Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  All the same, it did seem strange that whoever lay here merited a mausoleum but not an inscription, not to mention a warding spell on the door but none elsewhere in the tomb. Kalan’s attention returned to the god niche, speculating on why it might have been provided and then left empty. When he looked away, his eyes traveled back along the shaft of daylight to a shadow hovering just outside the entrance. “Hop inside, little sparrow, if you dare. I’ve brought the money I promised you.”

  Faro, it seemed, did not dare. His shadow advanced, but only until his scrawny person stood in the doorway, poised for flight. “I don’t want your money.” His voice was a whisper, as though he feared to startle the shadows, his grimy face a mix of curiosity and fear as his eyes darted around the dark interior. Wonder crept in when he fixed his gaze on Kalan. “No one’s ever been able to open the door before. Not ever, though lots have tried: priests and sages, princes and merchants, and even one of those weatherworkers. So they say.” He ran the tip of his tongue across cracked lips. “But it’s never budged. Not once.”

  Kalan shrugged, surveying the narrow space again. “It opened as soon as I touched it, so maybe those others were trying too hard.” Yet if the ripple of power had acted like a lock set to keep all but the right person out, then why would he—whether Kalan, an outcast from the House of Blood, or Hamar of Aldermere, Falk of Normarch’s foster son—be that person? Automatically, his mind went to the black-pearl ring—except it had not been affected by the door.

  Faro’s stare was almost painful in its intensity. “But it opened,” he whispered. “For you. And then you went in. I thought—I didn’t know . . .” He wiped his hands down his ragged shirt, the whisper fading away.

  “Did you come to make sure I was safe?” Kalan smiled at the small, hovering figure. “I think we’ll both be all right. Whatever mystery governs the door, the inside’s just an empty space.”

  The boy nodded, with another quick glance around before his gaze returned to Kalan. The darting movement might be reminiscent of the sparrow Kalan had called him, but his gaze was an owl’s, large-eyed and solemn. When he spoke, his whisper was urgent. “You can’t go with them, the Sea people. You won’t be safe.”

  “On the Sea House ship, you mean?” Kalan waited for Faro’s nod. “I have to, I’m afraid. Their vessels are the only ones that sail to the Wall of Night. Besides, I’m Derai, like they are. Our people take passage on their ships all the time.” Those few who journey to the outside lands, at any rate, he added silently.

  Faro shook his head. “But you can’t. Not if the door opened for you, because that means you’re special, no matter how ordinary you seem on the outside.”

  Kalan recalled the ship’s eye from his dream, opening to look at him, and the way Che’Ryl-g-raham’s words from the previous night had pursued him: I like puzzles. A coolness feathered along his spine, but all he said was: “Why’s that, Faro? Is it because of the weatherworkers?” He could well imagine that many Haarth people, not just warrior Derai, might be afraid of their powers. “Was that why you were so frightened of the navigator last night?”

  The grimy face contorted, as though the boy was trying to shape words but could not quite manage it. “I thought she was . . . someone else,” he forced out finally. “Her hair . . . and the sword . . .” His voice trailed away, then strengthened again. “But the Sea people are stealers. That’s what my mam said. If you’re not ordinary you have to stay clear of them, else they’ll steal you away.”

  Kalan considered it unlikely that Sea House mariners would steal Grayharbor children, or concern themselves with any Haarth business beyond their trade. Although—Here he paused, because Faro’s ability to conceal himself was far from usual. If there were others like him, then Grayharbor might wish to conceal the fact that weatherworkers did not have a monopoly on arcane power. But stealers . . . Kalan shook his head, until it occurred to him that if fugitive Derai priests, those called the Lost, had been discovered in the port town, Sea House mariners could well have returned them forcibly to the Wall.

  He frowned, contemplating another possibility, but kept it to himself. “I’m grateful for the warning,” he told Faro, “but my business is pressing, so I shall have to chance the Sea House ship.” He looked around the stark space one more time, his manner casual. “There’s really nothing here as far as I can see. What do you think, time to leave?”

  The boy vanished at once, and Kalan grinned as he rose to his feet. By the time he reached the door, Faro was crouched on a nearby roof, close by a drainpipe that had clearly been his means of ascent. Kalan removed the cobbles from the jamb, and as soon as he stepped clear the stone slab grated back into place. He frowned at it briefly, before smiling up at Faro. “Another puzzle,” he said lightly, extracting the money from his coat. “Grayharbor is full of them.”

  He thought the boy might smile in answer, but when Faro saw the bag of coins, sullenness closed over his grimy face. “Here.” Kalan tossed the bag up to him and wondered, momentarily, if Faro was going to let it fall back—but at the last moment he snatched it from the air.

  “Take me with you,” he said fiercely, not even looking at the coins. “I can watch your back.”

  Kalan shook his head. “It’s not possible, Faro. I told you that last night.” He paused. “The money will keep you going for a while, but I’ll leave something more with Rayn, the clerk at the shipping office. That should bring enough for a decent apprenticeship, which is a better future than you’ll find with me.” The set expression above him was not encouraging, but Kalan persisted. “Once the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s gone you can walk in the front door whenever you’re ready and talk to Rayn about it.”

  The knuckles around the coin bag clenched white as Faro’s face twisted. “I don’t want your better future,” he cried. “I want to come with you!” When Kalan said nothing, just continued to gaze steadily up at him, he raised his arm as though intending to fling the coins back into the lane, but checked the gesture. Instead he sprang up and hurled himself along the eave, disappearing between the adjoining roofs without looking back.

  At least he kept the money, Kalan told himself, but his frame of mind was bleak as he quit the lane. Like the weather, the mood did not lift, even when his fare on the Che’Ryl-g-Raham turned out to be more reasonable than he had feared. Rayn listened without interruption to his explanation about Faro and agreed to dispose of the contents of Kalan’s package for the boy’s benefit. Yet striding back to the Anchor afterward, Kalan still felt as dour as the day. I couldn’t possibly take Faro with me, he thought, and I’ve done all I can: I have to put him out of my mind and concentrate on my own business. But this, he found, was more easily resolved upon than done. Faro’s despairing I want to come with you! stayed with him as tenaciously as Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s murmur about liking puzzles.

  Curse the brat! Kalan thought, rather savagely, when an afternoon’s walk around the landward perimeter of the town brought him back to the Anchor, and his dinner, in as morose a temper as when he left it. A Grayharbor urchin would not survive long on the Derai Wall, that was all there was to it. And if, as he had begun to suspect, Faro was the result of a liaison between one of the Derai Lost and a local woman, that was even more reason to keep him away from the Wall of Night.

  I’m doing you a favor, boy, even if you don’t see it, Kalan thought, mopping up his gravy. He could only hope that Faro would understand, one day—assuming that Malian found both sword and shield and they could stop the darkness from swarming over Haarth. For if they did not, there would be no better future for anyone, from a street urchin in Grayharbor to the Shah on Ishnapur’s Lion Throne.

  Kalan slept without dreaming and woke to the previous day’s grim mood, which only lifted when he found Rayn waiting in the Anchor’s yard. “The Che’Ryl-g-Raham sails on tomorrow’s dawn tide,” the shipping clerk said, and Kalan nodded, relieved that the waiting was over. No dreams disturbed his sleep that night either, and he woke in darkness to collect up his gear and
prepare the horses for the voyage. A tousled, sleepy Leti let him out the inn gate, and she was still in the entrance when he looked back from the street corner. A fine, misting rain haloed the night lantern above her head as they both lifted a hand in farewell.

  When Kalan reached the dock, the charred remains of the Sea Mew were no more than a shadow seen through intermittent drizzle. Lanterns glowed saffron on the wharf adjoining the Che’Ryl-g-Raham, as well as along the ship’s bulwark and in her rigging, illuminating the mariners’ work. Orth and his Sword comrades were waiting in the lee of the nearest warehouse, but as much as possible in the confined area, they ignored Kalan’s arrival. He shrugged inwardly, conscious of Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s presence on the poop deck as the crew came and went. Even with his own powers suppressed, he could almost see the shimmer of magic when the weatherworker joined her. Orth glowered in the same direction, his arms folded, but Kalan imagined that the Sword warriors’ desire to reach the Wall—together with the ship’s marines—would deter a confrontation. He was also aware that the Sword band’s restraint would not extend to a Blood warrior without comrades or kin to back him.

  Dawn was imminent when word came to embark. Kalan got the horses on board with far less fuss than in Port Farewell, although both regarded their accommodation in the hold with suspicion. He spent time getting them settled, listening to the voices of the mariners working cargo and the footsteps crisscrossing the deck overhead until whistles piped, indicating they were about to sail. When metal clinked softly behind him he spun around, expecting a Sword warrior, but instead saw the woman with the shaven head, her stare unblinking as she watched him from beside the hold ladder. “Honor on you,” Kalan said automatically, although he was also remembering that the marine, Temorn, had told him she would not reply. Could she be mute? he wondered. In the gloom, her gaze was opaque as a blind woman’s, but she raised her hands, pressing the palms together and bowing in an ancient gesture of greeting and salute.

  Madder snorted, his ears pricking forward as Che’Ryl-g-Raham swung down the ladder, her frown shifting from Kalan to the shaven-headed woman. Kalan thought she was going to speak sharply to one or both of them, but despite the frown her words were calm. “You should not be here,” she told the woman. “Your place is on deck, with Laer.”

  The woman turned away immediately and ascended the ladder, the charms on her ankle bracelet tinkling. Che’Ryl-g-Raham watched until she disappeared through the hatch, before directing her frown at Kalan. “Is she not allowed down here?” he asked.

  Che’Ryl-g-Raham hesitated. “She is the Ship’s Luck,” she said finally, “whose place is with the weatherworker once a ship puts to sea. Ship’s business,” she added brusquely, forestalling questions. “But if she bothers you again, do as I did just now and send her back to Laer.”

  Kalan was about to say that the Luck had not been bothering him, but honesty made him admit that he found her disconcerting. Che’Ryl-g-Raham nodded, as if reading the admission in his face.

  “When your horses are settled,” she said, “find Temorn. We don’t usually carry this many passengers, so we’ve had to give you a bunk in the marines’ quarters. He’ll show you where to stow your gear. We’ll refund part of your fare, of course,” she added.

  It was only afterward, when Kalan was back on deck and the Che’Ryl-g-Raham was slipping seaward in the gray dawn, that he wondered whether he had been assigned comrades to watch his back, after all.

  10

  Ship’s Business

  The voice of the sea filled Kalan’s dreams, a whisper and bubble along wooden planking, although the timber on which he walked was hidden by fog. His footsteps were muted, but despite the whiteness he felt sure it was a dock he paced, rather than a deck. It was like the Grayharbor dream again, he thought: the vision of mist with a gull’s cry beyond it, and the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s eye opening to gaze down at him. This time, though, it was not just one curved black prow rising through the fog, but a fleet of them, all with the same dawn eyes painted on their prows.

  When Kalan turned to gaze back the way he had come, he saw that the fog had thinned. Now he could make out masts and rigging, harpoons and ballistas, as well as the ominous nozzles used to spray what the Derai called Sea House fire. When he looked more closely, he saw that many of the ships appeared to have recently been in battle, with gouged and holed hulls and snapped masts. A storm could also inflict such damage, but these were fighting ships and Kalan guessed he was seeing the Sea House navy, the warships that sailed into the heart of the Great Ocean’s storm zone to hold the Swarm-born monsters that dwelt there in check. Ship’s business, he thought, repeating Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s phrase—except if the Gate of Dreams was showing him this, then something about the fleet must be his business, too.

  “Or you are our business.” If he had been awake, Kalan knew every hair on his body would have stood on end, because the whisper had not only spoken into his dream, but from within the wards he and the heralds had woven with such care. Wary, he placed a dream hand against the nearest black prow.

  “What business would that be?” he asked.

  “We know who you are, Kalan of House Blood, Ser Hamar of Aldermere. We know the Token you bear upon your hand. But we are good at keeping secrets.”

  So Yorindesarinen was wrong, Kalan reflected, when she said that no one would remember the black-pearl ring anymore. Clearly someone, or something, did—which just went to show that gifts from dead heroes should never be taken at face value.

  “Secrets . . .” The voice was a shiver across his mind, and beyond it Kalan could hear a song that rose and dipped with the waves. It was in his dream and so he could not tell himself it was just a song, but he pulled his mind back to the more pressing matter: how either a single ship, or a dream of the Sea House fleet, could discern who he was beneath the guise of Khar of Blood. Or, he added grimly, recognize the ring that Yorindesarinen gave me.

  “All those who come within the ambit of our power we comprehend fully,” the dream voice replied, “just as we comprehend you now, waking or dreaming. The star-bright hero we remember from the days before, as we recall the one who last wore your ring upon his hand.” Momentarily, the voice paused. “We remember everything.”

  Kalan sensed the parts to a puzzle shifting around him as the fog began to fray apart. The distant song acquired a wilder note, while all along the dream quay the ships rose high and then fell again on an unseen tide—and the eyes on every curved prow opened as one, piercing him with their vision. “Need presses, Kalan-hamar. You must wake.”

  His mind framed a demand for explanations, but the fog streamed away until the only contact with the dream was his hand, still resting on the warship’s black prow. A shudder ran through both and an instant later he was fully awake, staring into the darkness of the marines’ quarters with his palm resting against the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s hull. Kalan told himself the shudder was only in the dream, but held still for several seconds anyway, expanding his awareness to encompass the ship. He could feel the rhythm as it ran before the wind and identify distinct sounds: the swish of the sea along the hull, the creak of sail and rigging, and the murmur of the crew keeping the quiet watch. It was their second night out from Grayharbor, and those marines not on duty were sleeping all around him, some distinguished only by the in-and-out of their breath, while others punctuated the darkness with snores. All seemed as it should be, yet uneasiness persisted, keeping Kalan’s focus on the ship despite the dream still niggling for his attention.

  “Vermin: I can always smell ’em.” Kalan almost jumped when the voice muttered, as close as if the speaker were right beside him. He placed the Swords’ accent at once, although he was unsure whether it was Orth or his equally surly comrade, Malar, who had spoken—but recognized Kelyr, speaking in reply.

  “All Sea House ships carry weatherworkers. We knew that before we embarked.”

  “Don’t forget their so-called Luck, Kel.” That was Tawrin. “You don’t need a wyr hound
baying to know there’s something off about her.”

  “Makes me want to puke when either one comes near.” That’s Malar, Kalan decided, which means the first speaker must have been Orth.

  “Stay away from them, then.” Kelyr sounded exasperated. “We want to survive this voyage, not end being hung from the ship’s yardarm.”

  Malar muttered something indecipherable, which Kalan suspected was profane. Even taking into account his acute hearing and the way sound traveled, he was certain they must be close by and not in the guest cabin beneath the poop deck. The most likely explanation was that they were on the deck immediately above the marines’ quarters, and a trick of the ship’s structure was funneling their voices—which might be why none of the marines stirred, being used to the phenomenon. Kalan frowned, concentrating, as Malar spoke again.

  “. . . can’t even have a go at that cursed Blood snot. Every time I look around there’s a marine watching.”

  “They gave him a berth in their quarters, too.” Kelyr sounded amused. “Someone on this tub has our measure.”

  Che’Ryl-g-Raham, at least, Kalan thought, although Temorn had observed that the Sword warriors reeked of ill will. Malar’s further expletives did not surprise him, but Orth telling his comrade to “stow it” did.

  “Khar will keep.” Will I now? Kalan thought, as Malar fell silent. “The weatherworker and his pet are vermin we know, but whatever I spotted in the dusk was lurking near the hold and moved too quickly for me to get a good look.” Orth paused. “I saw the mariners looking, too, when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. By the time I got close enough, there was nothing to find.” He paused again. “But you know that feeling you get, the twitch when there’s any kind of ’spawn about.”

  Reluctantly, Kalan had to concede that he did, although he had not detected anything amiss on the ship.