asked her if she wanted to be Heir of Night, let alone the Chosen of Mhaelanar, the One of your ancient prophecy?”
    â€œShe accepts her duty,” Kalan had replied, all three of them using mindspeech so the only sound was the whisper of the flames, and the small rustlings of the Emerian night. “As do I. But—”
    â€œIf you may affect your fate, despite her foreseeing, so too may she. That is our hope also. ” The heralds’ mindspeech had whispered together as one, but when Tarathan leaned forward to place another branch on the blaze his expression had been so—Guarded, Kalan thought now, memory paring away any concealment afforded by that distant fireside’s light and shadow. As though there might be some part of the foreseer’s truth that Tarathan had been withholding.
    Kalan twitched his shoulders, much as the horses would if a fly settled on them, and put both the small temple and the past out of his mind. Right now he needed to concentrate on the present: stabling the horses and then eating, checking his weapons, and trying to ensure he was on the Che’Ryl-g-Raham when her prow turned north again. Even, he toldhimself, as Madder moved forward, if it means sharing a cabin with Orth.
    The inn-wife’s lips compressed when Kalan asked about the midday meal, her pointed glance traveling to the position of the sun, however muted by cloud cover. Yet by the time she looked back at him, her expression had relented. “I suppose the cook could make you a sandwich, but the common room’s closed until dinner so you’ll have to eat in the kitchen.”
    â€œOur candlemaker’s lad was on the wharf when the ruckus happened,” the cook said, explaining the inn-wife’s willingness to make an exception as he sliced a generous amount of bread and cold beef onto a plate. “Those wharf larrikins are nothing but trouble and need to be set to proper work.” He laid the knife aside, adding pickle and salad greens. “But young Myron said that northern brute might have killed the lad he caught if you hadn’t stopped him.” The cook paused in the act of putting the plate before Kalan, his face uncertain. “No offense intended.”
    Since I’m a northerner myself, Kalan thought. “None taken,” he said.
    The cook set the plate down. “I didn’t think so, given you intervened. But you nor—” He stopped, looking conscious again.
    We northerners can be a touchy lot, Kalan interpreted, concentrating on the serious business of eating as the cook became busy, rewrapping the beef. “This is good,” Kalan said, checking a thank you .
    The cook’s expression eased. “There’s more bread and cheese here if you want it, and I’ve a slice of pear pie left over from yesterday.”
    Kalan wanted both, very much, and when he had finished, the tapster pulled him a beer, which he drank on a bench outside the common room door. The gray morning had given way to an afternoon of intermittent sunshine, but the tapster’s opinion was for rain tomorrow. “Still, the wind should stay fair now we’re coming into the more settled time of year.”
    After his years in northern Emer—where even before theAsh Days that marked the turning point between Autumn’s Eve and Karn’s great festival of Autumn’s Night, chill rain would have turned the few roads into bogs—Kalan found it hard to adjust to fall bringing more settled weather. But the Wall of Night had its own distinct weather system, with spring and summer