Daughter of Blood (31 page)

“You carry Yelusin's spark now,”
the ships had assured him, before he departed the Sea Keep,
“
and wyr hounds were bred to recognize every aspect of the Fire as friend and ally, as well as to detect Swarm influence.”
Kalan had been less reassured by this than the ships intended when he reflected on the five hundred years in which wyr hounds had been retrained to hunt Derai with the old powers. Yet whether because his wards were strong enough, or due to the spark of Yelusin he carried, or even the shortcomings of Blood's pack—on which subject the Sea Keepers had been eloquent—the wyr hounds at the Blood Gate had shown no interest. One hound had come close to sniff at Faro, but turned away almost at once.

Although neither so large nor as terrifying as Kalan's memories of the Hunt of Mayanne, the beasts at the entrance to the Envoys' Quarter were tall, with sleek narrow heads, and his muscles tightened as the pale, phosphorescent eyes turned his way. The sentries' eyes followed those of their hounds, and one of them cleared his throat. “Seems they recognize a Storm Spear. Old Alth said they would.”

“Alth's our senior wyr handler,” Jad explained, as the other sentry shifted stance.

“When the Storm Spears ride in, trouble rides with them.” The sentry's comment sounded like a quote, although several contestants had muttered similar opinions within Kalan's
hearing. He decided again that he knew far too little about the society whose name he bore, but despite the guard's veiled challenge, the wyr hounds remained quiet.

Jad frowned. “Have done, lads. You know who we are.” The second sentry looked inclined to argue, but the first waved them through into a much wider hallway that was hung with rich tapestries, all depicting Blood victories over massed foes. Kalan noted that while the older hangings featured a range of monsters from the
Swarm Bestiary
, the newer tapestries depicted solely warrior armies. Only one, which was also the most frayed, showed the Golden Fire. The keep in the tapestry was ablaze with it, the conflagration rising in long necks and curling heads of flame as light surged from the walls to push back a shadow host. A giant figure loomed above the main gate, wreathed in golden flame and casting lightning bolts into the besiegers.

Blood called such legends fireside tales now: Kalan rotated his shoulders again and contemplated the folly of that as they reached the area allocated to Night. Two of Morin's comrades were posted outside their Commander's quarters, and when they insisted that those who entered both surrender their arms and allow a check for concealed weapons, Jad and his escort opted to wait outside. Once allowed through into Night's anteroom, Kalan found the Commander's door shut, although voices filtered through. “Garan's lot have turned up,” the guard on the inner door told Morin. “You'll have to wait.”

Morin looked surprised, but waved Kalan to one of several armchairs. “Who else is in there, Aeln, besides the Commander and Garan?”

“Nerys”—Aeln's tone implied an,
of course
, as Morin nodded—“and Lieutenant Teron.”

Teron of Cloud Hold had been the Earl of Night's squire six years ago and was now an envoy for his marriage. Kalan pursed his lips again at the turnings of fate, taking note of the ubiquitous Blood hydra above the anteroom's unlit hearth before he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. His hearing was sufficiently acute that after a very brief adjustment
he began to distinguish individual speakers among the rise and fall of voices in the adjoining room. Asantir was the easiest to identify because he had heard her speak only that morning. She also asked the majority of the questions. The person who replied most frequently was Garan; Kalan recognized his voice from the dream. The second man, whose intonation occasionally indicated a question, but was more often observation, must be Teron, while Nerys was living up to her epithet and not speaking.

“Would you like something to eat or drink while you're waiting?” Morin asked.

Kalan opened his eyes, but shook his head. He made a show of studying the hydra, but let his ear re-attune to each speaker and gradually discerned meaning.

“. . . where exactly did you find the messenger?” Asantir asked.

“On the boundaries of Adamant territory.” Kalan thought Garan sounded bone weary. “He managed to tell us that he was on his way here. His escorts were dead, but the Sword warriors present claimed their arrival prevented the 'spawn ambushers from finishing him off.” He paused, and Kalan, his curiosity rising, felt the hesitation's weight. “Our scouts, Asha and Lawr, say they cannot be sure but thought the Sword warriors were looting the bodies when first sighted. We checked the whole area afterward, too, but could find no 'spawn sign.”

“Derai outlaws?” Teron exclaimed. “That's not possible!”

“It may not happen often,” Asantir observed, matter-of-fact, “but our own have turned renegade before, and there are enough deserted watchtowers and redoubts in that part of the Wall to give them a base. How did the Sword band account for themselves?”

“They said they were returning to the Keep of Swords on a Matter of Kin and Blood. But they didn't seem to be hurrying.”

Orth's lot, Kalan thought, and decided he would not put it past them to prey on fellow travelers if opportunity arose.

“They may have learned that their news has already
reached the Keep of Swords.” Asantir sounded thoughtful. “A messenger arrived here from the Sword Earl the day before the contest began. A letter had come from the Guild House in Terebanth, via Sword's factor in Grayharbor, saying his nephew had been lost, believed dead, in Ij. Ostensibly, that's why no Sword envoys are here, although the apology said they would attend the wedding.”

Tarathan and Jehane Mor must have sent that message, Kalan supposed, or caused it to be sent, since they had learned of the Sword captain's disappearance when in Caer Argent—but he found he had lost track of the conversation and refocused.

“. . . so I set Ter and Innor to trail them. Their sign left the main route not far beyond the ambush site.”

“They're certainly not traveling by the direct route.” Asantir was dry. “I'll let our Blood hosts know, so their patrols can sweep those old redoubts before the bridal caravan passes through.”

A bridal caravan would be too large for outright attack, but Kalan knew from Emerian experience how a small, determined group could prey on the fringes of even well-armed merchant trains. Wherever such groups operated, any stragglers were as good as dead. He shifted uneasily, remembering his dream of the ghost caravan, before reminding himself what Tarathan had said about the paths of foreseeing. A chair scraped in the other room—someone moving, Kalan guessed—and he lost most of the next words.

“. . . dispatch pouch,” Garan said. “I know our orders were to return home once we'd seen the old Lady and her company back to their Towers, but once we saw the urgent seal and that it was for you . . .” Again the scrape sounded. “. . . bring it here.”

During the subsequent pause, it occurred to Kalan that he was listening to a conversation not meant for him. Yet since his whole purpose in being here was to further Malian's cause, he would be foolish not to use the opportunity presented. Nonetheless, the part of him that was a knight of Emer felt uncomfortable at the whole notion of eaves
dropping, let alone spying—although he supposed calling it intelligence gathering gave the business a fairer face. “You judged rightly,” Asantir said finally.

In the anteroom, Morin spoke to Aeln in a clan dialect of Night. “Should we knock, do you think? Let her know the Storm Spear's here?”

Aeln replied using the same dialect, but the glance he threw Kalan was dismissive. “He can wait.”

They could not know, Kalan thought, amused, that he had spent seven years in Night. Besides, Aeln was right. For now, he could wait.

“
S
o how,” Asantir said, on the other side of the door, “did the rest of your mission go?”

“Slowly, because the old Lady tired so easily.” Garan sounded rueful. “Still, that gave us time to scout more thoroughly, as you ordered.”

“And?” Asantir asked.

“Not good.” Kalan grimaced inwardly as Garan recounted the prevalence of darkspawn sign, not just around the Wall's main passes but well into the Gray Lands. House of Adamant hostility was also mentioned, because it had forced the Night escort to take their charges—who, Kalan realized with considerable interest, comprised a party of Morning priests—farther out into the Gray Lands than originally intended. “The Keep of Bells territory is reasonably well protected by Swords, but Morning's wide open. Their Towers are defensible enough, but they sit a lot farther forward on the Wall than the other priestly Houses and they've no warriors at all to garrison their walls. Precious few priests either, from what we could see. But it's not just that.”

Kalan concentrated fiercely as Garan's steady, weary voice described the terrain: the surrounding mountains that provided protection against assault but were also an im
passable barrier between Morning and their nearest Derai neighbors, and the Towers' location adjoining a long, narrow pass through the Wall. “Dread Pass,” Garan said.

Of course, Kalan thought, because the spoken account matched the landscape from his Grayharbor dream, when he had heard Garan and Innor discussing the mission the Night guard was reporting on now. “If a Swarm force did come through the pass and take the Towers,” Garan continued, “they would not only have a strong foothold on the Haarth side of the Wall, but a clear route through the Plain of Ash and into the Gray Lands.” He paused. “Here, Commander, I've drawn it as best I could.”

“Surely this is the priest House's problem, though?” Teron sounded both puzzled and impatient. “Let them look to their allies rather than whining to Night for help.”

Typical, Kalan thought, recalling Cloud Hold's reputation for rigid adherence to the Oath that separated priest and warrior kind. But Teron spoke again, as though studying Garan's map at the same time. “The Sea Keep's vital, of course, but it's protected from Dread Pass by the Impassable Range.” Reluctance entered his tone. “I suppose Garan's right. An enemy that occupied the Towers would be almost impossible to dislodge, and would have untrammeled access to the Gray Lands as well. But it's still Morning's responsibility, and their allies', to guard against such attack.”

Kalan closed his eyes again, trying to visualize the territory under discussion as Asantir asked the question he also considered obvious: “But if they can't—and their allies don't, or won't?”

In the anteroom, Morin cleared his throat, obliging Kalan to open his eyes. “It's been too long. I
should
let the Commander know you're here.” An edge crept into his tone as he met Aeln's gaze. “We shouldn't rule out foul play either.”

Aeln snorted, but did not stop the younger guard from knocking. When Asantir called out permission, Morin opened the door. “The Storm Spear's here, Commander.”

Garan spoke at once. “Nerys and I can wait outside, or return later as best suits.”

“I think we've done all we can for now,” Asantir replied. “Get some rest and we'll talk again before tomorrow's contests. Khar of the Storm Spears,” she added, rising as Kalan joined Morin: “Come in—and my apologies for keeping you waiting.”

Entering as bidden, Kalan saw Garan and Nerys salute crisply despite their dirt. They were both worn to leanness and shadowed eyes, but nodded in courtesy to Kalan as they left. Teron stayed seated, his arms folded across his chest, although his scowl faded as Asantir made the formal introductions. Kalan bowed, murmuring a polite response, and decided the former Honor Captain looked much as she had six years before. Her Commander's black mail might be washed with gold, but the dagger hilts at her belt were still well-worn and her dark gaze was as keen as he remembered.

Let's hope, he thought, that she only sees what she expects to, all the same. Taking the chair offered, he saw the tabletop was layered with papers and maps, dispatch pouches, and scroll cylinders. The pouch closest to Asantir's chair was crusted with dried blood, and he guessed it must be the one Garan had retrieved from the dying messenger. A pair of swords graced a weapons' stand on the wall—Asantir's, Kalan assumed, since she currently wore none, before his eyes were drawn to the traveling chess set on top of a battered chest, where a game had been left partway through. Each small figure was carved into a representation of the Derai world, from Earl and Heir to household warrior. “Do you play?” Asantir asked, following his gaze.

Kalan nodded. “A little.”

“He won't know that you always win,” Teron said to Asantir, with a flash of humor, “so might be willing to give you a game.”

If I live, Kalan thought, seeing Teron's look grow conscious, although Asantir's expression did not change. “Perhaps,” she murmured, then bowed to Kalan, a sword exponent's salute with her right hand placed above her heart. “I thank you, Khar, for upholding Lady Myrathis's guest friendship and standing as her champion and mine in the
duel forced by Lord Parannis.” Teron stirred at that, but did not speak. “The Battlemaster approached me earlier to discuss the time and terms of the combat. Needless to say, he's not happy with any aspect of the business.”

Kalan could see why. For Lord Parannis to challenge the Earl of Night's emissary, who was also the Battlemaster's fellow judge, was irregular in the extreme. To persist in his challenge once the Bride had made the Night envoys her guest friends tested Derai tradition and the Honor Code to their limits. Yet whatever the Battlemaster might say, Earl Sardon had effectively allowed this train of events: by not extending guest friendship to the Night envoys from the outset, by failing to rein Lord Parannis in, and then by not forbidding the duel.

Earlier that day, Kalan had overheard Banath informing Nalin's watch of the official line: that with the challenge given and accepted, the Earl's hands were now tied. Kalan, however, had spent seven years in Night's Temple quarter, where Brother Selmor's study had been history and Sister Korriya's the law. He knew how rarely an Earl's hands were ever truly tied. “
Failure to act is still an action.”
Kalan repeated the axiom, one of Lord Falk's favorites, to himself, and considered its implication: that Lord Parannis was behaving as he did, and the duel going ahead, because Earl Sardon wanted both those outcomes. One possible reason was that the marriage had never been more than a pretext for Blood to strike against Night, through its Commander. Despite the duel now taking matters along a different course, it was still a convenient way to remove an unwelcome contestant, or even—and here Kalan frowned—dispose of a son who was becoming a liability.

The Earl of Blood, after all, had eight other children.

Kalan saw Asantir take note of the frown before she spoke again. “The Battlemaster asked me to say that he interceded with Lord Parannis, who refused to withdraw, while Lady Myrathis also maintains her guest friendship.”

Despite considerable pressure, I'm sure, Kalan thought: bravely done, Lady Mouse. “Lord Kharalthor,” Asantir con
tinued, “requested I point out that you also have the option of withdrawal.”

Kalan's eyes met hers, but the dark gaze was as neutral as her voice. She had to honor Lord Kharalthor's request, he supposed, just as the Battlemaster had to go through Asantir or Lady Myrathis rather than approaching their champion directly. Doubtless, too, Lord Kharalthor had to be seen trying to avert the combat, even if Taly's view suggested it furthered his interests. “I regret that's impossible,” Kalan said.

The Commander inclined her head. “In that case, the Battlemaster has advised that the duel will conclude the final day of contests.” A grand finale, Kalan thought ironically. “Since Lord Parannis issued the challenge, the choice of weapons is yours.”

That, at least, was easy: “Swords.”

Teron stirred again. “Lord Parannis is said to excel with the sword, Storm Spear. You'll be playing to his strength.”

“The sword is also my weapon,” Kalan replied quietly.

The Cloud Holder looked resigned, but his scowl returned as Asantir spoke. “Given the open nature of the Honor Contest, the Battlemaster prefers that the duel also be public.”

“To maximize Night's humiliation should our champion lose.” Now Teron sounded bitter. “I'm starting to wonder whether Blood wants this marriage to go ahead.”

Only “starting to,” Kalan thought, with a touch of humor, but Asantir shook her head. “The contracts have been signed since the spring, Teron. For Blood to withdraw now would contravene both convention and law, and entitle Night to considerable reparations. Your speculation,” she added, “also impugns the honor of Earl Sardon and his House, so please don't repeat it elsewhere.”

The warning conveyed the danger of repeating Teron's doubt, without denying its import—which Kalan decided was interesting, given the likelihood of eyes-and-ears. He eyed the Commander of Night and decided she played a hazardous game. “You
have
to admit though—” Teron began, then broke off as Asantir's eyebrows lifted. She continued to regard him a moment longer, before turning back to Kalan.

“Forgive me,” she said, “but I must ask. Should the worst happen, do you have kin or a liege to whom I should send word, together with your possessions?”

Kalan's thoughts flew to Malian, then Lord Falk and his Normarch friends—and Jarna as he had last seen her, with her face turned away from him, toward the wall. Yet he could mention none of them, let alone the family that had exiled him, so shook his head. “Thank you, but I have asked Envoy Nimor to see to all such matters. Lady Myrathis conveyed the necessary letters to him.”

The letter to Che'Ryl-g-Raham asked that she do all within her power to ensure Madder's safe return to Jarna. That in itself would serve as news of his fate for all those he had left behind in Emer, but his letter to the navigator also enclosed another to Falk of Normarch. In it, Kalan asked that the Lord Castellan accept Faro as foster-son in his own place. He felt confident Che'Ryl-g-Raham would ensure both her charges reached their destination, and Faro would then be as well provided for as an uncertain world allowed. If only, that is, he heeded Kalan's caution not to betray his atrocious Grayharbor accent, and himself, while still in Blood territory.

Asantir nodded. “I will let Envoy Nimor know that Night will render any assistance the Sea House may require.”

Teron's expression was curious. “Anvin said that you sent your page to Nimor as well. To conduct back to your order, he supposed?”

Did he now? Kalan thought. Clearly, the contest talk that claimed Teron stood on easy terms with Lord Anvin was correct. Still, the speculation was close enough to the truth—even if the order in question was the Oakward and not the Storm Spears—that Kalan nodded, aiming to satisfy curiosity without actually confirming it. At the same time, it occurred to him that Blood might trail Faro and the horses in order to locate the Storm Spears' base. Let them waste their time, he decided. He was confident of the Oakward's ability to deal with Blood spies, and the subsequent puzzle might give the ruling kin pause.

Asantir interrupted this train of thought. “Tradition re
quires that the one whose honor is at stake should make the champion that defends it a gift.”

Captain-Lady Hatha, Kalan recalled, had told Lady Myrathis the same thing. Teron looked surprised. “I didn't know that,” he said.

“The tradition is old—as old as the Derai Alliance, I believe.” Asantir moved to the sword stand. “Should you visit Night, Khar, I will make you a more permanent gift. But now, since you fight in my name as well as the Bride's, I would be honored if you used my swords.” She paused. “For this combat, and given Lord Parannis's resources, you will need weapons of their caliber.”

She was right, Kalan knew. A Son of Blood could command the finest armor and weapons, and his own, while serviceable, were hardly of the same order. His mind flashed to the contestants' gossip again, and the rumor that the Commander of Night's swords were black blades. A confused account of a Gray Lands' confrontation involving Night warriors and Stone Keep priests had been part of the mix as well. All Honor Contest speculation—except that Kalan knew Asantir
had
brought a black spear into the Old Keep six years before and used it to slay a Raptor of Darkness.

“Of death my song . . .”
His skin lifted into gooseflesh, reliving the moment when the spear, wreathed in golden fire, had carried the Raptor with it into the void. The memory bore out the legend that went with the ancient rhyme, which claimed that even the slightest nick or scratch from such a weapon meant death. Although according to Brother Belan, his mind wandering between ancient lore and more accurate histories, a blade's potency had always been controlled by the wielder's intention. The old priest had also claimed that the ruling kindreds, possibly through their bond to the Golden Fire, possessed some resistance to the black blades' power. Limitations or not, such weapons would certainly give anyone who wielded them an edge, as Asantir's use of the black spear had proven. But as Kalan recalled matters, the spear had been a legacy of Night's Honor Captains, so
Asantir's possession of more heirloom weapons would be unlikely at best.

“Perhaps you're not familiar with twin blades?” Teron suggested, misinterpreting his hesitation.

“No, I've learned them.” It was unnecessary, Kalan decided, to explain that Normarch instruction had focused on the Lathayran and Jhainarian styles for such weapons, not the Derai.