Daughter of Blood (53 page)

“No, indeed,” Rul agreed. He lifted his cup in salute. “Your health, Lord Tirael. Ah,” he added, drinking, “this is an outstanding vintage.”

“From Lathayra, in the Southern Realms, I believe,” Tirael replied. Rook noticed that he drank sparingly before proposing his own toast. “To your Earl and my Countess: honor on both our Houses. And Lady Yhle?” he inquired, when the toasts had been drunk. “Was she not able to accompany you, after all?”

Rook's face felt stiff with his effort to remain expressionless at the implication that Yhle, of all the Earl's many granddaughters among the First Line, was Adamant's nomination for the Stars' marriage. He guessed his blankness was probably just as telling—which was unfortunate, because the Son of Stars was looking his way.

“My First Kinswoman sits on our grandfather's council,” Rul said smoothly. “Her obligations in that respect, as well as overseeing a fitting reception for your embassy, precluded her accompanying us. But she looks forward to welcoming you formally to the Keep of Stone.”

Knowing Yhle's disdain for those not of Adamant, Rook thought that unlikely, but Tirael appeared to accept Rul's explanation. “And we to our arrival there,” he replied.

“Ay.” Torlun's chair scraped as he thrust it back. “So I'd best ensure arrangements for tomorrow's journey are in hand.”

“I and my escort must do the same.” Tirael, too, stood up. “Perhaps if someone could show us the resources placed at our disposal?”

“Everything in the watchtower is yours to command, both for your horses and yourselves,” Rul assured him, rising as well. “Hur, if you or your Second could ensure Lord Tirael and our Stars guests obtain whatever they need?”

Torlun said nothing, but Rook recognized the set look that meant he was furious, and guessed he had intended returning to his business with the prisoners. Yet so long as the Stars knights were coming and going, Torlun would have to wait, and he did not like waiting. He barely nodded to Tirael before summoning Orcis with a jerk of his head and stalking from the hall

If the Son of Stars thought Torlun's behavior rude, he did not show it. Rul's expression had tightened, but he spread his hands. “My half brother is one of our rough diamonds, the more so for spending much of his life patrolling in dangerous conditions. I apologize for his abrupt manners, but assure you he means no offense.”

“None is taken,” Tirael murmured.

Eventually everyone filed out, leaving Rook to collect up the gold cups and remaining wine. Despite his headache, he could not shake the uncomfortable conviction that Tirael's account of unexplained activity along the Stars-Adamant border fitted with the prisoners' account of events in no-man's-land. Although that's not my responsibility to decide, he argued with himself: an initiate farspeaker has no right to interfere with council-level business.

Yet his unease sharpened when he took the cups into the scullery to wash and realized the prisoners had been left without water or food. In their condition, and without water, the marine in particular might not survive for Torlun to question further. So if I take them water and get caught, Rook thought, I can say it's to make sure Torlun gets the information he wants. He knew he would still be punished, but perhaps not so badly if his story was believed. Casually, he studied the ring of cellar and storeroom keys on their peg
inside the scullery door, and then the kitchen beyond—but with so many additional mouths to feed, the watchtower's cooks were too busy to pay him any attention.

Slipping the keys into the wallet at his belt, Rook picked up a pair of waterbottles, connected by a strap, and filled them from the scullery pump. Afterward, he carried them openly across his shoulder while replacing the goblets in Rul's room, then returned to the yard by way of the kitchen stair, which Torlun and his elite company would not use.

Rook waited inside the doorway for some time, watching the yard. When it remained empty, he decided both hosts and guests must be fully occupied in stable or tower, and willed the situation to remain that way as he started across the cobbled expanse. Guards outside the storeroom would have sparked questions, so Torlun would be relying on the prisoners' condition, and the locked door, to keep them secure. In any case, even with twilight drawing in, there was nowhere for a fugitive to hide between the storeroom and the gate. Rook stiffened as the keyring clanked, coming out of his wallet, but the yard stayed clear and the storeroom key turned easily in the lock.

Once inside, he closed the door quickly and felt along the wall for the glim. When the light flared, he saw that both prisoners were conscious, and although their hands were still tied, the ensign had pushed herself into a sitting position. “I've brought you water.” Rook studied the Blood warrior's battered face and one open eye, which measured him in return. Despite her beating, he sensed she would be dangerous if he untied her hands, so he trickled the water into her mouth until she indicated she had drunk enough. The marine required more help to sit up and drink, and Rook had to ease him back against the wall afterward. Almost of their own volition, his hands moved to check the injury at the base of the man's skull. Rook kept his touch as careful as possible, but remembering the force of the stave blow, he was not surprised when the marine winced away.

Trying to remember the lessons from his cadre's field-
medic's class, Rook took the clean handkerchief from inside his dress tabard and wet it through. When he spread the cloth across the wound, he let a trickle of basic healing power seep through as well. The marine mumbled something unintelligible, while the ensign eyed the cloth and then Rook. “Why bother?” She spoke thickly. “Your leader will just have us beaten again.” Until we die, that steady eye said, never leaving his; or we tell him whatever lies he wants to hear, since he will not accept the truth.

Rook knew she was right, but even if he could see a way to get them clear of the watchtower, the fugitives would not escape pursuit in their current condition. “I'm sorry,” he said. “There's nothing I can do.”

The ensign—Talies, he reminded himself—
was
like Onnorin, because her stare remained uncompromising. “Yet by doing nothing you not only condemn Namath and me, but potentially an entire Derai caravan, as well as the Sea envoy and a Daughter of Blood.”

Rook wanted to protest that she was lying, and that besides, Blood was a warrior House and must fend for itself. But he found he could not meet her one eye and assert either of those things—or deny what she did not say: that he, like all Derai, owed a greater allegiance to the Alliance itself, beyond immediate loyalty to Earl and House. As if his discomfort had communicated itself to Namath, the marine struggled to raise himself up. His wavering focus was on the entrance, and Rook frowned, because the door he had thought closed was slowly edging outward. I can't have quite shut it, he thought—before both heart and breath jerked as the opening widened. He seized his dagger, only to stare, dumbfounded, as a wyr hound appeared in the gap.

Rook had seen wyr hounds before, but never one this large, and he had no idea how it could have gotten into the watchtower. Its answering stare was incandescent, and he only dragged his eyes away when footfalls sounded outside. Rook swallowed, aware just how thin his cover story would sound, now that discovery was upon him. Instinctively, he
crouched lower as a man's shadow fell across the opening and the wyr hound turned—but although the yard beyond the storeroom was thick with dusk, Rook could not mistake the tall, elegant figure that blocked the doorway.

“Found,” Tirael of Stars said, very softly, speaking over his shoulder to someone Rook could not see. His gaze rested on the wyr hound, then traveled past it to Talies and Namath. “The flicker of healing just now helped, but which of you, I wonder, mindcalled for aid?”

So there
had
been a mindcall, Rook thought, chagrined that he could have believed the brief flash was his headache starting. He was dismayed, too, that the healing he had considered too slight to be detectable had betrayed their whereabouts—to one whose House was the greatest enemy of the warrior-kind, he realized, frozen in place as Tirael pulled the door closed.

“A Blood warrior and a Sea marine.” The Son of Stars' drawl was marked. “What could my hosts and prospective kin be thinking, to keep such intriguing company to themselves? Not that I don't appreciate the irony of a mindcall from either of you—however inadvertent on your part, Ensign, I'm sure—coming straight to Stars.”

Rook was still frozen—but beside him, Talies made a convulsive effort to stand as Tirael, smiling and graceful still, drew the knife at his belt.

T
he fire had raged between the camp and Darksworn lines for most of the afternoon, as contending winds pushed the flames first one way and then the other. Nimor and Murn endured far longer than Kalan had dared hope, and at one point the fire threatened the besiegers' position—only to race back toward the camp once the sorcerer returned to the front lines, his rune armor swirling. Darksworn archers followed in the fire's wake, shooting into the defenders through a veil of flame, and Nai was among those who fell. The weatherworkers smothered the fire in dust and grit before it reached the palisade, although Murn collapsed soon after and had to be carried to the infirmary. Yet despite the casualties, Kalan detected a general lift in spirits.

Because we managed to poke a stick into the Swarm hive, he thought, watching the sun sink through the lingering smoke—mainly because the enemy was taken by surprise. Knowing the caravan was pinned down and undermanned, the besiegers had not expected offensive action.

Darkness, however, always favored the Swarm. The were-hunters appeared to have withdrawn altogether following the tempest's failure, but what felt like a coterie of adepts launched a sustained attack against Kalan's shield-wall as
soon as the sun vanished. The signature of the magic being used was as varied as the forms of assault, which shifted from continuous blasts of power to the psychic equivalent of sapping, and Kalan felt the strain almost at once. While none of the individual assailants appeared to wield power comparable to the rune-armored sorcerer, he knew their ability to work in unison, and in relays, presented a potent threat. He could feel the spark of Yelusin's power, shoring up his own, and the wyr hounds, too, stayed close, but within several hours he was having to repair fissures in the shield-wall and reinforce its foundations against the psychic sappers. If he had not grounded the shield-wall in the dike and the Gray Lands' earth, rather than relying on himself, Kalan suspected his situation would already be precarious.

The strain of first fanning the fire, then extinguishing it, had strained Nimor as well, but he returned to the defense when the Darksworn launched a succession of conventional forays. Each rush out of the darkness was accompanied by archers loosing incendiary arrows among the defenders, while a second wave of attackers focused on removing the defensive palisade. Time and again, Kalan led the reserve forward to protect the stakes. Without the palisade, the camp would lie open to cavalry attack, and although pikes and archers might hold the earthworks for a time, the defense was already stretched too thin. As the night advanced, he felt stretched as well. “At least we're spared the were-hunters,” Nimor said, during one of the lulls. His searching look told Kalan he knew the barrage of power was taking its toll. “But they still have far too many minor adepts among their rank and file.”

Agreed, Kalan thought grimly. “How's Murn bearing up?”

Nimor grimaced. “Still unconscious. And I could have used more time to recuperate after the fire. If only we had a Luck here, I could do more.”

“Why a Luck?” Kalan asked, puzzled.

Nimor looked around, but only his marine escort stood within earshot. “The Lucks provide a conduit, so weather
workers can draw on greater power at need, usually when outmatched by a great storm or the Swarm monsters that slip through where the ocean barrier is thin. The power can be drawn directly from the Luck, or from the ship itself.” He paused, his weary expression settling into grim lines. “Possibly the worst abuse of the stealing era was that the Lucks were bound to the weatherworkers so their power could be drained completely at need. They were given no choice and a great many of them died.” Nimor rested his forehead against his staff and spoke with his eyes closed. “The ships say it was this binding in particular—or rather its abuse, I suppose—that finally pulled them out of their limbo. That's when those we now call a Ship's Luck first acquired the name, although the association with the weatherworkers has since grown strong again.”

Over four hundred years was a long enough time for that, Kalan supposed. He found focusing on something other than the siege, however briefly, was a respite in itself. “So they're still a conduit?”

“And a source of power,” Nimor agreed, straightening, “only through choice, not compulsion. Lucks must serve freely and cannot be drained of their power and their lives, any more than a weatherworker or other adepts.”

Except in circumstances like this where they drain themselves, Kalan reflected somberly, just as Murn had done. If the battery of power continued long enough, both he and Nimor would face the same situation. “I'll keep going as long as possible,” the envoy told him quietly. Supporting you, his expression said: because without you and your wall, the camp will fall.

Kalan nodded. “Try and get some rest, if you can.” If any of us can, he added silently, as Nimor left and he returned to monitoring the camp's defenses. The magical onslaught continued unabated, but it was some time before the next conventional assault rolled forward. This time the attackers maneuvered several long, rawhide-covered screens ahead of their advance, enabling their archers to dig in within easy range of the camp. Once close enough, the hides would pro
vide shelter for foot assaults as well. “We'll need firepots,” Jad said, joining him.

Without the were-hunters and their deflective magic present, enough arrows
might
get through, Kalan thought, calculating the odds. “But the rawhide still may not catch,” he said, knowing the enemy would have their minor adepts deployed to make sure it didn't. “So we'll have to sortie once they're close enough.” Yet as soon as the sortie party left the shield-wall they would be exposed to magical attack, which meant Kalan stretching himself further to try and protect them. “Tell Nimor he'll be needed.”

Jad nodded, his expression grim. He looked grimmer still a short time later, when the camp's fire arrows smoldered into extinction on the rawhide screens. Shortly afterward, Palla led the sortie party out. The company comprised Sarr and a band of axe wielders, who would destroy the screens, together with fighters to protect them, while Kalan and the reserve provided mounted cover. At first, surprise and the sortie party's momentum worked to their advantage, although the initial clash was fierce. Kalan could detect no magical retaliation as Sarr and his axe team worked like those possessed, demolishing one screen and starting in on a second. “We're going to do it,” Reith said, keeping pace beside him—an instant before a company of Darksworn cavalry charged out of the darkness.

Palla saw them and yelled for the sortie party to retreat. Kalan shouted, too, leading the reserve forward and simultaneously blocking the wave of terror sweeping ahead of the Darksworn. He saw Sarr look around, but rather than retreating in Palla's defensive formation, the farrier and several others renewed their effort to demolish the screen. “Leave it!” Kalan yelled, but doubted anyone heard as the Darksworn cavalry thundered down on them. The last thing he saw clearly before Madder crashed into the fray was Sarr fall, smashed to the ground by a war hammer.

The farrier's body disappeared as Madder maneuvered, striking out with hooves and teeth, and Kalan laid about him with the longer of the black blades. Reith was fighting along
side him for a time, then Ler took his place, covering the retreat until the Darksworn horn sounded again and more cavalry swept forward. Kalan yelled for the reserve to withdraw before they could be engulfed—at the same time as a glance back confirmed that the sortie party had reached the palisade, where Palla and a rearguard were holding the gap until the reserve passed through. Ler was still on his left as they retreated, while a surviving axe-wielder, bloodied but tenacious, clung onto Madder's right stirrup.

Covering arrow fire from the camp checked the Darksworn momentum, and the reserve were almost at the palisade when a barrage of power slammed into Kalan's shielding. The black blade vibrated like a struck bell as the Darksworn raced forward, and Kalan fought to steady himself and Madder. Palla shot an oncoming rider out of the saddle, advancing again with her rearguard to secure Kalan's right. The remaining wyr hounds closed around Ler, holding the retreat's left. “Well done,” Kalan told Madder as the psychic attack eased—only to duck, using the black sword to extinguish an eldritch fireball streaking for his head. At the same time, he felt Nimor's power surge, destroying a second fireball before it reached Ler.

Palla was not so fortunate. She was still a step outside the palisade when another fireball exploded, blasting her backward as a fourth dissipated against the shield-wall. The fire engulfing her snuffed out as she was hurled through the protective barrier, but she was dead before Kalan could reach her and dismount. The exile's flesh was unmarked, but her mouth was stretched into a scream and her eyes were holes that stared at nothing. Grief tore at Kalan's throat and eyes—but there were so many dead, including Reith and Yelme from the reserve, as well as Sarr and most of his axe team. And still the assault of power hammered against his shield-wall.

Kalan knew Palla would understand, but still found it hard to turn away. When he did, Faro was beside him, holding Madder's reins. “Lady Myr told me to help,” the boy said, the atrocious Grayharbor accent pronounced as his words
tumbled over each other. “In case no one else could handle Madder.”

Because you told her no one else could; I know your tricks, Kalan thought. But the boy
could
handle the big roan, so he would let him do it for now. “But when I need him again, Faro, you go back to Lady Myr.”

Two of the wyr hounds trailed after Faro and Madder as all the horses were led away from the perimeter's increased risk of fire. The rest of the pack stayed with Kalan as he crossed to the nearest watchpost, where a brief survey showed enemy archers regrouping behind the two intact screens. Still enough to cause us grief, Kalan thought, but it'd be worse if Sarr and the others hadn't sacrificed themselves. “Nimor's still on his feet,” Tehan said, as she and Jad arrived. She looked hollowed out from watching their dwindling numbers. “But he needs to rest before he'll be useful again.”

Jad was equally strained. “I've redistributed Palla's armor and weapons,” he told Kalan. “And put Orth in command of her company.”

Kalan just nodded. There was nothing to be said and little else that could be done now, except try and hold on. He tended a gash in a wyr hound's shoulder himself once Jad and Tehan left, before resuming his watch on the plain. The harassing attacks continued, but in the hours that followed, only odd details pierced his weariness—like Orth looming out of the night to stare at him, before vanishing again. The incident occurred during one of the worst onslaughts of power against the shield-wall, when Kalan could barely move, let alone speak. Afterward, as his sense of time and events blurred, he decided he must have imagined the whole thing.

Later again, he thought a woman appeared in the shadows beside him. In silhouette, Kalan felt sure he knew her, but the face that looked his way was a blank mask, wrought from the plain's haze. The shock jolted him fully awake to find there was no woman present, just the wyr hounds pressed close with Faro burrowed into their midst. Kalan frowned,
exasperated, until he realized that even while sleeping, the boy's power was buffering his. The Darksworn magic delving for the foundations of his shield working had died away, suggesting the opposing adepts had exhausted themselves at last or given in to bafflement . . . A ghost smile replaced Kalan's frown, because unless the enemy could comprehend the song of Haarth, they would never encompass his working.

A boot scuffed and he whipped around, but the newcomer was Jad. The woman with the blank face must have been a side effect of lack of sleep, Kalan decided—although, in fact, he felt a little more rested. “Dawn's coming.” Jad sounded surprised they would see it. “Tehan says that Murn's conscious again, and it looks like Lady Myr's attendant will pull through.”

“Good news.” Especially, Kalan thought, if we can get Murn back on his feet. He shook Faro awake, and the boy glanced toward the Gray Lands as he scrambled up.

“I wanted . . .
want
to help,” he said. Before Kalan could reply, the wyr hound closest to the dike growled, then all the hounds leapt up. A moment later, Orth bellowed an alarm.

“Get back to Lady Myr!” Kalan ordered Faro, running for Madder as Ler led the reserve forward. Once in the saddle, he could see the enemy marshaling, although no sign of imminent assault followed as night transformed into shadowed dawn. But something's afoot, Kalan thought, trying to assess the situation from the opposing commander's point-of-view. If the line of stakes was the equivalent of a sea wall, it had been eroded in several places. Yet for now the defense could cover the gaps. Only just, Kalan added. Still, a force reluctant to incur losses might not like the odds, especially while his shield-wall remained in place. And a full day had already passed, so every additional hour the defense held must tip the odds a little further toward survival, if only by increasing the chance the besiegers' presence would be detected.

So if I were the opposing commander, Kalan thought, I'd be looking for a new approach. As if affirming his conclusion, a group of riders gathered in the center of the opposing
lines. The green pennant that signaled a parley flew above the blood-washed sun banner, and Kalan recognized the sorcerer beneath it, escorted by warriors wearing the jagged, bestial helms. “Do we honor the parley flag?” Jad asked, when Kalan and the reserve halted beside his company.

“So long as they're talking, they're not attacking,” Kalan replied. “Do we have anything green to fly in answer?”

“The envoy has a parley pennant,” Ler replied. “I can fetch it, if you're sure?”