by Helen Lowe
“Don’t shoot, except on my order,” Kalan told them. “Or Jad’s, if I fall. And keep an eye on Orth, since I’m not sure he holds with parley flags and safe conducts.” He may be right in this case, Kalan thought, remembering the death standards. Dismounting, he waited until the Darksworn reached the screens, then strode to the thornbrush barricade. “Proceed no further,” he called. “Stand and state your business with Blood.”
The sorcerer advanced a horse-length ahead of his escort, before halting and raising his visor. Enemy or not, Kalan had to fight not to react, because the unmasked face was a mass of burn tissue, the skin stretched taut and shiny, its hue deepening to maroon in places. The scarring pulled down the rider’s right eye, giving his face a lopsided effect that was compounded by his mouth, which looked as though the lips had melted into the surrounding flesh. In all that ruined face only the darkly blue eyes were still alive, their gaze burning as though the fire that had disfigured the man still lingered.
“I am Arcolin, of the Blood-Washed Sun.” The Darksworn’s voice was ruined as well: part hoarse rasp, part wheeze, as though the vocal cords had been seared. His gauntlet lifted, gesturing toward the oriflamme. “And you are Khar, the Storm Spear?”
Arcolin, Kalan thought, startled. Despite knowing both the name and the blood-washed sun device from Emer, the face before him did not fit Malian’s description of the Darksworn envoy. “I am the captain who commands this camp,” he replied.
“Captain or Storm Spear, it matters not.” Still studying the oriflamme, Arcolin waved dismissal. “We have fought Derai captains and Storm Spears before and prevailed, as we shall prevail here. I think you know this.”
“What I know,” Kalan said, “is that no fight is lost until it’s over. State your business with Blood or this parley is done.”
The burned man’s mouth parodied a smile. “Pressed true from the Storm Spear mold, I see, all bluntness and the business at hand. As for my mold—” His hand lifted, indicating his face. “I was not always as you see me now. Yet long hours of healing power were needed to restore even my current aspect.” He likes talking, Kalan thought: Malian said it was his hallmark, that and poison, whether in the cup or on the blade. “It has been brought to my attention,” the hoarse voice continued, “that you are harboring the one who did this to me.”
Kalan had been wondering if the burns could be a legacy of the sorcerer’s final encounter with Malian in Caer Argent, but now he frowned. Can he be referring to Sea House fire? he wondered, puzzled, before Arcolin spoke again. “In Grayharbor, Storm Spear. The deed was wrought by the boy you now claim as your page, when he called lighting and started the fires that burned me.”
Faro. The ensuing silence thundered in Kalan’s ears, while Arcolin regarded him with all the cruelty of a cat, for which the game is as vital as the kill. When Kalan replied, his lips felt stiff. “That’s simply not possible.” Except that Faro’s shielding ability was comparable to his own and Jehane Mor’s—and he was also recalling Nimor’s observation that most weatherworkers could shield or farspeak to some degree.
“I see you harbor doubts, nonetheless,” Arcolin observed softly. He raised his voice, speaking to the camp as well as Kalan. “You have taken the boy as your own, but who is to say he is not a Sea cuckoo, foisted upon Blood’s nest? After all, you now know they have hoodwinked Blood in other ways.” The camp was silent, but Kalan could sense the defenders’ absorption. “Or perhaps,” Arcolin continued, “it’s his power you are drawing on to protect your camp, for all that harboring one of his kind contravenes Blood’s Oath. But what if I were to remove any further need for the boy’s taint?”
“Does this mean you’re finally coming to the point?” But Kalan had already guessed, with sick certainty, where this was heading.
Arcolin’s smile twisted. “How remiss not to mention that I had an offer to make—not just to you and the Bride you serve, but to your camp.” He paused, his gaze assessing the defenders, and again projected his voice to reach them. “Until now, my objective has been to put everyone in your caravan to the sword. But I will forgo that goal if you give me the boy. Your page, Storm Spear, in exchange for every other life in the camp: the Daughter of Blood, the Sea House envoy—everyone else walks free, in return for the boy.”
Not just poison in the cup and on the blade, Kalan thought. Every word was a drip of venom. “And if we refuse?” he asked.
“I shall take the camp and the boy anyway. But I shall also aim to capture as many as possible alive and ensure their subsequent path to your Silent God is neither swift nor silent. When all are finally dead, I shall line the road from Blood to Night with their bodies.” Now Arcolin’s smile, savage and satisfied, was for Kalan alone. “But it need not happen that way. So long as you give me your page, the assault ends for everyone else.” He made a show of gathering his reins before speaking again. “I will wait an hour for your decision. But many lives in exchange for one, Storm Spear—acceptance should not take long.” And as deliberately as they had paced forward, he and his escort rode away.
50
Chain of Command
The two wyr hounds with Faro were growling, but the boy seemed oblivious. He had stiffened as soon as the Swarm commander lifted his visor, and since then his eyes had never left Khar. Myr had been deeply shocked by the mutilated face, her clasp on Faro’s shoulder an automatic reaction that she regretted at once. She had expected him to shrug it off, or obviously suffer the touch because they were in public, but instead he ignored it. It was only when Arcolin named Faro as the one who burned him—or caused him to be burned, Myr was unclear on that point—that she understood the boy was frozen with terror of the sorcerer, not horror at his ruined face. Whereas what frightened Myr was the weight of the camp’s silence, and the rigidity of Khar’s back as he watched the sorcerer withdraw.
He can’t be considering the offer, she thought: surely he sees the deceit beneath the sorcerer’s words? But even if Khar did perceive it, she was horribly afraid the other defenders did not. They were watching their numbers dwindle with every attack, and essential supplies—arrows, medicine, food, and water—were all running low. Many lives in exchange for one. Arcolin’s words to Khar pulsed through Myr, and her fear deepened because she saw that the sorcerer’s true bait was hope, when the defenders had thought there was none. And some among them—possibly many—might be willing to close their hearts and minds to its price.
They’ll tell themselves Faro is priest-kind and an outsider, Myr thought. She shivered, recalling the rumors of infanticide committed against children with power in some Blood holds, which Ise had always tried to keep from her. Instinctively, she looked toward Nimor, but his expression was shuttered. Tehan and the marines with her looked grim, but their company’s numbers were now so few, and their primary responsibility was to protect Sea’s envoy . . . They may legitimately feel, Myr thought, that this is Blood’s business to resolve.
As the only member of Blood’s ruling kin present, that also made it her responsibility. If I’m to call myself a true Daughter of Blood, she added silently, as Khar turned to face the camp. Myr saw the way his expression hardened as he took in the drift of defenders toward his position. The archers who had been deployed to provide covering fire—Rhanar and Machys, she thought—slithered back from the dike’s crest, but remained close by Khar. Myr could hear the company commanders exhorting the defenders to keep to their posts. The majority of those who had not already started toward Khar maintained position, although they were all more intent on the camp than on the plain. The Swords’ giant, Orth, was standing a short distance away from Khar with what had been Palla’s company. His body was angled between monitoring the plain and the camp, but his stare was openly malicious as he regarded Khar.
He disliked both the Storm Spear and Faro; Myr had seen that in the gully. Later, Khar had warned her against both Sword warriors and explained how Orth had besmirched his Earl’s honor out of hatred for the priest-kind. So I have to assu
me, she thought, that he would gladly give Faro up. The boy, though, was still focused on Khar. Myr wondered if he, too, saw the grim, weary lines in the Storm Spear’s face deepen as he confronted the array of expressions turned his way: the openly mutinous, those who looked sick and guilty at the same time—and those who would not look at him, or at Faro, at all.
Khar did not look toward Faro either, but Myr could not—would not—believe it was because he intended sacrificing his page. Technically, she could order him not to, but doubted she was capable of facing down both her Honor Captain and a hostile camp. The defenders might have cheered for her, and for Khar, too, only yesterday, but Myr knew how easily their mood could have swung the other way. Now the camp was so quiet she could hear the wind’s low whine, bringing with it the jingle and stamp of the enemy cavalry. She shivered, her clasp tightening on Faro’s shoulder, and a wyr hound pressed close, its great shoulder steady against her hip. Glancing down, she realized all the remaining wyrs had regrouped about her and Faro, their eyes a swordmetal sheen as they watched the outer camp.
Myr’s attention had only shifted for a moment—but she jumped as Khar’s voice snapped the camp’s silence like the first whiplash of thunder heralding a Wall storm. “Return to your positions at once. The Swarm commander made no promises about ceasing hostilities during his hour. And I’d not rely on it if he had.”
Almost every head swiveled toward the plain, and most of those who had left their places moved hurriedly back. Possibly, Myr thought, because for the first time since the siege began, Khar had named the Swarm. She wondered if she was the only one who felt chilled, hearing the word spoken, although she guessed everyone must know what they were facing, just preferred not to admit what fools Blood had been with their “fireside tales.” The sullen looks cast Khar’s way told Myr that many did not want to admit it now either, including most of those who had not given ground. Around a score, she estimated: enough to draw courage from each other’s support.
One of the foremost folded his arms, his expression shifting from sullen to truculent. “If our duty’s to see the Bride of Blood safe to Night, as we were told when leaving the Red Keep, then shouldn’t we be discussing this Arcolin’s offer?” His voice strengthened. “And since the boy’s your page, Storm Spear, you should stand aside.”
Myr was not sure whether it was the wyr hounds’ presence that gave her courage, but suspected she was the most surprised person present when she spoke before Khar could answer. “I would never contemplate buying my safety at the expense of a child’s life.” Despite the stares that met her words, the shudder that ran through Myr was anger, not fear, and her voice rang clear. “Especially since the protection of children is one of the most deeply entrenched tenets of our Code. And Derai do not make bargains with the Swarm, least of all to give up our own. Even if we did, I believe this offer is no more than a ploy to sow dissension and undermine our resistance. One made with the knowledge,” she added, “that we have fallen so far from what it means to be both Derai and Blood that we would contemplate taking this offer.”
She had not won them over, she could see it. Too many expressions remained closed, too many eyes averted. “Fine words, Lady,” the dissenter said. “But you’re only half of Blood yourself, when all’s said and done. Besides, maybe those who made the Code weren’t thinking about situations like these.”
As if his words had unleashed a flood, a flurry of other voices spoke on top of each other. “Baris is right. She’s half Rose, not even a true Daughter of Blood. Why should we listen to her?”
“The Code can’t intend that we have to put one boy, who may not even be Blood, ahead of all the lives in the camp.”
“A fart for the Code, in the New Blood we make our own rules.”
“The Storm Spear’s no true Honor Captain either. He and his lot are outcasts. They’ve no right to decide for us.” Myr could not see the speaker, because he was concealed behind others, but the wyr hounds growled as one. Several of the defenders closest to them stepped hurriedly back.
“Enough!” The blaze of Khar’s anger banished any sign of weariness. “This is a Blood caravan on the Derai Wall, and each and every person in it is subject to the chain of command, which starts with the Daughter of Blood. And she has appointed me as her commander.” His stare raked them all. “So I will not be standing aside from this decision or any other that needs to be made for the camp, just as I have not stood aside from fighting for it. And the Code,” he added, his gaze boring into Baris, who took a step back, “was created for exactly these circumstances, not to be set aside whenever it causes inconvenience.”
Several of the dissenters shifted uneasily, and no one spoke. In their place, Myr thought, I would not care to either. When Khar spoke again, his voice was quieter, the anger banked, if not cooled. “Do you really think it likely that a Swarm commander, having found a way to breach the Wall and bring a legion into the Gray Lands, will relinquish his primary objective for a personal vendetta? And that having assailed us with conventional assault and Swarm magic, both of which have failed to break our defense, he would not try guile? Say by offering a bargain he knows will sow what Lady Myrathis rightly called dissension in our ranks?” He paused, and now his quiet was hard-edged. “Even if you feel you can take that bargain and live with yourselves, ask who will defend you when the assault inevitably resumes. For I will not.”
Orth laughed. Khar regarded him coolly, but Rhanar fingered the arrow still fitted to his bowstring. Machys, too, held an arrow steady, although it was not aimed at anyone. Yet, Myr thought, holding her breath. She knew Kharalthor and Hatha would agree that everyone in a field situation, whatever their role, was subject to the chain of command, which meant Khar would be within his rights to summarily execute anyone who incited mutiny. Except in a camp that needed every defender, that would also be doing Arcolin’s work—which may have been why Khar’s voice remained as level as his expression. “You find something in this amusing, Orth?”
“Ay, that Blood calls itself a warrior House.” The giant’s heavy gaze swept across Baris and those surrounding him, before he sneered at the answering grumble. “What I’d do, if I were that Swarm commander and you were fool enough to believe in my bargain, is take the boy and torture him in full view of the camp. Just to soften you lot up, ahead of attacking again when my fun with him was done.” Orth paused, making a show of reflection. “Or maybe I’d wait until you’d broken camp and were marching off, thinking yourselves saved, before falling on you again. That way I’d minimize my losses and could savor watching you undo your own defense.” The massive shoulders shrugged. “The only promise I’d keep is to make sure your deaths were slow afterward, and your remains used to decorate the road from Blood to Night.”
Khar was maintaining an impassive facade, but Myr guessed he was as surprised as she was by the Sword warrior’s support. Orth’s words had certainly created dismay and doubt, especially among those surrounding Baris, and she saw both Rhanar and Machys relax. “Don’t get me wrong,” Orth continued, ostensibly addressing the dissenters, although Myr thought he was really speaking to Khar, “all I care about is survival. But that means this camp has to hold together. And the Bride may be only half of Blood like you say, but she’s right about one thing.” Without looking at Myr, he turned his head aside and spat. “Derai don’t bargain with the Swarm.”
Myr saw shame settle into the same faces that had remained unmoved by her words. Slowly, those about Baris began to disperse, and he, too, turned away before he could be left standing alone. Over, just like that, Myr thought, shivery with relief and reaction. When she glanced toward Faro, he was staring at his feet, so she could not even attempt to gauge his feelings—although she knew what her own would be in his place.
Khar waited until everyone was back with their companies, and he had conferred with Jad and the other commanders, before joining her and Nimor. “I can’t linger with the camp on edge,” he said, saluting first her, then the envoy. Myr could detect
no anger in him now, just a matter-of-fact grimness as he glanced toward the plain. “And I doubt Arcolin’s going to take refusal well.”
Myr nodded, wanting to match his calm. But she still almost jerked her hand back in surprise when Khar took it, bowing over her fingers in the manner of the old stories. “Thank you,” he said, straightening, and she nodded again, awkward with the old shyness. Should you have to thank a person, she wondered, for doing what was right? But it was not a topic that could be discussed with Faro present and Arcolin’s hour passing. Myr hesitated, trying to think what she could say. “I, too, keep faith,” she said finally.
“You do, indeed.” Khar bowed again, before setting his hands on Faro’s shoulders and kissing him on either cheek, a formal gesture Myr knew was aimed at the camp. “I promise you this, my Faro: Arcolin will never take you while I live.” The boy made a strangled sound, and Khar shook his head. “But from now on you are not to leave Lady Myrathis and the inner camp for any reason, even to help me or Madder.”
Rather than protesting, Faro nodded his bowed head. But Khar was already leaving, directing a salute between Myr and Nimor. Tehan accompanied him, with five of the wyr hounds loping at their heels, while the remaining four stayed with Myr and Faro. “We should go, too,” Myr said, and Faro accompanied her silently, again without any sign of his usual reluctance He did not even look back as they reentered the inner camp with Nimor and his escort.
Myr hesitated between going straight to the infirmary or checking on Ilai first. She had organized the attendant’s removal into her own tent once the pavilion began to fill up, thinking Ilai’s recovery would benefit from the quieter space. Faro did not argue when she steered him in that direction now, and his head even came up once he stepped inside. Myr had used The Lovers to screen off a separate compartment for Ilai, and he walked right up to it, trailing his hand over hounds and crow and hind until Myr saw the attendant was asleep on the other side and beckoned him away.