Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  And Nerion? her misgivings answered. What might she have whispered into your mind that you were never consciously aware of, or concealed even from yourself? Self-doubt shook her, until Nhairin reminded herself that when the Madness took hold, Rowan Birchmoon had still been alive. And until the mysterious song roused her, she had been confined in Westwind Hold. The relief was so great she almost cried out, and afterward risked using her bow as a walking stick, so she could make her halting way to the cairn and greet Falath.

  Nhairin was not sure how close the hound would let her come, or whether he would drive her off if she intruded on what he considered his territory. She stopped as soon as he stood up, taking the opportunity to rest her leg, but saw the feathery tail was beating a slow welcome. “Do you remember me?” Nhairin asked, meeting the dark eyes fixed on hers. Momentarily, gratitude for the companionship of another living creature tightened her throat, before she limped nearer. Falath whined softly in greeting, his tail continuing to wave when she rested a hand on his warm, silken head. Oh, Falath, she thought.

  Someone had brought him food. Nhairin’s stomach rumbled sharply when she saw the neatly cut joint, because there was still meat on the gnawed bone. She realized, too, that the Derai voices had not been a hallucination after all. Her thoughts leapt between resolving to take care and brush away her tracks, and wondering if she could persuade Falath to share the bounty, especially since the hound seemed glad of her company. His vigil, she reflected, must be as lonely as the grave he guarded, despite the visits of those bringing food.

  Had it been a long one as well? Nhairin wondered, her eyes on the gray hairs about his muzzle—then shook her head, unable to recall whether she had ever noticed the hound was growing old.

  Before now, she added uneasily, but made herself look past Falath to the low arch and the darkness beneath it that marked the cairn’s entrance. Rowan Birchmoon’s name was carved into the stone, together with the images of beasts and birds that had always been embroidered onto her clothing. So perhaps she asked to be buried here, Nhairin thought—where the small creatures of the plain come and the wind sometimes blows out of the Winter Country, rather than lying in the vaults beneath a Derai keep. She wondered, too, whether the Winter Woman had died as a result of accident or by an enemy’s hand. Nhairin had certainly seen enough darkspawn sign, coming here, to make the latter feasible, even so far into the Gray Lands.

  The last thought made her glance uneasily around, before studying the cairn again. The darkness within its mouth both drew and repelled her at the same time, yet Nhairin could not shake the feeling that in passing beneath the low arch she might meet herself—as she had been, not as the filthy, emaciated creature she was now—within the tomb’s stillness. “But I can’t go in,” she whispered, clinging to Falath’s warmth beneath her hand. She dared not. The darkness reminded her too much of the Madness, so that for a time she could not move at all.

  “May it find you out, Nhairin, wherever you are . . .”

  Nhairin jumped violently, certain the murmur had breathed out of the cairn’s mouth. Shuddering, she clutched at Falath’s head with one hand, while the other tightened on her bow. The hound did not move, just continued to gaze up at her, his dark eyes calm, and the whisper did not come again. Slowly, Nhairin’s heart returned to a more normal rhythm. It was only then she realized that the reason her guiding thread might have vanished, was because this was where it had been leading her all along.

  The realization drove Nhairin back into the cave, where she remained for the rest of the day. When she finally crept out again, the stars were icicles in the blackness overhead. Watching their cold brilliance, she tried to imagine the heavens resounding with their song, but all she could hear was the music that had roused her from the Madness. Nhairin shivered—from cold, she told herself—and listened to Falath pace the hollow instead. He stopped when his patrol brought him abreast of where she sat by the seep, but uttered no sound before moving on. Afterward she crept back into the cave, eating the last scrap of food and huddling into one corner in an attempt to stay warm.

  Tomorrow she would have to set snares, or try hunting the small game that could be found closer to Jaransor. Tomorrow, too, she would have to think about what being led to the cairn might mean, and whether lingering was feasible now that she knew Derai came here. Especially since they would be of Night: that seemed certain if they were feeding Falath. Nhairin’s stomach grumbled, thinking about food, but although she feared hunger and cold might prevent sleep, she was just nodding off when the wolf howled.

  The sound jerked her upright, her heart pounding wildly for the second time that day. A wolf here, in the Gray Lands, Nhairin thought, shocked because Haarth’s larger predators, like their prey, rarely ventured so close to the Wall. She lay awake for a long time, tense with listening, but heard nothing more—although when sleep finally claimed her, a fiery-eyed wolf stalked through her dreams.

  A nightmare, Nhairin reassured herself, waking again. Yet when she finally crawled out of her hideaway in the chill dawn, she found a pair of brush fowl dropped by the entrance, with the mark of a wolf’s paw beside them in the dirt.

  13

  Watch and Ward

  Garan thought that what the Towers of Morning priests called guest quarters was more like an entire wing of their great keep, in which he and the rest of his eight-guard rattled around like pebbles. They had been occupying it for a week now, having seen Sirit, the old Lady of Morning, and her companions safely home from the Keep of Bells. The time spent sheltering from Wall storms, together with Sirit’s age, and the need to skirt wide around House of Adamant territory on their return, had made it a very slow journey. So despite Morning being one of the priestly Houses, and the Towers echoing and half-empty, the eight-guard had accepted the opportunity to rest their horses, and themselves, before setting out for the Keep of Winds.

  Which I’ll be glad to see again, Garan thought, checking over his sketch maps and careful notes recording their journey. Winter had barely ended when his unit had been ordered south to fetch the minstrel, Haimyr the Golden, back from the River—only to be reassigned to escort the Morning contingent as soon as they returned. Before they had even passed the Border Mark, in fact, because of a confrontation with the Adamant priests who were escorting Sirit and her company. An Adamant priest had died as a result, and their leader had promptly declared blood feud with Asantir, the Commander of Night, and abandoned his Morning charges in the middle of the Gray Lands.

  Because the old Lady took our part, Garan reflected now, or the Adamant leader, Torlun, thought she had. The end result was a bad business, whichever way you looked at it. And not just because he and his unit had spent the rest of the summer shepherding—or nursemaiding, as Innor like to put it—the Morning priests the length of the Wall. Earl Tasarion and Asantir had been trying to rebuild the Derai Alliance for years now, so the last thing they needed was another blood feud, especially with Adamant. If Torlun had just been a rank-and-file Keep of Stone priest, the business may not have amounted to much, but the Morning company had made it clear that he was First Kin to the Earl of Adamant.

  One of the Morning company, Garan amended, with an inward shake of his head over the priest that Innor had nicknamed Dour Dalay—although Ter had added “humorless Dalay” beneath his breath. Garan was more sympathetic, because Dalay was Sirit’s deputy, and given her age the responsibility for their journey must have weighed on him. Especially, Garan thought, when they found themselves abandoned in the middle of hostile territory and dependent on the warriors of an opposing House. He had seen how bitterly Dalay resented that dependence, and the priest’s poorly concealed distaste when obliged to have dealings with any of the Night warriors—which because he was Sirit’s deputy, was an everyday occurrence.

  Garan smiled inwardly, thinking how indignant Eria would have been, on his behalf, if she had witnessed the care Dalay took to maintain physical distance, even when they consulted over the day’s route or how much f
arther Sirit could travel. At least Garan now knew enough about the priest kind’s odder sects, having served six years with Eria and her fellow initiates in the Old Keep watch, to guess that Dalay must be one of those who regarded themselves as the Nine Gods’ elect. In which case, even traveling in the same company as Garan’s eight-guard would have compromised the priest’s religious practice, while physical contact would constitute outright pollution.

  Just as well Eria isn’t among the elect then, Garan reflected. Otherwise she could not have kissed him the way she had, the day he departed for the River. She and the rest of the off-duty watch had been present to see his eight-guard off, when they left via the Keep of Winds’ messenger postern. Garan, who had been conferring with Asantir, was the last to reach the gate—and at the final moment Eria had come running, swinging herself up by means of his saddlebow and one foot resting on his in the stirrup, to kiss him on the mouth.

  Garan, smiling over the recollection, became aware that Asha—sitting opposite him at the room’s long table—was smiling, too, in an uncomfortably knowing way. Not that any of the others could have seen anything that day, having all ridden out ahead of him—except possibly Nerys, who might have glanced back at the critical moment. But one thing you could be sure of with Nerys was that whatever she saw, word of it was unlikely to pass her lips . . .

  Still smiling, Asha’s fingers tapped out a tune on the tabletop. “Doesn’t this place creep you?” she asked Garan. “The only voice you hear in this whole wing, outside our rooms, is the wind.”

  Ter, seated at the table’s far end, looked up from the arrow he was fletching. “It’s practically a day’s march from our quarters to their High Hall. And when you finally arrive there’s no one to be seen. They’re all locked away in their towers.”

  “Poring over paper and dabbling in ink.” Asha’s tone shifted from incomprehension to awe. “They have whole towers full of old books, stacks of ’em from ceiling to floor.”

  “No wonder they needed nursemaiding,” Lawr said, from his place by the fire. “I don’t think any of the old Lady’s lot had been outside their towers before.” He paused, frowning. “And there aren’t enough of them to hold even half of this great pile, assuming they know how to do it.”

  Innor had been profane, over previous days, on the topic of the Morning priests ability to defend their Towers, so Garan thought it was probably just as well she was seeing to their horses with Eanar. “And they’re more vulnerable than the other priestly Houses,” Ter observed, “being so far forward on the Wall.”

  For a moment they were all quiet, considering that anomaly, and Asha looked unusually thoughtful. “They don’t seem aware of that, though. Almost as if it’s not real unless it’s written in one of their books.” Her grin reappeared. “At least with so few of them, every scholar has a better chance of getting a tower of their own. They could stay shut away from each other for days.”

  “I think they already do,” Ter murmured, while the others chuckled—including Nerys, who until then had appeared absorbed by the Swarm Bestiary that Sri, another of Sirit’s company, had loaned to her. Nerys had shown it to Garan earlier, pointing silently to several entries that were of interest to both of them from six years before. Despite the fire, Garan had felt chilled by the all-too-real depiction of the Raptor of Darkness. He still felt cold, because it was only the combination of Lady Malian’s fire and Commander Asantir’s black spear that had finally killed the demon. But the spear had also been destroyed, and Lady Malian had died shortly afterward, in Jaransor. All of which made it hard not to wonder if everything that happened in the Old Keep, and the oath the survivors swore afterward, had all been for nothing.

  Asha clicked her fingers almost under her nose. “You’re wearing your brooding look again,” she told him. “Which is not like you, so it’s lucky we’re heading home tomorrow. But how about a wager now, to cheer you up? I bet you a Sea House florin that the scholars do have a strategy to defend their Towers.” She propped her elbows on the table. “It’s obvious really. They’ll bombard anything that comes through the pass with their arsenal of paper.”

  “The Nine know, they’ve enough of it,” Lawr said, as Asha grinned around her shield comrades.

  You know we are forbidden to fight. Garan contemplated reminding them of what Sri had cried out to Torlun at the Border Mark—but Asha was right about his mood. “You know I’m not one to bet against a sure thing,” he said, casting away the disquiet caused by the Bestiary.

  “Ay, Garan’s too canny for that—” Lawr began, but stopped as Nerys coughed, her gaze going past him to the door.

  “Nine!” Ter said, but beneath his breath, and Garan groaned inwardly as he turned and saw Dalay and Sri in the doorway, with an apologetic Keron—who was supposed to have been watching the approach to their quarters—beside them.

  You could at least have coughed, too, Garan thought, his eyes meeting the young guard’s—but then decided he was being unfair. Keron couldn’t have anticipated that his eight-leader was going to give in to stupidity at just the wrong moment. It was clear enough, too, from Dalay’s stare, stiff with affront, and Sri’s lowered eyes and turned-down mouth, that they must have caught most of the wager conversation. If only, Garan thought, rising to his feet, I had reminded Asha of Sri’s words. But there was nothing to be done now, he would just have to brush through it.

  “Senior Dalay, Priestess Sri.” He used the titles Dalay had made clear were the only appropriate form of address from those not of Morning. “How may I assist you?”

  For a moment he thought Dalay’s aggravation might win out, before the senior priest jerked a nod. “It is how we may assist you. Mother Sirit says that you’ve expressed a wish to see the Towers of Watch and Ward before you leave. We’re doing repairs on Ward, but I’ve brought the key to Watch, and Sri is willing to take you up.” He paused, sending a repressive look Sri’s way. “I would take you myself, but it’s a long, steep climb and I have much to do.”

  In a keep famed for its towers, the Towers of Watch and Ward were more famous still, since they were reputed to be the tallest in any of the Derai’s nine strongholds. Garan was keen to climb them for that reason alone, but also wanted to see what more their height could show him of Dread Pass. Automatically, he glanced toward Nerys, and saw that she had closed the Bestiary and was already on her feet—but the others shook their heads. “We’ve climbed stairs enough in the Keep of Winds,” Ter said, speaking for them all.

  Sri looked down her nose, but otherwise fell in beside Dalay without offering comment. The senior priest unlocked the tower door himself and did not give the key to Sri afterward. “Fetch me when you return and I’ll see to it,” he told her, then hesitated, regarding Garan and Nerys with the expression of a man weighing further speech. “We owe your commander a debt,” he said abruptly. “But if she thinks that will bring Morning into Night’s orbit, you may tell her she’s mistaken.” He paused briefly, his face still stiff, and his eyes bleak. “Whatever Mother Sirit may intend, our House acts as one or not at all. And we swore our own oath, after the Betrayal War, to never again be drawn into the fratricides of the warrior kind.”

  Not just the warrior kind, Garan thought. Sri’s eyes were cast down again, a v drawn deep between her brows, but like Nerys, she did not speak. For a moment he was tempted to return a curt answer, before his sense of humor got the better of him. “Alas, I’m not party to the inner counsels of Earl Tasarion and his advisors, and they don’t generally inform me of their thoughts. As an eight-guard leader I come and go as ordered, and do as I’m bid.” Briefly, he considered apologizing for his earlier levity at Morning’s expense, but decided it would probably worsen matters, rather than mending them.

  “You may pass on what I said anyway,” Dalay told him, but with rather less conviction than before. He only stayed to give Sri a few terse instructions, before stalking away.

  The priestess raised her eyes. “It’s a long climb,” she said. “We’d best get sta
rted.”

  Garan considered himself fit, but was still sweating and short of breath when they finally reached the tower summit. Nerys and Sri were both breathing hard, too, although the priestess only paused for a moment before she began unbolting the storm shutters. All their breath steamed on the chill air. “But at least it’s the calm season,” Sri said, as Garan went to help her. “That should make your journey home quicker.”

  “It will,” he agreed, then caught his breath again as he realized the lookout provided an eagle’s eye view of terrain they had crawled through like ants when approaching the keep. The Tower of Watch looked out onto the Dread massif, and Garan could pick out deep ravines between jagged ribs of rock as the pass climbed into a brew of cloud. The Tower of Ward lay on the keep’s far side, overlooking the Plain of Ash, which stretched straight and level toward the Gray Lands. Easy riding for the first part of their journey home, but Garan hardly cared about that. Whichever way he looked, all he could see was vulnerability for the badly undermanned Towers, and fear clawed at him: for Sri, with her ink-stained fingers, and the old Lady they had escorted so far; even for stiff-necked Dalay.

  Frowning, he studied the pass again—and almost yelled when he turned and found Sirit watching him from the opening onto the tower stairs. After the business with the Stone Keepers at the Border Mark, Garan had decided there was more to the old Lady than met the eye, but still could not fathom how she had dragged her elderly bones up the tower’s long, twisting flights. Startlement prompted him to say what was uppermost in his mind. “You need more people, a proper garrison to hold these walls, Mother.” Despite Dalay’s prohibition, his use of her Morning title was a reflexive echo of Commander Asantir at the Border Mark. “Sea still has numbers, and didn’t a Daughter of Morning marry their Count—” At which point Garan broke off, realizing he was sticking his nose, unasked, into another House’s business.