Daughter of Blood (62 page)

Murn, standing in the entrance to Myr's tent, looked even worse than the marine captain. “I'm sorry,” the secretary said, “Vael has tried, but by the time I found her—” He broke off, his face working.

“Let me pass.” Kalan's voice rasped so harshly he did not recognize it. Stepping inside, he was assailed by the acridity of burned wool—and the sight of Myr's bloodied body, with Faro and Rook collapsed beside her.
“No!”
Barely registering Vael's presence, he struggled to give his thoughts shape.
“She is dead. They are all dead.”

“Not all.”
Two of the wyr hounds remained at the entry, but the other four pressed close on either side of him.
“The child lives, and the other one . . .”

But not Myr, Kalan wanted to shout at them, as he had yelled at the sight of the oncoming army: I have lost the life I swore to protect with my own. Fury seared through his initial shock, before he drove the turmoil back down. Opening
his locked fists, he forced himself into a semblance of calm as the wyr hounds gave voice, mourning the passing of a Daughter of Blood.

“The child lives.” Kalan blinked, thinking the hounds had spoken aloud, then realized it was Vael, raising his voice above their dirge. “And Rook may, Meraun willing.” He paused, his eyes holding Kalan's. “I'm sorry,” he said, as Murn had done. “There was nothing to be done for Lady Myrathis.”

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
This time the flag wheel in Kalan's head echoed the voice from his dream. Coming closer, he saw that Vael and the wyr hounds were right. Both Faro and Rook still lived, although the Adamant youth's breathing was shallow. When Vael went to the entrance, Kalan heard him giving instructions to Murn about stretchers and drugs—but all he could do was sink onto his heels by Myr's body and stare at the knife that had killed her.

The dagger, he thought numbly, that
I
gave to Faro. I was supposed to be her Honor Captain and champion, but instead I brought her murderer into the camp.

“No.”
The wyr hounds' whisper contradicted him at the same time as logic asserted itself, reminding him how easily Orth had overpowered Faro in the gully, and how he himself had disarmed the boy in the Red Keep stable. Any adult warrior entering the tent could have done the same, then used the knife for his or her own ends. And Myr's hand was clasped over Faro's, a gesture of comfort he doubted even she would offer her murderer.

You need to concentrate, Kalan told himself savagely, and learn whatever the tent's interior can tell you. He took in Ise's stick, hurled to the floor beside her silver tray, and the tapestry's sundered halves—but what brought him to his feet was the way the scene it depicted had changed.

In one half of the web, the lady had her hands pressed over her face. In the other, the warrior had turned away from her—and the crow, which had previously gazed down on them both, clung to his shoulder. Formerly, too, the hind had lain at the lovers' feet, while the hounds circled all. Now she
fled from the warrior's side of the tapestry, with the milk-white pack in pursuit. The scene was so vivid that Kalan half expected the Hunt to spring to life, baying for the chase and the kill as it had within the Gate of Dreams. Instead he heard voices outside, responding to the wyr hounds' lament. And notwithstanding Myr's death, he was still Honor Captain and needed to confirm what had happened, and have her body laid out as befitted a Daughter of Blood. Rook and Faro, too, must either be treated here in the tent, or taken to the infirmary.

Kalan cast a last, lingering look toward the tapestry as Faro groaned, his limbs twitching. When the tent flap lifted, Malian stepped through, her eyes silver in the gloom. “She is dead.” The way she spoke the words told Kalan she had heard his mental cry. “We have indeed come too late, for Lady Myrathis as for so many others. I am sorry.”

Kalan did not need the bond between them to know her regret was genuine. But Malian had not known Myr, so primarly her grief would be for him, not the young woman who lay at their feet. She will mourn as decency requires, he thought, but as swiftly move on. He heard more voices outside, demanding explanations as the wyr hounds fell quiet and the opening lifted again. This time it was Taly who entered, only to stop as he had, white and stricken when she saw Myr. And for Taly, Kalan knew, there would be no easy moving on.

L
ady Myr's body had been taken to Khar's tent, where she would lie in whatever state the camp could manage. Everyone had stood with their heads bowed as her bier was borne out by Taly and the surviving Blood exiles—other than Jad, who remained on the perimeter. And Machys and Aarion had both wept. For some reason that was what Faro remembered most. That and Taly, who had shed no tears, her expression still as winter's frost, iron-hard across frozen ground.

Yet more than anyone else, perhaps even mistress Ise or Khar, Taly had truly loved Lady Myr.

Faro was ashamed, now, of the way he had despised Myr at first, simply because she had been visibly shaken by the fright he and Khar had given her, the first time they met on the Red Keep stairs. Afterward, too, she had embroiled Khar in a duel to the death, instead of defending what Faro had privately termed her own stupid honor. He had started to like her, though, when they fled the camp together. And in the end, Myr had stepped between him and Thanir's knife.

At least, Faro thought, Thanir wasn't able to make me kill her—although everyone will probably think I did, because he used my knife. The fact that the knife was the one Khar had given him, just made it all so much worse. Faro wondered
what the Derai did to murderers, whether they were hanged like in Grayharbor, and had to fight not to cover his face with his hands and sob—not least because his mam always said that crying because life went against you was giving in to self-pity, which was unworthy conduct.

The healer, Vael, had checked Faro for injuries and cleaned away the worst of the blood, before taking the still-unconscious Rook to the infirmary. Afterward, Khar had sent almost everyone else away. Now, besides Faro himself, only Khar, Nimor, and Tirael remained, together with the two newcomers. Faro thought the lady looked like a younger version of Ilai, while the tall warrior accompanying her had eyes like Arcolin's, so darkly blue they were almost black. The similarity made Faro want to shrink away and hide, despite having overheard Nimor tell Murn that Khar had slain the sorcerer during the battle. The envoy had said something about Yelusin as well, which Faro had not properly understood, except to grasp that the ships' closely guarded identity might have been revealed.

All the same, he still avoided the tall warrior's gaze, which was keen enough to pick out secrets, exactly like the raven he was named for. The lady was called Malian, and she seemed to know Khar well. Faro could tell by the way she touched Khar's shoulder while moving past him to study the tapestry. He also saw how Khar turned toward the fleeting gesture, and to her. Once, Faro would have been jealous, as he had been of Lady Myr at first, because he wanted Khar to belong only to him. But not now, after Myr had died for him, when even remembering the old jealousy made Faro feel as if he had ill-wished her.

He wanted to ask what had happened to Thanir, but that would have meant drawing attention to himself—and Faro already dreaded their questions, which he would not be able to answer. His recollection of the time immediately before he fainted was vague, but some of the impressions were so strange they seemed like fever dreams. Particularly, Faro thought, the hounds in the tapestry appearing to be alive, and the crow turning into a woman. He knew he hadn't dreamed
the lightning that burned the hanging, though. Not that it changed anything. Myr was still dead.

I'm sorry, Faro cried silently, as he had when she was dying: I'm sorry, I'm sorry. They felt like the only words left in the world, and he wanted to cry them out to Khar, too, who so far had barely glanced his way. He knows it's my fault, Faro thought miserably. And because I'm his page, I've stained his honor as well as my own. The terror that Khar might disown him, because of that, was almost worse than the fear he might be hanged. Faro's only comfort was that the wyr hounds had stayed with him when he crept to one side of the tent, to be out of everyone's way. Yet he felt certain that when Khar left the camp, the hounds would accompany him, in the same way the original thirteen had bade Faro release them from the Red Keep so they could follow the Storm Spear into exile.

I always feel safer when they're with me, Faro thought. Then again, he had thought he would be safe from the demons that came to the Ship's Prow House if only he could reach the Derai Wall. His mam might have warned him against the Derai mariners and their stealing, but she had also told him how the Wall's great strongholds held back the darkness that crouched at the edge of the world. And at first Faro
had
felt safer, because when he was with Khar the nightmares that had stalked his sleep since the Ship's Prow House receded.

Once inside the Red Keep, he was always wary of the hard-faced Blood warriors and the stories whispered about the ruling kin—but he had only grown afraid again when Lord Huern's path crossed his, that day in the stable. From a distance, the Son of Blood might seem like anyone else, but up close . . . Faro had felt the chill that came off him, exactly like the demons in the Ship's Prow House, and when he looked sidelong, had felt sure he glimpsed jeweled pins, glimmering in braided hair. He had
wanted
to warn Khar, but whenever he tried—even when he wrestled to force words out, after Kolthis betrayed the camp and Khar rescued him and Lady Myr from the gully—his speech had remained locked.

Never speak of it, little rat. Let it be our secret, yours and mine.
Faro guessed, now, that Thanir must have done something when he placed the two fingers over his lips that terrible night in Grayharbor. Something that meant Faro
couldn't
speak of what happened, no matter how much he wanted to. So instead of being safe, he had brought the danger he feared with him, and Lady Myr had died because of it. And if he could not tell anyone what happened, then Thanir might find a way to use him again—and next time it might be Khar the dark warrior wanted dead. Despairing, Faro fought back another sob, even if what he dreaded most was that he had already lost Khar . . .

Despite his efforts, a sound between a hiccup and a sniff escaped, but it was Malian, not Khar, who looked his way. Her fingers still rested on the tapestry's burned edge, but her steady gaze held Faro transfixed—before she smiled faintly, then stooped to pick up Mistress Ise's staff, which was holding down the silver tray. “No!” Faro scrambled up, desperation wrenching the words out of him. “You mustn't!”

Malian checked. “Why not?” she asked. Now everyone was looking Faro's way, including Khar, although the Storm Spear's bleak expression did not change.

Faro could not answer, even indirectly, not even to share the conviction that when, ignorant of danger, he had looked into the shield-mirror that lay beneath the tray, Thanir and whoever else was on the other side must have looked back. Struggle though he might, no further explanation would emerge, only a combined plea and avowal as he turned to Khar. “I didn't kill her!”

“I know.” Khar's face remained closed, though, and the hand he placed on Faro's shoulder was more weight than reassurance. “But you're going to have to find a way to tell us who did.”

“He won't be able to.” The warrior called Raven spoke for the first time. “Not until Thanir's compulsion has been removed. But that's only the surface layer. Beneath it, the boy's encased in warding, a prohibition so subtle it's almost invisible.”

Speculation flared in Khar's face, before his expression closed in again. Tirael whistled softly, and Nimor was frowning. Only Malian and the wyr hounds appeared unaffected, although the hound closest to Faro whined a protest as his hand clenched on its fur.

“You did say there might be a compulsion.” Nimor glanced toward Tirael.

“Yes.” The Son of Stars was thoughtful. “But the structure of such workings, let alone unraveling them, has not been my study.”

“I might be able to help,” Malian said, in her cool way. Her regard was cool, too, as she studied Faro, who wanted to crawl away and hide again. But he knew none of those present, not even the wyr hounds, were going to let him out of their sight. So he hunched down into himself instead, while Malian turned to Khar. “How much do you know of his past?”

“Very little.” Khar frowned. “Except that both the wyr hounds and a Sea ship have befriended him.”

Nimor's mouth turned down at that, but he remained silent while Khar outlined the rest of their discussion from earlier that same day. When Lady Myr was still alive, Faro thought, miserably aware of all that had changed in so short a time. Malian looked intrigued by the suggestion that Faro's mam might have been over four hundred years old, but was more interested in Arcolin having been struck by lightning. “Because lightning was called here, too,” she said, nodding at the tapestry, “which points to a Sea House influence.”

“Or a Darksworn one,” said Khar—reluctantly, Faro thought.

Tirael's brows lifted, while Nimor's drew together, but Malian pursed her lips. “Possibly.” Faro could tell she did not think so, though, as she glanced at Raven. “What do you think?”

“It's unlikely.” The warrior's eyes rested on Faro, who scowled back, resenting that someone could claim to see things in or around him that he didn't know about himself. “But if you know nothing,” Raven continued, addressing him
directly, “that suggests that for you, the warding has always been present.”

“Something he was born with?” Tirael asked. “Is that even possible?”

“Well, you think he could be four hundred years old,” Nimor said, beneath his breath. More than any of them, he looked drained, but the set of his mouth said he had no intention of leaving.

Malian inclined her head to the wyr hounds before sinking onto her heels before Faro. “I think we should remove the compulsion, at least.” She met his gaze. “Do you agree?”

Faro had to check the vehemence of his nod, because he
did
agree—but he was also wary. “You look like Ilai. Only younger,” he said, finding that was something he could say. “But your eyes are just like hers, even if yours don't change color.”

The tent was hushed, despite the camp noises outside. Malian nodded. “Are they? What else can you tell me about her, Faro?”

Faro scowled again with the effort of remembering, and thinking what words he could use. “She saved me, and said she would come back for me before the camp fell.” Since it hadn't fallen, after all, he supposed Ilai must have fled. “And she told Lady Myr she was sorry.” Faro had been crying too hard to understand the reasons why, but he didn't want to admit that. “She was something to do with lightning as well. It was on her knife. And she said Lady Myr was a great hero.” That had to do with the shield-mirror, but the compulsion locked his tongue when he even thought about trying to explain. Faro could see Khar behind Malian, but his face was so stern that it was a relief to focus on the cool eyes that looked like smoke. Rather than shifting between gray and green and blue, Faro reflected, the way Ilai's always had.

“I see. But I'm not her, Faro.” Her gaze held his. “I am Malian of Night, and Khar and I have known each other since we were close to your age. You're what, ten, twelve?”

“Eleven,” he mumbled.

“Eleven: a brave age. As I will need you to be brave now, and trust me, if I am to have this compulsion out of you. Then you will be free to tell us everything that's happened.”

Free, Faro thought, and felt as though she had shown him dawn at the end of a long dark night. He was afraid, but he knew he could not turn away from the hope she offered. Not only to be rid of Thanir's hold on him, but to be able to tell Khar what had happened in the tent. “Please,” he whispered.

“Be careful, Malian,” Khar said, “especially with this deeper warding.”

Faro had forgotten about that, but it was clear Malian had not. “Life is a risk,” she said softly, as much to Faro as Khar, and he nodded, because his mam used to say similar things. Besides, accepting the risk was a way he could prove himself worthy of Myr's sacrifice. “But I will only look at whatever lies deeper,” Malian promised, “unless I am very sure of my course. I don't think
they
would let me do otherwise,” she added, nodding at the wyrs. She held out her hands. “When you're ready, place your hands in mine.”

Do the hard thing quickly, that was what his mam always said. So Faro extended his hands straightaway. He felt Khar's shielding surround the tent as Malian's clasp tightened, conveying reassurance—but Faro still almost jerked free when he realized she was in his mind. He thought there was another presence joined to hers, as fine and elusive as moonlight, but he also felt the wyr hounds' solidity and understood they were with him still.
“Safe, you see?”
Malian's mindvoice murmured.
“I told you they would not let us go where we should not.”

Us, Faro thought. But he made himself relax and let his memories unfold: not just of recent events in the tent, but of the three strangers he had guided to the Ship's Prow House and the horror that ensued. Thanir's fingers rested against his mouth again, amid rain and fire and terror.
Never speak of it, little rat,
the obsidian voice whispered.
Let it be our secret, yours and mine.

“Not anymore,” Malian said aloud—and when she placed
her own fingers on Faro's lips, he felt the invisible compulsion that had stitched them closed dissolve. “Clever,” she added, and winked at Faro. “But not quite clever enough.”

She was full of cleverness and secrets herself. Because she was in his mind, Faro could see that. Twisty, he thought. He felt rather than saw her smile, overhearing him, and caught the echo of a reply that was something about the moon's face being dark as well as bright. I'm like that, too, he thought dreamily, dark and light, whereas Khar is always bright, like the sun, and Lady Myr was clear water, with the light shining through . . .