Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  “Our daughter, Surinay: a fine scholar, whom we were sorry to lose.” Sirit inclined her head to Sri, who looked almost as startled as Garan felt, before turning toward Dread Pass. Her expression was unreadable. “I appreciate your concern, but Sea will have need of their numbers when the shadows flow in on them like ocean fog.”

  Prophecy, Garan thought, chilled despite her everyday tone, which nonetheless managed to convey that the shadows would flow soon. His hand moved toward the talisman Eria had pressed into his hand at the same time as she kissed him farewell, but checked the gesture as Sirit’s gaze returned to him. “You have discharged your escort duty honorably, Garan, despite Morning having no claim on you or Night. Will you discharge one more commission on my behalf?”

  Garan wanted to glance toward Nerys, but instead rubbed his chin, weighing caution with courtesy. “That depends on what it is,” he said finally.

  “Grandmother,” Sri began at the same. “Dalay won’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as Sirit glanced her way.

  “Won’t like it?” The old Lady’s expression did not change, but she sounded amused. “Dalay has no grounds for objection, since nothing in my commission contravenes either House of Morning policy or our oath. The fact that Dalay will not like it is neither here nor there.” Sri looked away, her mouth turning down in the same way it had earlier, while Sirit’s gaze met and held Garan’s.

  “I promise my commission will not conflict with either your duty to Night, or”—she paused—“the oath you swore six years ago, when it wakes to life.”

  From the corner of his eye, Garan saw Nerys stiffen. “An oath,” he repeated, even more cautiously, which made the old Lady purse her lips.

  “The one that binds you and half your eight-guard. I have the ability to discern the shape of such things—and that your oath will wake to life.”

  Despite everything he had experienced during the Old Keep expedition, as well as serving in the new watch with Eria and her fellow initiates since then, Garan could not prevent a flash of revulsion at such open reference to power use. But he made himself think of Eria—particularly in the moment when she had pressed half her initiate’s talisman into his hand—and then refocus on Sirit, not as a priestess and power user, but as the person he had accompanied through long months of travel along the Wall. “You may be mistaken,” he said slowly, “since the one we swore to died.”

  Sirit shook her head. “Such oaths can always waken if one knows the way to unlock their bindings. When yours does so, I ask that you pass on my gift to the opener of ways.” Something in the way she said ‘gift’ made the hair on Garan’s forearms lift. “Morning owes a debt to Night for your escort,” Sirit went on, her words uncannily reminiscent of Dalay’s, although their import was very different, “and in all likelihood for our lives. This may count toward its repayment.”

  “I’ll still need to see it before I agree,” Garan said, as they returned to the watchroom below the lookout. He assumed he would be able to identify whatever he was shown, but instead found himself puzzling over an oblong of heavy linen. He recognized the Towers’ silhouette on the cloth, but it was bordered by calligraphy he could not read, and framed within a wreath that comprised locks of hair, interspersed with drops of blood. The rectangle of linen beneath it was identical, except that the silhouette within both calligraphy and wreath looked like the great bell of Peace.

  Garan stared from one to the other, trying not to show that he was at a loss. “They look like funeral wreaths,” he said, sure he recognized Sirit’s white hair at the apex of Morning scroll’s. Mourning wreaths, which comprised locks of hair and drops of blood from a deceased’s close kin, were considered old-fashioned now, but some of Night’s more traditional families still followed the custom.

  Sirit nodded. “We call this a rune scroll, but it is a related practice, one we’ve borrowed from our Sea neighbors. Their mariners frequently carry them, so if one of their number drowns, or worse, a ship goes down, the names of the lost will appear on a Sea Keep memorial. The rites of the Silent God can then be observed and the souls of the departed find their way to Hurulth’s Hall.”

  Garan shook his head, thinking about the way Sirit had said ‘gift.’ “Is this some sort of death working, Mother?”

  Sri’s breath was a sharp intake, but Sirit met his eyes again, her own steady. “The scrolls are a gift for the one who wakes your oath. More than that I cannot say—except both I and my fellows in Bells will be greatly in your debt, Garan, if you discharge this commission.”

  Doubtless I’m a fool for even considering this, Garan thought. On the other hand, despite what he had said to Dalay, he knew the Earl and Asantir would expect even an eight-leader to play his part in building goodwill, as part of their quest to rebuild the Derai Alliance. “All right,” he said reluctantly. And Sirit bowed, as gravely as if he had been an Honor Captain, before rolling both rune scrolls into a slender leather case.

  “Honor on you and on your House,” she said, handing it to him, “and light and safety on your road.” She paused, looking from him to Nerys, and then to Sri. “May I suggest, once the storm shutters have been secured, that the three of you return to the lower halls with me? You’ve all proved your youth and vigor by climbing up here, but we do have a moving platform, with ropes and pulleys, on the opposite side of the tower from the stairs.”

  Garan, taking in Sri’s flush of color, remembered the repressive look Dalay had given her, just before he specifically mentioned the long climb. Nerys looked as though her thoughts were pithy, and he was certain Sirit did not need prophetic skills to divine what had occurred. He imagined, too, that his own expression must be a study, because the look Sri darted him was a mix of apology and trepidation, but more than a little gratification as well. Garan, realizing just how completely they’d been gulled, could not help himself. He laughed out loud.

  14

  Crow

  The daytime heat was still holding in the Aeris basin as evening fell, but later, Malian knew, the night would grow cold enough for frost. A light breeze carried dust and the scent of pine into the trading town with its ancient, ochre walls and sprawl of caravan inns and trading halls, stables and livestock yards. Malian could hear the brisk chime of harness bells from where she sat, high on the wall; a moment later she saw the mule train, making for the city gates in the last of the light. In a town like Aeris, being inside the walls could still mean pickpockets and knives down back alleys, but it also meant hot food, baths, and soft beds for those with money enough to pay.

  Unfortunately, that did not include two itinerant swords-for-hire, of indeterminate origin but sporting cloth head-wrappings and the bone-and-feather fetishes favored by Lathayran mercenaries. Raven had brought both his Hill horses with him into southern Aralorn, so Malian had sold her cob in the nearest market town and abandoned the identity of Heris the scribe for that of Crow, Raven’s companion hedge warrior. Birds of ill omen in appearance as well as name, she thought wryly, recalling how both innkeepers and caravan masters had eyed them askance—and sleeping rough had only added to their disreputable appearance.

  The wryness deepened as Malian reflected that the journey north would already have been accomplished if she had dared use portals freely. She was strong enough to open gates of sufficient size to accommodate two horses and their riders, and extend the portals over considerable distance. Nhenir—the moon-bright helm that had once belonged to the hero Yorindesarinen and was now hers—could also cloak the power use to a degree that would fool lesser users. Or even, Malian added now, more astute adepts. But she had not forgotten the waves of power that the Swarm demon called Nindorith had blasted across Caer Argent, on the night when she and Kalan fled before him. She had to assume the demon would remain alert for any sign that she had resurfaced—and for all Nhenir’s legendary ability, the helm was adamant that Nindorith would recognize its aura.

  He would certainly walk right through my Shadow Band wards, Malian thought, repressing a shiver as the
last light between the surrounding peaks faded from saffron to lavender. The heralds, Jehane Mor and Tarathan of Ar, had helped her thwart Nindorith’s seeking by walking the goddess Imuln’s Midsummer path of earth and moon, changing her essence to that of Haarth. Yet although the Darksworn—unlike the Derai—seemed aware that Haarth produced native adepts, the pattern created by regular portal use, as well as the level of power required to sustain them, was bound to attract their attention.

  So rather than heading directly north using gates, Crow and Raven had pursued a zigzag course across the Southern Realms. Malian had still used portals, but kept the openings intermittent and the distance covered random, interspersing their use with stages traveled by road. Sometimes they had eaten dust for only one day, sometimes for several. This last stage, crossing from northern Emer to Aeris via the Little Pass, had taken nearly a week. All the same, Malian thought, standing up and swiping the worst of the road dust from jacket and trousers, even such restricted gate use had gained them weeks, perhaps as much as a month. And that—when she was sharply conscious that summer’s end had now faded into autumn’s eve, and Kalan was traveling alone into the dangers of the Wall—counted for a great deal.

  The dust motes swirled, the day’s dirt and sweat and fading warmth mingling with the scent of the pines. Malian adjusted her head-wrapping against both breeze and grit, then stretched, feeling every mile of the day’s painstaking journey out of the Little Pass’s rough terrain. Turning away from the parapet, she looked down onto the Aeris caravan hostelry, which occupied a whole town block facing the wall. Its ground floor was a combined stable and wagon store, while the long, upstairs dormitory provided accommodation for the roughest or most impecunious travelers, with a lockup for guests’ gear. The current guests included caravan guards, muleteers, and drovers, as well as herself and Raven, and one mendicant priest of Seruth.

  A lamp had been lit outside the dormitory entrance, but Malian knew most of her fellow travelers would be in the nearest tavern, located close by the city gate. Descending from the wall, she saw that the tavern doors stood fully open, letting a tide of light and noise, together with the smell of hot food, spill into the street. Malian’s stomach grumbled, but she waited in the shadows, assessing those who came and went. A handful of muleteers and caravan guards were sitting outside, tallying up trading runs and talking over events in Emer, particularly how safe it was for caravans heading south. “It’s safe enough until Caer Argent, by all accounts,” one guard said, “but there’s been fighting in the Cendreward and down toward Lathayra.”

  An older muleteer blew foam off the top of his beer. “Skirmishing is all, from what I heard, not outright battles. The so-called champion turned rebel hasn’t found much support, it seems.”

  “War can turn on you like a snake at any moment, though.” The guard set his tankard down. “And I sign on to deal with footpads and outlaw bands at worst, not Emerian knights. I’ll be seeking caravans going another way.”

  Those around him murmured agreement, and a woman with tattoos up her bare arms, and a caravan scout’s assortment of knives, leaned forward. “I heard that the Queen of Jhaine who was visiting Emer’s Duke has not gone home as expected, but is journeying on to the River lands.”

  Now that is news, Malian thought, as the guard shrugged. “Her road would lead south, so maybe she thinks it’s too dangerous right now.”

  “True enough,” the muleteer agreed, without much interest, while the scout nodded.

  “Maybe so, especially as another rumor claimed Ser Ombrose Sondargent was behind three of her Seven dying, before he fled Caer Argent.”

  She had good sources, Malian reflected—although that was a scout’s business when ensuring a caravan’s safety, as much as establishing the best route through wild country.

  “Is that right?” Curiosity stirred in the guard’s face. “The way they tell it down Lathayra way, a Jhainarian queen without a full Seven is like a bird with a broken wing. Perhaps she’s afraid to go back.”

  “Who cares, I say.” The muleteer belched. “Jhaine’s shunned the rest of Haarth for long enough. Let this queen deal with her own problems.” The scout and the guard shrugged, but no one disagreed and the talk shifted to an upcoming cockfight. None of them seemed to notice Malian, watching and listening in the shadows, and she remained where she was until a band of drovers strode past. Attaching herself to their group, she entered the tavern’s packed common room, which reeked of unwashed bodies, beer, and new food smells overlaying the old. The drovers stopped just inside the entrance, looking about for a table, and Malian slipped sideways behind their broad backs, away from the light around the door.

  She found a section of wall between two windows where she could prop her back, taking stock of the crowd and looking for Raven. It was not until a cluster of caravan guards broke up that she saw him, seated on a corner bench by the rear entrance. Moths circled a lantern in the open doorway, but the corner where Raven sat was largely in shadow, although neither the gloom nor the cloth head-wrapping could disguise his taciturn demeanor. He looked well-worn, almost exactly like the hedge knight Malian had first met in the Long Pass, wearing her guise of Carick the scholar. She felt a brief regret for the uncomplicated nature of that encounter, when the hedge knight had rescued the scholar from the outlaws known as the wolfpack.

  Uncomplicated on the surface anyway, she amended, since the hedge knight had turned out to be the leader of a Darksworn House that had served in the River lands for almost a thousand years, concealed behind the secret helms of the Patrol. Malian was still awed by that revelation and doubted she had fully absorbed its implications. As soon as she had recovered from her Aralorn illness, the need to reach the River and rendezvous with the Patrol had taken over, together with the day-to-day considerations of their journey. Once they made that rendezvous, they would begin the long journey north to the Wall—which, Malian thought now, should provide plenty of time for mulling over everything Raven had told her about the Swarm.

  And marveling, she added, wry again, at the fate that brought a Darksworn House and the frost-fire sword from Yorindesarinen’s time to Haarth, and ultimately to me. Now, however, was not the time for such reflections, or distracting herself with the way Raven said maelstrom rather than Swarm, Sworn and not Darksworn, and nation instead of House. They’re just words, she told herself: what I need to focus on is a strategy for reentering the Derai world.

  “With your army,” Nhenir murmured. Only the helm, of Yorindesarinen’s three legendary weapons, had ever spoken, and its mindvoice was a cool-as-silver ripple across her thoughts. Adept at disguise, its appearance was currently that of a knight-for-hire’s steel cap, complete with bone-and-feather decorations to match Raven’s.

  Malian smiled faintly, appreciating the helm’s dry note. “With the army Raven—Aravenor—has brought me. You’re right, there’s a satisfaction in that.” She kept her face impassive, just another traveler surveying the crowd, while wondering whether she could rely on Raven’s army following her. He himself had said that they were not truly Darksworn anymore, so what if they decided to remain the Patrol?

  If she closed her eyes, Malian knew she would find the memory of the solitary tower in Aralorn, with the Ara-fyr, who had once been the Derai Lost, ranged against her. Despite the tavern’s close-packed warmth, she shivered, because that defiance was not unprecedented. Throughout Derai history there had been instances where Houses defied oaths and the Honor Code, abandoning an Earl or Heir’s lead.

  “Only in the most extreme circumstances, usually after protracted and disastrous campaigns,” Nhenir pointed out. “Night continued to follow Aikanor in the civil war, after all, although there must have been many in the Alliance who wished they had not.”

  “Not all of Night.” Malian felt the shadow of that old darkness stretch across the room. “Many would say that it was the Night priesthood harboring Xeria that nearly destroyed our Alliance.”

  Nhenir changed tack. “The House of
Fire has held to Aravenor’s leadership all these years. Do you have reason to believe they would forsake him now?”

  “If you mean, have I foreseen it, then no, I haven’t. But the rest of Fire doesn’t know me. Raven will be asking them to give up everything to follow not only a stranger but a Derai, forsaking the duty they’ve held to for a thousand years.” As soon as she said that, Malian realized she was assuming that Darksworn shared the Derai attitude to duty—and that the House of Fire had transferred theirs to the Patrol, in the same way the Lost had become Ara-fyr. The truth, she reflected, is that I’m certain of nothing, except that Kalan and I can’t withstand the Swarm on our own. “You yourself said that I would need an army,” she reminded Nhenir. “And you were right.”

  The Malian raised to be Heir of Night was keenly aware that this particular army had been Darksworn once, an enemy in the Derai’s aeons-old war—but also that Raven, who led it, had brought her Yorindesarinen’s sword. Even knowing his action stemmed from a geas the sword had placed on his House, the magnitude of the gesture matched that of Tarathan and Jehane Mor, opening up the sacred path of earth and moon so she could shake Nindorith from her trail.

  Both were gifts, Malian decided, and one should not compare the value of gifts. Nonetheless, even without the army he brought at his back, Raven placing Yorindesarinen’s sword in her hands had outweighed the loss of the Ara-fyr.

  She was conscious of the sword’s latent power now, resting against her hip. The leather of both belt and scabbard were timeworn anyway, but like the helm, the frost-fire sword was well versed in disguise. Currently, it looked like any low-grade mercenary’s weapon, serviceable and unpretentious, but Malian still felt a flicker of awe that the last person to carry the blade had been Yorindesarinen, ages and worlds ago. She could feel the link between the sword’s power and that of the helm, and after their initial blaze of magic in Stoneford had hoped that bringing them together would enhance her ability to seek out the shield. Instead, it was as though the sword was not just containing its power, but had returned to sleep.