Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  The Sea marine was unconscious, sprawled where he had fallen when a stave connected with the base of his skull, cutting short his protest at the ensign’s treatment. The marine’s breathing was shallow, the wound still seeping blood, and Rook knew that he might not come around from such a blow. Compressing his lips, he refocused on the Blood ensign, who was sagging against Corlin’s grip. One eye was already swollen closed and the rest of her face—and no doubt her body—was also a mess of swelling and blood. If she lived, she would be livid with bruising, but Rook did not think Torlun had any intention of letting her live.

  “Blood must think we’re all in the nursery still, to fall for what’s obviously one of their own fireside tales.” Torlun’s eyes were narrowed on Sird’s handiwork. “I’d have dreamed up a more plausible story than a ’spawn infestation large enough to attack a bridal caravan, let alone honor guards vanishing like ghosts.”

  Yet the marine supported the ensign’s story, Rook thought. The pair bore a letter as well, one stamped with Lord Nimor’s personal sigil, together with his diplomatic seal as Sea envoy. Rook found it difficult to believe Sea would publicly set their name to a trap of the kind Torlun perceived. But Orcis, standing in her Second’s place on Torlun’s right, was nodding agreement. “And Sea loan themselves to the ploy. Those curs always align with the strongest axis within the Alliance.”

  Rook considered trying to remind them of the instances in Derai history where farspeakers had been blocked out, to disastrous effect. Torlun’s current expression, though, suggested that speaking would not only be futile, but could spark retribution as well.

  “Pretending to have a Storm Spear initiating their request for aid does seem strange.” Hur, the watchtower’s commander, sounded worried. “Perhaps we should farspeak the Earl and council?”

  Torlun’s lip curled. “To be told what we already know: that if there are Storm Spears left on the Wall, they are not anywhere in Blood? I think not, Commander. Instead I will do what my Lord Grandfather expects and wring every piece of information out of this spy, before I expend a farspeaker’s energy and intrude on his time.” Torlun’s hard stare bored into Rook, a warning that he had better perform when the moment to farspeak the Keep of Stone came.

  “In that case, Sird should ease up or she’ll die first.” Rul was Torlun’s half-brother and the Earl’s personal emissary on this expedition. So far he had surveyed the proceedings without comment, but now picked up the discarded letter. “Knowing she’s Ensign Talies of Clan Tavar and Brave Hold doesn’t help us. Nor does constant repetition of her fireside tale, especially if we’re to decide whether this Blood ruse threatens the safe arrival of our Stars’ guests.”

  As always, Rook found it impossible to tell what Rul truly thought, but Torlun nodded, however reluctantly, and told Sird to stand back. “And bring her around,” he added.

  “Perhaps,” Rul observed, “some scouts might also be in order, since the sentries have reported a creature—or possibly creatures—lurking outside arrow range. This Stars’ visit is vital to our current interests, and although our guests’ road may not lie through no-man’s-land, we can’t assume the Blood force will stay out there.”

  He did not need to add that the Earl of Adamant was hoping to negotiate a marriage treaty with Stars, as counterweight to the Blood-Night alliance. It was the obvious course, cementing the strongest of the priestly Houses to the only ally likely to give the warrior-kind pause. What no one seemed willing to discuss, according to Rook’s kinswoman and closest friend, Onnorin, was the way it locked in the old enmities that had existed since the civil war, further widening divisions within the Alliance. Then again, Rook thought Onnorin might be the only person who saw that as an issue. She argued that the priestly Houses had let the situation play into Blood’s hands by not offering an alternative marriage alliance to Night. But even she, Rook thought, would never dare say that to anyone except him.

  The possibility of the Stars’ embassy falling into Blood hands on the border of Adamant territory had obviously given Torlun pause. After a brief, frowning moment he nodded again, curtly this time, and told Orcis to send out scouts. Hur cleared his throat. “Once Blood realizes we’re not going to fall for their ruse, they could strike against the watchtowers.”

  Torlun’s stare was flat. “Let them try. They’ll get a bloodying to equal their spy’s if they do.”

  “Yes, sir.” Rook wondered if anyone else had noticed Hur’s hesitation. He guessed the commander wanted to make the same point he and Onnorin had often argued with their cadre comrades: that ultimately, small numbers of power users, which was all the watchtowers were able to accommodate, could be exhausted and then overwhelmed by a large enough conventional force. Hur would be conscious of that, stuck out here on the edge of Adamant territory, but Torlun was his superior in rank, as well as ruling kin, so Rook was not surprised the commander stayed silent.

  Sird returned with water, which he hurled over the ensign’s face and shoulders. When she stirred, groaning, he kicked her with his nailed sandal. “It occurs to me,” Rul said, “that if there were truth to this stranded caravan tale, we should not let the gift slip through our fingers. Imagine the political advantage if the Daughter of Blood pledged to Night fell into Adamant’s hands. It would be perfect fodder for your blood feud with Night’s Commander as well, brother—unless your fervor for that has cooled?”

  “Never!” Torlun snarled.

  “It’s a pity we have to wait on scouts.” Rul was thoughtful. “Now if young Rook could only scry as well as farspeak . . .”

  Well, I can’t, Rook thought, at the same time as Torlun snorted. “He’s not terribly useful for that either. But if we had farseers or scryers that could see beyond the end of their noses, we wouldn’t waste time garrisoning these towers.”

  Rook decided that Torlun might be aggressive and physically strong, but he had obviously never spent much time looking at maps. Anyone who had—like Rook, Onnorin, and their cadre—would understand that the watchtowers were as much about asserting a physical claim to this border territory as gathering intelligence. Disbelief over Torlun’s blindness helped Rook ignore the disparagement of his farspeaking ability. Despite being an initiate, he was among the strongest of Adamant’s current farspeakers, which was why he had been selected for this mission. Although if Torlun was comparing contemporary farseers with those of legend, who could speak across worlds, then Rook supposed his assessment was accurate.

  “We’ve no truthsayer either, unfortunately. But perhaps we could adapt our power and pry more information out of the spy, since beating clearly isn’t working.” Rul was still watching Rook, who longed to retort that his power didn’t work that way—and he had no desire to try and make it do so. But unlike Torlun, Rul was clever, and there were unsavory rumors about what happened to those who crossed him. Rook knew, too, that most of those present would say he should be eager to serve his House in any way possible, and certainly owed nothing to an unknown Blood warrior foolhardy enough to enter an Adamant watchtower.

  Trusting, Rook thought, in a Code that says the office of heralds and emissaries is sacrosanct and their persons must be protected. That reflection alone left a sour taste—and he could not help admiring the ensign’s courage in refusing to forswear her mission, despite the punishment meted out. She reminded him of Onnorin, who had taken more than one beating, during their growing up together, that a lie would have prevented.

  “The Stars company’s been sighted, sir.” Orcis rejoined them. “And the sentries glimpsed whatever’s lurking in the rocks again, so I dispatched an eight-squad to escort our guests in.”

  Rul folded the letter. “Best if we stow the spies out of sight, since our Stars friends are reputed to be nice in their ways.”

  “Squeamish.” Torlun was contemptuous. “Although I doubt they’d care. They’ve had no dealings with Night or Blood since the Betrayal War, and as for Sea . . .” He spat.

  “Why risk their squeamishness? Also”—Rul
’s expression grew intent—“if there should prove to be something in the caravan tale, we don’t want them reaping the benefit in our place.”

  Torlun shrugged, but jerked a thumb toward the storerooms built into the tower wall. “Sird, you and Corlin lock them in there.” He watched the unconscious marine and the ensign, who was in little better shape, dragged away, before rounding on Hur. “Have the yard swept and fresh dirt laid over that blood. We’d better muster an honor escort as well, since we’re to show this Stars lot respect.”

  The envoy turned out to be not only one of his House’s ruling kin, but the Countess of Stars’ second child. His silk and jewels, as well as the silver-chased armor of his company, thirty in number, made the dress uniforms of Adamant’s warrior-priests look drab. “Popinjays,” a sentry muttered, as Rook approached the watchtower’s small hall. Rul had sent him to fetch a rare wine, brought from the Keep of Stone especially for their guests.

  The sentry’s watch partner rolled his eyes. “How much’d you bet against every one of them having a name longer than my arm?”

  The first speaker shook her head. Rook, already slipping into a formal, processional step as he entered the hall, thought she was wise. The envoy might have introduced himself as Tirael, but Rook knew that any Son of Stars’ full name would have at least five syllables. “Too long for everyday use,” Tirael had said, smiling as he dismounted with a swirl of his blue-black cloak.

  Torlun’s expression, whenever he thought himself unobserved, made it clear he, too, considered the Stars’ lord a popinjay. Rook had learned enough about his kinsman during their journey here to know Tirael’s easy smile and the way he drawled his words would annoy Torlun even more than the Son of Stars’ finery. But rather than dwelling on that Rook needed to concentrate, because his headache had grown worse rather than better, and the elaborate panels of his dress tabard refused to stay swept behind his shoulders. Having them fall into the cups when he poured the wine would be bad enough, and spilling the wine even worse. Third Line of the ruling kin and initiate farspeaker or not, Torlun would punish him publicly for either solecism.

  In the end, however, no mishap occurred and he poured the wine to the correct height in every cup. The cups were gold, with Adamant’s sphinx emblem picked out in diamonds, which meant they were probably from the Earl’s personal service. So he must have known the envoy was to be a Son of Stars, Rook thought: these cups would never have been brought to a border watchtower for anyone of lesser rank. He blinked when Tirael thanked him, but remembered to bow in acknowledgment of the courtesy. Torlun looked derisive but made no comment. Instead, Rul leaned forward, drawing the Son of Stars’ attention. “I trust your journey was uneventful, Lord Tirael?”

  “Entirely,” Tirael replied. “But what of conditions here, since you had us escorted in?”

  “This is a watchtower, on the border of no-man’s-land.” Torlun’s shrug implied the escort had been routine.

  Tirael turned his goblet, his jeweled rings winking in the lamplight that illuminated the tower’s windowless interior. “We’ve been detecting signs of activity for several weeks now, first up near the high Wall, then moving down this way. Mostly it’s been on your side of our border, in areas where neither of us has holds. Every time we’ve sent troops to investigate, we’ve found nothing concrete, but I wondered if you had noticed anything untoward?”

  “I assure you, Son of Stars,” Rul said, forestalling Torlun, “that Adamant has not been building up forces along your border, if that is what you mean.”

  “Not at all.” Tirael’s hand lifted in a gesture that was as graceful as it was apologetic. “I would have assumed a heavier than usual ’spawn incursion, except—”

  “There are no passes in that part of the Wall,” Torlun broke in impatiently. “There never have been.”

  Rul frowned at his half brother, an unspoken warning that whatever their guest chose to say, he should not be peremptorily interrupted. Tirael did not appear to have taken offense, although his escort captain’s brows had lifted. “I am aware of that,” the Son of Stars said, “hence our desire to know whether Adamant has also encountered unusual activity. One can never be too careful.”

  “No, indeed,” Rul agreed. He lifted his cup in salute. “Your health, Lord Tirael. Ah,” he added, drinking, “this is an outstanding vintage.”

  “From Lathayra, in the Southern Realms, I believe,” Tirael replied. Rook noticed that he drank sparingly before proposing his own toast. “To your Earl and my Countess: honor on both our Houses. And Lady Yhle?” he inquired, when the toasts had been drunk. “Was she not able to accompany you, after all?”

  Rook’s face felt stiff with his effort to remain expressionless at the implication that Yhle, of all the Earl’s many granddaughters among the First Line, was Adamant’s nomination for the Stars’ marriage. He guessed his blankness was probably just as telling—which was unfortunate, because the Son of Stars was looking his way.

  “My First Kinswoman sits on our grandfather’s council,” Rul said smoothly. “Her obligations in that respect, as well as overseeing a fitting reception for your embassy, precluded her accompanying us. But she looks forward to welcoming you formally to the Keep of Stone.”

  Knowing Yhle’s disdain for those not of Adamant, Rook thought that unlikely, but Tirael appeared to accept Rul’s explanation. “And we to our arrival there,” he replied.

  “Ay.” Torlun’s chair scraped as he thrust it back. “So I’d best ensure arrangements for tomorrow’s journey are in hand.”

  “I and my escort must do the same.” Tirael, too, stood up. “Perhaps if someone could show us the resources placed at our disposal?”

  “Everything in the watchtower is yours to command, both for your horses and yourselves,” Rul assured him, rising as well. “Hur, if you or your Second could ensure Lord Tirael and our Stars guests obtain whatever they need?”

  Torlun said nothing, but Rook recognized the set look that meant he was furious, and guessed he had intended returning to his business with the prisoners. Yet so long as the Stars knights were coming and going, Torlun would have to wait, and he did not like waiting. He barely nodded to Tirael before summoning Orcis with a jerk of his head and stalking from the hall

  If the Son of Stars thought Torlun’s behavior rude, he did not show it. Rul’s expression had tightened, but he spread his hands. “My half brother is one of our rough diamonds, the more so for spending much of his life patrolling in dangerous conditions. I apologize for his abrupt manners, but assure you he means no offense.”

  “None is taken,” Tirael murmured.

  Eventually everyone filed out, leaving Rook to collect up the gold cups and remaining wine. Despite his headache, he could not shake the uncomfortable conviction that Tirael’s account of unexplained activity along the Stars-Adamant border fitted with the prisoners’ account of events in no-man’s-land. Although that’s not my responsibility to decide, he argued with himself: an initiate farspeaker has no right to interfere with council-level business.

  Yet his unease sharpened when he took the cups into the scullery to wash and realized the prisoners had been left without water or food. In their condition, and without water, the marine in particular might not survive for Torlun to question further. So if I take them water and get caught, Rook thought, I can say it’s to make sure Torlun gets the information he wants. He knew he would still be punished, but perhaps not so badly if his story was believed. Casually, he studied the ring of cellar and storeroom keys on their peg inside the scullery door, and then the kitchen beyond—but with so many additional mouths to feed, the watchtower’s cooks were too busy to pay him any attention.

  Slipping the keys into the wallet at his belt, Rook picked up a pair of waterbottles, connected by a strap, and filled them from the scullery pump. Afterward, he carried them openly across his shoulder while replacing the goblets in Rul’s room, then returned to the yard by way of the kitchen stair, which Torlun and his elite company would not use.


  Rook waited inside the doorway for some time, watching the yard. When it remained empty, he decided both hosts and guests must be fully occupied in stable or tower, and willed the situation to remain that way as he started across the cobbled expanse. Guards outside the storeroom would have sparked questions, so Torlun would be relying on the prisoners’ condition, and the locked door, to keep them secure. In any case, even with twilight drawing in, there was nowhere for a fugitive to hide between the storeroom and the gate. Rook stiffened as the keyring clanked, coming out of his wallet, but the yard stayed clear and the storeroom key turned easily in the lock.

  Once inside, he closed the door quickly and felt along the wall for the glim. When the light flared, he saw that both prisoners were conscious, and although their hands were still tied, the ensign had pushed herself into a sitting position. “I’ve brought you water.” Rook studied the Blood warrior’s battered face and one open eye, which measured him in return. Despite her beating, he sensed she would be dangerous if he untied her hands, so he trickled the water into her mouth until she indicated she had drunk enough. The marine required more help to sit up and drink, and Rook had to ease him back against the wall afterward. Almost of their own volition, his hands moved to check the injury at the base of the man’s skull. Rook kept his touch as careful as possible, but remembering the force of the stave blow, he was not surprised when the marine winced away.

  Trying to remember the lessons from his cadre’s field-medic’s class, Rook took the clean handkerchief from inside his dress tabard and wet it through. When he spread the cloth across the wound, he let a trickle of basic healing power seep through as well. The marine mumbled something unintelligible, while the ensign eyed the cloth and then Rook. “Why bother?” She spoke thickly. “Your leader will just have us beaten again.” Until we die, that steady eye said, never leaving his; or we tell him whatever lies he wants to hear, since he will not accept the truth.