Daughter of Blood (40 page)

“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 Shadow 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.”

S
peaking 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 into 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.

T
he 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.”

And
you
were right, Malian acknowledged silently: the only way to be sure of Emuun was to kill him. Moving slowly, she picked up her scabbard and resheathed the frost-fire sword. “He was invoking another power, using a tongue similar to Jhaine's language of blood, but infused with pain and death.” The same way, Malian thought, the priestess-queens of Jhaine had desecrated the power that was their birthright. “It was magic of Haarth, not the Swa—orn, possibly another elemental trying to open a gate and rescue him.”

“From the whiff of power I caught, I'd put money on one of the elemental's masters, or a cabal of them, since the
Great Djinn rarely work alone.” Raven's gaze narrowed on his kinsman's body. “Emuun must have shown them a way of extending their reach, because until now both the djinn and their lesser servants have been bound to the southern deserts.” He paused. “His immunity came from his Fire mother, the facestealing from his Sun father, but he knew the runes as well as Arcolin or Thanir, and was adept at using them to glean others' magic for his own ends.”

A magpie, Malian thought, but saw that Raven was watching her. “As you,” he said, still quietly, “appear to have absorbed the Jhainarian language of blood from the Midsummer rite. In Ishnapur, the magi also call it the Language of Imuln. It's among the oldest magic in Haarth, as well as the strongest, but it comes at a price.”

“Blood must be shed,” she replied, as quiet as he. Drawing a dagger, she scored the tip across her palm, then stooped and pressed the bloodied line into the ground. Through the touch, she felt the song of Haarth again, a pulse within her hand. “I've already made one mistake tonight, using the Derai-dan. So you're right, best to avoid another.”

He shook his head. “You used the language three times. Under the circumstances, it may be as well that Emuun died.”

Malian frowned. “I thought that death was only required for the great workings. Like Kiyan, sacrificing himself so Zharaan could shut Salar's children out of Jhaine.” Or the nine deaths, she thought, that had been required to prevent the Cataclysm destroying Haarth. Although really it had been eighteen, since the nine high priestesses had also died, their power drained performing the rite.

“The larger the working, the greater the offering.” Raven spoke as though weighing his words. “In the Language of Imuln, blood and life are the same word. The way the story used to be told in Jhaine, that's why Kiyan knew his life would be necessary for Zharaan's rite to succeed. But what made the working so powerful, strong enough to keep the Sworn and their allies out to this day, was that Kiyan's sacrifice was primarily made, not out of fear or even necessity, but love.”

A true offering, Malian thought, and supposed Yorindesarinen facing the Worm alone fell into the same category. She wrapped her jacket closer, her skin gooseflesh from the cold and the aftermath of the day's violence and death. Neither her Derai heritage nor Shadow Band training had yet exempted her from paying their toll. “I just didn't want to shout out Derai to any other Sworn who might be about.”

Raven nodded. “Emuun will have suppressed any link to Nirn while he was on the run, but I imagine the sorcerer will feel his death. Sooner or later someone will investigate.”

For the first time, Malian wondered how much of Emuun's conversation Raven might have overheard, returning ahead of the others, or whether he had only arrived in time for the brief, furious endgame. “Do you want to set another trap?” she asked.

“For now, I'd rather lose them.” Raven glanced toward the sound of his guards approaching. “But facestealers must be burned, not buried or left to lie, so we'll place him in the chapel and set fire to both. That's Haarth practice, too, and since he was already a fugitive, with luck no one will look any further. Rhaikir's cadre can see to it and make sure our trail's wiped clear. And we'll find a better resting place for Yris.”

“She deserves a place of honor.” Among her own, Malian thought, assuming the Patrol had graveyards despite their longevity.

Before Raven could do more than nod, his warriors filtered out of the trees. Their eyes gleamed through lowered visors, although they were not wearing either Patrol helmets or the armor Malian recalled from the Cave of Sleepers. Their plain dark mail could have originated anywhere between Ij and Ishnapur, although the helms had a more southern aspect. I suppose they've had a millennium to build their armory, she thought, watching them study Emuun's body.

“Well, that makes life a lot simpler.” She recognized Sarathion by his voice. “I did wonder how long we'd manage to hold him, especially on a march across wild country.”

“He's carried a debt for our Kin and Blood a long time,”
said another warrior, one Malian had not heard speak before. “In the end, we'll hold all those who do to account.”

Blood demands blood. Malian suppressed a shiver as she realized that Fire was resuming a conflict that had already been ancient before the Empire that Haarth called Old was founded. All the same, their mood was more somber than exultant, and she supposed the bonds of kinship must complicate the debt of blood.

We were as brothers in our war.
Malian stifled another shiver as Emuun's words slithered across her mind. She was hungry as well as cold, and the day had been long. Stepping back, she tacitly ceded the site to what she guessed must be Rhaikir's cadre, preparing to wipe away any magical residue. Studying the shape of their power, she began to see what Raven had meant, outside Aeris, about turning aside unwelcome attention—and understand how the Patrol had been able to deflect doubt or questions until they and their helms of concealment were as much part of the River landscape as the Ijir itself.

An owl hooted again from the nearby trees, while farther off Malian heard the clip of many hooves on the forest road and guessed it was Aithe returning. As her attention shifted back to Emuun, her foreseeing flared, superimposing an image of Yorindesarinen's riven body over his corpse. The vision wavered, a candle flame against the void; when it steadied, the face of the dead hero was Malian's own.

Death down every path of seeing
. This time, Malian could not repress her shudder as the image vanished and Raven and the cadre all looked her way. They must have detected the spark of power use, but no one spoke, and the warriors who had been about to lift Emuun onto a cloak tied between two spears resumed their work. They had barely disappeared into the trees when Aithe arrived to say that the horses were waiting on the road, at the point closest to the ruin.

No foreseeing is ever certain, Malian reminded herself, as Raven spoke quietly to Rhaikir. The cadre, she gathered, concentrating fiercely to combat the vision's chill, were to follow the main company to the muster ground once Emuun's body
was burned and their work in the forest complete. She fell in beside Raven as the rest of the escort prepared to leave, but although she caught his brief, sidelong scrutiny, their walk to the road was a silent one.