by Helen Lowe
He recognized the voice that answered as Malian’s and hastily checked his appearance, all his mam’s newly remembered strictures about the courtesy to be shown Derai Earls and Heirs resurfacing. Malian was asking if she could enter before Faro had done more than straighten his tunic and tighten the tie about his braids, but since she added that she had brought breakfast, he said yes at once. When she stepped inside, the food smelled so good that he started eating as soon as she set the tray down. “There’s more if you want it,” she said, when he finished.
Faro shook his head, because after several days of siege rations, he was completely full. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked, deciding it was best to know.
“Not at all, Faro.” Malian’s regard was steady. “I have a matter to discuss with you, but if you wish to leave after that you will be free to do so. But both Khar and I would prefer you to stay here.”
“You called him Kalan last night,” Faro said.
“I did. It’s the name I know him by. Yelusin and Maurid,” she added casually, “call him Kalan-hamar-khar.”
Like the long names of the ships, Faro thought, and—if he guessed right—Tirael and his Star knights, where each syllable spoke to the essence of their power. He wondered if he would ever grow into Pha’Rho-l-Ynor, because right now the name felt as alien to him as one of the great sea serpents in the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s tales. Abruptly, he returned to what Malian had first said. “Because you both think I’ll be safer here?”
“For now, although it’s no more practical for you to remain with me than with Khar. And because you’re a weatherworker, you must learn to manage your power.”
“But not in the Sea Keep. Not even on the Wall.” Faro’s lip started to jut, before he remembered that would disgrace his mam’s upbringing before one of the Derai great.
“So you did hear that. What you may not have caught is that because you’re a minor, and of Blood’s ruling line, Khar is concerned Earl Sardon may be able to claim legal guardianship.”
No, Faro thought, panic rising. “But you can stop him. Can’t you?” he asked uncertainly.
“I believe so. Under the law, marriage outweighs blood kinship’s claim to legal custody. And although you’re a minor, paper marriages for the purposes of guardianship were created for exactly that purpose. And we,” Malian added, with the smile Faro was coming to think of as tricky, “have a legitimate contract between Blood and Night at our disposal. If you and I use it to marry, I will then be your legal guardian for the seven years until you come of age.”
Faro knew his mouth was open, which his mam would have deplored, but could not help it. “You and me? But isn’t the contract between Lady Myr and the Earl of Night?”
“The contracts are always between the Houses, specifying only that the marriage must take place between scions of the ruling kin. The details of names and signatures are filled in as part of the marriage ceremony. So the same contract will cover us, and using it will allow me to protect you.” She paused. “And when the Swarm rises, as rise it will, our contract will also hold Blood to the Night alliance. Whether,” she added, with an edge of steel, “they like it or not.”
She was being tricky, Faro could see that. “But we would have to be married?”
“A paper marriage, yes.”
“I still can’t stay with you, though, because of the weatherworking?”
Malian nodded. “The marriage will give me an unassailable right to send you somewhere I consider safe, however. And as I discussed with Khar, there is another place your weatherworking could be trained.” Quietly, she told him about the Derai Lost—although she said they called themselves the Ara-fyr—and how they lived a very long way from the Wall of Night. Almost, she said, as far as Ishnapur. “A very long way from Blood as well,” she concluded, “and the Swarm.”
“From Khar, too,” Faro said.
“Yes.” Malian was grave. “But Khar has traveled almost that far south before, and lived in those lands, so if we can make the Wall safe, he will come and see you there one day. When you are of age and can better look after yourself, you will also be free to return—if that is what you choose.”
Almost as far as Ishnapur, Faro thought, remembering the mariner with her curved knives and curly-toed slippers. It would be a new adventure, too, of the good kind. And one day Khar would come, or he would return when he was grown up, like Malian said. “Will I have to go alone?” he asked finally.
“No,” Malian said. “Because you are a minor, we can’t live together as two grown-up people that marry would. But I am required to provide you with your own household: exactly the same as an Heir would have, including your own captain and guard, as well as a tutor and a steward. Khar has recommended Ensign Talies,” she said, before he could speak, “and she has agreed, so long as you say yes. Nimor suggested Murn for your tutor, because although not a powerful weatherworker himself, he has been well taught and can oversee your training. And I,” she added, “will send a strong company with you under Taly’s captaincy. I know it won’t be the same as with Khar, but you will not be alone, or friendless, or unprotected.”
Taly, Faro thought, and Murn, both of whom he liked. “But it’s only a paper marriage?” he asked again, to be sure.
“That is what it’s called. It is a true marriage in law, but in addition to having separate households, we will not be permitted to make demands of each other’s bodies, as grown-up people may do.” She said that matter-of-factly, not sniggering or smirking as the Red Keep pages or Grayharbor street urchins would have done. “As I said, once the seven years are up you will be of age, with your power trained, so better able to protect yourself without need of our marriage.” Fleetingly, she smiled. “I won’t say free to choose your own path, because I think you’ve been doing that for some time.”
“And after that,” Faro said, focusing on what he thought was the important part, “we won’t be married anymore?”
“Not unless we wish to be. There is,” she explained, “what is called a renewal clause, but we both have to agree to it.”
Faro knew she was tricky, and both dark and light as he could be, too, but he did not think she was trying to trick him. He also remembered how swiftly the fever had taken his mam, and how even those who were strong and sure, like Palla and Reith, or Orth with his brutal strength, could die in battle, just like that. “What if something happens to you?”
Again Malian nodded. “Your being with the Ara-fyr will be a secret, but I will also appoint Khar and Raven as your guardians in my place, should that prove necessary.” She smiled. “And Raven, you may have noticed, comes with an army.”
Faro could not help smiling back, because he had noticed that. “But I will see Khar again before I go?”
“He won’t leave without saying good-bye,” Malian promised, before growing serious again. “There is someone else I would like you to meet, who also needs a safe haven far from the Wall. Her name is Nhairin and she is an old friend of mine, one you will have heard us talk about last night. You may find her dour, but she will make an able steward for your household, and I would be grateful if you could take her under your protection.”
Nhairin. Faro remembered Khar’s anger on first hearing the name. He had softened later, though. And from what Malian had said, Nhairin had also suffered at the hands of the Swarm. “Mam was dour sometimes.” He hesitated. “But I already know Taly and Murn . . .”
“I shall introduce you,” Malian said, rising, “then you may talk together and decide. But if you can, Faro, be kind to my Nhairin. She has great need of it.” In the morning light, her eyes were as much silver as smoke. “We’ll keep the marriage ceremony brief, but Murn has confirmed the contracts are in order, so we can sign them whenever we want. The signing is the important part,” she added, smiling again.
Faro knew she was saving him from his enemies and a life of fear, while making it seem like he could do her an equal favor by showing kindness to Nhairin. And last night, when they all watched
the pilot star, she had taken his parents’ quest as her own. Now he rose, too, shaken by the longing to give her something that really mattered in return.
“I heard what you and Khar said about the Golden Fire,” he said quickly, before he lost his resolve. “How even with the twelve-sided table, you would still need the Blood of all the Nine Houses to focus the power. And if we’re to marry I should make you a gift.” When Malian remained silent, watching him, Faro hurried on. “I don’t have anything of my own, but I do have an idea about the Blood—especially with so many Houses already represented here, like Khar said.”
Malian’s slim dark brows had risen, but Faro could see she was listening. “It’s something Sea does with their mariners.” His words tumbled over each other as he explained about Sea’s death names and the scroll they had made for Khar, when he was fighting his duel to the death. “So his spirit wouldn’t be lost, but tied to their mariners’ shrine in the Sea Keep, the same way I carried a part of Pha’Rho-l-Ynor all that time.”
Malian held up a hand. “You’ve got my attention, Faro, but you need to slow down. And breathe,” she added, with a smile that was not at all tricky this time.
Obediently, Faro gulped in air. “We only used runes for Khar’s scroll, but Murn said that very close kin and shield comrades often put a drop of blood beside their name, because blood is always strongest. But locks of hair are strong as well, so lots of mariners use them.” He stopped, because Malian was extracting a narrow scroll tube from inside her jacket.
“Like this?” she asked, removing and unrolling a rectangle of linen so Faro could see its wreath made from locks of hair, together with silhouetted towers and the same calligraphy the Sea Keepers had used for Khar. Murn had said the symbols were runes, which he would teach Faro when there was time—but added that in scrolls like this, the characters always represented names.
“This is different from the Sea scroll,” Faro said, indicating the wreath. “But you can see it’s the same sort of thing.” He looked up. “Where did it come from?”
“The House of Morning,” Malian told him. “Apparently they also foresaw my coming. One of the Mothers sent it to me by Garan of Night’s hand, together with a similar scroll from Peace. So now,” she said, rerolling the linen, “the mystery is explained.”
Silently, Faro went over the Houses with ruling kin present in the camp: Night, Stars, and Sea, Blood and Adamant—and now Morning had sent their own scroll and that of Peace. “Kelyr’s of the Blood of Swords.” This time he spoke slowly. “Orth was, too. I heard Kelyr say so when I was hiding from them in the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s hold. Kelyr said their captain, Tirorn, would say he and Orth were shaming their inheritance of Sword’s Blood. But Orth said all Tirorn’s niceties had gotten him was dead.” He left out the obscenities that Orth had spliced into his reply, which had been impressive even by the standards of Grayharbor’s backstreets.
“Well, now, that is useful,” Malian murmured. “But I can see there’s more.”
Faro hesitated. “Lady Myr was of the Rose as well as Blood,” he said, stumbling over the words because he felt uncomfortable. “I don’t think she would mind if we used her hair.” In fact, he was sure Lady Myr would want them to take a lock of her hair if it would help.
“I may not need it, since I have the walking stick.” Malian’s eyes were close to silver again, and he could almost see the thoughts chasing each other behind her outward calm. “But if the Swarm wanted to kill both me and Lady Myr because of a grandparent’s Stars blood, a lock of her hair may indeed serve for the Rose.” To Faro’s surprise, she bowed, the same grave salute the Che’Ryl-g-Raham’s Luck had made to Khar, pressing her palms together. “Thank you,” she said. “If this is your bridegroom’s gift, it is beyond compare.”
And Faro was still blinking over that as the entry flap rose and fell, and she was gone.
63
Song of Farewell
The day was eerily quiet, the wind little more than a ripple as the camp set itself to rights and gathered its dead. The stillness infused the convalescents’ tent, erected once someone had unearthed a manifest of the caravan’s contents and a tent large enough to accommodate the overflow from the infirmary. Rook was glad the lack of wind meant one side could be rolled up, so he could see where the oriflamme had been struck above the garnet-and-gold tent. Blood’s colors, together with a pennant of the ruling kin, hung in its place—to honor Lady Myrathis, he supposed. If he craned onto one elbow, he could see Elodin and Xer at the entrance, keeping the honor watch.
Once Rook regained consciousness, he had wanted to observe the Bride’s vigil, too, but Kion would not allow it. The Sea physician had been reluctant to send for the Storm Spear as well, but Rook had insisted, urgent to tell Khar all he could recall of the dreamlike events surrounding the tapestry, the hind, and Lady Myrathis’s death. Afterward, having seen Khar’s face, Rook wondered if he should have kept the whole strange business to himself.
Telling him, he thought now, is probably just one more thing I’ve done wrong. Involuntarily, he flung an arm across his face, trying to deflect the memory of his disastrous attempt at farspeaking. All I achieved was to lose my ability altogether, he thought miserably. And I didn’t save Lady Myrathis, either then or later. He gnawed his lip, not wanting to make excuses but still doubtful whehter any healer, however powerful or well trained, could overcome the fact that the Daughter of Blood had chosen to die.
Rook tightened his concealing arm, hoping that Rigan, the Blood wagoner on the adjoining pallet, would not see and make gruff, cheering remarks like “Heart up, lad.” His fellow convalescent’s alternate observations were that matters might not be as bad as first appeared, and tomorrow was always another day. Obviously, Rook thought—and grinned, just a little, thinking about what Onnorin would say if she could overhear. No doubt she would have several pithy observations to share on his current situation as well: the sole Adamant initiate in a tent full of convalescent Blood retainers, with a handful of Sea marines for leaven.
Mostly, the others ignored him, amusing themselves with games of chance or sharing the rumors that swirled in from the camp—including that the siege had been raised by the Chosen of Mhaelanar, returned to lead the Derai. Rigan, though, was inclined to be skeptical. “No point in getting carried away with fireside tales just because we’ve had a lucky reprieve. Next,” he had added, grimacing, “we’ll hear the Golden Fire’s returned.” In fact, Rook had overheard exactly that, but the account was so confused he tended to agree with Rigan. He had no chance to say so, though, because the wagoner had looked apologetic. “I expect you’d say differently in Adamant.”
Not necessarily, Rook thought. He suspected Torlun and Rul would also scoff at the rumored return of the Chosen of Mhaelanar and the Golden Fire, as much if not more than any New Blooder. Still, he appreciated the belated courtesy, particularly since he knew Rigan was enduring considerable pain from the stump of his amputated arm. He was impressed, too, at the wagoner’s unflagging optimism, even in the face of low-voiced conversations that suggested the Blood retainers’ futures might be as uncertain as his own. “It doesn’t matter how hard we fought,” a woman called Aiv had said. With so much to be done in the camp, the convalescents had few visitors, but she had stopped by Rigan’s pallet in the predawn dark. “No matter the circumstances of Lady Myrathis’s death, the disgrace will cling when we return to the Red Keep.”
“Ay,” Rigan had agreed softly. “The ruling kin’ll make us feel it, sure enough.”
“You’re Hold-born,” Aiv had replied, “so at least you’ve somewhere else to go.” Rook had heard similar conversations since then, and gathered that the future for retainers without Hold ties, or those who were seriously injured, like Rigan, was bleak. Under the circumstances, he was grateful they at least tolerated his presence. Kion had helped, letting fall that Rook was virtually an exile from Adamant, and had tried to save Lady Myrathis as well. Once that word spread, Rigan and those about him had edged f
rom neutrality to cautiously including Rook in their conversation. But it was not until Namath visited Tehan that anyone got real news.
“The long-range scouts have just brought word,” the marine said. “A Night brigade has been sighted, skirting Adamant territory and force-marching our way under their Commander’s pennant.”
Rook guessed the scouts must belong to the mysterious newcomers. His spirits lifted, because a strong Night force would ensure Torlun stayed well away, then fell again as Tehan said, “Lord Tirael will be leaving, then. He won’t risk placing himself or his escort in Night’s power.”
But the rumors, Rook objected silently, say the Chosen of Mhaelanar is also the Heir of Night, yet Lord Tirael’s still here. The force she led was not of Night, though. Could being Chosen of Mhaelanar mean being for all Derai, he wondered, not just for any one House—if that was even possible. Distracted, he missed the rest of what Namath said, but thought it was something about others leaving, too, which made sense. They would all go: Tirael and the Storm Spear, Envoy Nimor, and probably this Chosen of Mhaelanar as well.
Rook shifted, trying not to give in to fear, and to get more comfortable at the same time. When he glanced outside again he saw a horsegirl leading Taly’s big bay past the tent. So something really is happening, he thought, frowning—and then his heart jumped, because once the bay had passed by he saw Lord Tirael approaching.
“Cursed Stars dandy!” the groom on Rigan’s other side muttered.
“No one objected when he and his knights were holding the breach,” Tehan said coolly.
“I don’t object to him,” Rigan replied cheerfully, “having heard how well he fights. But you’ve got to admit he’s very gleamy.”