New Zealand will be the featured country at this year’s Frankfurt Book Fair and as part of the run up the “Aotearoa Affair—from Kiel to Kaitaia” blog is now  up and running. Part of the “Affair” will be a monthly blog festival—with the first fest commencing around the theme of “Crossings.”

As you may also know, The Heir of Night (The Wall of Night series, Book One) is being published in Germany this year by Blanvalet, as Die Erbin Der Nacht.  So I can’t help feeling part of the Aoteraoa–Germany Affair—and as there is a passage in The Heir Of Night: Die Erbin Der Nacht that very much deals with “Crossings” it feels right to be posting something for the inaugural blog carnival.

The relevant section of the book comes in Part 3, Jaransor when the central characters, Malian and Kalan, are making both a physical and emotional “crossing”—from their old lives on the Wall of Night, to the unknown lands of their world of Haarth, which includes a physical crossing of the transitional Gray Lands and also the river Telimbras, marking the border into the interdicted realm of Jaransor.

So here, in the spirit of “Crossings” and Die Erbin Der Nacht, are the extracts:

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from Chapter 25, River of No Return

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“It was the fourth day since they had fled the Keep of Winds, travelling through the narrow ways of the Wall while the storm raged above them.  It had taken two full days to blow itself out, just as Haimyr had predicted, and they had reached the western rim of the Wall by the end of the second day.  The evening light had been in their faces when Kyr pointed beyond the rock-strewn foothills to the vast, flat emptiness that was the Gray Lands.  “That is the way we must go,” he’d said.  “We shall travel by night to avoid prying eyes, although it will make our progress slower.”

They had kept to this plan, making their way down through the foothills and only setting out across the Gray Lands once it was full night.  The rocky plain was full of sudden dips and dry streambeds that kept their pace slow, but at first Malian had enjoyed the journey, the smooth stride of the horse and the breeze at her back that raised small dust devils across the plain.  After hour on hour of silent riding, however, only stopping for short rests and to snatch a hurried mouthful of food, the ride became a matter of simple endurance.  Only the paling of the eastern sky had finally signaled a halt, and their hiding place that first day out had been little more than a scrape in the surface of the plain.  Even the horses had lain down to rest, while Kyr and Lira had stretched a tarpaulin, as gray and dreary as the land itself, from one side of the hollow to the other.  They had all huddled beneath it, first to eat the dried rations from their saddlebags and then to take turns sleeping.  “For only a fool,” Kyr had said, “would fail to set a watch in these lands.”

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They rode out as soon as darkness fell and turned their horses west, toward Jaransor.  Kyr pushed them hard, setting a faster pace and allowing fewer stops.  He rode slightly ahead of their small company, while Lira was rearguard and frequently dropped behind, checking their back trail.  Malian and Kalan rode close together, sometimes knee and knee, sometimes one horse behind the other, but they did not speak.  An air of palpable tension hung over them all, but although Malian listened for the sounds of pursuit, all she heard was the wind and the steady thud of the horses’ hooves on earth and stone.  The night stretched out, cold and black and seemingly endless, while she rose and fell in the saddle, fell and rose until it was all she could do to remain upright.

This time they did not stop with the dawn but pushed on toward the range of hills that rose up before them, rough and wild in the gray light.  The ridges were far lower than the Wall of Night, but still very rugged, with stony outcrops along their tops.  “We’ll have more shelter once we’re in amongst the hills,” Kyr said.  “We can stop then and find a safe place to rest.”  So they pressed on again and eventually came to a wide river that comprised several braided channels flowing between shingle banks.  The water was a pale blue-green in color and looked cold.

“The river Telimbras,” said Kyr. “It marks the boundary between the Gray Lands and Jaransor.  In Westwind Hold,” he added, his expression impassive, “we call it the River of No Return.”

Malian glanced quickly at Nhairin and saw that the steward’s face was set, although she made no reply to Kyr’s remark.  Kalan grinned.  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “this is the river for us, then, since going back is not an option.”

That surprised a laugh out of Lira, and a reluctant grin from Kyr.  Even Nhairin’s countenance eased a little.  They clattered and splashed their way across the riverbed, throwing up clouds of glittering spray as they rode through the deeper channels, and then climbed steadily, following narrow trails up rocky ridges and across steep slopes.  The focus of Malian’s world closed in again: to the black neck of her horse, to staying in the saddle, and to gritting her teeth and keeping going.

Despite her weariness, she began to notice small details about the landscape around her. The herb thyme grew wild and its scent rose, heady and aromatic, whenever the horses’ hooves crushed it.  Small yellow flowers danced among the rocks and the higher slopes were covered in a mix of scrambling green—sweetbriar, said Kyr, when she roused herself to ask—and dark, twisting thorn scrub.  Eventually, Malian began to see the green shimmer of trees growing along small precipitous creeks, and they stopped at last in a narrow ravine where the trees formed a green roof and a stream ran clear over brown pebbles.  “A short rest only,” Kyr warned. “Just to eat.  We need to get further into the hills and keep pushing south.”