One dark eyebrow quirked; he regarded her with considerably more interest. “You've grown up,” he said. “Wouldn't have thought to ask that, back in Bright Bay.”
“Prisoner or guard?” she repeated.
“Guard,” he said, with a gesture towards the two women beside him.
“And these—” Alyea pointed to the teyanain around them, “are keeping an eye on you.”
He nodded slowly, cocking his head to one side. “Someone's been teaching you the way of things,” he said. “About time.”
“She's passed the blood trials of Comos and Ishrai,” Deiq said from behind her.
“So I heard. Congratulations.”
“I want to take the third,” Alyea said. Micru's expression smoothed into blankness again. Gria lifted her head, showing an awakening interest in the conversation.
“You'll have to find a Callen for that,” Micru said.
“I already have,” she said.
“You found out about Chacerly, then,” he said, and shrugged. “Well, go talk to him.”
“His status is in question,” she told him. “He's not allowed to accept supplicants until that's cleared. I need my status cleared right now.”
Micru shrugged and opened his mouth to speak.
“If you'd named yourself a prisoner,” she said, “I'd have called you a fool and moved on. But you're not a fool, and you're not just one of the King's Hidden Cadre. You're a Callen of the Sun-Lord, and Sessin Family hired you as Darden Family hired Chacerly, to keep an eye and hand behind the scenes for them.”
She kept her voice low, barely audible, but Gria apparently heard the words: her eyes steadily widened into a look of horror as Alyea spoke.
“You're accusing me of treason,” Micru said evenly.
“I'm accusing you of politics,” she said, and won a smile from him at last.
“Callen are above politics,” he said.
“You're right in the middle of this mess, like it or not,” she said, “and you were from the moment you accepted the job from Sessin.”
He studied her for a few moments, cocking his head to one side and squinting one eye almost shut as he considered.
“True enough,” he said finally, and added something else, sharply, in the desert tongue. The teyanain glanced at him, their expressions startled, and shifted aside to allow a wide, clear space around the small man. “Sit down.”
Nothing mild or amused remained in Micru's manner now. He sat up straight, his hands resting on his narrow thighs, and watched her with the intent stare of a professional assassin sizing up his opponent. She'd never seen that look in his eye before; he'd always kept his expression placid.
She could sense Deiq retreating a few steps as she sank to the sand to sit, desert style, in front of Micru. She heard the faint sound of Deiq sitting as well, and a gathering murmur of attention being drawn their way.
She ignored it all, as did Micru. She studied him as he studied her, and kept her silence, waiting for him to speak.
He nodded after a few breaths and said, abruptly, “Have you ever killed a man?”
“No,” she said.
“Have you ever honestly wanted to?”
She didn't hesitate. “Yes.” She'd dreamed about being able to kill some of the s'iopes; and Ninnic had been on that list. She hadn't regretted his accident one bit.
“Why didn't you do it?”
“I didn't have the resources or skills.”
“Meaning what? You would have botched it, or you would have been caught?”
She took a moment to choose her answer carefully. “Both.”
“Which was more important to you at that time?”
She allowed herself to grin, knowing there would be no real amusement in the expression. “Botching it.”
“And if you had the skills today, would you kill that man, whether or not you could get away with it undetected?”
“Yes,” she said without reservation. “Absolutely, and without regrets.”
“What if he has led a pious life without sin or evil since that earlier time?” Micru pressed.
“There is nothing in the way of grace,” Alyea said flatly, “that can make up for what this man did. If he were before me right now, I would kill him.”
He nodded. “I will accept you for the blood trial of Datda.”
Behind her, she heard Deiq sigh; a moment later sand scraped and shifted as several people rapidly approached.
“Alyea,” Chacerly said, his voice taut, “what are you doing?”
“Taking the final blood trial,” she said without turning, and heard a ripple of shocked murmurs go through the crowd gathering behind her.
“You can't possibly be serious!” another voice sputtered. It sounded like Lord Rest.
Micru looked up and over Alyea's shoulder, his expression serene. “I am a sworn Callen of Datda, and bear his mark,” he said. “I have accepted this supplicant for the blood trial of the sun-lord.”
“You can't!” Chac said, sounding panicked now.
“I have,” Micru said.
Someone laughed. Lord Irrio said, “You're too late, it seems. Pity you were off sulking, isn't it?”
Chac let out a low growl, and a scuffle erupted; Alyea leapt to her feet and turned to face the commotion. Chac lay face down on the ground, his arms twisted cruelly behind him. Lord Irrio, grinning ferociously, had a knee in the old man's back and held both skinny wrists in one of his large hands.
Lord Rest bent and picked up a thin knife with a worn dark hilt from the sand nearby. He handled it with unusual care, and held it well away from him as he studied it.
“Clean,” he said after a moment.
“You attacked a desert lord,” Lord Faer said, as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just seen. “Are you insane?”
Chac writhed, cursing, and howled as Lord Irrio yanked his arms further back.
“Let him up,” Alyea said, astonished at how cold her voice sounded. “He's not going anywhere.”
Lord Irrio stood and stepped away, the grin still on his face, and watched as the old man staggered to his feet.
“Your life and honor are forfeit twice over now,” he said cheerfully. “Only one way out of that, hask.”
Chac spat on the ground at the desert lord's feet. Lord Irrio's fist lashed out before Alyea could protest, and Chac sprawled to the ground. He didn't get up, but huddled, glaring, and cursed them all in several languages.
Alyea tightened her mouth against speaking. Chac was being maneuvered, and she had no way to stop it. She had a fairly good idea what one way out meant, and suspected Chac had another knife hidden for the purpose.
Something tugged at her memory. Acana's face rose in her mind, a vision of the ishrait speaking, saying something important:
Once you begin the blood trials, you cannot stop . . . but there are two exceptions. . . .
Yes, Alyea thought, relieved. That's how to get this knot unwound.
Alyea stepped forward until she stood in front of the old man. She crouched to meet his bright, furious stare straight on. “There's more than one way out of this, Chac.”
“Alyea,” Deiq said, sounding alarmed.
She ignored him. “Do you want your honor and your life back, Chac, or are you too much a coward to reach for that prize?”
He stared at her, face dark with anger and suspicion. “You have no way to grant me that. Not if you were a desert lord in full could you offer me that.”
“But another Callen can, during a blood trial,” she said, and watched his expression change.
Deiq hissed. “Alyea,” he said again, urgently.
Chac lifted his gaze to Micru, who had moved to stand beside Alyea. The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed convulsively.
“Micru,” he said. That one word somehow held an entire speech: acknowledgment of years of mutual antagonism, a desperate apology, a plea; but little hope.
A taut silence hung in the air for just a moment; then Micru said, w
ithout emotion, “Accepted. You may play a part in this blood trial.”
Deiq let out a hard breath, his dark brows drawn into a sharply wrinkled V, but held his peace.
Micru turned and gestured to the two northern women, both of whom now watched events with intense interest.
“Stand,” he said.
Gria helped her adopted mother to her feet. The teyanain guards moved aside a little more, effectively forcing the gathered crowd back. Chac stepped into line beside the women.
Micru scanned the gathered crowd, his dark gaze thoughtful, and finally shook his head. He turned back to face Alyea.
“The trial of Comos,” he said, “teaches you to set your will aside for the larger good.”
Lord Faer made a faint, protesting noise.
“You can't interfere,” someone muttered. “He has the right to do this any way he wants.”
“But it never starts with—”
“Shhhh.”
Micru smiled, his gaze never leaving Alyea. “The trial of Ishrai teaches you to value your own life for the larger good.”
Alyea wished they could have done this more privately; the stares around her felt like a hundred horseflies chewing on her skin.
Micru paused, watching her, then said, “The trial of Datda teaches you that there are times when you must kill for the larger good.” His smile made a mockery of the words: in the back of her mind, she wondered if he believed his own teachings, or if he killed because he enjoyed it.
If the latter, she wouldn't walk out of this trial alive.
The silence became absolute. The heat beyond the shaded area warped the air into strange shimmers.
“I tell you this,” Micru said, “every one of these three is, in some way, a threat to you personally and to the larger good as well. Choose which is to die, and kill that one yourself. That is the blood trial of Datda.”
Gria and Sela's sunburned faces turned splotchy; they both looked as though they might faint. Chac, bizarrely, grinned as though pleased.
Alyea licked her lips. She'd suspected something like this lay ahead, but hadn't been prepared to choose among these three particular people. Her mind seemed mired in disbelief and fear for a moment; then, like lifting a foot from deep mud into running water, everything unstuck and came clear.
“May I ask them questions?” she said.
“One to each, and one to all.”
She drew a deep breath.
“Sela,” she said, noting the way the woman's hands shook. “What is the worst thing you have ever done in your life, the thing of which you are the most ashamed?”
“You must speak truth,” Micru said before the northern woman could answer. “I will know if you lie, and your life will be forfeit for it, whether she chooses you or not.”
Oddly, that seemed to restore the woman's courage. High color flared across her cheekbones, replacing the pale blotching with a redder pattern; she straightened, glaring at the small man. “I'm an honest woman! But . . . there is a lie I've been carrying for years, and it's haunted me.”
She looked at Gria. “Your mother wasn't some stranger who died on our doorstep bearing you. She's my half-sister, and she's still alive. Her name is Gaillin, and her mother was named Bela.” Sela rolled a quick, haunted stare around the watching crowd. “And Bela's mother was named Cida.”
Against the murmurs from the crowd, sharp and clear, came the sound of Deiq laughing.
Gria stared at her aunt. “You lied about my mother's death?” Years of pain and frustration rang through the question.
Sela winced but met the girl's fury steadily. “Yes. It's what she wanted. She said you were safer with me, and not to tell you anything about her. I only saw your grandmother's name when the s'iopes gave me the papers to sign. And they all swore the list of names only served as proof that you had enough southern blood to be allowed to marry into a desert Family. They swore your ancestors weren't anyone noble, or important. One of many things they apparently lied about,” she added bitterly.
“Where is my mother?” Gria shrieked, her hands tightly fisted. She looked ready to pummel the answer out of the woman.
“I don't know,” Sela said. “That's honest truth.”
Alyea shook her head slightly, her thoughts knocked out of order by the revelation. It took her a few moments to gather herself again.
“Stop,” she said as Gria began to speak again. “Gria. My next question is for you.”
“I'm not playing your stupid game!” Gria said hotly. “I want to know where my mother is!”
“This isn't a game,” Alyea said.
Gria stared at her, seemingly caught by Alyea's tone of voice; slowly, her temper faded. “You'd really kill me?”
Alyea stopped herself before the words I don't know came out of her mouth. “Answer this question: are you virgin?”
The teyanain all tautened into full alertness, and someone in the crowd made a soft, thoughtful noise. Alyea thought she heard Deiq mutter, “Gods, girl!”
Gria's face darkened. “I'm not going to answer that!”
Alyea wished she could rub the tension from her forehead and eyes; but that would show weakness at a very bad time.
“I'll take that as a no,” she said. It explained the last bit that had puzzled her: why a northern of any rank would be interested in his daughter wedding a distant desert lord. It would have been far enough that nobody would carry news of the scandal to the wedding.
“The Church would have—” Sela started.
“You don't answer,” Micru cut in sharply. “Speak again and I'll have you gagged.”
Sela swallowed, cast Alyea a beseeching look, and shut her eyes.
“Answer the question,” Micru said evenly. “Yes or no. Are you virgin?”
“No,” Gria spat. “And I'm in disgrace. Nobody at home would take me now, since some kind people saw fit to spread the word about what I'd been caught doing. Not that it was any of their business in the first place, or yours; I'm old enough! Boys younger than I am aren't called whores for bedding a girl; why should I suffer for enjoying myself with someone I liked?”
Sela pressed her lips so tight they almost disappeared.
“Chac,” Alyea said, focusing all her willpower on keeping her voice steady and emotionless, her expression impassive. “Who hired the machago Ierie to take Gria and Sela south?”
He grinned at her, as if pleased she'd asked that question. “I did.”
Gria and Sela stared, open-mouthed, at the old man. He went on, unprompted, his words filling the silence. “Oruen wanted to secure an alliance with the teyanain. I needed something of value to offer; a chance informant gave me a lead on a female of pure Scratha descent. When Scratha put himself in disgrace, I convinced the king to send him out of the way. The timing got a little tricky in spots, but it worked out in the end. I chose Water's End for the exchange. The ugren cuffs surprised me; I didn't think they'd put permanent slave cuffs on a woman destined to be Lord Evkit's wife.”
He glanced at Lord Evkit, but the teyanin lord's face remained expressionless, his attention focused on Gria as if he'd hardly heard the last few words. Chac licked his lips and raised an eyebrow, affecting a confidence Alyea didn't think he really felt.
“Micru,” she said, hoping she'd put the pieces together correctly, “what happens to the honor of the one I choose for death?”
“It is restored in full,” Micru said readily.
“What about those who live?”
“The same.”
“And if any are slaves?”
“Freed,” Micru said.
“Even from ugren cuffs?”
He nodded. “In this one instance alone, yes. The teyanain must remove them, by ancient law they themselves set down before the Split.”
Sela sucked in a hard, gasping breath, her expression suddenly hopeful.
“Then I ask,” Alyea said, turning to the three people in front of her, “that each of you think hard on what you've said, and what you've heard,
and choose for yourself whether you deserve to live or to die for your actions.” She paused, then said, “Sela?”
“I think I deserve to live,” Sela said, straightening. “I've done nothing but protect my niece; my worst crime is believing Ierie's good intent. That's not an offense to kill over.”
Alyea kept her mouth shut on her opinion of what the woman's stupidity deserved, and looked at the girl beside her. “Gria?”
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