by Helen Lowe
Myr’s gaze slid sideways in time to catch the elegant lift of her neighbor’s brows. “Indeed?” The Commander’s nod acknowledged Kharalthor before she turned back to Myr. “Is that because you feel it’s important you show no favoritism?”
Myr felt transfixed, aware that almost every face in the banqueting hall, not just those around the Earl’s table, was focused on her—but Kharalthor’s frown warned that it was time to pull herself together. “No,” Myr whispered, before swallowing in an effort to strengthen her voice. “The contest must be completely open, that is one of our oldest traditions. But I have no familiarity with war as you have, or my lord brother, our Battlemaster.” Her voice still felt faint against the weight of the banqueters’ attention. “I judge it best to be guided by your experience.”
Kharalthor’s frown vanished as he nodded. Instinctively, Myr looked toward the Earl but saw no visible change in his expression, although Hatha grinned at her from the far end of the table. Parannis was smiling, too, as he studied Asantir. “Mind you,” he said loudly, “given the record of Night’s honor guards these days, even our youngest sister might well prove a sounder judge of warriors than their former captain.”
If the hall had been quiet before, waiting for Myr to speak, the silence now was absolute as every stare switched to the Commander of Night. Teron of Cloud Hold’s hands clenched and the muscles in his neck were rigid, although however much he might want to, he did not rise from his chair. Still Myr could almost feel the strain in him from three places away, while beside her, Commander Asantir appeared unruffled. Yet surely, Myr thought, surely she must answer or Night’s honor be forsworn.
At the same time, she saw the dilemma, for how could a guest call out the Earl of Blood’s son in the Red Keep’s own banquet hall? Although if the Commander of Night did not—If she doesn’t, Myr told herself, she will be held a coward anyway. And if she does, then both she and this new treaty with Night may be equally dead. So Father has to intervene: as Earl, he must be seen to act. He has to, Myr repeated, unable to shut out the stares, most appraising or carefully neutral, but a significant number openly malicious as the silence stretched—until finally, Earl Sardon spoke.
“Doubtless, my son, it was your zeal to support the Bride’s role as judge that led you to misspeak our guest. Inadvertently, I am sure,” her father said levelly. “Nonetheless, you will withdraw your remarks and apologize.”
Many of those watching exchanged glances, or openly sat back. Myr held her breath, because she could see the gleam in Parannis’s eyes, but the Commander of Night spoke before he could respond. “The Son of Blood’s championship of his sister’s judgment does him credit, Earl Sardon,” she said, in her quiet way. “I also applaud your concern, Lord Parannis, for the record of those who will guard Lady Myrathis once she is Countess of Night. Although I am sure that you are not questioning the searching inquiries your Lord Father”—here she inclined her head to the Earl—“made on the same matter before setting his seal to the marriage treaty.”
More glances were exchanged and several surreptitious looks directed toward the Earl, but Commander Asantir was still speaking. “If it will ease your fears, Lord Parannis, I’m happy to give both you and Lady Myrathis the same assurance now that I have already made to your father. The former Honor Captain, the one who made the guard selections that so rightly concern you, has since made the full restitution that both the Earl and House of Night, and his personal honor, required.”
Myr shivered, because full restitution could mean execution or the invitation to commit suicide, both traditional Derai remedies in such cases. But the murmur that ran around the room suggested approval, and although some might still doubt Commander Asantir’s courage in private, it would not be possible to speak publicly without appearing to doubt Earl Sardon as well. Myr wondered if that was what Parannis wanted, or whether he had simply overreached himself.
“Your words, Commander, honor both Blood and Night.” Myr did not need to look to know that her father’s face, like his voice, would give nothing away. She avoided meeting Parannis’s gaze, but his exaggerated earnestness jangled her nerve endings as badly as Sarein’s smile.
“I assure you, sir, I am fully aware that the Commander stands as proxy for the Earl of Night in these ceremonies. And you know that I would never insult my sister’s future husband.”
No, Myr thought, but I’m your half-sister. She wondered how many present knew that Parannis was always careful to observe that distinction. When she slanted a look at Commander Asantir, trying to discern her reaction, the Night warrior’s expression was as impassive as Huern’s, watching from the far end of the table.
“Your motivation, my son, is well understood.” Earl Sardon, too, was imperturbable. “Nonetheless, the honor of House and keep require that you apologize to the Commander.”
Myr, watching covertly, thought Parannis’s mouth tightened, but the movement was too small to be sure. Graceful as an uncoiling snake, he rose and bowed to Asantir. “I apologize for any inadvertent insult,” he said smoothly. “As redress for my error, I shall withdraw.”
Myr could not help admiring the way his words said one thing on the surface and quite another if you listened to them another way. But Parannis was already pacing from the hall, acknowledging those along his route with a smile to one side, a lift of his eyebrows to the other. Myr wondered if some present might rise and follow him, but apparently even his New Blood adherents dared not go so far. Or perhaps the weight of their oaths to Earl and Heir still restrained them, no matter what they might think of the House of Night, its Earl, and the apostate Commander who sat, outwardly unperturbed, in their midst.
What is she thinking, though? Myr thought: she can’t have missed that Parannis really made no apology at all. If Myr were in the Commander’s place, one of only a small group of emissaries in the heart of another House, she would be terrified—and immediately realized she could well find herself in exactly that situation when her Blood retinue departed the Keep of Winds. Momentarily, her hands shook, but she made herself focus on Sarein, who was leaning forward.
“You must forgive my poor brother, Commander.” Sarein turned the full sweetness of her smile onto Asantir. “He can be so careless in his speech, but I assure you he is very conscious, indeed we all are, that you are said to have hunted down Night’s miscreant guards and slain them with your own hands.” Her widened eyes gazed around the table. “I am sure we all applaud such loyalty and dedication.”
Only Sarein, Myr thought, staring at the food congealing on her plate, could manage that innocuous tone while implying the Commander might have been silencing the traitorous guards, rather than meting out justice. Yet the same possibility had occurred to Myr when she first heard the story . . . She stole another glance at the Commander of Night, but if Asantir felt Sarein’s barbs, any flinch was well concealed. “I strive to serve Earl and House to the best of my ability, Lady Sarein. If I succeed, that is applause enough for any warrior.”
She sounded exactly like one of Earl Sardon’s life-sworn warriors, and Myr was conscious of a flash of disappointment—until Asantir smiled, an expression reminiscent of the slender blade Taly carried in her boot. “Although the forsworn guards were as much a murder weapon as the arrows they loosed. The hunt for those who forged the weapon, and directed it, is not yet done. And won’t be, until they are all dead.”
Myr was still thinking about the Commander’s words when she finally sat in her dressing room and let Ilai lift the headdress and veil clear. Many in the banquet chamber had applauded the sentiment, while Sarein sat back, balked of her prey. But Myr, her eyes darting along the table, had seen the faint narrowing of Huern’s eyes and suspected that he, too, had caught the implication that Commander Asantir might be hunting here, in the Red Keep.
How my head aches, Myr thought—only now it was not just from tension and the weight of the headdress. Kharalthor had expressed surprise that the murder of Earl Tasarion’s former consort could be
more than just an isolated incident, the perpetrators rotten wood that needed cutting out of Night’s Honor Guard. Myr, though, had only been surprised at how little shock she felt that Asantir believed the matter went further. She stared into the mirror as Ilai began unpinning her hair, and thought her eyes looked haunted: by how much her father and elder siblings wanted the Night marriage, and fear of what might have been done to bring it about.
I doubt my own family, she thought, and would have shivered if Ilai had not been there.
“Completely unsuitable, of course.” A voice spoke from the adjoining dayroom, and Myr recognized the speaker as Kylin, another of her new attendants. A smothered laugh followed before Vela, a second newcomer, murmured back. Her words were indistinct, but despite the new, much larger suite of rooms allocated to Myr as Bride of Blood, both must know that the door between the dressing room and the dayroom was open, so there was a good chance Myr would overhear.
Kylin is like Kolthis, Myr thought. She may not actively intend me to hear, but she doesn’t care if I do. Behind her, Ilai’s hands had stilled briefly, but now she laid the hairpins aside as a man’s voice joined the dayroom conversation. “I’d say that suit of armor is proof Night’s intelligence network is no patch on Lady Liankhara’s.”
One of the new guards, Myr thought. She had not yet learned all their voices, or the names that went with them. Both the maids tittered, although Myr knew their mirth was directed as much at Night this time, as at her. Besides, she could hardly be angry with her attendants when Kharalthor had sat with his hand concealing his lower face while the Night armor was presented as her betrothal gift. Myr closed her eyes against the memory, but pretended it was because Ilai had begun to wipe away the makeup mask.
“Your troth bracelet is a noble gift, Lady Myrathis.” Ilai spoke softly, but Myr almost opened her eyes again, she was so surprised. Does Liankhara’s agent feel sorry for me? she wondered, curious behind her shut lids.
“Yes,” she replied, because the bracelet—interlocking yellow- and white-gold bands in the form of a warrior’s vambrace, with a spinel as its centerpiece—was a marvel of the goldsmith’s art. Yet whatever gifts Aralth, her father’s chamberlain, had selected for the Earl of Night could hardly be less appropriate than a suit of armor and a vambrace bracelet were for her. Clearly, Myr thought, the Earl of Night still believes he’s getting a true Daughter of Blood as his wife. She smiled a little ruefully as Ilai’s light eyes met hers in the mirror.
“You’re amused, Lady Myrathis?” The attendant wore her hair concealed beneath a dark, close-wrapped hood, a practice still followed by widows from the traditionalist holds.
I must ask about her husband once I know her better, Myr thought, even if she does report back to Liankhara. Especially, she added wryly, as a large part of the keep does that. “By the armor, yes,” she replied. She dared a grimace for the first time since Ilai had applied the makeup, long hours before, knowing Taly would say that she could make the gift meaningful by learning to use the armor effectively. “Although it could hardly weigh less than today’s regalia, so perhaps I should wear it to the contest of arms tomorrow.”
Ilai appeared to consider the idea. “If it were Blood armor, Lady Myrathis, then yes. But since it’s not—” Her shrug made it clear that wearing Night armor was not an option. “A pity, since you will have to be sewn into tomorrow’s robes. So why not go encased in armor instead?”
Is she sharing a joke with me? Myr wondered, but Ilai was already busy pouring fresh water into a basin. By the time she finished, the moment had passed, and they both remained silent as the attendant completed her work. Almost, Myr reflected, as though we’re frightened by what a simple jest between us might mean. But the hint of shared humor gave her the courage to have Ilai dismiss all those waiting in the dayroom, while she retreated into her bedchamber.
Alone at last, Myr thought, leaning back against the closed door. Such moments would be rare during the coming week, since the Bride must attend all stages of the Honor Contest. To preside over the competition with Kharalthor and Commander Asantir, she reminded herself—and would have laughed out loud except that someone might still be listening. All the same, Myr knew she would need to pay attention out of respect for the competitors, even if Kharalthor did not expect her to contribute to the selection process.
The Bride must also attend the banquet on the second night, held to honor the contestants who had excelled in the individual competitions and were proceeding to the two days of group contests. A rest day would follow before the final grand melee, but Myr’s time would be taken up by formal receptions for Blood’s hold and clan leaders, as well as any representatives from other Houses. The Honor Captain and Guard would be named on the fifth day of competition, following the melee, with one final night of feasting for the successful candidates and the gathered House.
As if all that were not enough, Myr would have to wear two different costumes on the days when there were both contests and feasting, and possibly change a third time for the formal receptions. Aralth, as well as Ise and various of Myr’s siblings, had emphasized that each successive costume must be more elaborate than the last, because what the Bride wore reflected on Blood’s prestige. Consequently, Myr had spent long hours being draped in linen and sumptuous velvets from the River cities, together with the silks and frail gauzes of Ishnapur. An Heir’s ransom in fabric and jewels, she reflected now. She suspected that the cost of her wardrobe for these ceremonies, together with the wedding clothes she would take to the Keep of Winds, would keep Blood’s army in uniforms for a year. And Blood was the largest House in the Derai Alliance—larger even than Night, Myr thought, pulling on her nightdress and climbing into bed.
After the initial relief of resting her aching head on the pillow, she kept returning to Sarein’s smile and Parannis’s false earnestness, and the way her father had let them play their games unchecked. Myr tried to reassure herself that Night’s emissaries had been welcomed formally, but knew it would not be the first time that the laws of Derai hospitality had been broken by a blade in the dark. It could not be open murder, though, not if her father wanted this marriage and the potential path to leadership of the Derai Alliance. But if the Commander of Night were to fall as a result of more subtle means—well, that would be a blow Earl Tasarion would need time to recover from, undermining his attempt to rebuild the Derai Alliance while Blood consolidated its own leadership claims.
Seen in that light, I’m not so much a bride, Myr decided, as a dagger poised against the Earl of Night’s throat. Surely he must know that . . . Although perhaps he saw no choice, since he needed a wife recognized by the Alliance and an Heir for his House. After all, despite Derai custom, none of his marriage emissaries were drawn from Night’s ruling line. Because Earl Tasarion, Myr thought, has no blood kin to send.
If Night falls, all fall. Reflexively, she repeated the old warning and wondered if the Earl of Night and his House truly believed it anymore, since Blood—almost openly—did not. And what about Commander Asantir? she asked herself. What will she do, what can she do, if the trail from the murder of her Earl’s consort does lead back to Blood? Appeal to my father, I suppose . . . Myr would not let herself consider that the trail might lead to the Earl himself and what that might mean. Unable to lie still, she flung back the covers and ghosted through her dressing room, easing the door into the dayroom ajar. The lamps had been turned down but their muted glow illuminated the black armor on its stand, with Night’s winged horse emblem glittering on the breastplate. Myr hesitated, checking for loiterers, before crossing to study the armor more closely.
The craftsmanship was easily as good as the best work done by Blood’s armorers. White gold gleamed on gorget, vambraces, and greaves, while diamonds glittered on the winged horse device and around the elaborate belt buckle. If the Bride’s clothes and jewelry added up to an Heir’s ransom, this armor would fetch a royal price in the Derai’s trade with Haarth. An apt counter to her own House’s displa
y of wealth and power, Myr supposed, tracing the winged horse insignia with a fingertip. “Armor fit for a warrior queen,” she murmured. “But that’s not me.”
“You could make it your own.” Myr whirled to face Taly, who had appeared in the entrance to the adjoining reception suite. The ensign frowned around the dayroom. “There should be a guard on either side of this door.”
“I sent them away. Surely,” Myr protested, seeing Taly’s expression, “guards on the suite’s outer doors are enough?”
The ensign shook her head. “Not when the keep’s overflowing with warriors we’ve never met. Plus a Sea House envoy’s here already, to witness the contest and travel on to your wedding.”
“We’re friendly with Sea.” Myr had seen the Sea House colors among those gathered in the High Hall, although the subsequent banquet had been for the leaders of Blood and their Night guests only. “You can’t think their envoy poses a threat?”
“It’s a tepid friendliness at best. And they, like most of the Alliance, won’t favor this marriage.” Taly’s gaze swept the room again. “I’m sure Mistress Ise has explained how it will alter the balance of power between the Houses.”
“I didn’t need Ise to tell me.” With any other guard, Myr would have rolled her eyes, at least inwardly. “But if you’re afraid of assassins, our enemies will know there are other Daughters of Blood if anything happens to me.”
“Two of whom have publicly denigrated the marriage.” The ensign’s voice was flat. “My orders are for guards on both sides of the inner as well as the outer doors, excepting only your bedchamber—unless we’re really worried.”
“Then I’d never sleep.” Myr folded her arms. “I already can’t. And my head aches.”
“Too many dress fittings and not enough training.” Taly grinned at Myr’s grimace of denial. “If you’re physically tired enough, you will sleep, Lady Mouse.” Her gesture took in the grand new suite and tomorrow’s robes already draped on a stand facing the armor. “Training would get you away from all this. You have only to send for me, or Dab, when you want to escape. You could say you need to accustom yourself to wearing Night’s gift.”
