Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  Myr wished Hatha would not say “your” quite so persistently—but she applauded until her hands ached when Taly’s and Dab’s names were among those announced by the marshals when the day concluded. Kolthis and his cronies were advancing, too, and so was the Storm Spear.

  “A long list still, but that’s as it should be,” Kharalthor observed to Asantir. “We’ve seen their capabilities on foot. Now we need to see ’em on horseback before making the real cull.”

  Taly’s an excellent rider, Myr thought, so she’ll have a good chance tomorrow. And Dab’s at least good enough to be in the running. Yet she still lay awake that night, thinking about the contest injuries and how she had heard bone snap when Kolthis threw his opponent—and prayed nothing similar would befall Taly or Dab. Warriors could as easily die or be wounded on border patrols, let alone in war, but these injuries seemed worse because the contest was only partly to select an elite guard. The rest was spectacle, designed to enhance the prestige of Blood.

  In our own eyes at least, Myr reflected, recalling Commander Asantir’s cool, impassive countenance and the laughter of the Sea Keepers. As Bride, she could not absent herself from the contest, but she would ask Ise to visit the infirmary on her behalf. By the standards of Blood, injured warriors were held to have failed in the contest, but they had still competed in Myr’s name. Ise would know what to do for them and advise her on whether more was required . . .

  Yawning, Myr settled deeper into the bed. Even the Red Keep, filled to capacity with contestants and those gathered to watch them compete, grew quiet in the late watches, so she heard the hound when it howled. She shivered beneath the warm covers, but despite waiting, wide-eyed in the darkness, the howl did not come again. Later, though, her dreams were full of blood-eyed hounds pursuing a milk-white hind that twisted and turned and doubled back, but could not escape.

  22

  Honor Contest

  On the Field of Blood, the Storm Spear galloped his bay charger down a row of targets and shot an arrow dead-center into them all. “Impressive,” Asantir said, as the crowd stamped and applauded. In the adjoining box the Sea Keepers stood right up, cheering and whistling, and Myr wished she could do the same. But that would be unbecoming conduct for a Bride of Blood and show favoritism.

  Beside her, Kharalthor’s narrowed gaze dismissed the Sea Keepers before returning to the field. “Ay. None of our Wall horses can match his pair for size or martial training.”

  Conscious of his reserved tone, Myr was careful not to clap too long. Her spirits had lifted from the first moment the competitors entered the arena, the horses’ crests arched and both coats and harness gleaming. She loved the speed and power as opponents thundered toward each other, or shot accurately from a gallop as the Storm Spear had just done—and longed again for the Sea Keepers’ freedom or to be an arena page, yelling for her favorites and placing bets.

  “It’s not just their size.” Huern, too, was intent on the Storm Spear as the bay walked back to the muster point. “Both his roan and the bay are neat on their feet as cats.”

  “They’re Emerian great horses.” Teron sounded both admiring and grudging. “But however well they do in the arena, they’d be useless in Wall terrain.”

  “Among the passes, yes,” Asantir replied. “In more open country they could be a battle winner.”

  “Heavy cavalry, ay,” Kharalthor agreed, which sparked discussion on how such a force might be countered. Asantir nodded at times, but kept her eyes on the field, and Huern, too, remained silent. Myr only realized that Hatha was also paying more attention to the contests when her sister leaned forward. “Another clean round,” she said, clapping, and Myr saw that the successful archer was Taly.

  Despite Hatha’s exclamation, Myr thought her brothers’ applause was perfunctory. They did not seem enthusiastic when Dab bested Ralth either, after a fierce, knee-to-knee flurry of blows. Later in the morning, Rhisart bore down on the Storm Spear—who had switched to his roan destrier—with a war-axe. But the warhorse shouldered the Bane Holder’s mount off line, before bringing his rider in close enough to knock the axe clear of Rhisart’s grasp.

  “Who should we put in the Honor Guard, though?” Kharalthor drawled, as the cheers died away. “The rider—or the horse?”

  Hatha slapped her thigh in appreciation, but Myr was not convinced her brother had been joking. She herself felt far less enthusiasm for both the warrior and his destrier during the afternoon, once he and Taly fought. The ensign held the Storm Spear at bay for some time, demonstrating considerable skill with her sword and using her horse more effectively than Rhisart had done, until the cat-footed roan switched direction unexpectedly. The maneuver allowed the Storm Spear to catch Taly off-balance and hook a leg beneath her knee, heaving her half out of the saddle. Taly’s horse leapt away, but she clung to its neck with one leg still clamped across the saddle and quickly retrieved her seat. Seeing daylight between rider and saddle was still a defeat, though, and the provosts pointed their batons toward the Storm Spear.

  Or his horse, Myr thought, echoing Kharalthor’s sentiment despite knowing she was being unfair. The Battlemaster buffeted Hatha’s shoulder. “Your protégée will have a hard job coming back from that.”

  He’s right, Myr thought, her hands balled inside her sleeves. In that moment she hated the Storm Spear almost as much as she resented Kharalthor’s good humor and Huern’s indifference. Hatha just shrugged. “The day’s not over yet and the final selection will be on overall points, not one win or loss.”

  She’s right, too, Myr reminded herself. Her sister was being very open about supporting Taly, but Hatha had always liked the ensign and was not an official selector, so could afford to show partiality. Myr could not, but remained acutely aware that Kolthis was among those who were currently undefeated. He was skilled, too. She had to concede that as he won again.

  “What do you think, Commander?” Kharalthor spoke across Myr to Asantir. “Going into this, we felt Kolthis was a promising candidate for the captaincy.”

  So they had decided. Myr’s nails bit into her palms but she kept her face turned blindly toward the field. Sardonya or Sarein would probably seize the moment to argue for an alternative candidate, but Myr doubted she could force even a whisper out.

  “I agree he shows promise,” Commander Asantir replied. “A number of other candidates do, too, which is heartening so early in the contest. But it’s the group competitions that will show us their ability to work effectively with others, plus the tactical leadership we’ve agreed is vital for the Guard’s officers.” She paused. “Although perhaps you have a preference, Lady Myrathis?”

  Myr caught Kharalthor’s headshake as Sardonya and Anvin broke off their conversation to listen. She was aware that Huern, too, was watching, and guessed they would see her hesitation purely as timidity—but wanting Taly and Dab in her guard did not necessarily mean she believed either one should be Honor Captain. Like the Commander, Myr considered it was too early for that discussion, but knew saying she had no preference would reinforce Kharalthor’s determination to choose for her. On the other hand, insisting she didn’t want Kolthis would only provoke her brother, not persuade him. And if word got back to Kolthis, his dislike might harden into enmity . . .

  I must just say that Commander Asantir’s words have persuaded me I should wait until after the group contests and the melee before finally deciding, Myr thought: that way I shouldn’t offend Kharalthor, or the Commander either. She swallowed, knowing her silence had become awkward. “I,” she began—but was drowned out by the crowd’s groan.

  A horse and rider were down, Myr realized, turning with the rest. When the dust settled, she saw the rider’s leg was trapped beneath his mount and several serjeants, a farrier, and two field surgeons were conferring. Eventually, the horse was helped to rise, but seemed unable to place its right fore-hoof down. Myr watched the farrier shake his head, but also saw how the rider’s leg was twisted unnaturally. A moment later one of the field su
rgeons touched it, and the fallen rider screamed.

  “A bad business,” Hatha said heavily, and even Kharalthor nodded. Instinctively, Myr glanced toward the Sea Keepers, but they, too, looked grave, and one of their number, who was craning to see better, looked particularly grim. The horse was led off, limping on three legs, and Myr guessed from the farrier’s reaction that it would be put down. The surgeons took longer to remove the warrior. He did not scream again, even when lifted onto a stretcher, but his agony was palpable.

  “His warrior days are done,” Teron muttered. The crowd, too, was somber, and the applause more subdued once the contests resumed. But the feast tonight will still be held, Myr thought, to celebrate those who will go forward for another three days of this. For the first time, having seen the wreckage of the fallen warrior’s leg and heard him scream, she hoped Taly and Dab would be eliminated after all. She was still feeling that way during the last round of combats—until she turned away from Ilai’s murmured suggestion that they leave early to prepare for the feast and saw Taly ride straight at Kolthis in the middle of the field. A flurry of sword strokes followed, but the dust around the trampling horses made it hard to discern what was happening.

  The horses wheeled again, and this time Myr saw Taly clearly, pressing in close behind another rain of blows. Kolthis was blocking and trying to bring his horse around, but Taly kneed her mount forward and drove her shield into his visor. Myr saw Kolthis’s head go back and steel flash in the ensign’s hand, low toward the horse’s belly. Not the horse, Myr thought, her hands flying to her mouth: Taly wouldn’t—then she blinked as Kolthis and his saddle slid to the ground together, raising another swirl of dust. For a moment he lay still, before rolling clear of the trampling hooves.

  “She sliced the girth!” Hatha was slapping her thigh again. “I taught her that trick,” she added, and punched Kharalthor’s arm. “He doesn’t look much like an Honor Captain now, on his arse in the dirt.”

  Kharalthor’s expression darkened, but Hatha continued to grin at him. “I told you the day was not over, brother.” She leaned toward Asantir. “I think Ensign Taly’s just proven she’s Honor Guard material, don’t you agree, Commander?”

  Myr blinked again, wondering if Hatha could really like Taly enough to box in Kharalthor so publicly. But if Asantir agreed that Taly was a worthy candidate . . . Myr held her breath.

  The Commander of Night smiled slightly. “I’ll reserve all decisions until after the group contests and the melee.” She glanced back to the field. “But the ensign—Taly, did you say?—has been a consistent contender, and that unhorsing was outstanding.”

  Outstanding, Myr repeated silently, and dared not look at Kharalthor as the last contestants quit the arena. Behind her, Ilai stepped forward again. “We really should go, Lady Myrathis, if you’re to make the feast on time. Your father is to preside, remember, so you can’t be late.”

  Lateness would insult the finalists, too, since the feast was in their honor. Yet despite having wished, so short a time before, that Taly and Dab would not be selected, now Myr fervently hoped they would. Taly had been wonderful—and throughout the walk back to her apartments Myr kept reliving the moment when Kolthis had landed on the ground. If not for her attendants and escort she would have clapped her hands and laughed out loud. Like the Sea Keepers, she thought, and wondered what that would feel like.

  Instead she allowed herself a small private smile, and was still smiling inwardly while Vela and Kylin fussed over her evening gown. She barely noticed the weight of the hydra headdress and waited patiently as Ilai prepared to reapply her makeup. “After which,” the attendant murmured, “there can be no more smiles.”

  She smiled, though, saying that—but before Myr could think of a witty reply, a page arrived carrying a rolled parchment. “Compliments of the Commander of Night,” she said, bowing and extending the scroll simultaneously, “and here’s the list of those who’ve made the finals in your Honor Contest.”

  Taly and Dab’s names were on it, Myr saw, trembling as she studied the sheet. So was the Storm Spear, whose name was listed as Khar, and Bajan of Bronze Hold. Kolthis was there, too, as she had known he would be despite his fall, and Rhisart—but not Ralth. Scanning the list again, just to be sure, Myr felt as though the goddess Ornorith had smiled. Until, that is, she remembered the fallen rider screaming as the surgeon touched his broken leg, and the horse that had probably been put down. The rider would be in the infirmary, she supposed—and remembered that she had not seen Ise to ask how her visit there had gone.

  I’ll talk to her after the feast, Myr decided, or early tomorrow since it’s the rest day; I should have time to do whatever’s needed, too, between the receptions. Slowly, she rerolled the scroll and met Ilai’s eyes in the glass. “Make me look the part,” she said, and to her surprise, the attendant bowed before picking up the cosmetics tray.

  Even after the eliminations, the number of contestants going forward remained a formidable company, and the banquet hall was so full of unknown faces and busy servers that Myr still had not picked out Taly and Dab when the meal ended. A long round of toasts followed, led by her father’s salute to the successful contenders and the clans and holds they represented. The clan and hold leaders then replied in turn, praising the valor of Blood and the honor of Earl and Heir.

  So much spectacle, Myr reflected, as she had the previous night—although at least the speeches held the warriors still enough to survey their faces over the rim of her goblet. The servers remained active, refilling cups and sweetmeat platters, but Myr finally located Taly and Dab at the far end of the hall. The Storm Spear was seated close by, and all three had their eyes lowered as Lord Fray recounted highlights from the past two days, emphasizing the prowess of his Bane Hold warriors. Rhisart’s name was mentioned several times, despite serving in the Red Keep now, and the accompanying stir helped Myr pick out Kolthis, halfway around the hall. Rhisart was seated on his right, and a warrior she did not recognize to his left, where Ralth would have been if selected.

  Despite the loss of one adherent, Kolthis’s manner remained assured, in stark contrast to many of the warriors from outlying areas who stared openly: at the room and their fellow warriors, but mainly at Earl Sardon, Kharalthor, and herself, the Bride of Blood. Their stares, together with Kothis’s bold, dismissive glance, made Myr thankful for both her masking makeup and the hydra headdress, its nine raised heads shadowing her upper face. Lifting her goblet again, she debated how soon she might withdraw. Lord Fray had sat down at last, and Paran of Oath risen in the final place, which reflected his hold’s standing as Blood’s oldest satellite fort. He was also Parannis and Sarein’s maternal grandfather, a fact that underlined their continuing absence when even Liankhara was seated at the Earl’s table. Currently, she had her head inclined toward Lord Paran, apparently absorbed by his enumeration of Oath’s lineage and achievements.

  When she must have heard it a hundred times before, Myr thought. Huern was looking particularly saturnine, an expression that grew more pronounced when Lord Paran promised his own gleeman would sing the contestants’ praise. Myr sipped her wine as the Oath lord finally sat down and the banquet noise resumed. Her gaze returned to Taly and Dab, before shifting to the Storm Spear—at which point she became aware that someone was scrutinizing her in return.

  Startled, Myr looked more closely and saw there was a page standing behind the Storm Spear’s chair. The boy was small, which made it hard to see him behind the warrior’s broad shoulders and the chair’s back, but he was definitely watching her, apparently as fascinated by her remote, elaborate appearance as she had been by the colorfulness of the Sea Keepers. Myr thought he looked a little like a Sea Keeper himself, with his hair fastened into numerous tiny braids that were shorn off level with his chin. Yet that style was also favored by Ward Hold warriors, and the boy’s copper-and-bronze coloring was all Blood. And if he’s with the Storm Spear, Myr decided, he must be in service to their order. But the Bride must not be se
en staring, so she let her gaze drift away. By the time it drifted back, the page was staring through the hall’s open doorway, his expression bored.

  The Earl’s voice recalled Myr’s attention, saying he would escort her back to her apartments. He can’t want to hear the Oath gleeman either, she thought—and since his wording did not permit a refusal, she bowed her head and stood up. The entire gathering rose, too, and remained standing as they left, with her father’s guards leading and Myr’s retinue walking behind. She glimpsed the page again as they approached the doors, only this time he was staring at her father and the bored look was gone. Myr tried to catch Taly’s and Dab’s attention, but their straight-ahead focus eluded her—and then she was through the doorway, with the Earl’s squires hurrying to clear the way ahead.

  Leaving together was another gesture, Myr understood that: a sign to Blood’s elite that she stood high in her father’s favor. Their journey was largely completed in silence, but at the entrance to her apartments the Earl’s right hand closed over hers before she could turn away. With the left, he waved both retinues far enough back that his speech would not be overheard. “You are conducting yourself well, Myrathis.” His look, beneath heavy lids, was narrowly assessing. “But never forget what this marriage means to me and to Blood. Or that it is your chance, in the eyes of your House, to put the Half-Blood slur behind you. The gold, jewels, and mining revenue I offered your sisters shall be yours, seven years’ hence. But for now—” He broke off, the hooded look grown brooding before he spoke again. “If you continue to do your duty without complaint and do not shame me before the House, then when this contest is done you may ask me for a boon.”

  Reaching out, Earl Sardon tapped two heavy fingers against her cheek. “Any request within reason, Myrathis.” He paused again, while the stone hydra above the apartment entrance stared straight ahead and Myr felt equally frozen in place. “Make sure you ask wisely, my daughter. I would not wish to be disappointed in you.”