Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  The sun in the shield wavered, its zenith and nadir extending into a line around which all other light bent. Slowly, the line wavered toward Thanir, and although he did not look toward the shield’s surface, he smiled as though at some secret jest. Keeping his eyes on the heat shimmer between the staked out body and the dunes, he spoke a single, grating word—and the shimmer parted around a flaw in the air that matched the image in the shield.

  “The difference,” Emuun’s voice said, out of the rift, “is that Aranraith perpetrates his cruelties because he loves them, whereas my object is to terrorize and so weaken my enemies.” As he spoke, the fissure spat a small cloud of grit toward the shield, but it exploded in midair, well clear of the burnished gleam.

  “An observer might be forgiven for mistaking professional pride for pleasure, since the end result is the same.” Thanir did not appear to expect a reply, for he added, “I’d forgotten your anteroom into Haarth’s deserts, until I realized the only way you could have escaped my portal was via another that opened inside it.” His tone grew dry as the heat. “I imagine your allies did that for you, since your abilities, however impressive, don’t include gates.”

  The air within the rift swirled, momentarily assuming the form of a man. “My dealings with the great djinn are founded on mutual aid. Having such dealings does not make me a traitor.”

  “You won’t be the first, on either side of our conflict, who’s turned native.” Thanir was dispassionate. “But you’ve been using our runes to feed them blood and magic.”

  “They have a taste for it, and once sated, offer gifts in return. If benefiting from that equates with turning native, then I’m guilty.”

  “Yet still deny the treachery.” Thanir studied the bulge of light and shadow around the rift. “Why not come with me, then, and defend yourself to Aranraith and Salar?”

  Emuun’s laugh rasped through the heat. The line within the shield had stopped moving but continued to ripple, bulging out and in like the split in the air. “As you yourself said in the night fair, their way of asking questions is too similar to my own. You’ve nerve coming here, though, even with Aranraith driving the hunt. Not,” the facestealer added, “that you are precisely here, are you?” His laugh rasped again: “Wise.”

  Thanir shrugged. “We all know your liking for sending unambiguous messages to your enemies, as you have done with the Ishnapuri magi through torturing their adepts.” He paused. “That seemed as good a reason as any for me to mindwalk, rather than coming here in my physical body once I decided to speak with you privately.”

  The flaw in the air hung motionless—but within the shield its mirror image began drifting toward Thanir again. When he spoke another word in the grating language of stone, the fissure wavered first one way and then the other as though caught in contrary winds. Finally it split apart to reveal Emuun, who made a show of applauding his adversary.

  “You know your runes. And how to manipulate the Gate of Dreams. But if you want to talk rather than bringing your shadow hunt after me, something must have changed . . .” He frowned. “Surely you’re not concerned by a sword-for-hire with a few adept’s skills thrown in? You know how common that is here. Most of them are barely aware they have power, let alone knowing what to do with it. Easy meat,” he added, a feral grin displacing the frown.

  “Your crow warrior had a very interesting sword.” Thanir was measured. “She also countermanded my spell holding the exits from the building closed.”

  Emuun grunted, his frown returning. “I agree, that does go beyond a few adept’s skills. But it doesn’t explain why you’re suddenly interested in talking. You could hunt her down yourself, if you wanted to.” His hard eyes narrowed, considering possibilities. “Something you saw but I didn’t, beyond the hedge adept and our little conflict.”

  “The crow warrior countered my closing spell.” Thanir spoke softly. “But before that, someone else put an axe through the main doors.”

  A ripple shivered across Emuun’s stolen face and as instantly stilled. His eyes remained old and dark, twin pits focused on Thanir. “Another immune—and in Aeris. You’re right, that is interesting.”

  Thanir’s smile did not reach his eyes. “An immune was involved in foiling our coteries in Emer as well.”

  Emuun bared his teeth. “So now that doubt has been sown in your mind, perhaps you’d best see where the trail leads.”

  This time, genuine humor touched Thanir’s expression. “You know that’s not how this works. You’re the one Aranraith wants, whatever the truth of events in Emer. But if you find the Aeris pair and learn exactly who they are—” The barbed shoulders shrugged again. “If you can prove there is at least one other immune operating in Haarth, that should persuade Nirn and Salar. Nothing will sway Aranraith in your favor, but if you were to bring him the sword and both heads, a native immune and an adept for his trophy wall, he may be appeased. So long as I know you’re on that trail, I’m willing to suspend the hunt.”

  “Hunting is one thing, bringing down the prey another.” Emuun’s gaze rested on the mutilated corpse, his tone more thoughtful than aggressive. “You obviously think this Aeris business is important, so why not pursue it yourself? Why make bargains with me?”

  “The Aeris pair intrigue me, but I have more pressing business to resume in the north.” Thanir rubbed one gauntleted thumb against the pommel of his longsword. “While your only hope is to deflect Aranraith’s wrath. Even you, Emuun, won’t be able to elude his hunters forever.”

  Emuun scowled. “Not if he calls on Salar. I do know that. But why is the great Lord Thanir suddenly so concerned for my well-being?” Sand eddied around him, although there was no wind, and the flies rose, too, replicating the spiral of sand. The outlines of both warriors blurred as the facestealer’s gaze quartered the horizon, from the crest of the dunes to the rim of the low hills. “This place is starting to disintegrate.” Slowly, both sand and flies resettled, and his eyes narrowed. “That had better not be your doing.”

  “You know what this is, or should. It’s the same reason I prefer not to lose one of our most experienced and ruthless agents—so long as we can be sure you’re not behind recent setbacks in the River and Emer.”

  “The maelstrom,” Emuun said slowly. “Nirn has hinted, but you know he’s no longer what he once was.”

  Thanir said nothing. In the mirror, a shadow darkened the reflected dunes, although no cloud marred the sky overhead. Emuun studied it, his expression set. “Aranraith likes playthings,” he observed, “as does Salar. Perhaps they might prefer the Aeris pair alive—if I accept your offer.”

  Thanir’s image was fading. “Do as you will, Emuun. But there is no more time: you must decide whether you are for us or against us. If you are with us, then you must prove it, or flee fast and far.” His waning gaze rested on the mutilated corpse. “And cease feeding Nirn’s assassin agents, but more importantly, the taste of his magic, to your djinn allies. The recoil of this one’s death was felt by his acolytes in Grayharbor, and although they thought it was weatherworker magic, I suspect Nirn knew better. And if word were to come to Salar—” Thanir left the sentence hanging, like the threat, as his form vanished from the portal. A moment later his shield, too, disappeared.

  Emuun cursed, a pithy necklace of expletives, while the sun’s eye blazed and the air roared like a furnace. “If the fates are kind, they’ll give me him beneath my knife, before I’m done.” He spat on the corpse. “Assassins, adepts, the high-and-mighty Blood of the Sworn: they all think they’re strong, but every one of them screams and begs in the end.” He kicked the corpse and the flies stirred, but did not rise. Drawing a dagger, Emuun scored the tip across his palm, dripping blood along the lines carved into the assassin’s flesh. “At least I put his death to better use than Nirn was making of his life.”

  “Your enemy was too cunning for you.” The voice sighed out of the air, a susurration of wind through sand. “A spirit sending is far more difficult to ensnare than a physi
cal form, and he used the shield as a mirror to prevent me manifesting and springing your trap.”

  Emuun grunted. “He’s clever, no question. And knows too cursed much about what we’re about, Amaliannarath take him.” He paused, watching the careful drip of blood slow. “He’s right, though. If the maelstrom is rising, even vengeance will have to wait.”

  “You promised us blood and magic, as well as your enemies’ deaths to feed our power.”

  “I have given you both many times over since we made our bargain.” Emuun licked at the last drip, lingering over blood and salt and sweat. “Thanir is doubly right, curse him. I need Aranraith off my back, else I’ll be dead and there’ll be no more of this brew for you. And we’ll all be dead if the maelstrom rises and we let the wave edge overtake us.”

  “So you say.” The murmur rustled from all sides.

  Emuun shrugged. “You felt what touched this place before; the way the whole construct shivered. Believe in that if you don’t believe me.” He knelt, his forefinger tracing fresh blood over the section of pattern where the drips had fallen. “But you’ve had your magic and death, and now I’ve given my own blood to fuel this hunt, in lieu of what you hoped for. It’s time for your side of the bargain.”

  “A bargain is a bargain,” the voice of sand and wind agreed, “even if we did not taste the greater death you held out to us.”

  Slowly, other voices whispered through the first, rustling together like flames in a grate. “We will aid your hunt. A bargain made must indeed be kept, and the greater death was not a promise, only a possibility. Besides, given what rides on your hunter’s back, the trap may well have turned and bitten us.”

  Emuun rose and began using swift, bold gestures to draw the same pattern as the freshly blooded runes onto the air. Wisps of steam curled around the invisible inscriptions left by his hand, and if he heard the whispered observation, he did not respond.

  PART IV

  The Bride of Blood

  20

  Emissaries of Night

  Myr’s head ached from the weight of her hair, coiled and pinned tight beneath an even heavier jeweled headdress. The gauze veil, also a-glimmer with jewels, stood out stiffly to either side of her face and made it difficult to see without fully turning her head. And if I do that, Myr thought, I might swipe one of the stewards as they bend to serve us. Terror of so public a display of maladroitness turned her first hot, then cold—so she kept the painted mask that was her face turned rigidly forward.

  She had protested when Ilai, a new attendant seconded from Liankhara’s household, had insisted on applying the elaborate formal makeup, but was glad, now, that the watchful gathering would only see an archetypal Daughter of Blood. No one, she felt certain, could detect any sort of personality, let alone Myrathis the Mouse, beneath what felt like a porcelain glaze over her true features. At the same time, Myr knew that few of those seated in the banqueting hall would care whether a personality existed beneath the mask. She was a figurehead, that was all, a piece to be played in Blood’s bid for Derai power, where only strategic gain mattered and Earl and Heir alone were not considered expendable players. Myr’s reflections heightened her awareness of her father’s impassive presence, seated beside her in his great chair, but she resisted the impulse to try and read his face since that would mean turning her head. As for her siblings, she did not need to look around to know where they were.

  Myr had been told that the House of Night still maintained the old Derai custom whereby Heir and Earl sat apart, but Kharalthor was seated at their father’s right hand, in what Blood regarded as the Heir’s place. Her own elevation to a place on the Earl’s left reflected her new status as Bride, displacing Hatha to one end of the high table while Huern sat at the other. The rest of Myr’s siblings were also at the Earl’s table, interspersed with their leading Blood guests and the Earl of Night’s emissaries. Only Liankhara was absent, but Myr knew she would be secreted somewhere close by, observing the play of events.

  Besides, although Ilai had been seconded to the Bride’s household, Myr felt sure that she still reported to Liankhara. Her other siblings, too, would doubtless have their agents in place, to keep them informed of the Bride’s business . . . Myr kept her eyes lowered but was aware of Sardonya’s cool gaze from several places away, while Parannis lounged directly opposite. Her half-brother exuded such sleek satisfaction that Myr suspected the whispers must be correct and he had been calling out those he considered enemies, killing or maiming them in secret duels.

  He’s cruel, she thought, and repressed a shiver, certain the supposed enmity was just a pretext—and because she had learned young that Parannis was the brother to most actively avoid. She also wondered if he was deliberately defying their father. Shortly before the Night marriage was first raised, the Earl had forbidden Parannis’s duels, saying no House could afford to alienate so many retainers. Yet Myr suspected that Parannis disdained such considerations, just as he derided the Honor Code as outmoded.

  Right now, he was also ignoring the Night and Blood guests seated to either side of him. At least Anvin and Sardonya were maintaining a semblance of courtesy, even if they, too, disdained this marriage and believed Blood should lead the Nine Houses as of right. Even Sarein, who was actively establishing herself in the so-called New Blood faction, with its Haarth ambitions for the Derai Alliance, was nodding at whatever her dinner partners said.

  All the same, Sarein’s small smile scraped at Myr’s nerves, in much the same way as one of the hairpins, inserted at too sharp an angle, was a line of pain along her scalp. Her half-sister had been wearing an identical smile when the ruling kin left the High Hall in formal procession—and she managed to step on the heavy train that trailed from Myr’s shoulders. If it had been Sardonya, Myr might have accepted the misstep as accidental, but she knew Sarein’s action was a deliberate attempt to humiliate her before the vast gathering of Blood. It might have worked, too, except that Myr had guessed she would be made to suffer for walking ahead of all her siblings, except Kharalthor, in the formal ceremonies. Her elevation might be dictated by tradition, reinforced by the Earl’s command, but Sarein, like her twin, would not care. If she perceived a slight, sooner or later someone would have to pay.

  Myr had not expected the retribution to come so publicly, though, especially when it was the House of Blood’s prestige at stake, not just her own. Despite her wariness, she would have stumbled, perhaps even fallen outright, except her new attendants had been walking to either side and Ilai—under the pretext of adjusting Myr’s veil—had seized her arm, counteracting the abrupt jerk on her shoulders. The attendant might be Liankhara’s agent, but Myr had still been grateful for both her supporting hand and presence of mind as Ilai signaled the other attendants to gather up the sweeping train. Otherwise only Huern had appeared to notice anything amiss, first studying Ilai and the train with his most inscrutable expression, before shifting the same enigmatic look past them to Sarein.

  Huern was wearing the same expression now as he listened to the dinner guests on either side. Myr had always found him difficult to read, but thought his incalculable demeanor had grown more pronounced since the Night contract was proposed. As if Myr’s thoughts had drawn his attention, Huern turned her way, so she concentrated on making a show of eating, although everything tasted like sawdust. But between Huern’s scrutiny, Sarein’s smile, and Parannis lounging opposite, she had to grip the utensils fiercely to prevent her fingers trembling. When she did finally look up, Sarein’s smile had been redirected toward the Night guest on Kharalthor’s right. Teron of Cloud Hold: Myr repeated the name from the list she had committed to memory. He was strikingly handsome, and Sarein’s look had grown almost avaricious. Sardonya, too, was smiling as she studied the young Night warrior and Myr found herself hoping that Teron of Cloud Hold had well-honed survival skills.

  “Are you looking forward to judging the contest in your honor, Lady Myrathis?” the guest to her left asked.

  Asantir, Command
er of Night, Myr told herself, although she had not needed a list to identify the quiet, keen-faced warrior who led Night’s emissaries into the High Hall. The Commander was known by reputation in the Red Keep, chiefly as the Earl of Night’s sure right hand and foremost envoy in his endeavors to reunite the Nine Houses. She was also said to be a priest lover, an apostate who bent the terms of the Derai Alliance’s Blood Oath even if she never—quite—broke them. Since the betrothal was confirmed, Anvin and Parannis had both informed Myr that the Commander and the Earl were so close they must have been lovers in the past, if not now. Myr was far more interested in the rumor that the Commander of Night had once slain a siren worm with a black blade, but knew Anvin and Parannis would say that Night generated such tales to shore up its failing leadership. Siren worms, after all, belonged in fireside stories, the sort used to frighten children into good behavior.

  Narn of Bronze Hold, on the Commander’s far side, had kept Asantir engaged in discussion since they sat down, canvassing weapons and armor before he expanded on boundary patrols and tactics. But now I have to make conversation, Myr thought, conscious of the lengthening pause. Her lips parted, but before she could force words out, Kharalthor leaned forward. “My young sister will sit with us, Commander Asantir, but you’ll find the judging falls to our lot.”