Blood's Pride

by Evie Manieri

  “King Jachad?”

  The Nomas looked up at him. A glance into his blue eyes, and suddenly the last thing Daryan wanted to do was to go into that house.

  Then he heard a faint sound that he had heard only a handful of times before in his life: the mewing wails of a newborn child.

  “Harotha had the baby?” he cried out, rushing forward and seizing the Nomas woman by the arm. “He’s all right?”

  “He’s more than all right,” she whispered significantly. Her mouth broke into a wide smile as she pulled back the curtain and ushered Daryan and Dramash inside. “He’s the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen.”

  The interior of the house was dim. Three more Nomas women were inside: one silently stirring a pot of tea over the hearth, a second on her knees replacing instruments and pots of medicines into a case and the third sitting with her back against the wall outside the curtained sleeping chamber, absently plucking at some linens jumbled up in her lap. A breeze rustled the curtain next to her as they entered, revealing a murmur of voices and a flicker of lamplight in the small chamber beyond. Then Daryan noticed the familiar shape of Strife’s Bane, with its twin dereshadi climbing the hilt, leaning up against the wall in its tooled scabbard.

  “Eofar! He’s here?” Daryan cried out.

  “Of course he’s here. He’s with his wife and babe, where else?” the woman who had greeted him tossed back.

  “Brigeth,” cautioned the woman by the fire.

  “Oh, what’s the point of pretending?” she said dismissively. “I don’t know how they managed to fool anyone at all—anyone with two eyes can see what they are to each other. Praise Amai, she brought him right to where he was supposed to be.”

  “So everything’s all right,” he exhaled in relief. “Everyone’s all right.”

  The Nomas woman stirring the pot stopped with her spoon halfway to her lips. The woman with the linens in her lap turned her head away.

  Brigeth stepped close enough for him to smell the wild, briny sea in her hair. She laid a callused but gentle hand on his shoulder. “Harotha won’t live, lad. I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  He looked into her clear eyes and saw no chance for appeal. Her features melted into a blur and he found himself kneeling on the carpet, still clutching Dramash’s small hand.

  “It was too much for her,” he blurted out in an agony of self-recrimination. “I should have kept her out of it. I should have—”

  “Belay that!” Brigeth interrupted with spirit. “She could have spent nine months in bed and it might have ended just the same. No one can know what would have happened. There, now.”

  He dropped Dramash’s hand. “Does she know?”

  “Hm.” Brigeth sniffed respectfully. “She knew before we did. Not much gets by that one, I’m thinking.”

  A faint voice from the other room called out a name, and the woman sitting on the floor dumped the linens out of her lap and slipped inside. A few moments later she came out again.

  “What is it, Raina?” asked Brigeth.

  “She wants to see him.”

  Daryan stood up. He tried to take a deep breath, but his chest was so tight that the air stuck in a lump and would go no further. “All right,” he told Raina, “I’m ready.”

  “Not you,” she said, pointing at Dramash. “Him.”

  Daryan looked down at the boy doubtfully. Exhaustion showed in the puffy flesh under his glassy eyes and he didn’t appear to be paying any attention to the adults’ conversation, but then he looked up at Raina and without a word shuffled into the next room. Daryan followed behind him, but his courage faltered as he got to the curtain.

  Inside, a familiar voice was speaking in the earnest, cajoling tones he knew so well: “— but she will love him, you see? That’s what she’s wanted all along. She’s never had anything else to love. It’s not just his safety I’m thinking about. And you know you have to go, otherwise the emperor—” and then in an entirely different tone, “Dramash! There you are! Daryan, are you out there? You come in, too.”

  He pushed the curtain aside and saw Harotha, lying back against the cushions. She looked up into his eyes and instantly he stopped trying to think of what he was going to say to her. He didn’t need to say anything; she knew it all.

  Eofar was lying next to her, a limp remnant of his former self. His face was haggard and one of his legs was heavily bandaged. He had his arm around the cushion behind Harotha’s shoulders, not quite touching her, and was brushing her damp hair with the tips of his fingers at compulsively regular intervals. His eyes were fixed on her face and he never looked up, not even when Daryan entered the room.

  But the baby. Oh gods, the baby.

  Brigeth had not exaggerated. He had expected him to look either Norlander or Shadari, or some discordant mix of the two, like the Mongrel, but no: here, all was unity. His skin had the warm glow of the desert sand at sunset, and his head was covered with delicate curls the color of beaten gold. His round eyes, which at the moment were wide open, were a silvery blue around enormous black pupils, and ringed with thick white lashes.

  “Oh, Harotha,” he breathed, dumbstruck.

  She cuddled the swaddled baby closer to her breast, beaming with pride. The baby made a snuffling little sound and she leaned her flushed cheek against his tiny head with a soft coo.

  Eofar’s eyes never left his wife’s face.

  “Come here, Dramash,” she called over, patting the cushion next to her. The boy tottered over and plopped down by her side. “I want to talk to you.” He was staring at the baby, and now he gave the child a little wave. “Dramash, are you listening to me?”

  Daryan thought that he detected some truculence in Dramash’s swollen brown eyes, but the child nodded in response to her question.

  “It’s about your friend—what’s his name, Rho?”

  “Harotha, no!” Daryan burst out, but she flashed him a warning look and he clamped his mouth shut.

  “Rho did a very, very bad thing,” she continued, in the same carefully modulated tone of voice. “A very bad thing. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  The boy hunched up his shoulders protectively and a deep frown creased his brow. “I guess.”

  “You’re angry, and I understand that. I’m angry, too.” She glanced up at Daryan, and then back to Dramash. “But I’m going to ask you to do something—something very difficult—and I want you to promise me that you’ll do as I ask. Dramash?”

  After a long moment, he finally answered, “I promise.”

  “Good boy.” She looked up at Daryan again, holding his eyes for a moment, making sure of him. “Daryan is going to take you to see Rho. He’s going to leave the two of you alone together. And you can say anything you need to say to him. But after that, Rho is going to be your protector. He’s going to look out for you, from now on, just as he did tonight.”

  Dramash and Daryan were both listening to the steady rise and fall of Harotha’s words as if she held them under a spell.

  “But that’s not the hard part. That’s not the part I asked you to promise me about.” She nestled the baby closer to her breast, freeing up one arm so that she could lay her hand over Dramash’s. “I want you to promise me that you’ll try to forgive him.”

  “Harotha,” Daryan exclaimed, aghast, “you can’t!”

  Again she silenced him with a look. “I want you to forgive him,” she repeated slowly. “It’s going to be very hard. It might take a very, very long time. But I want you to promise me that you’ll try.” She reached out and touched his little dimpled chin with the tips of her fingers, turning his face up so that she could look into his eyes. “Do you think you can promise me that?”

  The boy’s frown deepened as he looked back at his aunt. After a few moments’ thought his face relaxed and he nodded, then without pausing another beat he asked, “Can I hold the baby?”

  She sank back against the cushions with a little laugh. “Of course,” she said. �
��He’s your cousin, you know.” Daryan sprang forward and helped transfer the little bundle into his eager arms. “Hold his head,” she reminded both of them. Daryan heard the slight slur in her speech and glanced up in alarm. Her eyes were closed, and now that he was closer, he could see the high color in her cheeks and forehead and the feverish trembling in her limbs.

  “Dramash?” he said softly, and the boy looked up from rocking the baby in his arms with a bit more enthusiasm than was necessary. “Are you hungry?”

  He looked down at the baby, and then back at Daryan. “I guess,” he admitted.

  “All right,” Daryan said, “give the baby back to your aunt and then go and ask the Nomas for something to eat; they’ll find something for you.”

  Dramash handed the baby back to Harotha with exaggerated carefulness, but not before planting a sweet kiss on his golden curls. Daryan held the curtain aside and waited for him to shuffle out into the main room, then he glanced at Eofar. He hadn’t changed position, but now his head rested on the cushion next to Harotha’s and it was impossible to tell who was comforting whom.

  Daryan knelt on the spot that Dramash had just vacated and lowered his voice. “Harotha,” he said, “you can’t ask that boy to forgive Rho.”

  “I have to,” she answered. Her dry, feverish eyes burned into his. “Saria was more than just my friend—she was the closest thing I had to a sister. It’s the only thing I can do for her or her little boy now.”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re saying. You’re asking him to forgive the man who murdered his mother—”

  “And what about the person who murdered his father?” she interrupted. Suddenly tears were streaming down her face, but she spoke as if oblivious to them. “Did you think I hadn’t heard that my brother was dead, and how? How long do you think it will be before Dramash feels the weight of what he’s done? How many souls does that little boy already have on his head?” She took a deep breath and went on more evenly, “If he can find a way to forgive Rho, he’ll be able to forgive himself one day—think, Daryan: do you want another White Wolf on your hands?”

  “The White Wolf?” he asked, confused. “What does she have to do with it?”

  “It was the guilt, Daryan. Can you imagine what Dramash could become if we let it fester in him like it did in her? In that case it would be better for everyone if we went out there right now and stabbed him through the heart!”

  “Harotha,” Eofar murmured, and she turned to him and met his eyes, then sagged back down against the cushions.

  Daryan rocked back onto his heels. He couldn’t tell her that Rho had been badly hurt, that he might even be dead. He got to his feet. “There’s something I need to do,” he told them hurriedly. He bent down and kissed her tenderly on the forehead; her skin was dry and impossibly hot. “I’ll be right back,” he reassured her, and then brushed his fingers against the baby’s smooth cheek. “He really is amazing,” he whispered, feeling the bitter tears snaking down his cheeks.

  “He is,” she agreed, smiling.

  He ducked through the curtain. “Brigeth?” he called out, fighting to keep the panic out of his voice.

  She looked up from breaking off some pieces of dried fish for Dramash.

  “There’s a Dead One—a Norlander—badly hurt, on the beach somewhere—I don’t know exactly where. He needs help. I should have said something before, but…” He trailed off, feeling horribly guilty—the thought of Rho burning to death on the beach had felt like justice. Now he felt like he’d betrayed both Isa and Harotha.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Brigeth reassured him, “that pretty friend of yours was just here; Mairi went with her. She’s our best healer; if anyone can save him, she can.”

  “Thanks.” He looked into her open, honest face. “And thank you for everything you’ve done. We’re in your debt.”

  Brigeth frowned, saying sternly, “You’re in no such thing. We helped you because it was the right thing to do.” She pointed an accusatory finger at his chest. “Your people say we only care about money, but you’re the ones who turn everything into a transaction. I hope things can be different now, Daimon. I hope we can learn to understand each other better.”

  “I do, too,” he answered, managing to smile. He moved to go back into the sleeping chamber, but Raina held up a hand to stop him. She peeked quietly around the curtain, and after a brief look inside she tugged it closed again.

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, Daryan grabbed Brigeth’s hand and squeezed it tightly. A strange silence fell over the little house, broken only by the occasional snap of the fire. Dramash was asleep on the floor, or pretending to be. They waited together, listening, and the silence lengthened until Daryan became conscious of a dull ringing in his ears. And then he heard something, a heavy, rhythmic thumping: the sound of a fist striking a clay wall, over, and over, and over again.

  Brigeth gently removed Daryan’s fingers and slipped out of the front door. Raina went back into the sleeping chamber. He heard the baby crying, and then she reappeared cradling him in one arm and supporting Eofar’s hunched, limping body with the other. Blood shone wetly on his knuckles.

  “No, no—you don’t understand!” Daryan cried, though no one had spoken to him. “I can’t do this myself—this isn’t how it’s supposed to be. She knew what we were supposed to do. She always knew.” He glared at Raina as if she were arguing with him. “People aren’t just alive one minute and talking to you, and then dead the next. It’s ridiculous.” He lunged at Eofar. “I don’t know how to do this—I need to talk to her!”

  Daryan felt the grief crushing his heart in his chest and he clutched Eofar’s arm, needing the pain and the cold, holding on tighter the more deeply it bit into him. His former master grabbed his shoulder and sagged against him. “I didn’t even say goodbye to her,” Daryan gasped.

  “All right, all right,” a voice behind him murmured, and gentle hands disentangled him from Eofar and sat him down on the carpet. He was too blinded by his tears to see the warm cup someone pressed into his hand and then guided to his lips. The aroma wafted up into his face with homely familiarity and he grabbed the cup with both hands and gulped down the steaming liquid.

  “This way, Nisha,” Brigeth said, and he smeared the tears from his eyes and looked up. Jachad, his face drained of all color or expression, had come in and was standing next to the door. Then the regal woman Daryan had spoken to in the street, the one with the silver medallion around her neck, swept into the room. She took the crying baby from Raina, nestled him against her breast and began clucking and murmuring to him in Nomas. The infant settled down immediately.

  “All right: we’re telling them outside that we lost both of them, so we’d better keep this little one quiet,” she said, her musical voice assuming a tone of quiet command. The sea-blue eyes she turned toward Eofar were shining with sympathetic tears. “Everyone’s been told to go home, just as we discussed. We told them their daimon wishes to mourn in private for now. My girls are shooing them away. She’ll come in as soon as it’s safe.”

  “She?” Daryan asked.

  The two women exchanged a private look. Then Brigeth turned back to Daryan and said, “The Mongrel, as you call her.”

  “The Mongrel? Why is she coming here?”

  Eofar slumped back against the wall, ignoring Raina’s soft urgings for him to sit down. “She’s coming for the baby.”

  “What?” He vaulted to his feet. “You can’t be serious! She’s—she’s—”

  “She’s my sister,” Eofar reminded him.

  “It was Harotha’s decision,” Raina interjected.

  “Eofar!” He hurried over to his friend. “He’s your son—yours and Harotha’s! You’re not just going to abandon him, are you?”

  Eofar’s silver eyes were dull. “It’s for his own good.”

  “That’s what they told me,” Daryan retorted hotly, “when they took me away from my mother. They were wrong.”

  “What do you want
?” Eofar cried out, his voice breaking. He threw out his hand toward the infant. “Look at him! Anyone who sees him will know what he is. He can’t stay in the Shadar. He needs someone to protect him.”

  “What about you? You’re his father—”

  “I’m going to Norland,” Eofar told him, glancing over at Nisha. “Someone must go to the emperor. If he hears the Shadari have revolted, there will be another invasion. Someone must go and speak with him. It has to be me.”

  “Is this really what you want?”

  “What I want?” Eofar rasped, and turned away.

  Daryan looked at the helpless little baby lying in Nisha’s arms. Harotha had figured out everything before him, just like always. Angry, impotent sobs took hold of him again. Eofar hobbled slowly back toward the sleeping chamber. Raina laid a hand on his arm to stop him, but he looked at her and she took her hand away.

  “Wait,” Nisha called after him, and he paused with his hand on the curtain. “We need to know his name.”

  Eofar opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. The Norlander closed his eyes and stood there, deathly still, for a long moment, then he turned back to Nisha. “What’s the Nomas word for ‘victory?’”

  The Nomas women chanted simultaneously, “Osharad.”

  “Call him that,” he said before disappearing inside.

  A slice of daylight split the room as the curtain over the front door shifted, and the Mongrel slid inside. She stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the baby in Nisha’s arms.

  “Meiran,” Nisha said, in a voice husky with emotion. She cleared her throat and then went on more glibly, “Well, here he is, my poor, beautiful babe.” She looked down at the baby and wrinkled her pretty nose for him, then laid him against her shoulder and softly patted his back. “Eofar can’t bear the sight of him. You can’t blame him, can you? Harotha wants you to take him away from here. Take him away, and never come back to the Shadar.”