Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  Ignoring the fire of muscle and breath, Malian closed the distance between herself and the Darksworn. Oddly, the only sound she could hear now was Haarth’s somber melody, rising through the surge of her blood—which was also the surge of an owl’s blood and sinew as it took flight. She saw Emuun through its predator’s vision as it ghosted toward him, and recalled the tor hawk in Jaransor, flying into the Night Mare’s eyes with extended claws and blinding wings. Opening her mind to both song and bird, she let the owl see her quarry both as she did and as it might perceive prey, fleeing across the forest floor.

  The owl screeched and drove for Emuun’s face in a flurry of pinions and claws. Startled, he threw up an arm to protect his eyes and lurched sideways. He regained his balance in an instant, but the distraction was enough for Malian to catch him. The Darksworn grunted as he spun around, coming at her with a fresh dagger in his right hand and a cestus wrapped around the left. She met him with the Derai-dan, in a flurry of strikes and blocks, kicks and evasions, that deflected the force of his blows. He was rock, but she was fire and tempered steel, and had been taught the Derai-dan by Asantir, who was a master . . .

  Emuun grunted again, acknowledgment that she was holding her own. He would know, too, that Raven was close, so Malian was not surprised when he tried to break away, although when she sprang after him he retaliated with a battery of feet and fists. She darted and wove, then reeled as a blow from the cestus glanced off Nhenir. If it had been any lesser helmet, the glancing blow might have felled her. Even so, Malian lurched away from the strike—and Emuun was up and running, slipping through the night forest like an eel.

  Malian’s head rang, but she pushed to overhaul him again until every muscle screamed. Despite Nhenir, she could feel the beginnings of dizziness from the combination of the blow and the need for breath. Through the helm, she heard Raven a few seconds before he reappeared, cutting out of the trees to intercept Emuun—who saw him and veered off. Malian veered, too, suspended in what felt like a nightmare of pursuit and flight. She thought, for a few desperate moments, that Emuun might pull clear, until the owl—or another—swooped across his path again.

  The Darksworn’s swerve was minimal, but allowed Malian’s burst of speed to bring her close enough for a flying tackle. They hit the ground together, exactly as he and Raven had in the chapel, and she felt his shoulders and back muscles bunch, preparing to throw her off—except Raven was already with her, driving a knee into Emuun’s back and clamping his face in the dirt. Seizing opportunity, Malian slid a Band dart from her cuff and drove it into the Darksworn’s neck.

  He must be strong as a bull, she thought, because it was long seconds before his struggle against Raven’s hold weakened and he finally succumbed to the drug. She bent to make sure he was unconscious before Raven released him, and as she straightened, Yris’s memories reasserted themselves: Emuun ambushing the pilot with the elemental’s blaze of fire, which blinded her, followed by Yris’s desperate escape. The gate the pilot opened had been little more than a swamp hen’s hop, skip, jump of flight, but it was enough to snatch herself from beneath Emuun’s knife. “Yris.” Malian murmured the name, part salute, part farewell, and let the armband fade to a dim glow. Her blood still raced, but both pulse and breath were steadier, and she saw that Raven had eased back onto his heels.

  His expression was the measuring look she had first seen in the Long Pass. “He’s not dead?”

  Malian shook her head. “The dart was drugged, not poisoned.” She hesitated, her gaze shifting from Raven to Emuun, facedown on the forest floor. Her shiver was partly reaction, partly re-noticing the night’s chill. “He’s your First Kinsman.” Her eyes returned to Raven, recalling the words a siren worm had hissed through another vision six years before, when confronting Asantir. “Blood demands blood, isn’t that the Sworn way, too? So I don’t want his on my hands.”

  “If it comes to blood, Emuun’s drenched with it. Yris’s death is only the last of a multitude.”

  Malian nodded, uncertain how to interpret this as she peered into the darkness beneath the trees. “We’re not alone out here. My seeking showed me other warriors, closing in on the ruin.”

  Raven had begun relieving Emuun of his weapons, an arsenal that would have put a Dancer of Kan to shame. “They’re mine, warriors from my personal guard who were also to meet me here. A lieutenant, Sarathion, was with me, and Yris had gone ahead from Ar with a message for the muster. When we cut her trail and then Emuun’s, we knew we had trouble. But I wanted to snare him, not send him to ground, so I ordered Sarathion to meet the escort and ensure they kept their distance.”

  Of course, Malian thought. She had grown used to the solitary hedge knight, but the Lord Captain of the Patrol and a prince of Fire—the Prince of Fire—was always going to have some sort of Honor Guard. Now that she was no longer engaged in a life or death pursuit through midnight woods, and had time to reflect, the explanation was obvious.

  “I was not to know,” Raven added, “that you would set yourself as bait, not just to trap a Darksworn facestealer, but one of the most dangerous there is.”

  Malian looked away from the forest and back to him. “You wanted to snare him, too,” she pointed out. “The drug should hold him unconscious for several hours,” she added, seeing he was using his sword belt to bind Emuun’s arms.

  Raven shook his head. “You saw how long it took to work on him, and Emuun could always resist Arcolin’s potions as well. Amaliannarath believed the ability might be linked to his immunity to power, so we’ll take no chances.” He held out a hand. “I’ll have yours, too, for his legs, until I can fetch a rope from my horse.”

  Silently, Malian unbuckled her belt and handed it to him, adding the leather ties Shadow Band adepts wound about their wrists. At the same time, she extended her seeking again. “Your guards are not far off now.” Close enough to count, she added silently. Watching Raven work, she found herself putting other pieces in his puzzle together: from the night march to The Leas, to the way he had not needed the armring’s light when he separated from her, cutting through the pitch-black woods to intercept Emuun.

  “You can see in the dark.” In retrospect it was obvious, but so unobtrusive she had never noticed.

  “Not as well as Kalan, but like Girvase, well enough to be useful.” She noted the initial lift of his brows, which suggested he had either thought she already knew or not considered it important enough to mention. And your hearing? she wondered, because despite being far enough away to remain undetected, he had still heard everything that passed between her and the in Butterworth. “A great many of us can,” he continued, using the ties to reinforce the belt securing Emuun’s arms. “It’s one of the qualities, together with the helms, that began the River lore around the Patrol being demons.”

  “But Emuun can’t,” she said. Fortunately, she added silently, otherwise he would almost certainly have escaped.

  Raven stood up. “No. But he has abilities enough. The only way to make sure of Emuun will be to kill him.”

  Was that an implied rebuke? Malian wondered as Raven left, carrying his scabbarded sword. She kept her own blade unsheathed, using Nhenir to monitor the newcomers’ approach while she kept watch on Emuun. The similarity to Raven was less discernible in his unconscious features, she decided, possibly because of the cruelty stamped deep into his face.

  She studied him a moment longer before turning away, but despite her familiarity with Nhenir’s ways, she still started when a voice spoke, as clearly as if the speaker were beside her. “Apologies, sir, that we weren’t in time to be useful.”

  “You kept back as ordered, Sarathion.” Raven was matter-of-fact. “Lady Malian found Yris before I did, but too late. Her body’s in the ruined chapel, which we need to secure.”

  “The Heir of Night,” a cool voice murmured, as though the words themselves tasted unpleasant.

  “And Emuun, sir?” Sarathion asked.

  “Captured. Lady Malian knocked him out with a S
hadow Band narcotic, but I doubt he’ll stay under long. We need to prepare for what that means.”

  “Keep Emuun prisoner?” A third warrior spoke, sounding grim. “We’ll have our work cut out.”

  “Why did she take him alive?” It was the cool voice again. “Is extracting intelligence one of her Derai talents?”

  “Stow it, Rhai,” a woman said, and Malian heard the stir of armored bodies before Raven spoke again, his tone as even as the woman’s had been blunt.

  “She knows Emuun is my First Kinsman, Rhaikir. She didn’t want his blood on her hands.”

  Put that way, it makes me sound squeamish, Malian thought, and grimaced.

  “Once we’ve secured the ruin,” Raven went on, “we’ll hold him there while we bury Yris.”

  “We should bury him with her,” the grim voice muttered.

  “And not bother killing him first,” another added.

  “Not amusing, Ynvis.” Sarathion was crisp, but Malian could imagine the answering shrugs.

  The echo of the gesture was in the woman’s voice when she replied. “This is Emuun we’re talking about, Sarath.”

  “We are Fire,” Raven said. Malian knew that flat tone from the banks of the Rindle. “So we won’t be burying anyone alive. I’ll not allow Emuun and Sun to drag us down to what they are.”

  That’s the sort of thing Asantir used to say, Malian thought, to illustrate what she said my father wanted for Night and the Derai Alliance. Briefly, she saw her father’s face as it had been in the vision that accompanied the return of the sword, and it occurred to her that if she continued on her current course, she might well bring Raven face-to-face with both the Earl of Night and his Commander.

  “An interesting meeting,” Nhenir observed, and Malian nodded.

  The warriors’ talk became sporadic once they reached the ruin, but she heard Raven dispatch Ynvis to retrieve his horse. The escort’s horses had been left under guard, well clear of the chapel, while their riders advanced on foot. The woman, who was named Aithe, now departed with another guard to bring them to the ruin, too. And soon, Malian thought, Raven will return for Emuun and I’ll have my first encounter with the House of Fire. The prospect made her frown even as she felt Nhenir’s focus shift. A moment later, Emuun stirred.

  That’s not possible, Malian thought, echoing the Darksworn’s own words from the ruin—except Emuun was rousing before her eyes, perhaps even more swiftly than Raven had anticipated. His body twitched, then stilled again, although his eyelids continued to move. Malian counted out a minute before his body shuddered a second time, then spasmed as he groaned, a hoarse, animal sound. Again his limbs quieted, although his eyelids continued to twitch. Finally, they jerked open.

  “You.” Several seconds elapsed before Emmun’s vision fixed on her, but Malian saw recognition flare. “Blind.” His pupils were dilated from the drug, but she could see them clearing as she watched. “Derai-dan . . . you . . . no half . . .” The slurred, hoarse voice stopped, then began again. “No half-breed,” he got out at last. “You’re . . . pure Derai.”

  37

  High Stakes

  Speaking must have taken effort, because Emuun’s eyes closed again and sweat sheened his face. Malian guessed he was fighting the drug’s aftermath of lethargy and nausea, but doubted he would stay quiet for long. Resistant to drugs as well as magic, she thought, fascinated and appalled in equal part—and he perceives entirely too much. She eyed Raven’s bonds with a far greater appreciation for his parting caution, and hoped they would prove robust. As if her thoughts had been a goad, Emuun’s muscles bulged and blood suffused his face as he fought his bonds. Watching his neck swell, Malian wondered if he might burst a vein. Finally, his struggles ceased as abruptly as they had begun and he gasped for breath.

  “You’ll only injure yourself if you keep that up.” She kept her voice broad with Ash’s Terebanthi burr. “And I doubt you’re immune to wound sores.”

  Emuun curled his lip at her. “Blind,” he repeated, the word a little clearer this time. “Not just me . . . fooled. Nind’rith, too.” She watched his brows and mouth both draw down, a second before his eyes opened again, their ancient darkness intent. “Ravir’n . . . always did know . . . how . . . to play . . . the long game . . . Why Amal’rath . . . valued him . . . even over Khelor.” He stopped again, his breathing harsh. “If . . . Ravir’n’s playing . . . then game’s . . . for high stakes.”

  Ravir’n must be Raven, Malian thought, careful to keep her gaze unrevealing. Through Nhenir, she was listening for Raven’s return, but the Fire warriors appeared to be in the ruin still. Emuun’s eyes had narrowed, and although sweat still beaded his lip, his expression was heavy with calculation. “Not just . . . any Derai . . . if she saw you . . . Too strong.” Systematically, he began testing Raven’s restraints again, snarling when forced to admit defeat a second time—although almost immediately be began to laugh, a hoarse bark that ended in a cough. “Ravirien . . . right. Should always see . . . the body. To think of Aranraith . . . not just believing . . . Fire gone . . . but holding back . . . sixteen years . . . Even working with Ilker’neth’s witch to dispose . . . of you . . . clearing path for her whelp and . . . counterprophecy.”

  What counterprophecy? Malian wondered. Slowly, Emuun’s lips lifted into a cruel curve that bared his teeth. “Even Salar believed . . . scion . . . of the witch’s blood would be the stake . . . we finally drove . . . through . . . heart of thrice-cursed Derai . . . Alliance. And all . . . the time . . . was you.” He gasped out another coughing laugh. “Amalian’rath . . . always deep minded . . . must have seen . . .”

  Raven’s not the only one who knows how to play, Malian reminded herself. All the same, she felt her expression stiffen and saw an answering glint in the Darksworn’s gaze. His lip curled back again, and this time his speech was close to smooth. “I know Ravirien of old . . . more than just First Kin, once we were as brothers . . . in our war.” His stare was an abyss, and despite his bonds Malian felt fear’s cool touch, her muscles tightening as she sensed his facestealer’s will reaching out to ensnare hers. “Having attached himself to you, he will seek to . . . attach you in return. He always was astute.”

  And you, Malian thought, will say anything, distort everything, to drive a wedge between us. Knowing that doubt, like fear, provided an opening Emuun could exploit, she visualized a wall of glass about her power, its smooth surface repelling the tendril of his will—and could not resist letting a spark of the armring’s fire singe its retreat. The Darksworn jerked back, cursing her, but the darkness of his eyes stayed cold as he began muttering a string of words that initially sounded like more vituperation. When the words came more swiftly, their cadence rising and falling, Malian realized that he was speaking a tongue similar to the language of blood. Only misshapen, she thought, hearing the allure-wrapped whisper that promised pulsing warmth and blood, pain and death. Beneath the surface glamour, she could see the invocation twisting into a maw that would soon gape wide. Only it was not a mouth but a portal, opening into a pit of magic.

  Haarth magic, Malian thought, intrigued despite her danger, because Emuun was not opening the portal himself. Instead, his chant was invoking the opener’s power. Her immediate reaction was that they should have gagged him. The second was to thrust the frost-fire sword through his throat—but she also wanted to learn more of this magic. Calling on the language of blood again, she wove an incantation to hold the River night closed.

  Slowly, confronted by the rock of her will, Emuun’s invocation faltered. Yet whoever was on the far side of the opening was holding the psychic equivalent of a foot in a chinked door. Grimly, Malian poured illusion shadows into the fracture. The contending power on the other side dispersed them almost at once, but in the split second of distraction, Malian forced the fissure shut.

  Emuun choked as though she had stuffed a gag into his mouth—but just enough power must have leaked through, because his bonds began to smoke. His eyes blazed hate and triumph i
nto hers as the leather disintegrated and he lurched to his feet. “Now,” he spat, “let’s see what you’re really made of, without Ravirien at your back.”

  He ground out what sounded like another curse—and a cutlass flew off the arsenal Raven had set aside, and into his fist. His weapons must be bound to him—but Malian was already parrying, and the Darksworn pulled back, clearly remembering the frost-fire sword’s effect in Aeris. He circled, muttering, and Malian felt the portal magic reawaken as she counterattacked.

  The cutlass survived their whirlwind exchange, but Emuun was slick with sweat, his invocation coming in gasps as the drug’s aftermath took its toll and Malian forced him back, step by step. Yet still he was dangerous: she could feel it through every clash of the blades and rasp of breath. And the unfamiliar power smoldered, searing her nostrils and eyes and throat as it struggled to reignite.

  Musn’t . . . let it . . . Summoning a reserve of breath, Malian shaped a single cantrip in the language of blood and drove it through her opponent’s borrowed spell.

  Emuun snarled and sprang forward, committing all his still-considerable strength to a strike that would sever head from shoulders if it cut home. Malian pivoted, the frost-fire sword rising to intercept—and a crossbow quarrel, shot out of the blackness of the forest, pierced Emuun through the eye. The Darksworn staggered, shock and pain transforming to blankness in his face. When he fell, it was the way a tree falls, straight and heavy to the ground.

  The last trace of loaned magic vanished as Raven emerged from the trees and stared down at Emuun. Even with the armband’s light, and Nhenir’s power enhancing her own, Malian found it impossible to read his expression. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “As you said, he was my First Kinsman. Better if his blood lies on my hands.”