Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  Quietly, in order not to disturb Ilai, Myr damped a cloth so both she and Faro could wash their hands and faces before eating. She supposed it was foolish, in light of the camp’s situation, but she found small routines comforting, like tidying her hair in front of the shield-mirror. Faro took her place immediately afterward, and Myr felt a glimmer of amusement, because he had also spent considerable time in front of its polished surface after helping her shift Ilai.

  Setting out their small meal on Ise’s table was reassuringly familiar, too, even if the tray was set on a crate instead of its dragon legs. But the moment Myr ran a hand over the battered surface, the memories associated with it tore at her and she had to exert all her willpower not to rest her head on the tray and weep. I mustn’t, she thought, or I won’t be able to stop. Yet still she crouched before it, her hands unmoving and her eyes gazing blankly at the tent canvas, until the sense of being watched intruded. Turning, Myr saw that Faro had stopped reordering his hair and was watching her through the mirror. “Thank you,” he said abruptly, “for speaking for me out there.”

  Myr met his regard steadily. “Mostly, I said it wrong.” I was too esoteric, she thought, a Daughter of the Rose rather than of Blood.

  “At least you tried.” Faro’s reflection looked almost adult in its bleakness.

  A sound from behind the tapestry made them turn, and when Myr lifted the heavy cloth aside, Ilai was awake. The angle of the cot allowed the attendant to see Faro, and her gaze—still bloodshot in her heavily bruised face—studied him before returning to Myr. “Tell me what’s happened,” she whispered. “The truth please, Lady Myrathis.”

  Myr nodded, despite finding it difficult to speak of Arcolin’s offer with Faro there. Ilai’s battered face hardened as she did so, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But how,” the attendant said finally, addressing Faro, “could you possibly have burned him?”

  “I didn’t!” Faro sounded strained, as if getting words out was a struggle. “The lightning came down and struck him, and there was fire afterward. It wasn’t anything to do with me.”

  “But you were there,” Ilai said.

  Faro’s shoulders hunched. “It was the lightning,” he protested, then started as a shadow fell across the tent floor. Myr’s heart jumped, too, before she turned to see Nimor in the entrance.

  The look the envoy bent on Faro was penetrating. “What circumstances, though, led you into such close contact with a lord of the Swarm?”

  He must have overhead our conversation, Myr thought. She wondered, too, why Nimor’s question had not occurred to her before, when it was not only obvious but required an answer. “I’m not bad,” Faro whispered. “She let me come on board. She wouldn’t have done that if I was bad.”

  “She” must be the master of the ship that had brought him north, Myr supposed, but Nimor was shaking his head. “I did not say you were, but it would help if you answered my question.”

  Yet although Faro’s face contorted with the effort to speak, no words emerged. Nimor’s look of concern deepened, and Ilai shook her head, but Myr found she could not endure Faro’s despairing struggle. “He’s been through enough today,” she told Nimor. Under different conditions, she would have smiled to hear Ise’s tone of authority in her voice. When Faro did not seem to hear, she placed her hand on his arm. “It’s all right,” she told him softly, when his frightened eyes met hers. “We’ll wait for Khar.”

  This time he nodded, relief banishing the contortion, and she handed him the leather strip he had dropped, so he could retie the mass of his braids together. His hands shook as he took it, and she thought that whatever Nimor suspected, Faro was an unlikely traitor. If he had wanted to betray her, he could already have done so twice over, both to Kolthis and the were-hunter in the gully. She could see Nimor marshaling further argument and steeled herself to counter them. But before the envoy could speak, a trumpet blast sounded across the plain, followed by a war cry roared from many throats.

  The hour must be up, Myr thought, shaken because it seemed too soon. “They’ve attacked ahead of time,” Nimor said tersely. His frown lingered on Faro, misgiving mingled with frustration before he shook his head. “You’re right, Lady Myrathis, the puzzle will have to keep.” He inclined his head, envoy to Daughter of Blood, and turned away.

  When Faro darted out in his wake, Ilai beckoned Myr close. “The envoy thinks the boy may be a danger, and he could be right. Be careful of Faro, Lady Myrathis.”

  “I will,” Myr promised, although she still thought that if Faro had intended to harm her, he could have done so long before now. Her head turned as a war horn answered the trumpet blast, followed by a long roll of drums. “Right now I had better see where he’s got to.” On leaving the tent, she saw Faro pressed between two carts on the inner barrier, with a wyr hound on either side. The remaining pair rose from beside the tent and followed her across to him. Faro shifted to make room, but did not look away from the plain as the enemy line, bristling beneath an array of battle colors, rolled toward the camp.

  The enemy archers behind the screens were shooting steadily, forcing the defenders to hold cover. Just when Myr thought Khar must be waiting until the advance was at point-blank range, she heard him shout an order that was echoed around the perimeter. A line of arrows arched skyward before dropping down behind the screens, but although a large number struck home amid confusion and shouting, too many wavered off-line or disintegrated in midair. “They’re using their magic,” Faro said, in his oddly accented Derai. “It’s always stronger the farther they are from our perimeter.” His voice was gruff now, rather than strained, and she wondered if he really possessed power himself, as Arcolin had implied. “But still no beast-men.” The boy sounded puzzled.

  “They took huge losses yesterday,” Myr reminded him. Like we have, she thought, only with no option of withdrawing to lick our wounds. The enemy horse archers were sweeping forward now, and beyond them she could see the remainder of the Swarm cavalry, drawn up in attack formation for the first time. She knew what Hatha would say that meant: the enemy must believe they could thin the defense sufficiently to bring a section of palisade down and allow their cavalry through . . . At which point, Myr thought, more coolly than she would have thought possible, the camp will be lost.

  Now, though, the defenders were using fire arrows to shoot at the horse archers, but the coursers had obviously been trained to advance through fire, smoke, and noise—if they were not Swarm-bred demons themselves. Despite the incendiaries, the archers held formation, circling the dike and pouring a hail of arrows into the camp—before the attacking infantry roared again and picked up speed, crashing into the defenders along the earthworks. Metal clanged on metal, and more battle cries skirled before the confrontation steadied into formless shouting, with pikes thrusting back and forward across the barricade. The Swarm archers cut in on the edges of the pike melee, maneuvering to shoot the defenders, while skirmishers hacked at the palisade on either side of existing gaps.

  Watching was unbearable, because there were too many weak points for the reserve to cover and several of the gaps were widening. But looking away was worse, and Myr’s hands clenched tight, as if she might in some way secure the perimeter by willpower alone. She could pick out Khar on Madder, and the Sea marines with him, as well as Orth, because of his height, wielding what looked like a poleaxe among the pikes. Everyone else blurred into the ragged to-and-fro of fighting, in which Myr frequently found it impossible to distinguish either side as the dust swirled, let alone who had the advantage at any given moment.

  Overall, though, she could not shake a sinking certainty that the defense was wavering, perhaps because Arcolin’s offer had done its business, after all, and sapped the defenders’ will to resist. The Swarm commander must have thought so, too, because a trumpet yelped from beneath his standard and the drums were beating again, quick and sharp. Slowly, the enemy cavalry began to move, closing the distance between their line and the beleaguered camp. “Kolthis,�
�� Faro said, pointing out the former Honor Captain’s colors, which flew above a small knot of warriors in Blood armor.

  Yes, Myr thought bitterly, he will want to be in on the kill.

  Another trumpet call sounded, its clear note mocking her dread, and a second cavalry company followed the first. Myr closed her eyes, not wanting to see the defense fail and the Swarm’s mounted force drive home the assault. But she opened them again at once, because keeping faith had to include not faltering while Khar and all those along the perimeter were fighting and dying for the camp’s survival.

  Beside her, both Faro and the wyr hounds stiffened, staring beyond the stream boundary of the camp. “They’re creeping up,” he muttered. “I can see them, like shadows in the haze.” Myr peered hard in the direction of his pointing hand but could not see anything. “There!” Faro said. “They’re stealing in where the fighting’s lightest.”

  If he’s right, Myr thought, although she still could not see anything, then she should warn someone: Nimor, perhaps, or Murn, except he was still recuperating in Sea’s tent. She hesitated—and as she did so the attackers roared. Myr swung around in time to see Dain and Aarion’s companies crumble, and could only watch, appalled and helpless, as the gap around their position widened. A horn wound, exultant, from the opposing lines, and even though Khar and the reserve had already reached the collapse and were fighting desperately to stem it, the Swarm cavalry quickened their advance. Momentarily, Myr felt as though everything—the ongoing perimeter struggle and widening gap, the cavalry’s gathering momentum, dust churning beneath the horses’ hooves, and even her own heartbeat—hung in stasis, poised for the next swordstroke, or horse’s stride, or catch of breath, that would seal the camp’s fall.

  “There!” Faro cried again. He tugged at her sleeve. “See, they’re crossing the stream!”

  Harried, Myr glanced toward the watercourse. This time she, too, saw the silhouette of riders through the haze that clung to it—a split-second before a company of riders surged out of the streambed and charged the Swarm flank.

  The newcomers’ armor was silver, with blue-black surcoats and a foam of plumes on their helms. Derai helmets, Myr saw, intent on the long silver pennant above their heads but unable to identify a device. Faro clambered onto a cart tongue, trying to see more, and Myr joined him as the oncoming company drove hard into the Swarm cavalry. The enemy line crumpled as some riders tried to turn and meet the unexpected attack, while the rest either scattered or were pushed back into their own ranks. The confusion spread as more Swarm troops wavered between pressing the assault and defending their flank.

  As the attack faltered, the defenders rallied, but Myr could see how small the newcomers’ force was. Only surprise had enabled so profound an effect, and now the Swarm flank was rallying about a mounted troop, led by a warrior whose helm was a grotesque parody of a bear. “No!” Faro’s cry was half strangled. Myr cried out, too, as a smoky light poured out of the bear-helmed warrior and raced toward his opponents—only to shout again, in protest, denial, and amazement, as an answering, silver-violet blaze exploded from the newcomers’ line.

  The opposing magics writhed around each other like serpents as the two mounted companies thundered together and the shock of war cries and weapons rose. Light continued to surround all the combatants, but the contest between the leaders was plainly a trial of power as well as conventional strength and skill. Its ferocity made Myr’s Honor Contest pale by comparison, and although the two appeared evenly matched, she thought the newcomer might be gaining ground. The melee about the two eddied, dust swirling around the trampling horses as weapons rose and fell—but Myr still saw the moment when the Derai leader’s sword cut home and his opponent slewed sideways in a long, slow curve to the ground.

  A cry of devastation rose above the battle din, and the Swarm troop scattered as the newcomers drove forward again. As if the cry had been a signal, the entire Swarm force began to retreat. Ignoring their disarray, Faro pointed again, and Myr saw a small party exit the watercourse and reach the perimeter with minimal interference. The group comprised a pair of the warriors in silver armor, with two wyr hounds shadowing a youth in priest’s garb, a Sea marine who was swaying on his horse, and—“Taly!” Myr wanted to scream the ensign’s name, but the sound emerged as a strangled whoop.

  Faro had already turned back to the main conflict. Looking for Khar, Myr guessed. When she followed his example, she saw with relief that the Storm Spear and Madder appeared unharmed. But the aftermath of the assault would have rivaled any storm: the palisade was twisted or broken in numerous places, and a great many bodies clogged the gaps. The camp might have survived again, but it had only done so at considerable cost. Despite that, Khar was pulling the reserve together and sallying to meet the newcomers, who adjusted their approach to intersect his.

  “It’s some sort of bird,” Faro said, distracting Myr, who saw he was staring at the newcomers’ banner. He looked intrigued, and Myr finally understood why she had not seen any heraldic device earlier. The banner itself was the device: a phoenix wrought in silver and steel that rippled like a fish in the currents of the air.

  “It’s a phoenix,” she told him, the wonder catching at her throat, “the banner of Stars!” The House of Yorindesarinen, she thought, and a great many other Derai heroes, too. Now Star knights had come to the aid of a Blood caravan, even though Stars was the House of Blood’s greatest enemy among the Derai. Yet given what we’re facing here, Myr reflected, we may need to redefine who we call enemy.

  “‘Stars, the phoenix is their device,’” Faro echoed, in the same half chant Myr had once used when reciting Ise’s lessons back to her.

  “The phoenix honors Terennin,” she agreed, “whom Stars follow first amongst the Nine.” The Star knights had joined with Khar and his company now, and after what appeared to be a brief discussion, the two captains took advantage of the Swarm retreat to destroy the remaining screens. Arrows flew their way, but this time it was the Swarm shafts that disintegrated in the air. A few ragged cheers sounded along the camp perimeter, but they were uncertain, at best, in the face of such clear evidence of power use. Succor from those we have been taught to despise, Myr thought, as Khar and his companions returned to the camp. She could see Taly’s small party making their way around the perimeter to meet them, and longed to run and greet the ensign, hugging her close for the sheer fact that she was alive. But she knew what Taly herself would say: that a Daughter of Blood, let alone the Bride, needed to maintain the dignity of both her position and her House.

  Just as Nimor, Myr realized, was remaining by the inner barrier rather than going to meet Khar and the Stars captain. Murn had joined his envoy, although he looked as if the effort of doing so had drained him. Silently, they all watched as Khar lifted his visor to speak to Taly, before turning back to the Stars leader. The two commanders grasped each other’s forearms in the traditional greeting between warriors and equals—only this, Myr thought, as the two started her way, is Blood and Stars.

  Not all the Stars company were accompanying their leader, presumably because that could be construed as a threat, with Stars officially a hostile House. From the numbers approaching, Myr guessed she would be meeting the captain and his officers, as well as Taly, the marine—who must be Namath, from Nimor’s escort—and the youth in Stone priest’s robes. “An Adamant initiate with a Stars company,” Nimor observed. “I’ll be interested to learn how that came about.”

  The youth seemed ill at ease, Myr thought, studying him, and Namath and Taly looked as though they had taken considerable damage in reaching Stars territory. She supposed they must have been forced that way by enemy patrols, despite Adamant being closer, although that did not explain the Adamant youth. Myr shook her head, puzzled, but there was no time to reflect further or do anything except descend from the cart and try to look like a Daughter of Blood and the Bride.

  Faro jumped down, too, although he stood half concealed behind her as Khar and those with him
dismounted and entered the inner camp on foot. A number of impressions stood out for Myr after that, beginning with Nimor and Murn coming to stand at her right hand—a courtesy, because she had no household of her own. She was aware, too, of Taly smiling at her out of a battered face, while the Adamant youth still looked uncomfortable, but curious as well. Khar was the depiction of exhaustion on his feet as he made the formal introductions, a roll call of Stars names and Stars faces. But from the moment the newcomers removed their helmets, they blurred into one face and one name.

  “Tiraelisian, son and second child of the Countess of Stars,” their leader said, speaking directly to her after Khar fell silent. He bowed low, but not before Myr took in pearl and silver, and a face as fair as the rare, clear dawns she had seen from the topmost tower of the Red Keep, breaking over the Wall . . . No, she corrected, in an effort to keep hold on reality, his armor was silver and pearl, and he—Tiraelisian—had fair hair and gray eyes. The light of battle was still in his face, but he was smiling, too, as he straightened. “Honor on you, Lady Myrathis, and on your House.”

  And that, Myr felt certain, was the first time the formal salutation had been offered from Stars to Blood in the five hundred years since the Betrayal War. A murmur among the onlookers suggested she was not alone in her realization, but if Tiraelisian noticed, he did not show it. “I salute you, Lady, in my mother’s name and on my own part.” He paused before speaking again in his clear voice. “And greet you not only as Daughter of Blood and your House’s Bride, but also as our kinswoman through your mother, Lady Mayaraní of the Rose.”

  Myr felt barely able to breathe, but was aware of the hush that had fallen and the way Nimor’s brows had shot up. “Once I learned that you, kinswoman, were the Bride,” Tiraelisian went on, “answering your Honor Captain’s request for aid became a Matter of Kin and Blood.”