Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  Kalan could almost feel Jad’s inward flinch at her knowing his name, although his demeanor did not change. “All orders in respect of the Storm Spear must be received from Captain Banath, unless Earl Sardon or the Battlemaster issue them in person. And other than the Bride, whom he champions, none of the ruling kin are to approach the Storm Spear without express permission.”

  “So punctilious,” Lady Sarein murmured, but remained where she was. Her gaze dismissed Jad and returned to Kalan. “Where had we got to, Storm Spear? Ah, yes. We were discussing whether you could save anybody, let alone that misbegotten brat who thinks I might overlook him, cowering at your back.” Her smile showed the tips of white teeth. “What if an allegation were to be made that he’s tainted with old power? The Sea envoy could do nothing, since the boy is of Blood, and once made the claim would have to be investigated. Thoroughly investigated.” She ran her tongue along her upper lip. “What will you do then, Storm Spear? What can you do, when two nights from now you’ll be dead?”

  Kalan schooled his features into calmness. “I take it you’re here on your brother’s business, Lady Sarein?”

  “I? I am always about my own business, Storm Spear. Although I try never to interfere with Parannis’s pleasures—and since you thwarted him of his preferred prey, he does appear very set on carving you into small pieces on the Field of Blood.” She paused, still smiling, but shrugged when he made no reply. “I suppose there is nothing you can say to that. Or perhaps you are thinking that it was our dear little Myrathis who thwarted Parannis of his prey. Not a sisterly act, even if she has taken a fancy to being Countess of Night. Ah, you smile.” Her lips pursed as she regarded him. “It is amusing when one considers the Mouse, I’ll grant you that.”

  Kalan continued to smile. “What I was thinking, Lady Sarein, is that the Bride did your lord brother a kindness. The Commander of Night would eat him up and still sit down to her breakfast.”

  Sarein’s eyes narrowed. For a moment, Kalan thought she might spit like one of the hooded snakes found in Ishnapur—but then she clapped her hands. “Oh, very good. I must share the jest with my twin. But as for doing him a kindness, I hardly think so.” Again, she ran her tongue over her lips. “In due course, too, we will square our reckoning with the Half-Blood for her interference.”

  “As you tried to square your reckoning with me by sending your Oath Hold kindred after my horses?” Kalan kept his tone level, but Lady Sarein’s smile did not falter.

  “The account my grandfather’s Oath Hold retainers brought me was that they heard a disturbance. When they investigated, your killer horse slew two of their number, and your page another.” She shook her head. “Restitution will need to be made: blood debt paid in full or else blood feud declared.”

  “Against a horse and a page?” Kalan inquired, matching her tone. “Seeing as I’m to be chopped into mincemeat by your lord brother.”

  She raised one shoulder delicately, then dropped it again. “Blood demands blood. And it was your page, after all, that brought a sickle blade into your horse’s stall.”

  Kalan felt Faro’s jerk of protest as the wyr hounds growled, a low vibration of warning. Sarein bared her teeth in reply. “The beasts take your part, Storm Spear, against their ruling kin. Perhaps they are becoming mad, as well as increasingly unreliable. Many say so, but until now their madness has never been turned against us.” She tapped a fingertip against her lips. “Perhaps I should see these two hang, after all: make an example to the rest of their hideous pack.”

  “I don’t believe,” Kalan observed, very dryly, “that hounds of any kind are capable of absorbing that sort of lesson.”

  “You may be right, Storm Spear. But a butcher’s hook through this pair’s slavering jaws could be entertaining.” Kalan saw distaste flicker in Jad’s eyes, while Faro suppressed a whimper. He kept his own features immobile, knowing Sarein was trying to goad a reaction. “Parannis and I like executions,” she continued, “especially hangings. We enjoy seeing the bodies drop and listening to the necks snap. Hangings of the tainted are better still, because no one cares if we amuse ourselves with the formula.” She paused, growing reflective. “Parannis likes watching them dance on air, but a hanging that ends in decapitation is best of all. We’re agreed on that.”

  Despite understanding her game, Kalan had difficulty containing his revulsion. If even part of what she had said was true, then everyone in the Red Keep must realize, at some level, that those with old powers were being hung. They might try and suppress the knowledge, looking the other way, but he was certain they would know something. Including Lady Myrathis? he asked himself—and felt sick and old as the wyr hounds whined, and a new shadow fell across the doorway.

  “Is that so, Sarein?” The shadow’s voice was dark, as well as smooth. “I believe the dealings of your Oath Hold kin may require closer scrutiny. The last time I consulted Derai law it stated that the tainted may be exiled, but not executed. Or tortured.”

  Lady Sarein’s mouth pinched. “Huern. And with dear Lord Narn in tow. As for Derai law—” She shrugged. “In the New Blood we make our own rules.”

  “Do you?” Lord Huern’s tone was all polite interest. “You must expound that view to our father, since exile, not execution, is also his ruling.”

  “We Derai do not kill our own clan and kin for an accident of birth, even the taint.” The second speaker was gruff, and Kalan guessed this was Bajan’s liege, the head of Bronze Hold. “We must breed the defect out of our ranks, Lady, not violate the ties of kin and blood.”

  “Ways change, Lord Narn.” Lady Sarein was smiling again, but her tone suggested she did not care for the holder’s admonition. “But I was only making sport of the Storm Spear, brother. You know I—and my Oath kindred—would never contravene our father’s rule.”

  In the lull that followed her words, Kalan distinguished Dain’s voice, saying Palla’s name. The rest of the honor guard’s comment was too muted to catch, but the pair’s presence suggested that they must have found the two lords at, or on their way to, the kennels. “Stay here,” he told Faro, keeping his voice low as the wyr pack, too, finally stopped howling. “If I signal, flee into the air well, but don’t stay there.” He would not, he reflected, rule out Lady Sarein having it walled up. “It should bring you out in the kennels.” The boy nodded but said nothing, retreating into the shadows as Kalan moved toward the door.

  “Do I know that?” Lord Huern spoke again. “I find I cannot entirely dispel my doubt. Putting that aside, your kindred’s retainers have come to grief here. Hardly the time for making sport.”

  “Deaths,” Lady Sarein countered, “that were precipitated by the Storm Spear’s page bringing a sickle blade into the roan’s stall. Bent on revenge, no doubt, for being passed on to the Sea Keepers now that”—she paused delicately—“the Storm Spear’s use for him is past.” She paused again, angling her body to keep Kalan in sight while effectively blocking his exit. Jad met his eye but made no move to intervene, and Kalan could not blame him. Staying clear of the verbal fencing between the Son and Daughter of Blood was undoubtedly the prudent course.

  Kalan, though, did not feel inclined toward prudence, especially hearing Lady Sarein reiterate her version of events, in which the Oath retainers went to investigate and Madder—presumably already enraged by Faro—turned on them. In Emer, both upholding and speaking the truth formed part of a knight’s oath to the god Serrut. And lies, Kalan reminded himself, are anathema to the Nine Gods as well.

  “You surprise me about the page,” Lord Huern said. “I thought the sickle blade and the horse’s head delivered as a gift was your trick.”

  “Do you take his part—” Sarein began, but Lord Narn spoke at the same time.

  “Is that why Valan of Ward Hold withdrew his suit to Lady Sardonya? We knew something went awry with his gift, but he will never speak of it.”

  “He probably does not dare.” Irony tinged Lord Huern’s tone. “Having received so clear a message that h
e proffered his suit to the wrong sister, I imagine Valan was—and is—keen not to go the same way as his intended troth gift.”

  Jad’s expression was so wooden that Kalan guessed the story must be mostly true. Rather than denying it, Lady Sarein shrugged. As if it were of no consequence, Kalan thought, as appalled by that as by her series of lies. “Speaking of the Storm Spear,” Lord Huern continued, “perhaps you could step away from the door so he and the honor guard can leave without actually setting hands to your person. Unless that’s what you’re hoping for, of course.”

  However true that might be, Kalan knew that Audin, who was nephew to the Duke of Emer, would say it was highly irregular as well as unchivalrous to cast the slur in public. Not, he reflected, that there seemed to be anything resembling Emerian chivalry, or the exemplary behavior extolled by the Derai Honor Code, among Blood’s ruling kin—although Lord Narn’s tongue click suggested discomfort. Lady Sarein’s gaze glittered, but she moved clear of the door, and Kalan reached the threshold as she stopped beside Lord Huern. “You will pay for this, brother.” Her smile did not waver for an instant. “Be sure of that.”

  Kalan was probably the only person outside the two half siblings who could distinguish her murmur. In any case, voices sounded from the stable entrance as she spoke, and most of those present glanced that way. The newcomers’ accents told Kalan that the Sea envoy had arrived at last, and he spoke over his shoulder to Faro. “You can come out now.” But it was the wyr hounds that padded out first, their nails click-clicking over the flagstones.

  Lord Huern looked intrigued. “I thought it was only you and Parannis they liked to haunt, Sarein.” The gleam in his eyes suggested appreciation of some hidden joke, but not one derived from either kindness or warmth. The wyr hounds bared their teeth, growling and stiff-legged, before settling between Kalan and the ruling kin, their pale eyes intent on both brother and sister. Eventually, Faro crept out, too, but clung to Kalan’s shadow, his eyes fixed on the floor. From what Kalan could glimpse of the boy’s frozen expression, there was no need to worry about his accent giving him away. He looked incapable of speech.

  Lord Nimor and his companions came into view on the far side of an avenue of stalls, at the same time as Jad emerged and saluted both Lord Huern and Lady Sarein in turn. But—exactly like the wyr hounds—the eight-leader then took up position between Kalan and the ruling kin. “He has orders, brother.” Lady Sarein continued to smile, but her gaze was hooded.

  “I’m aware of his orders,” Huern returned. “They’re to ensure the duel takes its course without interference. That includes not harassing the Bride’s champion by means of his horses or his page.”

  “Quite right,” Lord Narn agreed. “The Code requires it.” Kalan had seen the gray-haired hold commander before, but only from a distance. Up close, he smelt of sweat and hounds. His face was so deeply lined it gave him a permanently worried air, but Kalan thought he must have considerable courage to even imply criticism of Lady Sarein.

  “But he’s not really the Bride’s champion, is he?” the Daughter of Blood retorted. “Primarily, he’s defending the Commander of Night’s honor—when the apostate can have no honor, we all know that. Having to fight such a contest sullies Parannis and diminishes us all.”

  Narn looked uneasy, but Lord Huern’s irony glinted. “Still playing your tricks, Sarein? Parannis forced the duel, remember. All he’s concerned about is not being thwarted of a kill.”

  “So best, perhaps,” Narn put in, “to let matters here lie as they’ve fallen.”

  Kalan studied him carefully, but could detect neither irony nor humor, however dark, in the hold lord’s expression. He could not imagine Lady Sarein agreeing, given the Oath Hold dead, but was willing to add a supporting argument as Lord Nimor and his company finally reached them. “Since the duel is to the death, any blood debt here could be added to Lord Parannis’s cause.”

  Lord Huern’s brows rose, but Sarein showed her teeth again. “You’re already a dead man, Storm Spear, and your page has transgressed against House Blood. He must pay in full.”

  “I’m afraid it’s no longer that simple,” Kalan said. He rested his hand on Faro’s shoulder, keeping him close. “Earlier today, Envoy Nimor not only took my page into his care, he confirmed the Sea Keep’s wardship once the boy, and the required papers, were conveyed into his charge.”

  At the far end of the alley, Nimor bowed, his cabled hair a brindle of gray and black; the rings in his ears gleamed in the lanternlight. Lady Sarein’s eyes blazed, and Faro shrank closer to Kalan, but Lord Huern inclined his head to the envoy. “Lord Nimor. Is this correct?”

  “It is.” The envoy bowed. “With respect, Daughter of Blood, I believe your understanding of my ward’s part in events may be mistaken. Khar of the Storm Spears’ will not only transfers ownership of the bay warhorse to Faro, but in the event of Khar’s death the roan also passes into Sea House custody.”

  Conjecture buzzed among the Blood retainers, but it was Lord Huern who spoke. “In view of the wealth these horses represent, the boy would be as likely to cut his own throat.”

  Lord Nimor nodded. “If you question your witnesses again, Lady Sarein, you may find their initial account was muddied by confusion and the speed of events.”

  Huern’s smile was mocking. “Yes, do question them again, Sarein. Or my father may wish to do so, since his hand is over the Storm Spear until the duel is concluded.” The Son of Blood leaned close to his half sister. “Admit it, you’ve been outplayed. The boy and the horses have gone beyond your reach, and pressing matters further will create a confrontation with Sea. I doubt even your New Blood adherents are ready for that, and no one else will support you. Take consolation from the duel and withdraw now with whatever grace you can muster.”

  Not a great deal, Kalan thought, watching Lady Sarein stiffen. And while Lord Huern might sketch him a duelist’s salute, the Son of Blood’s expression remained cool, the look of one who has just seen a new opponent step onto the field. Kalan inclined his head in acknowledgment of the salute, before turning to Faro. “You must go with Lord Nimor now,” he said, as the boy tried to remain concealed behind him. “And as a Sea House ward you must not leave the envoy’s company for any reason, except by his express order. Heart up,” he added, adopting Dab’s phrase.

  The wyr hounds stretched and got to their feet, swinging their great heads toward the Sea company. The duty groom, apparently deciding the crisis was over, began to light more lamps, but Faro did not move. “Marching orders,” Kalan said, and steered him forward.

  “Death,” Lady Sarein said, so softly she might have been speaking to herself, “demands death.” Steel gleamed in her hand—and then hers was the only movement, the blade continuing to rise while the rest of the world—stables, people—remained frozen and the hounds in particular appeared to simply wait. A split second later both Lord Narn and a Sea Keeper shouted, and Jad stepped between Faro and the blade. But Kalan had already registered that the boy was not the intended target and spun him around, pressing Faro’s face into his tunic as Sarein of Blood seized the first hound’s head and severed its throat.

  The wyr pack howled from the kennels on a prolonged mournful note as Sarein threw the dead hound from her. Blood stained the blade, and was splashed across her hands and arm, as she turned upon the second hound—but Jad had already shoved the beast away. “With respect, Lady Sarein,” he said, blocking the knife stroke as she rounded on him instead, “the wyr hounds have not wronged you.”

  “But you have, Honor Guard, daring to raise your hand to a Daughter of Blood.” Sarein’s eyes might burn, but when she spoke again her voice was silken. “I think all here would agree that you have exceeded your orders, and for what?” She spurned the first hound’s still-convulsing body with her foot as the pack’s clamor fell away, then rose again. “A flea-ridden cur. Take it away,” she added. Her left hand summoned the grooms forward, although she had to raise her voice to be heard above the pack. “Hang t
he carcass above the Blood Gate to remind this House what becomes of those who thwart my will.”

  The look Sarein darted at Jad made it clear the last remark was for him, and the guard paled, although he stood his ground. The grooms looked toward Huern, who nodded, his expression unreadable. “You have your orders. Clear away the Oath Holder dead at the same time.”

  As if, Kalan thought, such events were an everyday occurrence—although many of the Blood retainers looked strained and Lord Narn was openly shocked. Faro was rigid, his face still pressed into Kalan’s tunic. Jad’s glance toward them both kept Sarein and the knife within his peripheral vision.

  “We’ll leave when you’re ready, Storm Spear.”

  The Daughter of Blood turned on him like a viper. “Don’t think I’ll forget your transgression, Honor Guard.” Every word was shaped into another dagger thrust. “I shall have recompense in full for your presumption.”

  Jad was watching her, so Kalan could no longer see his face, but he saw Dain and Palla’s dismay. And Lord Huern’s demeanor made it clear he had no intention of intervening. “Lady Sarein.” Kalan shifted Faro to one side and bowed, just low enough to avoid disrespect, and had the satisfaction of seeing her stare fix on him as he bowed again to her brother. “Lord Huern. Lord Narn.” The grooms were removing the hound’s corpse and the bodies from the alley. The second beast had disappeared, although the pack’s dirge continued to rise and fall as Kalan placed his hand on Faro’s shoulder. “Make your bow to the Children of Blood so we may take our leave.”

  Faro kept his gaze averted but bobbed his head as bidden, and Kalan concentrated on staying between the boy and Lady Sarein’s unsheathed blade as they started forward. A much younger Kalan, kicking at the confines of his life in the Keep of Winds’ Temple quarter, would have hated the Daughter of Blood for the small, complacent smile that curved her mouth, as much as he despised Lord Huern for his indifference. But the warrior whom Yelusin had named Kalan-hamar observed both with dispassion.