by Helen Lowe
23
The Midnight Keep
I would not wish to be disappointed in you. Her father’s words continued to haunt Myr long after her attendants had left. Any request within reason, she thought, but what would he consider reasonable? Or wise? Suspicion it might be a test made her huddle the covers closer, especially as her father had as good as said her Rose heritage was a shortcoming. In which case, Myr reflected, why marry me into Night? The only reason she could think of was that somehow, through her, that would bind the House of the Rose into Blood’s power play, although she could not see how.
So it must just be that I’m the default choice, she decided finally, because my father had no other alternative . . . Myr pulled a face, wishing she was back in her old rooms where she could consult Ise without worrying so much about hidden listeners. In the new suite, every room almost certainly had a listening post for Liankhara’s eyes-and-ears, and Myr could not rule out her household eavesdropping either—if Ise had been here to ask. But she and Meya, her longtime attendant, had gone to keep an all-night vigil in the chapel of Thiandriath.
Myr shivered, because the vast, echoing spaces and deserted hallows of the near-abandoned Temple quarter always made her nervous—although that could be because Parannis and Sarein had chased her in there when she was small. They had almost trapped her, too, except that Ise had been in Thiandriath’s chapel that day as well and heard the twins about their hunt. The old Rose woman might be diminutive, and the twins full of jeers, but when Ise drove her walking stick onto the paving, exactly like a warrior grounding a staff, Sarein and Parannis had fled. They had been children then, too, of course, but Myr knew their natures had not changed.
So at least one positive aspect of the Night marriage, she reflected now, is that I won’t have to take pains to avoid them anymore. And even if there were similar personalities in the Keep of Winds, they would not be her half siblings. She would also be Countess of Night and able to deal with those who troubled her on different terms. Unless one of them is the Earl of Night. The thought was chill as a draught, but Myr would not allow herself to dwell on it. I’ll go to the chapel of Thiandriath myself, she decided: it’s not too late yet and I can at least find out about Ise’s infirmary visit.
Besides, doing something had to be better than lying awake, worrying over her father’s expectations and the unknown future. Quiet as the mouse of her nickname, Myr pulled on everyday clothes: the plain kirtle and jacket, and soft, heel-less boots that had been her preferred garb before becoming Bride of Blood. She bundled her betraying hair into a cap as she crossed to the dayroom door, chinking it open as she had the previous night. Again, the gift armor glittered on its stand, facing her next day’s costume, only this time guards were present as well, stationed at the doors into both the reception room and the main hallway.
Myr could imagine their expressions if she told them she wanted to go out again at this hour, especially down to the Temple quarter. They had been noncommittal enough when relaying where Ise had gone, because although Earl Sardon and the Heir might chart a middle course between more traditional elements and the New Blood, only the rites of Kharalth were still observed in the Red Keep. Worse, Thiandriath was not even one of the warrior gods. So if she openly followed Ise to the Lawgiver’s chapel, all the Half-Blood whispers might spring up again.
Grimacing, Myr eased the door shut and went to the service door on the far side of Ise’s rooms. It opened onto a short walkway, which in turn led to a series of back stairs and narrow corridors used by servants and the keep’s pages. A sentry was stationed where the walkway joined the main corridor, but most of the new guards did not know her, so if she carried Ise’s empty supper tray . . .
Then together with my old clothes, Myr thought, I should pass unchallenged. She experienced a moment’s light-headness at her own daring, but also decided to leave a note for Ise. Because if the Rose woman felt she was too old to keep the all-night vigil and found Myr gone, she would rouse the keep.
The night lamp in Ise’s sitting room was turned down, and Myr tripped against a low table in the dimness. Her heart pounded as she crouched down, steadying the antique silver tray on its stand. Each leg was carved into the shape of a dragon, with the tray held between their open jaws. When Myr was very small she had liked to rub the snarling heads and trace the moon-and-star patterns incised into the tray. Ise had brought the table with her from the House of the Rose and always used it for their court’s rituals of calligraphy and taking tisane. Now Myr left her note there, inscribed in bold letters so Ise’s old eyes would not miss it.
Picking up the supper tray, she returned to the service door and boldly opened it. The guard on the walkway scrutinized her carefully, but did not speak or acknowledge Myr’s head bob as she crossed to the service stair. She left the tray in an alcove off the first landing before continuing on. As much as possible she kept to the shadows, and concealed herself several times on hearing voices or approaching footsteps. Each time, however, the footsteps went another way and Myr crept on. Once, she thought she heard the hound again, its drawn-out howl rising in the distance. But when she stopped there was only silence and the wind’s low whine. Stop jumping at shadows, she told herself.
The Temple quarter seemed further than she remembered, so perhaps the back ways were more roundabout, or maybe it only felt that way because she was alone in the midnight keep. She hesitated over two staircases that led away from another landing, trying to decide which would emerge closest to the Temple quarter. In the end she chose the narrower, spiral stair, her shadow stretching ahead—and was almost at the bottom when another shadow loomed, leaping up and across the wall as though to devour hers. Every Wallspawn story Myr had ever heard rushed into her mind as the shadow billowed, a giant’s shape of terror cast across stone—until a warrior in Blood armor appeared below her, his gaze sweeping the stairs. “I thought I heard someone,” he said.
Myr’s relief was so great that she sat down, hugging her arms around her knees to stop herself shaking. Her mind focused on disjointed facts: that the warrior wasn’t tall, after all, although his shoulders filled the narrow stairwell, and that his expression was concerned as he regarded her. “Are you all right?” he asked.
A Daughter of Blood, Myr reminded herself, does not admit to fear. For those few seconds, though, she had been petrified, and her heart was still galloping like a runaway horse. Her terror must have been obvious, too, which was doubly shameful. To make matters worse, the warrior before her was not keep garrison and wore no recognizable hold insignia, which meant he must be from one of Hatha’s splinter septs. And so, Myr concluded slowly, should not be here. She knew Hatha or Taly would demand an explanation, but she was Myrathis the Mouse . . . Besides, she still did not trust her voice. So she said nothing, just continued to stare.
“I didn’t mean to alarm you.” The warrior spoke gravely, but he looked like a person who smiled easily, the way Dab did. “We’ve taken a wrong turn and I hoped you might set us right.”
We, Myr thought, as light and shadow leapt again and a page with a lantern peered around the warrior. She guessed he must have swung the lantern to illuminate the stairwell for his companion, which was why the warrior’s shadow had jumped in so terrifying a fashion. The same realization was in the warrior’s face as the shadows settled again. He grinned at her, clearly intending to reassure. “I can see why we surprised you.”
Myr could discern details now, past the lantern’s beam, and recognized the page from the banquet chamber. Of course, she thought, remembering the Storm Spear’s breadth of shoulder from the arena. He was younger than she had expected, though. When his grin faded to a quizzical expression, Myr realized she still had not spoken, and that to stare so long might be considered rude. “You’re the Storm Spear.” Khar, she thought, was the name on Commander Asantir’s list. Her voice was a whisper, and she swallowed, willing it to strengthen. “You’ve fought well so far, everyone says so.”
Pride flashed in the p
age’s face, although for a moment, when she said Storm Spear, Myr thought Khar was about to demur. Instead he looked quizzical again and mimicked a swordsman’s salute. He’s too casual, Myr thought, puzzled—then realized that like the sentry guarding the service walkway, he would not recognize her. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, pushing to her feet but keeping one hand against the wall. “Not in this part of the keep.” She felt calmer now, and for the first time registered that the Storm Spear was close to fully armed, even if he went bareheaded. Her caution reasserted itself. “You’ve armed yourself since the feast.”
“Were you there, too?” Khar studied her more closely. “A keep guard brought a summons from Lord Huern to my billet, asking me to attend him in the small council chamber. The guard said it was in this quarter of the keep.” He made a slight gesture toward his armed state. “And, ‘When summoned by a Scion of Blood, a warrior must assume that deeds of arms may be required.’”
Myr nodded, recognizing the quote, which was engraved above the gates leading from the barracks into the High Hall, but frowned at the same time. “A guard brought the summons, not a page?”
He was still watching her closely. “Do you think it’s a ruse? I did wonder, but I can’t refuse a summons from a Son of Blood.”
No, Myr thought. She was thinking of the barracks’ tales she had heard over the years: of warriors concealing opponents’ arms to prevent them from competing in similar contests, or ambushing a rival they disliked. But there was a small council chamber attached to the training halls—those reserved for the ruling kin and their households—that adjoined the Temple quarter on this side of the keep. The muster ground for the Field of Blood lay on the quarter’s far side, so it made sense for the Storm Spear to have come this way. And despite the late hour and the feast, Huern might still be working, so Khar had to check the small chamber. Ambush remained a possibility, though. The Honor Contest was sacred to Kharalth, and competitors were meant to be sacrosanct, but Myr doubted the old rites would restrain the New Blood’s adherents if someone decided the Storm Spear was an unsuitable candidate for her Honor Guard.
Myr frowned, conscious of how much she had hated him when he defeated Taly that afternoon. Now, with Taly and Dab both in the finals, she could find nothing about the Storm Spear to dislike. “I’ll show you the way,” she said, because surely, if an ambush was planned, her presence must put a stop to it. Surely, Myr repeated to herself, but wished she felt more confident.
The Storm Spear regarded her a moment longer, then nodded. “It might help.” He and his page retreated as she started down the stair. “The keep’s hard for a stranger to navigate.”
“It’s not far,” Myr said, as they reached the lower hall, but when she tried to think of something more to say, nothing occurred to her. With her mind focused on ambush, her heart lurched when the light flickered, but it was just the boy swinging his lantern in a wider arc. A Daughter of Blood does not show fear, Myr reminded herself. Still, she was relieved when they reached the small council chamber and found it empty. No Huern, she thought—but more importantly, no ambush. Nonetheless, the Storm Spear had been sent on a fool’s errand, possibly to tire him, or to draw him away from his billet and sabotage his equipage. He would have the rest day to try and repair damage, but still . . .
“Played for a fool,” Khar said grimly, “and it’s a long walk back to the stables.” Myr’s confusion must have shown, because he explained. “The barracks and guest quarters are overflowing, so the best billet I could manage was a corner in the stables. Straw makes comfortable enough bedding,” he added, correctly reading her dismay, “and I’m close to my horses.” His smile was grim, too. “I wasn’t such a fool as to leave my gear unattended. It’s stowed with one of my warhorses, and Madder won’t take kindly to anyone but me or Faro here coming near.”
The page grinned, a distinctly fierce expression, but said nothing. He had not spoken at all since they met, and Myr wondered if he might be mute. “All the same,” the Storm Spear added, “I shouldn’t delay getting back. I don’t want Madder killing anyone, or sustaining an injury if someone thinks to search his stall.”
The keep’s stables, armories, and storage crypts adjoined the muster ground. “So your quickest way back,” Myr said, thinking aloud, “is the same way you came, through the Temple quarter.” She hesitated. “I’m going as far as Thiandriath’s chapel and can give you directions from there.”
Khar’s answering look was curious. “Thank you. But I thought all the chapels except Kharalth’s had been deconsecrated?”
“You can still use them.” Ise always said that you didn’t need a sacred image or the votive flame to serve the Nine, but the divisions between the Old and New Blood made such discussions risky, so Myr lapsed into silence. Their footsteps echoed and she appreciated the lantern once they entered the Temple quarter, where the lights were dim and widely spaced. It even smells abandoned, Myr thought, wrinkling her nose at the dankness. The page, Faro, swung the lantern toward the first dark, gaping entrance and shrank closer to Khar.
She wanted to reassure the boy, but Khar had stopped, his hand on his sword. Myr halted, too, but could hear nothing except the hound howling again, remote with distance. She wished it would stop—and simultaneously heard the slap of footsteps, racing their way. A moment later a page hurtled around the corner and would have cannoned into Khar, except that he sidestepped, preventing the girl’s headlong trip by the simple expedient of sweeping her up and around in a circle, half laughing as he set her safely back on her feet. He’s like the Sea Keepers, Myr thought—but she recognized the girl as the page who had brought her the finalists’ list, and that she was gasping from distress as well as haste.
“Ambush,” the page wheezed out, after one deep tearing breath. She grabbed Khar’s sword arm, trying to drag him in the direction she had come. “You have to help!”
Myr thought the Storm Spear might push the girl away, but he allowed the imperative grasp. “I’m coming. But best leave my arm free, if you really want help.”
The girl dropped his arm and started running back, simultaneously gabbling about ambuscade and the purity of the Honor Contest. Khar’s armor rang as he jogged to keep up, while Faro ran alongside, the lanternlight bobbing. Myr’s natural instinct was to creep away and hide, but she did not want to appear a coward in the Storm Spear’s eyes. Her heart hammered, though, when she heard the first snarl of voices and crack of splintering wood.
Khar extended his arm, stopping her much as Taly had done on the tower, the day Myr learned she was to be the Bride of Blood. “You’re not armed, so best stay back. You, too, Faro,” he added, flattening himself to one side of the next corner. The girl was already pressed against the opposite wall, and Myr and Faro exchanged one look before creeping forward to join her. Khar ignored their rebellion, concentrating on the fighting as more timber splintered and a bellow of pain and fury rose above the din. Cautiously, Myr peered around the corner.
The concourse beyond was a melee of writhing shadows and trampling, heaving bodies. The splintering had come from a door, which someone—or several someones—had clearly been thrown through. Rotten, Myr thought, seeing the remains, then shrank back as a body hurtled her way. When she dared look again, a warrior was pushing himself onto his hands and knees with blood pouring from his nose. But it was only when he staggered up and the dim light caught him that she recognized Ralth.
Myr stared, understanding why the page had babbled about the purity of the rite. Not only were competitors sacrosanct, they were also bound not to fight beyond the confines of the arena until the Honor Guard was selected. So the fighting before her was sacrilege, the penalty for it death. Even for eliminated contestants, Myr thought, watching Ralth reel back into the furor.
If the Storm Spears were as religious as Hatha believed, then Khar would not want to intervene, even if doing so did not risk execution. He might also agree with another of Hatha’s favorite observations: that sometimes the best way to
settle differences was to let warriors have their bloodletting out. Sometimes, too, intervention only resulted in everyone turning on the newcomer. Glancing Khar’s way, Myr thought he might be weighing similar considerations.
Another attacker staggered backward, doubled up over her stomach, and Myr finally saw the three beleaguered fighters at the center of the melee. Her hands flew to her mouth as she recognized Taly and Dab fighting shoulder-to-shoulder with Bajan of Bronze Hold, their backs to the wall. They were outnumbered three or four to one, and as Myr watched, more assailants pushed forward. A mailed fist jabbed toward Dab’s head, and he ducked and struck back, knocking the attacker down. Several more retreated before Taly’s hammering of high and low blows, but again, fresh opponents piled in. One landed a hit that made Taly reel, before she recovered and took her attacker out with a low, savage kick through the knee.
Dab and Bajan were both hard-pressed as well, and Myr stifled a cry as the Bronze Holder collapsed to one knee. Dab drove the assailants back, headbutting one and shoving an elbow into the other’s throat as Bajan staggered up. The page turned a white imploring face on Khar. “You have to help,” she said, “or they’ll kill my master and the other two. And we’ll all hang if the provosts come.”
So she’s Bajan’s page, Myr thought, even as her fear churned at the girl’s words—and because she saw steel gleam as Ralth circled closer to the combatants. “Blade!” Her warning was a strangled whisper, but Khar must have heard it beneath the fracas because he looked her way. He still did not draw his sword, though. Myr closed her eyes, sure that at any moment one of the three would be stabbed—then jumped violently as a whistle pierced her ears. Her eyes flew open as the Storm Spear whistled again and stepped forward.
