Daughter of Blood (57 page)

“Yes.” Nimor was terse. “But when Khar used the term, which was what first gave me pause, he said he had it from Faro, who gleaned it from his mother.”

Faro looked embarrassed, as he had when Kalan used the word in Murn's presence. “It's what she said: that you were stealers and I must never go anywhere near you or your ships.”

“Yet she stayed in the main Haarth port for Sea House ships,” Tirael pointed out, “whereas as an armorer, I imagine she could have gone anywhere.”

“She was a
great
armorer,” Faro said, quick and fierce. “She got sent all the most difficult repairs, even from the big cities of the River. Andron said she could've been rich, if she would only charge what her work was worth.”

Which underlines Tirael's point, Kalan thought. He supposed Faro's mother may have thought wealth a greater risk than skill alone in terms of drawing attention, but none of this was leading anywhere. Nimor—all of us—will have to leave it, he decided.

But Myr, having listened intently throughout, was leaning forward. “
‘Stars, the phoenix is their device,'
” she quoted softly. “That's what you said when we saw Lord Tirael's banner. Was it your mother who taught you the list of Houses and banners?” Faro nodded. “And when you learned them, what was the Earl of Blood's name?”

“Amrathin.” The scuff of Faro's foot was loud. “I know it's Earl Sardon now. Mam said you always have to update when people die, but the Houses and their devices endure.”

Stunned, Kalan studied Faro as though he had never seen him before. Everyone else was watching, too, held in silent thrall as Myr nodded. “Mistress Ise said the same when she taught me. What about the Sea Count? And Stars?”

“
‘Tirunor for Sea, their insignia is the mer-dragon,'
” Faro adopted the half chant of rote. “
‘But they're stealers so you must never go near them. Telmirieneth leads Stars, the phoenix is their device; Night is Eanaran, the winged horse their emblem. The Rose is Nagoy . . .'
” His voice died as he stared around their faces. “What's wrong? Aren't I saying it right?”

“You're saying it perfectly,” Myr assured him, still outwardly composed, although Kalan saw her hands shake before she concealed them in the folds of her skirt.

“Well, it explains the stealers,” Tirael said, with an attempt at lightness.

“It's just not possible,” Nimor protested. “There must be another explanation.”

The wyr hounds, Kalan saw, were still tranquil, apparently indifferent to the consternation around them. “You were saying it perfectly,” he agreed, putting an arm around Faro's shoulders. “But it isn't only Amrathin and Blood, you see. All the names are out of date. Over four hundred years out of date.”

“Out of time,” Tirael murmured. The gaze he bent on Faro was wondering, but the boy looked blank.

“Amrathin was the last Earl of the old line of Blood,” Myr agreed. “And Kara is almost certainly a Blood name. So in a sense,” she finished gently, “you've come home.”

Kalan thought of the camp's reaction to Arcolin's proffered bargain and was not surprised when Faro shook his head. “Grayharbor was my home. I only ever lived there before now.” He paused. “Maybe Mam did come from somewhere else, but Grayharbor's a port so lots of people there do. And she never talked about it.” He craned to look
at Kalan. “Leti and Stefa's mam made them learn stuff that was different from at the dame school, too, and they've been Grayharbor people forever. My mam wasn't any older than theirs either.” Not four hundred years older, his eyes said; he looked close to tears.

Kalan tightened his arm. “Whatever the mystery, it's clear you don't know what it is. As for Arcolin, nothing's changed, including your orders to remain in the inner camp.”

Faro relaxed visibly. “Can I go, then?” he asked, and when Kalan nodded he slipped away at once. The wyr hounds rose, too, and padded after him.

“Should we keep a watch on him?” Nimor asked, once the tent flap dropped.

Kalan listened to Faro's retreating footsteps before replying. “I think the wyr hounds are already doing that.”

Nimor's look said he knew Kalan was deliberately misinterpreting the question, but Myr spoke first. “Over four hundred years . . . I would find that terrifying, but I don't think he really believes it.”

“I agree with him,” Nimor said, with undiplomatic bluntness. “Even when we had the Golden Fire, there's absolutely no record of Derai—or the Swarm, for that matter—being able to travel through time.”

Kalan regarded him. “There are records. One of my teachers showed me an early account of our conflict with the Swarm, which recorded a suspicion that some of their great powers might have the ability to manipulate time. There's also Yorindesarinen's armring.
‘I move between worlds and time,'
” he quoted: “
‘I seek out the hidden, the lost I find.'
”

They were all silent—genuinely surprised, Kalan thought, even Tirael, although he was the first to speak. “They teach you well among the Storm Spears, it seems. But were any powers named? That might throw light on the Swarm connection.”

Kalan shook his head. “The writing was blurred by age and waterstains.”

“Even if your ‘might' was certainty, Lord Tirael,” Nimor said, sounding as weary of the business as Kalan felt, “why
would a Swarm power, especially one from that far in our past, transport a Blood warrior from around four hundred years ago to the Grayharbor of today? It doesn't make sense. And Faro, as we all saw, knows nothing about it.”

“Or doesn't know that he knows,” Tirael murmured. “A compulsion could ensure that.”

Kalan looked toward Myr, in case she wished to say more, but she shook her head. “I'd like to resolve the mystery,” he said, rising. “Especially as Lady Myrathis has proven it's deep seated. But for now we'll just have to accept that there is one and remain cautious.”

He could see Nimor was reluctant, despite his nod of agreement as they all stood. Tirael turned to Myr, his expression curious. “How did you know to ask about the Earls, kinswoman?”

“Partly it was the way Faro responded to seeing your banner. And Ise taught me about the ‘stealing'”—her glance toward Nimor was apologetic—“but I don't know what made me put that together with the list of Houses and banners. I just did.”

Possibly because of the simple act of standing up, Kalan's world was swaying, and he rested a hand on the chair to disguise it. By the time his surroundings steadied, Nimor was bowing Lady Myr toward the entrance, leaving him alone with Tirael. The Son of Stars surveyed him critically. “You need to rest.”

Don't tempt me, Kalan thought. The assault on his shield-wall could resume at any moment, and he needed to repair the current damage before that happened. Tirael and his company might be power users, but without the protective barrier in place, he doubted they could defend the entire perimeter. And in view of his reflections around Myr, Adamant, and hostages, he was not sure how far he dared trust the Son of Stars.

Tirael was smiling faintly, as if discerning his reservations, which also made Kalan wonder about the limits to a strong truthsayer's ability. I should have asked Malian, he thought, because he felt certain the Son of Stars was very
strong—although in this case he was probably just reading the face that Kalan was too weary to guard. “Why
did
you attack?” Kalan asked. “You could have waited until Stars' relief force arrived rather than hazarding your company. Most would say that was the prudent course.”

Tirael shook his head, the smile lingering. “But am I prudent? My mother and sister would say not. Besides, the countryside's infested with darkspawn. So if discovered, our situation would have been equally precarious, while here we may make a real difference.”

“You must know that your intervention already has.” Kalan felt it was important to acknowledge that between them. “You turned the tide of the last attack.”

“Perhaps,” Tirael said, still light, “I am not brave enough to watch a camp massacred while I wait and watch. It takes, I fear, the kind of courage I lack.”

Kalan nodded, recalling the way Lord Falk had spun his trap to draw out the facestealers and their allies in Emer. In doing so, the Castellan had hazarded even Ghiselaine of Ormond and the Emerian peace. Tirael's right, Kalan decided: that took a toughness I'm not sure I possess either.

“As for your getting rest,” Tirael said into the pause, “perhaps you fear that I harbor similar ambitions to Adamant? But you won't be able to guard my young kinswoman from me, or them, if you die from exhaustion—or get yourself killed because of it. And I did pledge,” he pointed out, “that we were yours to command. I think you know, too, that you have to trust someone, while our current circumstances make me trustworthy, at least until a Stars' force arrives. But,” he drawled, before Kalan could respond, “if your reluctance is because you—single-handedly—have been holding the shield-wall protecting the camp, then hesitate no more. Elodin and her cadre may doubt their individual ability to build so impressive a construct, but are confident they can strengthen its weakened areas. They believe they can hold it, too, even against the sort of sustained assault we detected last night.”

“You perceive a great deal,” Kalan said slowly.

Tirael grinned. “There may be an imperceptive truthsayer in this world, but in general the two qualities are incompatible. And we still actually study power use in Stars, so I knew the shield-wall was no Sea House working. In fact,” he added cheerfully, “as far as I can tell, it's unique, and I can assure you I admire it greatly. I'm also aware that it—and you—are the reason this camp and my kinswoman are still here.” He paused. “And since she
is
blood kin, that places me in your debt.”

Kalan stiffened. “I'm Lady Myrathis's champion and Honor Captain, which means there can be no question of debt. But if there were, it would concern her and me alone.”

“Slapped down,” Tirael said mournfully. “If I've transgressed against your Blood correctness, I apologize. What I was trying to convey, O Honorable Captain, was that you can and should get the sleep you need without fear for the camp. Beyond the fact that we're still outnumbered, of course.”

Despite residual doubts, Kalan could not help liking the Son of Stars. He was reminded, too, of his Normarch friends, particularly Audin with his inborn assumption of leadership, and Girvase's willingness to test and challenge. “It's not just perception, though, is it?” he countered, adopting Girvase's approach. “Just how strong are you, I wonder, behind that manner you use to disguise it? And should I anticipate a relief force of similar caliber to your company?”

He had the satisfaction of seeing he had surprised Tirael, before the smile and the drawl returned. “It's not just shielding, though, is it?” the Son of Stars mocked, then grew more sober. “Even in Stars, I am regarded as a prodigy in these times, and my escort is also an elite. Only those who guard my mother, or my sister, the Heir, are comparable in strength. Nonetheless,” he added softly, “I would not care to fight you, my brother.”

That's the second time he's called me brother, Kalan thought. Still, Derai history contained many accounts in which brother, whether of blood or affection, betrayed brother—most famously, and disastrously, in Aikanor and Tasian's case. Best, Kalan decided, not to be swayed by
the term. Yet Tirael was right. He did need rest, while the circumstances allowed for qualified trust, especially since the Darksworn, like the camp, appeared to be licking their wounds. “Or I you,” he replied, still reserved, and supposed he was confirming every Stars axiom about humorless Blood warriors. Forcing a smile, he shrugged. “I've already given orders that everyone else is to rest in shifts, so as long as things stay quiet, I should heed my own advice.” First, though, he would ensure that either Jad or Rhanar—now second in Dain's place—would remain on duty while he rested.

A huge yawn overtook him, and Tirael grinned before stepping into the entry. “We heard rumors that a Storm Spear had returned.” The Son of Stars gestured around the garnet-and-gold interior. “But I didn't credit it until I saw the oriflamme. Four-hundred-odd years may not be so long for the Derai, but it's still a time.” He paused, his expression arrested, then shrugged. “The same four-hundred-odd years since your Faro's list. But no doubt it's coincidence that it was the new line of Earls, after Amrathin, who really took against your order.”

Except, Kalan thought as he followed Tirael outside, that Jehane Mor and Tarathan would almost certainly say that there was no such thing as coincidence, in the same way they did not believe in luck.

R
ook stared toward the Swarm lines and wondered whether he should have risked Torlun's retribution after all. His initial relief on realizing Tirael's arrival in the storeroom was a rescue, had swiftly given way to fear and nervous excitement as they crept from the watchtower, cloaked in Elodin and her cadre's shielding. Rook had felt elated, too, as the Stars company rode into the night bent on rescue, although doubt had crept in when he tried to farspeak the Keep of Stone and the duty farspeaker had reacted as if he was playing an initiate's prank. Nonetheless, the euphoria of stepping into what felt like one of the old heroic stories had soon reasserted itself as he watched the Stars warriors use their powers to negotiate the darkness and avoid enemy scouts.

Largely, Rook reflected now, because he had not felt in real danger until they encountered the death standards. The sour aftertaste of the vomit that had heaved out of his stomach then still lingered in his mouth, despite trying to wash it clean several times. By that stage, the Swarm aura had been clearly identifiable, but the Stars company had not turned back. And their charge had been magnificent. When Tirael made it clear that Rock would not be fighting, he had wavered between disappointment and secret relief—only to be caught
up by exhilaration again when the Star knights charged. In that moment, it was only Taly's firm grasp on his arm that had stopped Rook from shouting a battle cry and charging after them.

Afterward, he had been buoyed by the excitement of entering the camp in company with Tirael and his knights. But during the recent council, Rook's sense of adventure had dissipated into weariness. The reality that he was alone in a camp that was potentially as hostile to him as the Swarm had sharpened, together with the realization that in farspeaking the Keep of Stone he had scuttled any suggestion that Tirael might have abducted him. In Adamant's eyes, Rook would be a confirmed traitor. The Earl and council might overlook Tirael's transgression because they wanted the Stars alliance, but they would not excuse his. Besides, Tirael had acted out of obligation to Kin and Blood, which overrode almost every other consideration. Adamant would not actually forgive the Son of Stars, of course, but retribution would be deferred until they had no more need of his House.

Until then, Rook thought bleakly, they will make me pay instead—and if my family don't disown me, Torlun and his faction will exact revenge on them as well. Even Onnorin, who was of the First Line of Adamant's ruling kin and the Earl's granddaughter, might suffer, since enough people knew she and Rook were close friends, as well as cadre comrades. Perhaps if I were braver, Rook thought, I would have stayed and faced Torlun. But he had known his First Kinsman's rage would probably have seen him crippled, if not killed, once Torlun discovered Rook had led Tirael to the prisoners. The Son of Stars had also thought that outcome likely, which was why he had insisted that Rook ride with his company and farspeak the Keep of Stone when they were clear of the watchtower. But now Tirael, like everyone else, had far more important matters to think about than the fate of a stray Adamant initiate.

Rook blinked, adjusting position as the Gray Lands' wind stung his eyes with grit. He was sitting with Taly and Namath on a row of casks outside the infirmary, waiting to see Vael.
As well as curing Rook's headache, the Stars physician had poured healing power into both the former prisoners to get them to the camp, but he had been insistent that all three report for a more thorough check once circumstances allowed. Mostly, though, Rook was sticking with Taly and Namath because they tolerated his presence.

The Storm Spear's tent was visible from the casks, so Rook saw when the page called Faro emerged, followed closely by two wyr hounds. The next time the entry flap lifted, Lady Myrathis and the Sea envoy stepped out, and another pair of wyr hounds, which had been dozing in the shadow of the tent, rose and followed the Bride. The envoy was speaking to Lady Myrathis in a low grave voice, and both Taly and Namath watched with equal interest. When the envoy bowed and left her, the Bride lifted a hand and smiled their way. Having witnessed their reunion earlier in the day, Rook knew the smile was for Taly, but he pretended it might be for him.

Lady Myrathis was gentle and sweet natured, he thought, as she turned toward another tent: not at all what he had thought a Daughter of Blood would be. Rook could almost hear Onnorin's hoot, mocking him for sentimentality—but that made him think of the Keep of Stone and his family again. He blinked hard at the drear sky before making a show of rubbing his eyes, pretending it was because of the grit. When he looked around, Taly was watching him. The rope burns were still raw on her wrists, but because of Vael's work the swelling around her injured eye was subsiding and her good eye was clear. “Heart up,” she said. “All's not lost yet.”

“It's not the enemy,” Rook said quickly, although in fact whenever he looked toward their massed ranks, a decidedly uncertain feeling churned in his stomach. “I was thinking about my family. And that I'll probably be exiled from Adamant.”

Her clear eye grew thoughtful. “You should be all right, though. Lord Tirael seems honorable, and even if he has to consider the Adamant alliance, there's Lord Nimor as well.” She nudged Namath. “Doesn't Sea always need farspeakers?”

Namath considered Rook. “We do,” he said finally.

Rook had visited the Sea Keep once, when he was very young, and retained an impression of color and vitality, as well as the constant, powerful, mysterious presence of the ocean—which reminded him of a smaller mystery. “I thought Sea observed the Oath,” he said to Namath, “but it was your mindcall that Lord Tirael heard.” He could see from Taly's expression that she very much wanted to know the hows and whys as well, but would never ask.

The marine shrugged. “Sea observes what keeps us alive, and the ships sailing. Besides, most of us have some degree of power, which doesn't fit with the Oath.” Namath's glance toward Taly held a hint of apology. “My flicker's just enough to know when an enemy's about and manage a mindcall for help.”

“I did wonder how you always seemed to know where the 'spawn were before we walked into them,” Taly said, “but put it down to years of experience.”

“It's that, too,” Namath agreed, before his gaze shifted to Rook, who was still trying to contain his shock. Adamant not only observed the Oath, but almost everyone in the Keep of Stone openly despised the warrior Houses and those without power. Even Derai with limited ability, like Namath, were very much looked down upon. “Given that jolt of healing you gave me in the shed,” the marine went on, “I'd put coin on Peace taking you if no one else does.”

Rook had not considered the healers of Meraun. “If I'm exiled for treachery,” he said slowly, “they might not want me.”

Taly's smile was crooked. “Captain Khar and I were banished for championing Lady Myr's cause in the Red Keep. If all else fails, you could always join us.”

Rook eyed her doubtfully. “Even though you're all Blood warriors, while I'm priest-kind?”

Vael, who had arrived in time to hear this, glanced between them as he opened his physician's satchel. Taly nodded. “When you're outside both House and keep, the way we've been, many things don't seem as important as they once did.”
She hesitated. “My younger brother had the old power. Even when it was latent, I could never find him if he didn't want to be found, no matter how hard I tried.”

Namath grunted. “Like young Faro.”

“What happened?” Rook asked, remembering Adamant rumors about what Blood did to those who had the old power.

“It was like having a Wall storm in the house when his powers first manifested.” Taly's tone turned dry. “But he wasn't murdered, if that's what you mean. Brave Hold's practice is expulsion to a temple of Kharalth, although I've heard many are sent on to other Houses.”

“Or that's what you choose to believe happens.” Vael was dispassionate as he examined Taly's recovering eye, his touch careful. “They could equally well be killed.”

Taly was very still, and Rook did not think it was from the pain of her eye. “I think we would know,” she said finally, her manner that of someone working matters through, rather than arguing. “Some things can't be completely hidden, like the way there are always whispers out of Oath and other hardline holds. But not Brave Hold and Clan Tavar.”

A slight sound made Rook turn, and he saw that Captain Khar had come out of his tent with Tirael. He sat up straighter at once, but thought the captain looked odd, as though feeling a blow taken in the fighting. “We'll have to wait and see in terms of your vision,” Vael was saying to Taly, “but overall you've been remarkably fortunate.”

Because Sird likes to take his time, Rook thought, so he was only warming up when Lord Tirael's company was sighted. He could not say that, though, especially with Captain Khar looking directly at him. Torlun would say that Storm Spear or not, Khar was just another Blood warrior—but in the tent, the captain had spoken to Rook as if he was someone who mattered, not an initiate from an enemy House. Now, watching Khar fall into step with Tirael, Rook was seized by the desire to do something great and heroic, a deed that would save the camp and earn himself a place in the Storm Spear's company.

Vael was busy with Namath, and Taly—possibly because
the healer had left a question mark over her vision—had withdrawn into herself. Rook concentrated on recalling the recent meeting and decided that it was not only a potential Adamant force that concerned Khar: the Honor Captain had been reserved about a Stars rescue as well. I don't want Lady Myrathis to become anyone's hostage either, Rook decided. All the same, the beleaguered caravan did need someone to come to its aid. In fact, whenever he looked from the perimeter to the Swarm force beyond, Rook could not comprehend how the camp had survived this long.

During the meeting, Lord Nimor's secretary had explained how his farspeaking had been blocked by the enemy. But Murn was a weatherworker, so farspeaking would be his secondary power, whereas Rook was one of Adamant's strongest farspeakers, even if he was still an initiate. The besiegers' blockade might be weaker now, too, since they had expended so much power attacking the camp—and Rook had been trained to exploit weakness.

Frowning, he considered which House to farspeak. Blood had no 'speakers, and Sea and Swords were both too distant. The Rose probably is as well, Rook decided. That left Night, which was the caravan's destination anyway. Unlike Blood, Night still had a functioning Temple quarter, and Adamant's intelligence suggested they had been pushing the Oath's limitations in recent years. In fact, there had been Night initiates with the company that confronted Torlun earlier in the year, a fracas that resulted in the latter declaring blood feud against the Commander of Night. But if I'm already a traitor, Rook reasoned, I can't be any more of one for farspeaking Night, blood feud or not. He didn't know any Night adepts, though, or the disposition of their keep, so would have to find an alternate focus for his farspeaking.

“We should eat,” Taly said, interrupting Rook's deliberations as Vael finished with Namath. “Then report for duty wherever we'll be useful.”

“We could use extra hands here,” Vael said. Rook felt guiltily sure the healer was looking at him, and resolved to return after the farspeaking. He avoided meeting Taly's and
Namath's eyes, too, as they accompanied him to the only cookfire in the inner camp.

“My healing talent's only minor,” he said, feeling the need to excuse himself. “So I've just been given basic training, enough to help get injured to an infirmary.”

Namath studied him. “I wouldn't have called that jolt you gave me minor.”

“Even if it is, you can still help those with more skill,” Taly pointed out, making it clear where she thought his duty lay.

But helping in the infirmary wasn't the path of glory that Rook needed if he was to win a place with Khar—or Stars or Sea either. He chewed slowly, to make the meager meal last, and studied the inner camp for somewhere suitable to attempt his farspeaking. In the end he opted for the far side of the infirmary, which would screen him from both the other tent openings and the main crossing into the outer camp. The inner barrier would still be guarded, but with far less coming and going. In the meantime, Rook assured himself it was sound strategy to linger over his last hunk of bread until Taly and Namath finished theirs and left, even if an onlooker might have called it delay.

M
y younger brother had the old power . . .
Brave Hold and Clan Tavar: Kalan repeated Taly's words silently, watching the wind stir the tent's garnet-and-gold panels. And then, testing the word he could not say aloud:
sister
.

Kalan shook his head, because accepting comrades-in-arms at face value was the warrior life; more so when the warriors in question were exiles. So he had never delved beyond the names the others volunteered. Yet he, too, had been of Clan Tavar, out of Brave Hold, before the right to claim both was stripped away. The fact that it had never occurred to him Taly might be his sister, Talies, suggested that the rite of renunciation and expulsion might be more than a formality, after all. Their respective ages might also explain the lack of recognition, since Kalan had been seven when banished, and she no older than nine, at most.

You are no more son of mine.
Six years ago, he had dreamed his father saying those words, and the rite made it equally true of his status as brother. The Blood Oath had not given any of them a choice, but Kalan had never forgotten his father's closed expression, or his siblings' hostility, as they performed the rite. Yet when he overheard Taly, she had sounded as though she remembered her lost brother with affection. I was seven, Kalan reminded himself again, and she, being not much older, was probably equally bewildered by the turn of events. He was sure of the present, though, and that he could not broach the subject until a day came when he could safely reveal his true identity.