Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  “We can’t delay the muster,” Raven said, preempting Malian’s protest. “Events are moving too fast for that.”

  “A thousand years—and now we’re in a race?” Kair was grim.

  Against time, Malian thought, but Raven was unmoved. “We all knew it could happen this way, when the moment came. You’ll need to move fast as well,” he told her. “And choose a captain for your escort. Someone you have confidence in.”

  Having attached himself to you, he will seek to attach you in return. Too late, Malian thought, her eyes narrowing on humor: at the price of Yorindesarinen’s sword and an army, he’s already managed that. Not that she had any complaints about her side of the bargain. And whatever darkness lay ahead, the only way to chart it was trust: of the sword and its bargain with Amaliannarath, and of Raven as she had come to know him, first in Emer and then in Aralorn, as well as on the road here. Most of all, she needed to trust her own judgment. “I have confidence in you,” she told him, and smiled slightly at the stir among his officers. “But I understand that the Prince of Fire may need to march with his House.”

  “In Stoneford, I promised to ride in your shadow. Arguably, helping keep you alive is the most important charge on that pledge right now.” Raven was matter-of-fact as he turned to Valadan. “I’d prefer to assess the situation on the Wall in person, in any case. We can establish a base while you manage the muster here, then get the army north. Liannar will continue to command on the River in my absence.”

  Valadan nodded, although Malian thought Rhaikir’s gesture, abruptly cut off, might have been protest. Yet every instinct was telling her that she not only needed to move fast, but having Raven with her mattered, both now and in the immediate future. At the same time, the threat of Emuun’s disappearance jostled with Kalan’s situation, while her mind raced, recalling Lord Falk’s visage, speaking out of an oak tree, and her flight from Nindorith in Caer Argent. Walking Imuln’s path of earth and moon might have sealed her vanishing act, but before that Malian had eluded the Ascendant twice: first to surprise Nherenor above the Sondcendre ruin, and then diverting Nindorith’s seeking into the Gate of Dreams.

  Everyone was looking at her. Waiting for the Chosen of Mhaelanar to speak, Malian realized. Outside, the wind had strengthened. Through the tent opening, she could see one of the Patrol’s black pennants, blowing toward the north. In her mind’s eye, Malian visualized herself and Raven’s small escort racing northward, too. Fear of delay surged, but she forced it down. “Show me the Telimbras route,” she said, and made herself focus on the maps that lay on the table and debate over how soon a smaller, fast-moving company could reasonably expect to reach the Wall.

  From there, the discussion shifted to logistics, approaching winter, and the need to protect lines of supply. Yet Malian’s thoughts continued to race, traversing cairns again, encounters with Nindorith, and the siren worm slipping through white mists. She could not shake the sense, as weariness returned, of a vital detail or connection eluding her grasp—or the conviction that events were outstripping her, and time had already run out.

  PART VI

  No-Man’s-Land

  39

  Traitor

  “The country’s crawling with ’spawn,” Ter said, dismounting. “More than I’ve ever seen.”

  Garan and his unit were waiting in one of the dips in the plain deep enough to conceal their horses, until all the scouts sweeping the surrounding territory returned. With Ter and Innor now back, only Asha and Lawr remained outstanding. They’re experienced scouts, Garan told himself, who know to be cautious—especially since Ter’s right, we’re seeing too much darkspawn sign for this country.

  “Anyone would think—” Keron began, then stopped, shaking his head.

  Best not to say it, Garan agreed silently, although he guessed they were all thinking it could be a sign the Wall was starting to fail. He rubbed at his rough growth of beard, aware that one of Sarus’s favorite observations was that the fact Derai Houses had to ride regular boundary patrols at all meant the Wall must have been failing for a long time. This mission, though, was no boundary patrol, and they were closer to the Jaransor side of the Gray Lands now, rather than the Wall.

  “It doesn’t seem right,” Keron muttered finally.

  “It’s not, Nine knows,” Innor said, with feeling. “No one should have to stay away from keep and hearth this long. I suppose the ride to the River may’ve counted as adventure, but then we copped the Commander’s nursemaid detail. And now we get this. What would you call hunting for a mazed ex-steward, Garan? More nursemaiding?”

  “She’s a traitor.” Eanar spoke with a touch of defiance. He and Keron were the new recruits to Garan’s unit of Night veterans, but Eanar came from Westwind Hold, where Nhairin had been confined. Garan suspected he construed Keep of Winds’ honor guards being sent to retrieve the fugitive as a slight to his former comrades. “Mazed or not,” Eanar persisted now, “she betrayed the Heir to her death in Jaransor.”

  There’s more to that tale, Garan thought, aware of the quality of Nerys’s silence where she was keeping watch. They had both been among those who helped Asantir engineer Malian’s flight from Night six years before—while Ter and Innor had been with them on the earlier Old Keep expedition, and pledged themselves to Malian as Chosen of Mhaelanar afterward. Garan had sworn, too, together with Nerys and all the other expedition survivors except Asantir herself. The boy, Kalan, hadn’t sworn either, he recalled now, aware of the whole raft of unspoken speculation between himself and Nerys on that topic, ever since the Red Keep.

  Innor was nodding at Eanar’s observation. “True enough, but Nhairin showed me kindness when I was new to both the keep and soldiering, so I prefer to remember her that way.”

  “If she wasn’t mazed,” Keron said tentatively, “she’d have been executed when they brought her back from Jaransor, wouldn’t she?”

  “She never disobeyed the Earl directly,” Garan said quietly. “And if the Heir commanded her to assist the flight, a charge of treachery might not stick.” That was Sister Korriya’s opinion anyway, but if he were in Nhairin’s shoes Garan would prefer not to face the test of Derai law.

  Keron was nodding, although his expression, like Eanar’s, suggested doubt. Ter, who was seeing to his horse, looked across at Garan. “I don’t think we’re going to find her, though, do you? This country’s immense, and even if she hasn’t fallen foul of ’spawn . . .” His shrug covered all the other ills, from accident to starvation and exposure, that could befall someone alone, on foot, and ill-equipped, in the Gray Lands. “Winter’ll be here soon, too.”

  “The Nine send we’re in keep walls before then,” Innor said fervently.

  “I want to see the wedding,” Keron put in. “Asha says it’ll be a feast and carnival in one, being a marriage between two Houses. She says there won’t have been a party like it since the Old Earl married.”

  Garan thought Asha might be right. He only retained a child’s hazy recollection of Earl Tasarion’s first wife, but he thought their wedding had been a quiet affair. Lord Tasarion had just become Heir, following the deaths of his older brother and sister, and for all Lady Nerion’s Sea House connections, she was still of Night. But the Old Earl’s wedding had happened well before any of those in the eight-guard were born. Grinning, he pointed this fact out. “So you can’t rely on what Asha says, although I’m sure there’ll be some sort of grand celebration.”

  “Seven days of feasting, was what I heard.” Innor stared pointedly at the dried meat and hard bread she had taken from her saddlebag, then glanced at Garan slyly. “It’s said to be an auspicious time for other weddings, too.”

  Ter winked, and even Nerys was grinning, although she kept her eyes on the plain. Garan cleared his throat. “We should all eat,” he said, and made a business of rummaging in a saddlebag for his rations, unearthing a slender, leather scroll tube at the same time. Frowning, he considered Morning’s simurgh seal before stuffing it back into the pack.


  “Did the old Lady give you a present?” Innor asked, looking over his shoulder. “It’s his smile,” she informed the others. “That’s why all the priestesses love him, old and young alike.” She, Ter, and Nerys chuckled, while Eanar and Keron, both hold levies, exchanged uncertain looks. Even in the Keep of Winds, it was only recently—since the surprise Swarm attack, six years ago, and the subsequent inclusion of priest-kind initiates in the Old Keep watch—that anyone would contemplate making such a joke. Or I allow it, Garan reflected, in case I was thought tainted myself. As it was, he had fought almost as many rounds against fellow warriors, defending his willingness to serve with priest-kind in the early days of the new watch, as he ever had with darkspawn while on patrol. “What is it?” Innor persisted.

  “An oddity.” Garan shrugged to rob the evasion of offense before joining Nerys on the perimeter, where he chewed methodically on dried meat while his eyes traversed the terrain. But part of his mind remained on the scroll case, and the day Mother Sirit had given it to him, high on Morning’s Tower of Watch. The rune scrolls it contained were an oddity, to Garan’s mind, and his being given it odder still. And despite being with him at the time, Nerys had shrugged when he tried to make sense of matters afterward, as if to say the mystery would resolve at some stage, or it wouldn’t. Typical Nerys, he thought now, with an inward grin—although if it doesn’t resolve, I could end up carrying the cursed thing around forever.

  Garan narrowed his eyes, intent on a distant wisp that could have been dust or a fragment of haze, while simultaneously recalling his fear that the scrolls could be some sort of death working. The old Lady of Morning had denied it, but her subsequent explanation had been cryptic, to say the least: The scrolls are a gift for the one who wakes your oath. More than that I cannot say.

  “More than that I cannot say,” Garan muttered, studying a wide sweep of plain. He knew Teron would accuse Sirit of being mysterious to cover either ignorance or ill intent—and Garan had been tempted to hurl the scroll case away on several occasions. But the recollection of Sirit’s steadfast gaze, and the timbre of her voice, had always stopped him. When he reported the incident to Asantir in the Red Keep, she had been studying her chessboard and taken some time to answer. “What does your judgment advise?” she had asked finally. “Are you inclined to trust Sirit?”

  I am, Garan thought now, as he had then. At the very least, he felt confident Sirit intended no harm to Night. He had been reassured, too, when the Sea envoy gifted a similar scroll to Khar, ahead of the Storm Spear’s duel with Lord Parannis. So I’m back where I started, he reflected, and must do as Nerys advises and let the matter play out. “That wisp,” he said. “What d’you think?”

  Nerys shook her head, a gesture he knew meant she didn’t know, rather than not being concerned. With so much ’spawn sign about, they could take nothing for granted, so Garan was relieved when Asha and Lawr finally rode in. “We may’ve found her tracks,” Lawr said, “a fair way west of here. From what we saw, someone’s been setting snares, but the prints suggest light boots. Hold-wear, not what you’d expect a hunter or scout to wear. And one leg’s dragging,” he added, a grin splitting his mask of dust.

  Lame, Garan thought. He’s right, we’ve cut her trail at last. “Eat and take a short rest,” he told Lawr and Asha, “then we’ll see how far the tracks take us. I want you two on point,” he added, turning to Ter and Innor. “Let’s make sure we stay the hunters, not become some Swarm minion’s prey.”

  Even before they picked up Lawr’s tracks, Garan had guessed where they were heading, although night and cold were both closing in by the time he sighted the rockpile that adjoined the Winter Woman’s grave. “Would Nhairin know of the cairn?” Innor asked. She had ridden back to advise that the incidence of ’spawn sign was growing less frequent as they approached the cairn.

  As if, Garan thought, a larger predator has driven lesser minions off—hardly a comforting reflection. “Any direction chosen by a mazed person is likely to be chance,” he replied. Privately, in light of the past six years’ experiences, he was not prepared to rule out uncanny influences.

  “Assuming that’s who we’re tracking,” Lawr said, his earlier triumph faded into weariness.

  The lame leg makes it near certain, Garan thought, studying the rockpile’s silhouette against the dusk. “Anyone wandering alone out here is clearly in trouble, so let’s find whoever this is, regardless.” The others nodded, although they all knew the wanderer could be a decoy, luring them into danger. “We don’t want to disturb the hound, if he’s still there, or spook anyone else, particularly our fugitive. So we’ll ride in quietly, and when we’re close enough Nerys and I’ll scout the cairn on foot.”

  “Even if there’s nothing to find,” Innor murmured, “we’ll have a decent campsite . . .” Her voice faded, and Garan guessed the others, prompted by Innor’s comment, would also be recalling how the hollow had housed a hunting camp when the Winter Woman was murdered. He was just thankful none of his eight had been part of that hunting party. The escort had been drawn from Lannorth’s company—but the death of the Earl’s consort was still every Night honor guard’s shame, Garan reflected bleakly.

  They halted in another dip, several hundred yards out from the rockpile, before he and Nerys took their bows and proceeded on foot, circling wide to find a vantage point that overlooked both cairn and rock stack. The hound, Falath, was a pale glimmer beside the tomb, with no sign of anyone else present. But the fugitive could easily lie concealed among the rocks, even if Falath would not allow entry into the cairn. We’ll have to keep a close watch on both throughout the night, Garan decided, then search thoroughly by daylight.

  Full dark was almost on them now, and the temperature dropping. Garan was about to send Nerys for the others when Falath sprang up and belled a warning—and was answered by a wolf’s howl, wild and lonely from the plain. Assuming it really was a wolf. Instinctively, Garan fingered his bowstring, all too aware of his earlier suspicion that a greater predator might have driven lower-level darkspawn off. The second howl was prolonged, and Falath retreated into the cairn’s mouth as the air around the tomb shimmered. Almost as though you could see the sound, Garan thought, like rings spreading out on water. Only in this case the center of the ripples was the cairn, not the wolf . . .

  Increasingly, the shimmer looked exactly like a halo about the moon, but when Garan glanced up, the sky was hidden behind cloud cover. Nerys stared at him, her expression a question, as the wolf howled again and the shimmer intensified—then splintered apart, opening into a long tunnel behind the tomb. Or perhaps it was opening out of the cairn: Garan was not quite sure. He could see whiteness, like Sirit’s sea fog roiling around a spectral path, and riders in dark armor with chill flambeau lighting their way. The cold light glittered off jagged helms and rippled across the mail coifs veiling the lower part of the riders’ faces. There’s so many of them, Garan thought: this is a small army. He could see their line still stretching back along the tunnel, while the vanguard flowed out into the Gray Lands’ night.

  Automatically, his hand went to Eria’s talisman, because the last time he had seen a similar opening, in the Old Keep of Winds, the Raptor of Darkness had manifested within it. Lady Malian opened a gate in the air, too, Garan reminded himself, to bring us all safely home. But Malian of Night had died in Jaransor six years ago—and this gateway was white and cold, not golden, as hers had been. Pushing down fear, Garan concentrated on what was happening. Horses filled the hollow now, their long manes tossing, and the phantom glow from flambeau and tunnel was reflected in their eyes. The same glow illuminated the foremost riders, drawn in close about a finely-armored knight who remained intent on the tunnel opening.

  Perhaps because of the talisman, Garan could sense the magic that connected the knight to the eldritch gate. The opener of ways, he thought, his mind racing even faster than his heart as he recalled Sirit’s words: Such oaths can always awaken, if one knows the way to unlock their bindi
ngs . . . Something about the finely-armored figure drew Garan as well, tugging at him to rise and join the darkling army.

  “Go!” he whispered to Nerys. “Get the others farther away. I’ll follow when I’ve reckoned numbers and found out all I can of who and what they are.” He fumbled at the talisman, because if he was taken, he did not want to provide any conduit back to Eria for the power unleashed in the hollow. As soon as he dragged the token over his head, the sense of magic faded. “Keep this safe for me.” Nerys frowned as he thrust the disc into her hand. She had been with him that day on Morning’s tower, but Garan still needed to be sure she understood. “We’ve found our opener of ways, so you, Ter, and Innor need to stay clear, because of the Old Keep oath.”

  For a moment he thought Nerys might argue, but instead she slithered backward into the night. Garan followed suit, working his way to a spot with better cover, which still provided a clear view of the hollow. By the time he was concealed in scrubby thorn, both the gateway and tunnel had disappeared, but the ghostly flambeau showed the knights establishing a perimeter and camp. Garan could not immediately locate Falath—but his attention was pulled away from the cairn as two knights dragged a struggling, shouting figure clear of the rockpile.

  Garan tensed, recognizing Nhairin. She looked like she had been living rough for a considerable period, and as if it was only her captors’ grasp that was keeping her upright. Because of her lame leg, Garan guessed, as Nhairin continued to resist. Her voice sounded hoarse from disuse, and initially he thought she was shouting her own name, because the distorted cries resembled “Nhairin.” She was also shouting “no” at the same time, and what sounded like something about treachery. Eventually, though, Garan realized that the name Nhairin was yelling was “Nerion.” The moment he did, the fragments of rumor and whispered surmise that had followed the Swarm’s surprise attack on the Keep of Winds, six years ago, finally made sense.