Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  They were turning into the adjoining Temple quarter when he heard footsteps jogging to catch up. Two warriors, Kalan decided, as one of the Blood guards turned his head, listening too. “What’s the odds that’s for us?” the guard said, with a less-than-friendly glance Kalan’s way.

  Jad just grunted, but stopped to wait. A few seconds later Morin caught up to them, accompanied by another Night guard. “Two separate messengers came looking for you,” Morin told Kalan. “Apparently there’s trouble with your horses again, and the Sea envoy says your page has gone missing.”

  “We’re close to the stables,” Jad said, before Kalan could respond. “We can deal with whatever those devils you call horses are about, then talk about looking for your page. If you don’t think he’s just playing truant.” His tone said he thought this likely.

  Kalan thought it likely, too, but whether Faro had gone adventuring with Liy or was trying to rejoin him was another matter. With any luck, by the time he settled the horses, the boy would have turned up. “What’s the quickest way there?” he asked.

  Another of the Blood guards pointed to a small chapel adjoining the darkened Hallows of Tawr. “Through there. The rear door opens onto the main service stair for this part of the keep.”

  “You lead, Dain.” Jad waved the guard forward while he remained beside Kalan, and the Night guards fell in behind them.

  “The Commander,” Morin explained to Kalan, “ordered us to assist you as required.”

  Jad compressed his lips, and Kalan wondered if he would order the Night guards away on principle. Instead the eight-leader asked Morin to light a torch from one of the corridor lanterns. “So we don’t fall over each other, getting through the mausoleum.”

  Kalan felt unease prickle again as he turned toward the entrance with the rest, which suggested that whatever he had sensed following them could not have been the Night guards. Alert for danger, he paused before stepping through the unlit door into what Jad had called a mausoleum. “Although it’s more of a memorial,” the eight-leader explained, as Morin’s torch illuminated the interior. A sequence of faded banners hung to their right, facing the bas-relief of a young, stern-faced warrior in full Blood panoply.

  “Ammaran,” Kalan said, reading the inscription beneath the warrior’s mailed feet.

  Jad nodded. “He was the last Heir of the old line of Earls. The family died out shortly after the Betrayal War, when he and his Honor Guard escort were lost.”

  “There’s no flame,” Morin said, his voice hushed against the silence. Kalan knew what he meant. If this was a memorial, a votive flame should be kept lit in a niche to Hurulth, the Silent God.

  “The House of Adamant, who are Blood’s enemy, follow Hurulth first amongst the Nine.” Jad’s voice was colorless as Dain headed toward the rear door. “We follow Kharalth of the Battles, and the only flame kept burning is in her sanctuary.”

  Morin said nothing, but Kalan sensed his shock. Traditionally, all Derai believed that the Silent God kept his hall for their dead. In order for the souls of the fallen to enter, the vigil of Hurulth must be kept and the rites for the dead spoken. Failure to do so risked the spirits of the dead remaining trapped, hungry ghosts clinging to the fringes of the living world until their essence either dissipated, or worse, was consumed by the Swarm.

  “Here in the Red Keep, anyway,” Dain said. “Most of the holds still follow all Nine Gods in the old way.” He glanced back as he reached the side door and shrugged at Jad’s frown.

  That tallied, Kalan thought, with what he had gleaned from the Sea Keepers’ conversation on the road here. They had not said why all the Red Keep temples except Kharalth’s had been desanctified, but he assumed part of Blood’s motivation was to minimize priest-kind numbers. The Emerians, he reflected, would say mourning rites were not essential anyway, because everyone came to Imuln in the end. They held, too, that the goddess was great enough to find every soul, no matter how far from home a body might fall. Yet the essence of what it meant to be Derai derived from the ancient powers that flowed from the Nine Gods, together with the bond to the Golden Fire and the commitment to withstand the Swarm.

  Still, Kalan could see the path Blood had taken. Having lost the Golden Fire and turned against those with old powers, then consigned the Swarm to fireside tales, the next logical step was to abandon the Nine as well and trust solely to armed strength. Kalan wanted to shake his head as Dain finally persuaded the rear door to open, because he had spoken with two surviving aspects of the Golden Fire now: Hylcarian in the Old Keep of Winds, and the remnant of Yelusin housed in the Sea Keep fleet. He had also passed the Gate of Dreams and met both the dead hero, Yorindesarinen, and the power known as the Huntmaster. He had fought Swarm demons and the Darksworn as well, not just the low-level minions the House of Blood now termed Wallspawn.

  Fools, Kalan thought. Unfortunately, they were also dangerous fools, given their numbers, wealth, and ambition—and the fact that the Derai Alliance relied on Blood’s strength as the rearguard, anchoring their battle line of keeps and holds.

  Dain waited until everyone had cleared the memorial before turning onto the service stair, which plunged downward in a series of narrow flights. Despite the need to concentrate on his footing, Kalan still felt the prickling awareness of pursuit and regretted the suppressed shield sense that would have told him whether the pursuit was physical or psychic in nature. Nonetheless, they reached the stables without incident. Another hydra reared its nine heads above the gate, the stone eyes fierce and each fanged mouth snapping in a different direction. The complex beyond was vast, with row on row of stalls and loose boxes interspersed by tack rooms and grain stores. Even before he entered, Kalan could hear the commotion from the far side of the complex where Tercel and Madder were stabled. His stride quickening, he sifted the thud of a horse’s hooves against wood, and the simultaneous crack of timber, from a mutter of voices: “. . . attacked . . . Oathers . . . let out . . . did anyone see . . . killer . . . I’m not going near . . .”

  When Kalan and his escort emerged from a long line of stalls, they found a small knot of grooms watching Madder from a safe distance. The door into the loose box adjoining Tercel’s stood wide, and a trail of splintered wood led to the roan destrier, standing his ground in the entrance to a narrow alley that ended in an open storeroom door. Madder’s ears were flat against his skull and he struck a hoof against the flagstones as the newcomers approached. Kalan’s gut tightened as he saw gore on the destrier’s metal shoes, and a swift glance along the alley revealed at least two bodies. “What happened?” he asked the grooms.

  “I heard a noise,” one of the grooms began, “like people creeping—”

  “There’s another body in here.” Straw rustled as Jad entered the loose box. “An Oath Holder, by his badge. His skull’s broken and his rib cage crushed.”

  Oath, Kalan recalled, was the hold of Lord Parannis and Lady Sarein’s maternal kin, but another groom spoke before he could reply. “That horse’s a killer.” When she took a step close Madder pawed the flagstones in answer. Snaking his head forward, he bared long yellow teeth.

  “Stay back,” Kalan commanded, although he kept his voice calm. “In this state he won’t let anyone but me near him.”

  “Put the brute down,” another groom muttered, but Kalan ignored him, beginning a deliberate, unhurried approach toward the roan destrier.

  “Let him work,” Jad said, just as quiet, and the watchers fell silent. Kalan took another slow step forward, gradually extending his arms wide and speaking to Madder in Emerian, adopting the same soothing drone he had used in the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s hold.

  “That’s right, Madder, you know me, don’t you? Easy boy, gently there.” The destrier rolled the whites of his eyes and stamped, but eventually first one and then both ears lifted, swiveling toward Kalan’s voice. “Easy, Madder, easy. Softly, my braveheart.” Slowly, Kalan reached out, and although the destrier snorted, he let Kalan put a hand to his halter and lead him away
from the alley.

  “Was that some Storm Spear tongue?” a groom asked, and Kalan answered in Derai, using the same soothing tone for Madder’s benefit.

  “No, it’s Emerian. These are great horses out of Emer, and at times like this it’s best to use the language they know best.”

  The grooms’ reaction suggested they saw the sense in that. “Although I still say he’s a killer,” the woman reiterated.

  “They are both warhorses and trained to kill. Especially,” Kalan added, “if they’re attacked. Now I need to secure him in another stall, somewhere quiet and away from the scent of blood.”

  In the end he moved both horses, judging Madder would be calmer with Tercel’s familiar presence. When he returned to the body in the stall, the duty groom was telling Jad about the intrusion. “I heard something odd and then the ruckus broke loose. By the time I got here the box door was open, and the intruders fleeing with the horse after them like a Swar—Wall demon.”

  “And there’s this.” Jad picked up a sickle blade from beside the dead Oath Holder. “I’d say they intended to either kill or maim the horse.”

  Kalan saw two of the Blood guards exchange significant glances. “It would be of service to me now,” he said to Morin, “if you could bring the Sea envoy here.”

  Jad frowned and turned to the guard whose manner had suggested he saw Kalan as trouble. “Rhanar, if we’re to have envoys here, you’d best get Captain Banath.”

  The eight-leader’s expression remained tight after Rhanar left, although he still joined Kalan beside the first of the alleyway dead. The body, which had once been a man, was pounded to pulp and splinters. The corpse a few paces further on was untrampled, the Oath Hold insignia on the tunic clear, but the victim was also smaller. A squire, Kalan guessed from his age and garb, and killed by a blade through the throat. “A page’s dagger,” Jad said, and Kalan guessed they were both thinking of Faro, missing from the Sea envoy’s accommodation. “This reads like the Oath Holders entered the stall, doubtless to kill or cripple your horse, and found they’d taken on more than they could handle. But they also surprised someone else there.”

  “It could have been Faro. He liked to sleep in my horses’ stalls.” Kalan’s eyes went from the squire’s bloody knife, lying just clear of his hand, to the blood drops leading into the storeroom. “Is there another way out of there?” he asked the duty groom.

  “Only an air well,” the man replied. “The vents open into both kennels and stables.”

  If the fugitive was Faro, then he would find that air well—so long, Kalan thought, his eyes on the blood, as he can still move. “I’ll check in here. But we should send guards to the kennels’ side, in case I flush out something other than my page.” Several of the grooms nodded. Many of their number were guards who had been discharged because of injury, but their old instincts, whether for ’spawn or enemy agents, would still hold good.

  “Dain and Palla,” Jad said curtly, “see to it.”

  Kalan flattened himself to one side of the storeroom door, clear of an arrow or spear’s trajectory but where he could slant a look inside. Nothing moved, and the only scents were timber and grain, cool air and dust. Gradually, he shut out the stable’s background noise and isolated the storeroom’s smaller sounds: the skitter of a mouse, the draft out of the air shaft—and finally, the shallow, suppressed breath of a hunted creature. Kalan could almost feel it, crouched down in darkness and listening, as he was listening.

  He debated calling out, but if it was not Faro in there he would only spook the quarry. Instead, he signaled Jad to take the nearest lantern away, to avoid being silhouetted against its light—then kicked the door wide, dropping low and rolling behind a feed bin. Still nothing moved, except when Jad took his place outside the door. Wait, Kalan signed, and eased into a crouch, patient as the concealing bin. Finally, he stood up and began to close in on the breathing, setting each footstep soundlessly down. He heard Jad enter the storeroom behind him but did not look back.

  The blood trail ended between stacked grain sacks, and Kalan could see where Faro, or a creature of similar size, had tunneled through them. Into the air well, he wondered, or some other hiding place—but paused as exclamations and stifled curses sounded from the stable, followed by a click-click over the flagstones. Not an attacker, he decided, reluctant to look away from the area where the blood spots led, and aware that Jad had not moved.

  Click-click: the sound paused on the storeroom threshold, then resumed, and despite Jad having allowed the intrusion, Kalan almost yelled as a waist-high body brushed past. A second wyr hound stopped beside him, while the first used its head and powerful shoulders to push the disturbed sacks further apart, revealing a cavity in the wall with a small form curled inside. Faro, Kalan saw, as the wyr hound sniffed at the balled figure before settling down, its lean dark body curved around the boy, and stared back at him out of ghostly eyes. Jad, who had followed the hounds in, swore beneath his breath.

  A way with wyr hounds as well as warhorses, Kalan thought, but realized that Faro must be unconscious, or near to it, since he did not stir. The wyr hounds looked like the pair from the guest quarter’s gate, although they seemed to have dispensed with their handlers. Kalan guessed that they had been his unseen followers as well and recalled how one of the beasts on the Blood Gate had shown interest in Faro before turning away. Except these hounds had not followed Faro here; they had followed him.

  Kalan dismissed the unease that thought brought, because right now he needed to determine the extent of the boy’s injuries. The hound lying beside Faro yawned, its tongue lolling over wicked teeth. “Easy,” Jad breathed, as Kalan stepped forward and settled onto his heels, extending his gauntleted fist for the beast to sniff. When seen this close, its array of teeth looked more like daggers, and its jaw capable of doing considerable damage, even to a closed fist. Kalan’s pulse quickened and he wanted to wipe his palms dry, but forced himself to remain still—until the hound before him whined, deep in its throat, and the second beast rested its great head on his shoulder.

  “Well, I’ll be cursed,” Jad whispered.

  Faro, rousing, struck at Kalan’s arm. “I won’t let you hurt me.” His tunic was torn, but the blood came from a gash along his forearm, and a cut above a bruised and swollen eye. He swiped at Kalan a second time and scrabbled back against the hound. The next time the boy’s fist jabbed, his table dagger was clutched in it. The blood on the blade, Kalan thought, disarming him, suggested he had used it to better effect against the Oath squire. Deflecting a fierce but unscientific counterpunch, he kept a cautious watch on both wyr hounds. The beast curled around the boy whined again but did not move, even when Faro lunged for the dagger and Kalan fended him off once more.

  “Faro, you little fool. It’s me, Khar.”

  The boy’s breath was coming in shallow, rapid pants, but gradually his good eye focused on Kalan. “You gave me to the stealers,” he mumbled. “But I knew Madder and Tercel wouldn’t abandon me. They keep faith.”

  “Madder certainly championed your cause to good effect.” Kalan kept his tone easy, but although Faro’s whisper was currently hoarse enough to disguise his accent, he needed to reinforce the caution against him speaking. “Try not to talk, Faro. Right now we need to get those gashes seen to.”

  He moved to help the boy clear of his bolt-hole, but Faro flailed at him again. “I won’t let anyone hurt me, not ever again.”

  “It’s all right. No one here’s going to hurt you.” Kalan let him crawl out himself, since he seemed to be managing—only to turn as a woman spoke from the doorway, her voice dripping sweetness and menace.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Storm Spear.”

  30

  Pledge of Faith

  The hair beneath the lady’s hood was bright as a torch flame, her eyes pools of shadow as she regarded Kalan. “Do you really think you can save anyone, Storm Spear, even yourself? Or that your pet would be safe just because you gave him to the ma
riners? In our keep?”

  “Our keep,” Kalan thought, as the wyr hounds howled and what sounded like the entire Red Keep pack answered from the nearby kennels. Jad was standing rigidly to attention, his face devoid of any expression as he spoke above their din. “Daughter of Blood, you need to stand back. I have my orders.” So now Kalan knew who the woman in the doorway must be. Lady Sarein was the only one of the five Daughters of Blood whom he had not yet seen, either in the Earl’s gallery above the Field of Blood or in the banquet hall. Even the secretive Lady Liankhara had been with the Earl that morning in the small training hall, so this had to be Lord Parannis’s twin.

  Now her full mouth thinned as the wyr pair howled a second time, and the pack answered with a prolonged paean to fear and danger. “If someone,” she said over her shoulder, “does not silence those Nine-cursed beasts, then I will see you all hang. With these two,” she added, swinging back to the storeroom, “strung up beside you.”

  Ostensibly she meant the wyr hounds, but Kalan guessed her meaning was deliberately open. Faro must have felt her menace even if he missed the double meaning, because he shrank behind Kalan as both the hounds with them fell silent. The first rose and rejoined its companion, their glowing eyes fixed on the Daughter of Blood. “That’s better.” Lady Sarein was smiling again, despite the kennel pack’s continued howls. Her gaze rested on Jad. “What if I’m here to bring you new orders—Jad, isn’t it?”