Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  “Forgive me, Prince Aranraith,” the dark-haired man replied in the same language. “But he has ordered us not to disturb him. Under any circumstances, he said.”

  “Fool.” Faro heard the first stranger’s fingers snap as he switched back to the River dialect. His tone was that of a man commanding a dog. “You, boy! Fetch your master.”

  For a moment Faro thought the stranger meant him, but when his eyes flew wide the other boy was lurching to his feet, his nose still bleeding. “Now, dolt!” the stranger snapped. The boy ran, scrambling up the dark wooden stairs at the far end of the large chamber. Before he reached the upper level, another tall figure with startling, bone-white hair had appeared at the balustrade. A flare of lightning reflected through the windows in a way that made it seem to emanate from the white-haired man, but no rumble of thunder followed. The only sounds were the rain, and a hissing from the snakes as Prince Aranraith and the newcomer stared at each other.

  The prince’s two companions had fanned out to his left and right, and now Faro saw the last of the strangers clearly for the first time. His black armor was honed to spur points at elbow and shoulder, while the sword at his hip was long and curved toward the tip. The eyes that rested on Faro were set slantwise in a face that was all austere planes and sculpted angles, their expression dark and impenetrable as the void. Faro froze again, unable to look away.

  He did not see the boot coming, only screamed as agony exploded across his body. The force of the kick propelled him several yards across the floor, into a carved wooden chest. He was aware, through the pain and the sobs that he could not check, that the first stranger was staring down at him. The man’s eyes were as darkly blue as sapphires in a gem merchant’s window, and their color bored through the pain until it was all Faro could see. “You do not look at us without leave, gutter vermin. It will go worse still if I hear you speak.”

  Beyond the blue of the stranger’s eyes, someone was laughing. At first Faro thought it was the serpent prince, because even above the rain he could hear the laughter’s hissing note, but then realized that the sound was coming from the balcony. “How you do despise the natives, Arcolin, beneath your envoy’s veneer.” Despite the hissing laugh, the white-haired man’s voice was ice: “And here in company with my kinsman, Aranraith, and the great Thanir—a delegation indeed.”

  “As you say.” Arcolin turned toward the balcony, releasing Faro. “You’ve made us work to find you, Nirn, but the time for games is over. We’re here to discuss treachery: your hound Emuun’s treachery.”

  Lightning snapped blue-white from the gallery and fractured the flagstones between Arcolin and the stairs. Faro nearly bit through his lip, because this time there could be no question, the lightning had definitely been inside. When his vision recovered from the flash, the dark-haired man, who had been kneeling a moment before, was standing at the foot of the stairs. The old servant still lay with his hands over his head, moaning.

  Darkness rose about the three intruders and flowed between them and the staircase. Faro, enthralled and terrified together, found he could not look away from the shadows that writhed through it, or block out their sibilant whispers. The susurration echoed the prince’s serpent locks, which had risen as one, their fangs extended, when the lightning seared. They hissed again as the prince held up a hand weighted with jeweled rings, the gemstones glittering in the afterdazzle.

  “Your adept’s behavior suggests he fears us, Nirn.” The prince’s eyes glinted, garnet red beneath heavy lids, and the dark-haired man paled. “Or believes we mean you harm—as if we were Derai, tearing ourselves apart with petty feuding.”

  “Petty?” Nirn’s voice was still ice. “When you accuse one who is my blood kinsman, his service to our cause well proven, of treachery?”

  “They also entered your house without leave, Master,” the dark-haired man said, although his voice shook as the serpents twisted his way.

  The warrior spoke for the first time, pitching his words to carry above the rain. “Rhike is dead, Nirn—we believe by Emuun’s hand.”

  Faro was still finding it painful to breathe as Nirn descended the stairs. Despite Arcolin’s threat, he could not stop his gaze returning to the sorcerer’s emaciated countenance and the fine scar that cut from temple to chin. “Rhike?” Nirn said finally. “That is a loss. And she, too, was kin.” The scar, livid against his pallor, twitched as his pale gaze settled on Arcolin. “I heard you were wounded, Poisoner. Did one of those brands you were busy thrusting into southern fires leap back out and burn you?”

  “Retract your fangs, Nirn.” Aranraith’s command resonated through the hall as he crossed to the table at its center and pulled out a chair. His serpent hair subsided as he sat. “Sit, all of you.”

  Only the warrior hesitated, frowning as he studied the dark-haired man on the stairs, although he addressed Nirn. “You had two adepts when last we met: Jharin, here, and another one—Amarn. Where’s he right now?”

  “Sheltering from the rain, no doubt.” Nirn made a business of taking the chair opposite Aranraith’s, his smile thin. “He went down to the port with orders for the ship’s captain that brought us here. Ostensibly a coastal trader, but a smuggler on the side and useful, so we let him live.”

  Arcolin had seated himself on Aranraith’s left, so Faro could only see his back and long black braid. “What if he or his crew talks?”

  Nirn placed a jade rod on the table as Jharin, the dark-haired adept, came to stand behind his chair. Finally, he nodded toward the other boy, huddled halfway up the stair. “We have the captain’s only son as hostage, in case my compulsion on him and his crew wears thin.”

  “And the old man who welcomed us?” Arcolin’s drawl was pronounced.

  “Comes with the house.” Nirn shrugged, indifferent. “He and the boy are also under compulsion, but they can’t understand us in any case.”

  “Can they not?” the black-armored warrior asked. Briefly, he glanced at Faro, who shrank back against the chest, as if he could disappear into the carved wood.

  “Leave them for now. We have business to discuss.” Something in the heavy velvet of Aranraith’s tone, and the lazy way the snakes curled and uncurled, turned Faro’s throat into a lump around which he struggled to breathe. In that moment he knew that none of them—not the boy on the stair, or the old man still prone on the flagstones, or himself, pressed against the chest—would be allowed to live.

  Outside, the rain had become a tumult. Lightning illuminated the room again, and this time the crash of thunder followed within seconds. Nirn waved a hand, and flame leapt in every glass-enclosed lamp around the room. The brightness pushed the shadows back, except around Aranraith, while the white-haired sorcerer’s fingers tapped on the jade rod. “So, Thanir. Unfold me this business of Rhike’s death and your accusation against Emuun.”

  The warrior seated himself on Aranraith’s right. “Rhike was slain at midsummer, by a warrior who was immune to magic.”

  “And blood,” Aranraith added, “demands blood.”

  “Always,” the others intoned as one. The snakes bared their fangs, but any sound they made was lost beneath the storm. The gutters would all be overflowing, Faro knew, every steep street and wynd a torrent of water and filth. If only he could get clear of the house, he would disappear into the darkness and back alleys where he had a dozen hideaways, places these strangers would never find him. He gritted his teeth to prevent them chattering and struggled to concentrate the way his mam had taught him, observing both people and his surroundings closely.

  Briefly, he fought back tears, as grief for his mam joined with fear and pain. Focusing on the old discipline helped, even if the strangers’ conversation was a confusion of strange accents and incomprehensible discussion—of enemies and magic, and a warrior immune to it who had sabotaged something called a coterie in some distant place. Occasionally, names would swirl to the surface, like debris in a flood, including Emuun and Rhike again, but also Orriyn, who seemed to be Selia as
well . . . And someone called Nherenor, who had been killed and whose death mattered, for reasons that Faro could not make out. He felt the tension that weighted their silence, though, when eventually the talking stopped.

  Lightning had continued to flare throughout their exchange, but now Faro noticed how closely the thunderclap followed the latest flash. “Emuun accompanied me here from Ij,” Nirn said, once the rumble died away. “By the time I dispatched him south again, hunting those accursed couriers . . . It would have been early summer, at least, before he returned to the River.”

  Aranraith’s serpent hair hissed. “This is Emuun we’re talking about. If his quarry went south then he would have arrived shortly afterward.”

  “In fact,” Arcolin took him up, “we know he did. Rhike reported that he had the couriers you’re so obsessed by within his hand several times in Emer, yet on each occasion his fist refused to close—difficult behavior to explain away.”

  Nirn’s fingers tapped against the jade. “Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one. Whoever Rhike encountered cannot have been Emuun.”

  “Sometimes,” Arcolin mimicked, “the simplest explanation is the correct one. Emuun is the only immune warrior we have left with sufficient experience to overcome an adept of Rhike’s caliber, especially when she knew who she was dealing with. And she saw him, openly working with the native agents who undid our work. Admit it, Nirn: you’ve lost control of him.”

  Thanir leaned forward. “Nindorith did allege a Derai taint to Nherenor’s death, although even he could not track its source. But it was definitely one of the native agents seen working with Emuun that wounded Arcolin.”

  Arcolin’s response was lost as thunder crashed again, but Nirn was frowning. “Ilkerineth’s son is dead, yet afterward Nindorith could not hunt the killer down? There’s no Derai with that sort of power, not anymore.”

  “What’s the alternative? It’s even less likely that a native could accomplish such a thing.” Arcolin shrugged. “The agent who wounded me got lucky, that’s all. Still, regrettable though the boy’s death was, it diverted Nindorith and Ilkerineth’s attention into the mourning rituals. That left us free to deal with the Southern Realms in our own way.”

  “Yet here you are.” Nirn’s malice was obvious, even to Faro, tensed against the chest. “And wounded, however unluckily, by one of the natives. Or is that somehow Emuun’s doing as well?”

  Every serpent on Aranraith’s head uncoiled, spitting. Momentarily, even the storm stilled, although Faro only realized he was holding his breath when his ears began to roar. Thanir’s chair scraped back, his head turning toward the door. “Someone’s coming,” the warrior said.

  3

  Against the Wall

  “Amarn!” Jharin started forward, but Aranraith waved him back.

  “Thanir will deal with it,” he said, as the warrior crossed to the entrance and lifted the bar. As soon as he turned the handle, the force of the storm banged the door wide and a sodden figure fell through. Thanir kicked the door closed again, but did not rebar it as he draped the newcomer’s arm across his shoulders and part carried, part dragged him to a settle by the fire. All the strangers were on their feet now, their attention on the newcomer—but Faro’s eyes remained on the door.

  Not barred, he told himself. His eyes returned to the group about the settle, all with their backs to him. Very slowly, he began inching toward the door, only to freeze as Jharin turned and hauled the old servant to his feet.

  “Fetch hot water,” the adept ordered, reverting to the Grayharbor dialect. “And wine. You!” he snapped at the boy on the stairs. “Get down here and tend the fire.”

  If I were that old man, Faro thought, edging closer to the entrance as the servant made his unsteady way out of the room, I would just keep on walking. The other boy, the smuggling sea captain’s son, scuttled down to the wood stacked beside the hearth. Flame licked upward as the first log went in the grate, highlighting the injured man’s slack expression and blue-tinged mouth.

  “If you don’t do something,” Thanir told Nirn, “you’ll find yourself short an acolyte. Someone’s snapped this one’s strings.”

  Nirn had been standing very still, his posture suggestive of someone listening to a distant conversation, but now he shrugged and rested his fingertips against his adept’s forehead. Faro could have sworn that pale flame wreathed the sorcerer’s hand at the same time as Amarn spasmed, all his limbs jumping as though a lightning bolt had gone into him. His eyes remained closed, but as soon as the spasm ceased he began to breathe more evenly and a healthier color crept into his face.

  Flames began to roar up the chimney, and Arcolin rounded on the sea captain’s son—still doggedly placing logs on the fire—and hurled him away. “Half-wit!” Terrified of being noticed, Faro froze in place. He was almost glad of the respite because his injured ribs were in agony, but equally relieved when the intruders’ focus remained on Nirn.

  “You use your adepts hard,” Thanir said. “Our supply is not so plentiful, these days, that we can afford to throw them away.”

  The scar on Nirn’s face writhed—as though it were alive, Faro thought, repelled—but otherwise his expression was indifferent. “He’ll live. You can see that for yourself.”

  “What matters,” Arcolin agreed, his vivid gaze narrow, “is who did this.”

  Jharin cleared his throat. The serpents around Aranraith’s head stirred in answer, and the acolyte looked toward Nirn, waiting for his nod before speaking. “Derai ships come and go as they please here, seldom keeping to any schedule . . .” Again, Jharin cleared his throat. “The day before yesterday, we saw one of their weatherworkers near the Sea Mew. He did not see us, but Amarn and I decided to take turns keeping watch, just to be sure.”

  “If a weatherworker’s been showing interest, then you’ve been sloppy.” Arcolin was contemptuous. “You need to supervise your acolytes more closely, Nirn.”

  Faro tensed, expecting Nirn to hurl lightning again, but the sorcerer’s gaze remained hooded. Aranraith stepped close to him, and although Nirn was tall, the serpent-haired prince loomed taller. “Arcolin’s right. Most of the thrice-cursed weatherworkers seem to be at least half mad, but they’re powerful still, as well as unpredictable. If this ship drew their attention, they may have already tracked down your lair. Did you think of that before letting your acolytes run loose?” His sibilance had grown more pronounced, the garnet gaze glittering. “I have indulged your eccentricities until now, but I won’t tolerate another debacle like the one you oversaw in Ij.”

  Faro lay petrified, watching a vein in Nirn’s temple throb. Arcolin and Thanir could have been statues, looking on. Only the wind-tossed shadows of the storm moved—that and the serpents, coiling and uncoiling around Aranraith’s head. The sorcerer’s hand was clenched white around the jade wand, but slowly relaxed. “You know what happened in Ij,” he said finally. “There were imponderables, threads that never showed up along the lines of foreseeing.”

  “So you say.” The serpents all hissed as one, and the temperature dropped again as Aranraith brought his face close to the bone-white sorcerer’s. “But the threads should have been there, shouldn’t they, if you were seeing true? When did imponderables ever escape you in the past, even if you could not fully weigh their influence? You promised me success, kinsman—then conveyed some farrago of the Derai-backed minstrel and a native militia turning that success to failure. Meanwhile, the River lands sail on, largely undisturbed. And now you—you, my kinsman—have drawn the Sea House’s attention through your adepts’ carelessness, a debacle we must now clean up.” Aranraith’s lip curled. “The Nirn I lured from Ilkerineth and Lightning to stand at my side would have disdained such incompetence—and remembered we have a war to win.”

  This time Nirn hissed back. “I forget nothing! But sometimes the wise course is to retreat and gather more intelligence, especially when you cannot discern the nature of what opposes you.”

  Aranraith’s snee
r deepened, but it was Thanir who spoke. “To be fair, my Prince, too much about recent events remains opaque, not only to Nirn.” The serpents whipped around on him, but the warrior met the garnet glare steadily. “Salar and Nindorith agree that the thread that is this Patrol, the River soldiery, has risen to the surface of the pattern. But otherwise the Patrol is a blank, even to them. It’s the same,” he said to Arcolin, “with the native agent who opposed you in Emer. Despite having his knife, the one that wounded you, he remains invisible to our scrying.”

  Nirn’s pale stare shifted to Arcolin, both assessing and malicious. “Not just mischance, then? The native agent actually stood firm against your power?”

  Arcolin looked dark, but Thanir nodded. “That, together with the way he’s vanished so completely, are equally intriguing.”

  “A puzzle.” Nirn’s voice acquired a singsong note as his expression turned inward looking. “Everyone has a face, a name, however deep it’s buried. But who could block me and Nindorith, both? Not you, Arcolin. Not even you, Aranraith, not without Salar.”

  Aranraith’s serpent hair was quiet, coiled close about his head, while Arcolin and Thanir watched the sorcerer with similar, intent expressions. “Something new, then?” Thanir prompted.

  “Or something old . . .” Nirn’s face was skull-like in the next jagged lightning flash, and the light reflected off his eyes as though he had grown blind. “Something moves in the current, quick as a fish turning between light and shadow, but more than that I cannot yet discern.”

  He sees with the inner eye, Faro thought, riveted despite his fear. Hanging about Seruth’s temple, one heard whispers of such power, but only as a mystery confined to the sworn priesthood or belonging in the same tales as ghosts and heroes. Now Faro shuddered as he watched Nirn sway—and even if the others’ attention had not been locked on the sorcerer, he did not think he could have stopped himself crawling away. Cautiously, he eased into movement again.