Daughter of Blood

by Helen Lowe

  Kalan could not imagine the envoy refusing, but the distinction between Blood and Sea still needed to be respected. Leaving Jad to his work, he strode toward the heart of the camp with Aarion, two of the wyr hounds at their heels. “It’s bad,” Aarion said quietly. “A lot of dead, and we haven’t found the Bride yet. But the rear of the pavilion, where Lady Myrathis and her governess had their compartments, has collapsed, so she could be under that.”

  Dead, abducted, missing . . . Kalan lengthened his stride. The camp was eerily silent, with people either deployed into Sarr’s watches or keeping to themselves. Everyone reacts differently, Kalan thought, watching one man go from wagon to wagon, methodically tightening straps and recoiling ropes. The only place they encountered something approaching normal activity was around a burned-out cook wagon, where several people were damping down the still-hot ashes. A woman turned as Kalan and Aarion passed and looked as though she intended speaking, but another grasped her arm, stopping her.

  There were no retainers within the camp’s inner circle, but Kalan detected the residue of power use as soon as he passed the cart barrier. Someone had used a great deal of it, probably during the night, and he identified the lingering occlusion from a shield-spell, willing away unwanted attention—which might explain why no one had thought to check on the Bride. He could detect other influences as well, all too faded to be sure of their purpose, although one hinted at allure. A melange, Kalan thought, and felt Yelusin’s spark stir.

  “You can see how the pavilion’s collapsed.” Aarion pointed. “When I left, Taly and Dain were planning to raise it. Jaras and Nhal checked Captain Kolthis’s tent, but it’s completely empty.”

  Nothing left behind, Kalan thought. Whoever Kolthis truly was, he was clearly done with being a warrior of Blood. Setting the implications of that aside, Kalan stepped through the pavilion’s tied-back flaps. Despite being forewarned, he was still shaken by the carnage inside: pages, stewards, and attendants were strewn about the main compartment like broken dolls. The wyr pair trailing him keened on the same eerie, low-pitched note they had used beside the death standards. Walling off emotion, Kalan took time to study the dead faces but could not see any he knew. Including Faro, he thought, grimly aware that the boy was still missing.

  He circled the remains of two guards, hacked apart at the entrance to the first of the inner compartments. The area beyond looked as though a whirlwind had been through it, with smashed camp furniture and belongings tossed about, but no more bodies. The rich furnishings and prevalence of Blood’s hydra device suggested this had been the Bride’s private apartment, which also pointed to Lady Myrathis having been abducted—although a successful abduction would not explain why time had been wasted tearing her quarters apart.

  “Over here, sir,” Aarion said, as the apartment’s rear wall billowed and the subsided canvas began to rise. Kalan stooped through the entrance the honor guard held open and found the next section only partly upright. He sidestepped another dead warrior, sprawled beneath sagging canvas, and saw Taly beside a small pile of bodies, the uppermost wearing Blood uniform. Aarion, following him, paused to pull the body from beneath the canvas, revealing a crossbow bolt punched through gorget and throat. “From close range,” the guard said, and Kalan nodded at the same time as Taly rolled the topmost corpse over. A knife had been driven into his eye, but it was harder to see what had slain the warrior beneath him until the ensign pointed to a tiny dart, again in the eye.

  “Poison,” she said, and hauled the second warrior aside, revealing a woman’s blood-soaked body. The gore was probably not all hers, Kalan thought, although the congealing blood that covered her bruised face came from an ugly looking wound to her head. “It’s Ilai,” Taly told him. “She was one of Lady Liankhara’s household before being assigned to the Bride’s retinue.” The ensign hesitated briefly: “As a wardrobe attendant.”

  Lady Liankhara, Kalan repeated silently, who is a Blood spymaster—while Ilai was clearly adept at more than looking after clothes. He supposed he must have seen her before, but it was impossible to tell through the blood and swelling, especially since Lady Myrathis’s attendants had worn the same makeup masks as the Bride. When Kalan checked for a pulse, the flutter was slight but led him to look more intently for the equally faint rise and fall of breath. “She’s alive,” he said. “Aarion, get Lord Nimor’s physician here.”

  Aarion left at as close to a run as the lopsided pavilion would allow, while Taly looked for something that wasn’t shredded to keep Ilai warm. She finally came up with a tapestry that had only sustained one long rent, and when she spread it out Kalan recognized The Lovers. But Dain dragged his attention away, calling out from beyond another fold of drooping canvas. “Taly, I’ve found Mistress Ise. She’s still alive, but only just.”

  “You go,” Taly told Kalan. “I’ll stay with Ilai until Kion arrives. But if Mistress Ise’s alive . . .”

  Then Lady Myrathis may be as well, Kalan finished silently. When he reached the next compartment, the old Rose woman was lying amid more wreckage, with her body curled around a sword that had been thrust up beneath her ribs. Her hands still clutched her gnarled walking stick, but what gave him pause was the aura of power, however frail, that surrounded her body. Frowning, Kalan stepped between a broken table and splintered chair to reach her side. The governess had woven a shield, he decided, studying the fading aura. She had concealed it very cleverly, too, using the larger working outside to disguise what she had done.

  A Rose adept within Blood all these years, he thought—and no one any the wiser.

  “Did you think, Storm Spear, that we would leave our own unprotected amid the barbarity of your House?” The mindwhisper was so soft that if Mistress Ise had spoken aloud Kalan would have had to bend close to hear.

  “Did you manage to save Lady Myrathis?” he asked urgently. “Is that what your shield spell was for?”

  “To conceal her escape, yes. She is with your page, who I hope may prove strong enough to save them both.”

  “Where—” Kalan began, but felt the headshake she was too weak to give.

  “I don’t know. There was no time. The enemy were already about their work, but we did what we could, Liankhara’s agent and I . . .”

  Liankhara’s agent, Kalan thought: she must mean Ilai. “Ilai still lives,” he said, and felt her answering flicker of acknowledgment. He wanted to ask if she could not have used the shielding to save herself but already knew the answer. Only those with the very strongest gift could hide in plain sight. Otherwise, for a shield spell to work, there first had to be somewhere to hide.

  “And I am too old to run. I have had my time and more but at least I could give those two their chance . . .” The mindwhisper wavered, then strengthened again. “Liankhara’s agent did well. She was a tiger . . . for ferocity.”

  “A little Blood barbarity, eh?” Kalan caught the ghost of an answering chuckle, but the aura of power was dwindling fast now and Ise’s life with it. He heard voices from the adjoining compartment, and a few seconds later Taly joined him. “Taly is here,” he told Ise, speaking aloud as well. The ensign knelt on the old woman’s other side, her expression full of regret.

  “She was always a good girl. Old Blood to the core . . .” The mindwhisper lapsed again, and this time it was Taly who checked for a pulse. “To think,” Ise murmured—mostly to herself this time, Kalan thought—“I should live to see the line of Tavaral come into its own again . . . and the old Blood return. Myrathis . . .” She convulsed, moaning aloud. “Myr . . . the web . . . take great care . . .”

  “What does she mean?” Taly asked. “What web?”

  Derai politics probably, Kalan thought, because the Rose had always been the Alliance’s power brokers. He shook his head, indicating he did not know, as the last of Ise’s aura winked out. “She’s gone,” he said. But at least he knew now that Lady Myrathis and Faro had fled rather than being taken prisoner. The need to find them drove him to his feet, only to almost tr
ip on a silver tray lying beside the broken table.

  “It’s the tabletop,” Taly said, as he propped it upright. The legs, carved into the shape of dragons, had been smashed to kindling, so Kalan pushed them aside with his foot as Dain pointed to the tent’s outer wall.

  “See how this has been cobbled together? Recently, by the look of the thread, and the tear in the fabric’s clean. I’d say it was made by a knife.”

  “From in here, though, or outside?” Kalan slit the stitches and studied the camp beyond. A careful survey of the stony ground revealed no prints, and when he stepped through the gap the only out-of-place element was the burned cook-wagon. “I want this whole area cordoned off,” he told Dain, reentering the tent. “The wind’s probably obscured any tracks that weren’t deliberately erased, but there may be a scent the hounds can follow.” For the first time he felt glad of the spell that had kept others away until now. “Let’s take no chances and get all the wyrs here.”

  Once Dain left, he went over the disordered interior again, startling when his boot brushed against Ise’s walking stick and a jolt of power shocked through him. The spark of Yelusin’s power flared in answer, and the wyr pair whined as Kalan studied the stick more closely. It looked like several thick vines twisted into a single staff and shod with steel, while the mother-of-pearl eyes set into the knotted head reminded him of those painted onto Sea House ships. They seemed to be looking back at him now, and the hair on his arms and nape lifted, especially when he saw the same eye etched into the locket about the old woman’s neck. Yet when he touched the walking stick again, no further jolt came. Carefully, Kalan worked it free of Ise’s hands and placed it beside the tray. “Will you make sure this and her other intact possessions, especially anything of value, are secured?” he asked Taly. “And whatever’s left of Lady Myr’s belongings as well?”

  “I’ll see to it.” Carefully, the ensign unclasped the locket. “Mistress Ise always said this was to go to Lady Myr, since it contains a lock of Lady Mayaraní’s hair. What about burial?” she asked, placing the locket on the tray.

  Kalan drew his gauntlets back on. “It’ll have to be a mass grave, both for the dead here and those guarding the herd.” If we have time to dig it, he added silently, and left Taly covering Ise’s body with her own cloak. Kion was intent on Ilai and did not glance up as he passed by, but Nimor was waiting by the pavilion entrance with two of his marines and turned at once, his expression a question. Kalan shook his head. “We haven’t found the Bride yet.” Or Faro either, he thought, while explaining what they knew. “But, we can’t just focus on finding Lady Myrathis. With the caravan crippled and no guards, we must send for help at once.”

  If it’s not already too late, he reflected, as Nimor nodded. “It’s a Blood caravan,” the envoy said, “so someone from Blood must go. But since the Keep of Stone is the nearest stronghold, it may help if I send someone, too.” The Honor Code required that aid be rendered, but Nimor’s tone, if not his words, suggested scant reliance on that. He would be as aware as Kalan of the rumors about recent House of Adamant aggression—and that the New Blood was not the only faction within the Nine Houses that wanted to pick and choose among the Code’s tenets.

  “Could we try for Night instead?” one of the marines asked.

  Kalan shook his head. “It’s too far, Reith. Both our messengers and a Night relief force would have to skirt Adamant and Stars’ territory, and time is critical.” He was also thinking of the death standards and his Emerian experience of were-hunts. “We have to send the best scouts we’ve got, but they’ll need to be fighters, too.”

  Nimor nodded again. “I’ll confirm with Tyun, but Namath’s an experienced sea fighter and a keen hunter on land. He’s cool headed, too.”

  Someone who’ll remain calm in the face of potential Adamant antagonism, Kalan interpreted. That made Jad the obvious Blood choice, except he needed the eight-leader’s experience here.

  “Send me.” Taly stepped clear of the inner tent, carrying a meager armload of unbroken possessions, including Ise’s walking stick. “My home hold’s small, so I’ve been riding boundary patrols since I was a page and am better than most at scouting.” Her smile was a tight, half-moon curve that told Kalan she understood that volunteering could mean certain death. “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as Murn can pen a formal request for aid,” Nimor said briskly, “one that appoints both you and Namath as emissaries.” He turned to Kalan. “Unless there’s more you wish added?”

  Kalan shook his head. “No, nothing. But make sure you’re fully equipped,” he told Taly. “And take Tercel. He’s canny and enduring, and he’ll fight for you.”

  “And I for him,” she said, with the same tight smile. Her eyes held Kalan’s. “Just make sure you find my Lady Mouse, wherever she’s got to.”

  42

  The Empty Plain

  Two of the wyr hounds had accompanied Taly and Namath, but the eleven that remained disdained Myr’s offered belongings. They rolled their ghostly eyes toward Kalan as if to say they did not need to be given a scent, and instead quartered the inner camp. Five sniffed around the pavilion before flattening their ears and growling at Kolthis’s tent, a low rumble that began deep in their bellies and did not die away. The remaining six circled the cart barrier before ranging into the outer camp to investigate the burned wagon. When Kalan followed, the retainers there showed him how the fire had been set deliberately. Fuel had been gathered beneath the wagon, and the jar of lantern oil used to light it had been discarded nearby.

  “It was started not long before the attack.” The speaker was the same woman who had wanted to speak when Kalan and Aarion passed by earlier. “As a distraction, maybe, to draw our attention away from the perimeter and our herd.”

  “But it also roused us,” a second woman said. She sounded reluctant—perhaps, Kalan thought, placing her, for the same reason she had stopped her companion from speaking before. Turning, he studied the pavilion again, because the fire would have diverted attention from anyone fleeing through the cut in its rear wall. By rousing the camp, the blaze could well have prevented more widespread killing, even if whoever set it had risked setting the entire camp alight—but the fire-starter might have decided that was the lesser danger. Or didn’t consider the wider risk at all, Kalan reflected.

  “Sir,” the first woman said, then stopped. “The guards . . .”

  The wyr hounds were tracking back toward the pavilion, their noses to the ground, but Kalan stopped himself from striding after them. “The Honor Guard’s gone,” he said, not softening the situation, “but my company and the Sea envoy’s escort are seeing to the camp’s defense. They’d welcome your assistance, once all’s safe here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Of course.” The others nodded, too, and the low discussion that followed his departure suggested they meant it.

  Regardless, I have to let Jad deal with that for now, Kalan thought, altering direction to rejoin Dain and Aarion as the wyr hounds started toward the dike. Once they reached it, they crossed onto the Gray Lands’ side before stopping, their eyes intent on the plain. Kalan settled onto his heels beside them and studied the unrevealing terrain, trying to distinguish sounds beyond the camp’s bustle and the incessant wind. He knew Faro could disguise his presence behind a wisp of haze or within the shadow of a rock, but the vital question was whether the boy was capable of concealing Lady Myrathis as well, the way Kalan had once hidden Malian in the Old Keep of Winds. Or they could be dead, Kalan thought: run down as they fled, or fallen victim to exposure and thirst. “We need to find out,” he told the hounds, and stood up.

  Eleven pairs of silver eyes turned his way at once, but with were-hunters about, Kalan had no intention of venturing the plain on foot. Instead he sent Aarion for their horses and thrust down impatience, surveying the landscape again. Yet the plain remained a blank, even the near-distance opaque with haze. The hounds were alert, although Kalan still retained doubts over their reliability
. They’ve brought me this far, he thought—and turned at the first ring of hooves against stone to find Tehan and two of her fellow marines, Koris and Tymar, accompanying Aarion. “By Lord Nimor’s order,” Tehan said. “Besides, Aarion had his hands full managing your roan. He needed the help.”

  Aarion and Madder snorted in unison, and Dain chuckled before everyone sobered, preparing to mount. The roan tramped a circle, eager for action as Kalan settled in the saddle and the wyr pack advanced into the empty plain, their lean shadows streaming away in the lengthening afternoon. “We’ll follow their lead,” Kalan told the others, “but fan out behind them. Stay alert,” he added, although he doubted they needed the reminder as the earthworks fell behind. Even armed and riding Madder, Kalan felt exposed, but shielding a moving group was always difficult; and more so when they were dispersed and he needed to conceal his working. Still, he did what he could to thicken the haze around both hounds and riders, creating the impression of a mirage, not substance, as they pushed farther into the plain.

  “How far can they have gotten on foot, anyway?” Dain’s mutter reached Kalan clearly from several horse lengths away. As if detecting the guard’s doubt, the hound ahead of them growled as it leapt onto a low, flat-topped rock and peered over the edge—before growling again and turning glowing eyes on Kalan, at the same time as he felt its psychic summons.

  The entire line of hounds halted as he dismounted and examined the print, part paw, part foot, pressed into sand on the rock’s far side. A were-hunter, Kalan thought, and raised an arm to summon the other riders close. The print was smaller than those left by the herd’s attackers, which suggested a forager, or a scout that had lain on the rock before leaping down. He surveyed the surrounding area again, alert for incongruity or potential hiding places, until he isolated a shadow that appeared deeper than the rest. Its shape suggested a shallow gully, the sort a stream might leave if it changed course. Kalan also began to sense a will at work, encouraging him to look away, to not see . . . Meeting the hound’s spectral gaze, he slid the longbow from his shoulder.