Daughter of Blood (3 page)

Yet now Nherenor was dead and both love and hope turned to ashes. Ilkerineth felt his expression cloud, the storm within him brewing, as her hands wound themselves into his hair. “Nindorith or our agents
will
hunt out Nherenor's slayer,” she whispered. “He cannot elude us forever. Yet Night has found some means to prevent any more ways being opened into the abandoned Old Keep. And their Earl still lives and has not yet lost all that he holds dear.” She pulled his mouth down to hers again, and this time the kiss was all ferocity until her grip on his hair eased. “You and Nindorith have sworn to observe the ancient mourning period for Nherenor in full, but let me honor our son equally, Prince of the Lightning, by resuming the hunt. I may not find the assassin, but I shall rend Night's friends and paint their names onto Lightning's banners in their own lifeblood.”

She hates well, I'll give her that.
Aranraith's observation, because hatred spoke to the Prince of the Sun. Ilkerineth let wildfire crackle around them both, but kept his voice soft. “How fierce you are, my Lady of Ways. But we have other hunters, a nation of them.”

“
‘If Night falls, all fall.'
The old prophecy hangs by a single thread now.” Their kissing had drawn blood, the trickle dark against her lip. “Let me be the one to drive home the blade.” Nuithe's hands tightened again in his hair, her body urgent against his. “Give me an army if you must, but let me hunt.”

He bent his head and licked away the blood. “So be it,” he whispered—and caught a flicker in the corner of his eyes, a slow powerful turn of shadow within the glass-smooth water. His head came up as he drew her within one mailed arm, while the other went to his sword. Lightning still flickered in the bruised sky, but the light had faded and fog was boiling up around the perimeter of the pool. Beneath its surface, the long shadow turned again.

“Back,” Ilkerineth said, and they retreated across the plat
form and up the steps to the space between the twelve paired pillars. He held a shimmer of protective wildfire about them both, but although the shadow passed close to the steps, nothing broke the surface of the water. Yet, he thought grimly, and did not stop until they reached the crumbling arch. The surrounding quiet was so intense that it reverberated, like the afternote from a great bell. Already the fog was rolling across the pool, although so far only tendrils had crept past the pillars. A quick glance around showed streamers of mist creeping into the colonnade as well.

“Is it a Sun trap?” Nuithe's whisper was loud as a shout against the silence.

Ilkerineth jerked his head in a quick negative and gathered his power. Lightning crackled as the void whispered in answer, low and eerie from every corner of the dim space. Nuithe wiped away the blood that had welled again on her lip. Of course, Ilkerineth thought: blood. He ground his teeth at his own carelessness, even as he channeled a mindcall to Nindorith.
“To me, my brother!”

Wind shrilled across the open court and shadows oozed from the fog, snaking past the pillars. Ilkerineth drew his power in closer still as a dark shape began to heave out of the pool and the fog raced forward—to engulf Nuithe, he guessed, drawn by the blood. Towering taller than the pillars, he summoned a blue-white blaze of lightning and hurled it toward the onrushing shadows. The wind shrieked and the waters churned as Ilkerineth extended both arms and more lightning crackled, immolating both fog and shadow before he asserted his will and compelled the small world of Amaliannarath's pool back into calm.

“Impressive,”
Nindorith murmured, his power an invisible rampart along the colonnade and around the arch.
“
You did not need me after all.”

“Apparently not.”
Wildfire was still blazing along Ilkerineth's arms, and he let it burn, an aftermath to the surge of magic through his body. Nuithe was bone white, the delicate angles of her face pressing sharply through skin, and her nose was bleeding. She tilted her head back and wadded a
trailing sleeve against the flow, but her eyes were fixed on him. “What was that?” Fabric and blood muffled her voice.

Ilkerineth let the wildfire die so he could wrap both arms around her and hold her close,
close,
until the pounding of his heart stilled. But it was Nindorith who answered, a roll of quiet thunder out of the air.

“The maelstrom stirs, Lady.” He paused, and Ilkerineth knew they were both listening, waiting for another chill whisper out of the void. “It begins again.”

O
utside, the latest Wall storm had blown itself into a brief respite of calm weather, but inside the Red Keep the storm that had been raging between the ruling kin for weeks continued to generate acrimony and raised voices. Although, Myr thought, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up knees, “raised voices” was only her former governess Ise's way of being polite. Anyone else would say shouting, usually over the top of whoever else was yelling at the same time.

She stared out over league on league of cloud wrack and bitter peaks toward the dark smudge that concealed the farthest limit of the Wall of Night. Sometimes, when the sky was more overcast, she caught the flicker of lightning through the smudge and would shiver, thinking about all those who kept watch over that dark boundary. Today, though, the sky was as close to clear as it ever got on the Wall of Night.

Peaceful, Myr told herself, thinking of the dispute that still rumbled in the keep below her. It was not a comparison she had ever thought to make in favor of the Wall, even if all eight of her strong-willed siblings were resident in the keep at one time. Yet argument seemed too mild a term for the tempest that had broken the moment their father, Sardon, the Earl of Blood, announced that one of his daughters would
marry the Earl of Night before the year was out. Myr knew the marriage was only happening because the Earl of Night's outsider leman was dead. Assassinated, Ise had told her, by members of the Earl's own Honor Guard—and Myr couldn't blame her older sisters for not wanting to marry into a House so lost to the Derai Code.

After very brief consideration, she amended the latter reflection to exclude her two eldest sisters. Hatha, the Earl's eldest, warrior daughter, had guffawed when she heard the news and observed that she doubted the Earl of Night envisaged a battle-scarred veteran like herself arriving in his wedding caravan. The Heir of Blood, Kharalthor the Battlemaster, had roared with answering laughter and punched his twin on her mailed shoulder with a gauntleted fist. From what Myr could tell, watching from as close to the door of the council chamber and flight as possible, that confirmed the Earl of Night's bride wasn't going to be Hatha. And she did find it impossible to imagine Hatha ever wearing anything but armor, or living anywhere but in a barracks. In fact, mostly Hatha didn't live in the keep at all, but served with Kharalthor on Blood's borders.

The bride was not going to be Liankhara either, because the Earl's second daughter had served as a Blood spymaster since she was younger than Myr was now. Neither the Earl nor his council would countenance her loss from Blood's ranks, or the potential subversion of her loyalties, no matter how strategic the marriage offered. So that left Sardonya and Sarein, as well as Myr herself.

Myr grimaced, because she knew no one would contemplate her for the role. Not that she wanted to be considered, but she was weary of hearing “weak” whispered behind her back. One of her former household guards, Kolthis, had not even bothered to whisper when he called her the Half-Blood. To be fair, he had been dicing with his cronies at the time and probably not known that she was close enough to overhear. Myr was not sure he would have cared, though, even if he had. And although the House of the Rose was just as much part of the Derai Alliance as the House of Blood, Myr
would never dare utter that small defiance aloud. Not even when alone and on the pinnacle of the Red Keep's tallest watchtower as she was now. Besides, it would not change anything. No one would consider her suitable for the role of Countess of Night, with its unprecedented opportunity to further Blood's sway within the Derai Alliance.

I've only just come of age anyway, Myr told herself. Blood might use strategic marriage to seal its alliances, but the ruling kin always served within their own House for at least five years after reaching their majority. With her eighteenth birthday only a month behind her, Myr had not even endured the public celebration yet, let alone chosen the role in which she would serve her House. She had assumed that her half-sister Sarein would be the Bride, since she was not only five years past her majority but already an adept player in Blood's councils. Since the Earl's remaining daughter, Sardonya, had made the last strategic marriage into the House of Swords, that also made it Sarein's turn . . .

Except Sarein was refusing the honor—or rather, dishonor, as both she and Sardonya had been saying at length and volume for weeks now. Offers of gold, jewels, and ongoing revenue from Blood's mines had failed to appease either sister, although eventually, Myr supposed, one of them would have to give in. Once an agreement between Houses had been signed, especially a marriage contract, breaking it would not just mean a loss of honor and prestige for the defaulting party, but heavy reparations, and possibly blood feud or even war.

The Derai Alliance can't afford that sort of schism between Blood and Night, Myr reflected somberly. “I wonder what they're holding out for, before deciding the matter between them?” She murmured the words to the vast expanse of the Wall, her voice falling away into emptiness. Given what had already been offered, it must be staggeringly large, and Myr wondered why her father had not just issued a command weeks ago and ended all the disputation right then. As for the Earl of Night, Myr's secret opinion was that if he only knew what the next seven years held for him with either
Sardonya or Sarein, he'd be praying to all Nine Gods for Blood's arguments to remain unresolved.

A boot scraped at the foot of the lookout stair, followed by ascending footsteps. “Lady Mouse.” Myr recognized the voice before she saw Taly, one of the guards assigned to her household. Taly's watch partner, Dabnor, had coined the nickname “Lady Mouse”—but Taly, new to the keep and with an equally new ensign's knot on her shoulder, had taken over a year to begin using it. Now she squatted on her heels beside Myr, studying the bleak terrain. “Dab said he'd seen you heading this way.” Myr suspected Dab would have said “scampering,” but even at her most relaxed it was not a term Taly would use, or repeat, in relation to one of the Earl's children. “It
is
quiet up here today,” she added.

By comparison with the inner keep? Myr wanted to say, but knew Taly would just clam up, her expression stolid as the stone in the keep's walls.

“Your sister has sent for you,” the ensign continued, when Myr did not speak. “Captain-Lady Hatha wants to see how your weapons' practice is progressing.”

Myr groaned. “Do I have to?”

Taly's expression did not change. “She said I was to flush you out, wherever you were hiding. And that my failure would not be acceptable to her.”

I hate the way Hatha does that, Myr thought: makes it clear that Taly, Dab, or whoever else she corners will get punishment detail if
I
don't do what she wants. “I loathe weapons practice,” she said, and caught Taly's slight headshake before the guard checked the gesture.

“You're a Daughter of the House of Blood, Lady Myrathis. You need to know your weapons.”

Myr pulled a face, because she much preferred learning how to treat others' aches and bruises, rather than sustaining them herself. The arts of Meraun, she thought, rather than those of Kharalth, the Battle Goddess. But Blood followed the latter, not only first among the Nine but largely ignoring the rest, so forswearing the arts of war was not an option for a Daughter of Blood.

“Your eye-hand coordination is good, you just need to apply yourself more.” Taly stood up. “Dab thinks so, too, and Captain-Lady Hatha is a good teacher.”

For you maybe, Myr thought, although she stood up as well, shaking out her skirts. “She loves sparring with you,” she said aloud. “I wish I could dress you up in my clothes and add a glamour, so she thinks you
are
me. Then everyone would be happy.”

Taly put out a mailed arm, blocking the entrance to the stair. “Never say such a thing again, Lady Mouse, not even in jest. I've heard of folk exiled for less, including those of high blood.” A shadow touched the ensign's hazel eyes. “And darker stories, too, from some of the hardline holds: whispers of those with even a hint of the old taint, including children, being murdered rather than exiled.”

Myr swallowed. “My father would never allow anyone to harm me—” she began, but stopped at Taly's expression.

“And your siblings?” The guard spoke softly. “The Lords Anvin and Parannis? Lady Sardonya or Lady Sarein?”

Myr shivered. “All right,” she said, but Taly did not lower her arm.

“What if I refused to let you leave? What if I said I was in the pay of your enemies, the House of Adamant or the House of Stars? Or I could be a Swarm minion, ridden in on the back of a storm and secreted here? What would you do then?”

“I'd be dead anyway,” Myr told her. “No matter how much I practice, I'll never be anywhere near as good as you.”

Taly clicked her tongue. “You'll be dead because you think that way. The more you practice, the more likely you are to find a way to survive.” She lifted her arm clear. “After you, Lady Mouse.”

At least, Myr reflected, Taly did not try and trip her as she went by, the way Kolthis had liked to do, before the happy day when he and his cohort had been rotated into her brother Huern's guard. Now she held up her skirt to avoid stumbling on the steep stairs, only speaking once she reached the first landing. “Besides, the demons that ride the storms are just
fireside tales, everyone says that.” In fact, she was not sure Mistress Ise supported the popular view on storm demons, but she wanted to delay getting to the training hall, in the hope Hatha would grow tired of waiting. “I'll have to return to my rooms and change if I'm going to train,” she added, when Taly remained silent.

This time the ensign did reply. “I sent Dab to fetch your attendants and your training clothes.” Myr did not need to look back to know she would be grinning. Sighing inwardly, she resigned herself to an afternoon of misery.

H
atha was nowhere to be seen when they reached the training hall, and it was Mistress Ise, rather than one of Myr's attendants, who waited beside Dab. The guard towered over the diminutive Rose woman, who had been governess and was now senior companion to Myr, exactly as she had been to her mother, Lady Mayaraní of the Rose. Myr could not see any training clothes, but she did catch the hand signal Dab flashed Taly. She had worked out enough of their hand codes to know it was a warning, although not the finer shadings that would have conveyed what the warning meant. But Ise's presence had already told her there was trouble, even if the old Rose woman's tone and expression were as noncommittal as Dab's lean countenance.

“Where's Hatha?” Myr asked, and was pleased with the calm way her voice came out.

“She has been summoned to attend your father.” Ise spoke in the formal, well-modulated tone she had tried to instill in Myr. “As have you, Lady Myrathis.”

“Just with Hatha?” Myr asked, clinging to a thread of hope. “Or—”

“I believe all your family will be there.”

“Nine!” Myr ignored the old woman's reproving look. According to Ise, only the poorly brought up invoked the collective numeral for the Derai's Nine Gods. “Are they all still shouting?” She could feel her head start to ache, just thinking about being in the same room.

“Your sister was already shouting when she left here,”
Dab said, straight-faced. Ise's reproving look shifted to him, although she said nothing as Taly placed one hand on Myr's shoulder, turning her toward the door.

“Best not keep your father waiting, Lady Myrathis.”

No, Myr thought, although she desperately wanted to drag her feet. She straightened her back and tried to imagine that she was as physically strong as Hatha, or subtle like Liankhara. Or even, she added tartly, as self-serving as Sardonya and Sarein. Her resolution lasted until the first sounds of shouting reached them, at the far end of a long somber corridor that led to her father's war room. The granite walls dwarfed them all, and the lamps were set so high on the evenly spaced columns that little light reached the floor of dark polished stone. Myr stopped, gazing along an avenue of ancient war banners, their colors quenched in shadow, toward the stony expressions of the honor guards outside her father's door.

Kharalthor, she thought, listening to the Heir's familiar roar. The subsequent bellow was Anvin, shouting back. Taly's gloved fist rapped her shoulder gently. “Heart up, Lady Mouse.” Myr sighed, but started forward, very conscious of her guards' stolid presence and Ise's cane, tapping its rhythm against the stone. Blood's hydra emblem was carved above the war room door and Myr felt as though every one of its nine heads was staring directly at her. She was so busy trying to avoid the stone stare that she almost walked into the Honor Lieutenant on duty. He stepped swiftly away, saluting, and she recollected herself sufficiently to incline her head in acknowledgment.

The shouting hit her like a wall as soon as the door opened. Her father was sitting back in his great chair with his eyes closed, but he opened them as she entered. Huern and Liankhara both looked around, and Hatha nodded from where she sat, using a small dagger to clean beneath her nails. Kharalthor and Anvin were still shouting, and Sardonya and Parannis had joined in while Sarein watched them all with her chin on her hands. Myr envied her companions, who got to wait outside, and wondered if she dared slip into a chair
close by the door. She hesitated—and her father waved her to a place between Sarein and Sardonya. Myr bowed to him, the deep salute that even a Daughter of Blood must make to the head of her House, but fixed her eyes on the tabletop as soon as she was seated.

“It's only a seven-year contract.” Kharalthor pounded his fist against the carved arm of his chair. “That means in seven years' time one of you can return here a very wealthy woman.”