Daughter of Blood (67 page)

“From Khar, too,” Faro said.

“Yes.” Malian was grave. “But Khar has traveled almost that far south before, and lived in those lands, so if we can make the Wall safe, he will come and see you there one day. When you are of age and can better look after yourself, you will also be free to return—if that is what you choose.”

Almost as far as Ishnapur, Faro thought, remembering the mariner with her curved knives and curly-toed slippers. It would be a new adventure, too, of the good kind. And one day Khar would come, or he would return when he was grown up, like Malian said. “Will I have to go alone?” he asked finally.

“No,” Malian said. “Because you are a minor, we can't live together as two grown-up people that marry would. But I am required to provide you with your own household: exactly the same as an Heir would have, including your own captain and guard, as well as a tutor and a steward. Khar has recommended Ensign Talies,” she said, before he could speak, “and she has agreed, so long as you say yes. Nimor suggested Murn for your tutor, because although not a powerful weatherworker himself, he has been well taught and can oversee your training. And I,” she added, “will send a strong company with you under Taly's captaincy. I know it won't be the same as with Khar, but you will not be alone, or friendless, or unprotected.”

Taly, Faro thought, and Murn, both of whom he liked. “But it's only a paper marriage?” he asked again, to be sure.

“That is what it's called. It is a true marriage in law, but in addition to having separate households, we will not be permitted to make demands of each other's bodies, as grown-up people may do.” She said that matter-of-factly, not snigger
ing or smirking as the Red Keep pages or Grayharbor street urchins would have done. “As I said, once the seven years are up you will be of age, with your power trained, so better able to protect yourself without need of our marriage.” Fleetingly, she smiled. “I won't say free to choose your own path, because I think you've been doing that for some time.”

“And after that,” Faro said, focusing on what he thought was the important part, “we won't be married anymore?”

“Not unless we wish to be. There is,” she explained, “what is called a renewal clause, but we both have to agree to it.”

Faro knew she was tricky, and both dark and light as he could be, too, but he did not think she was trying to trick him. He also remembered how swiftly the fever had taken his mam, and how even those who were strong and sure, like Palla and Reith, or Orth with his brutal strength, could die in battle, just like that. “What if something happens to you?”

Again Malian nodded. “Your being with the Ara-fyr will be a secret, but I will also appoint Khar and Raven as your guardians in my place, should that prove necessary.” She smiled. “And Raven, you may have noticed, comes with an army.”

Faro could not help smiling back, because he
had
noticed that. “But I will see Khar again before I go?”

“He won't leave without saying good-bye,” Malian promised, before growing serious again. “There is someone else I would like you to meet, who also needs a safe haven far from the Wall. Her name is Nhairin and she is an old friend of mine, one you will have heard us talk about last night. You may find her dour, but she will make an able steward for your household, and I would be grateful if you could take her under your protection.”

Nhairin
. Faro remembered Khar's anger on first hearing the name. He had softened later, though. And from what Malian had said, Nhairin had also suffered at the hands of the Swarm. “Mam was dour sometimes.” He hesitated. “But I already know Taly and Murn . . .”

“I shall introduce you,” Malian said, rising, “then you may talk together and decide. But if you can, Faro, be kind to my
Nhairin. She has great need of it.” In the morning light, her eyes were as much silver as smoke. “We'll keep the marriage ceremony brief, but Murn has confirmed the contracts are in order, so we can sign them whenever we want. The signing is the important part,” she added, smiling again.

Faro knew she was saving him from his enemies and a life of fear, while making it seem like he could do her an equal favor by showing kindness to Nhairin. And last night, when they all watched the pilot star, she had taken his parents' quest as her own. Now he rose, too, shaken by the longing to give her something that really mattered in return.

“I heard what you and Khar said about the Golden Fire,” he said quickly, before he lost his resolve. “How even with the twelve-sided table, you would still need the Blood of all the Nine Houses to focus the power. And if we're to marry I should make you a gift.” When Malian remained silent, watching him, Faro hurried on. “I don't have anything of my own, but I do have an idea about the Blood—especially with so many Houses already represented here, like Khar said.”

Malian's slim dark brows had risen, but Faro could see she was listening. “It's something Sea does with their mariners.” His words tumbled over each other as he explained about Sea's death names and the scroll they had made for Khar, when he was fighting his duel to the death. “So his spirit wouldn't be lost, but tied to their mariners' shrine in the Sea Keep, the same way I carried a part of
Pha'Rho-l-Ynor
all that time.”

Malian held up a hand. “You've got my attention, Faro, but you need to slow down. And breathe,” she added, with a smile that was not at all tricky this time.

Obediently, Faro gulped in air. “We only used runes for Khar's scroll, but Murn said that very close kin and shield comrades often put a drop of blood beside their name, because blood is always strongest. But locks of hair are strong as well, so lots of mariners use them.” He stopped, because Malian was extracting a narrow scroll tube from inside her jacket.

“Like this?” she asked, removing and unrolling a rect
angle of linen so Faro could see its wreath made from locks of hair, together with silhouetted towers and the same calligraphy the Sea Keepers had used for Khar. Murn had said the symbols were runes, which he would teach Faro when there was time—but added that in scrolls like this, the characters always represented names.

“This is different from the Sea scroll,” Faro said, indicating the wreath. “But you can see it's the same sort of thing.” He looked up. “Where did it come from?”

“The House of Morning,” Malian told him. “Apparently they also foresaw my coming. One of the Mothers sent it to me by Garan of Night's hand, together with a similar scroll from Peace. So now,” she said, rerolling the linen, “the mystery is explained.”

Silently, Faro went over the Houses with ruling kin present in the camp: Night, Stars, and Sea, Blood and Adamant—and now Morning had sent their own scroll
and
that of Peace. “Kelyr's of the Blood of Swords.” This time he spoke slowly. “Orth was, too. I heard Kelyr say so when I was hiding from them in the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's hold. Kelyr said their captain, Tirorn, would say he and Orth were shaming their inheritance of Sword's Blood. But Orth said all Tirorn's niceties had gotten him was dead.” He left out the obscenities that Orth had spliced into his reply, which had been impressive even by the standards of Grayharbor's backstreets.

“Well, now, that is useful,” Malian murmured. “But I can see there's more.”

Faro hesitated. “Lady Myr was of the Rose as well as Blood,” he said, stumbling over the words because he felt uncomfortable. “I don't think she would mind if we used her hair.” In fact, he was sure Lady Myr would want them to take a lock of her hair if it would help.

“I may not need it, since I have the walking stick.” Malian's eyes were close to silver again, and he could almost see the thoughts chasing each other behind her outward calm. “But if the Swarm wanted to kill both me and Lady Myr because of a grandparent's Stars blood, a lock of her hair may
indeed serve for the Rose.” To Faro's surprise, she bowed, the same grave salute the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's Luck had made to Khar, pressing her palms together. “Thank you,” she said. “If this is your bridegroom's gift, it is beyond compare.”

And Faro was still blinking over that as the entry flap rose and fell, and she was gone.

T
he day was eerily quiet, the wind little more than a ripple as the camp set itself to rights and gathered its dead. The stillness infused the convalescents' tent, erected once someone had unearthed a manifest of the caravan's contents and a tent large enough to accommodate the overflow from the infirmary. Rook was glad the lack of wind meant one side could be rolled up, so he could see where the oriflamme had been struck above the garnet-and-gold tent. Blood's colors, together with a pennant of the ruling kin, hung in its place—to honor Lady Myrathis, he supposed. If he craned onto one elbow, he could see Elodin and Xer at the entrance, keeping the honor watch.

Once Rook regained consciousness, he had wanted to observe the Bride's vigil, too, but Kion would not allow it. The Sea physician had been reluctant to send for the Storm Spear as well, but Rook had insisted, urgent to tell Khar all he could recall of the dreamlike events surrounding the tapestry, the hind, and Lady Myrathis's death. Afterward, having seen Khar's face, Rook wondered if he should have kept the whole strange business to himself.

Telling him, he thought now, is probably just one more thing I've done wrong. Involuntarily, he flung an arm across
his face, trying to deflect the memory of his disastrous attempt at farspeaking. All I achieved was to lose my ability altogether, he thought miserably. And I didn't save Lady Myrathis, either then or later. He gnawed his lip, not wanting to make excuses but still doubtful whehter any healer, however powerful or well trained, could overcome the fact that the Daughter of Blood had
chosen
to die.

Rook tightened his concealing arm, hoping that Rigan, the Blood wagoner on the adjoining pallet, would not see and make gruff, cheering remarks like “Heart up, lad.” His fellow convalescent's alternate observations were that matters might not be as bad as first appeared, and tomorrow was always another day.
Obviously
, Rook thought—and grinned, just a little, thinking about what Onnorin would say if she could overhear. No doubt she would have several pithy observations to share on his current situation as well: the sole Adamant initiate in a tent full of convalescent Blood retainers, with a handful of Sea marines for leaven.

Mostly, the others ignored him, amusing themselves with games of chance or sharing the rumors that swirled in from the camp—including that the siege had been raised by the Chosen of Mhaelanar, returned to lead the Derai. Rigan, though, was inclined to be skeptical. “No point in getting carried away with fireside tales just because we've had a lucky reprieve. Next,” he had added, grimacing, “we'll hear the Golden Fire's returned.” In fact, Rook had overheard exactly that, but the account was so confused he tended to agree with Rigan. He had no chance to say so, though, because the wagoner had looked apologetic. “I expect you'd say differently in Adamant.”

Not necessarily, Rook thought. He suspected Torlun and Rul would also scoff at the rumored return of the Chosen of Mhaelanar and the Golden Fire, as much if not more than any New Blooder. Still, he appreciated the belated courtesy, particularly since he knew Rigan was enduring considerable pain from the stump of his amputated arm. He was impressed, too, at the wagoner's unflagging optimism, even in the face of low-voiced conversations that suggested the
Blood retainers' futures might be as uncertain as his own. “It doesn't matter how hard we fought,” a woman called Aiv had said. With so much to be done in the camp, the convalescents had few visitors, but she had stopped by Rigan's pallet in the predawn dark. “No matter the circumstances of Lady Myrathis's death, the disgrace will cling when we return to the Red Keep.”

“Ay,” Rigan had agreed softly. “The ruling kin'll make us feel it, sure enough.”

“You're Hold-born,” Aiv had replied, “so at least you've somewhere else to go.” Rook had heard similar conversations since then, and gathered that the future for retainers without Hold ties, or those who were seriously injured, like Rigan, was bleak. Under the circumstances, he was grateful they at least tolerated his presence. Kion had helped, letting fall that Rook was virtually an exile from Adamant, and had tried to save Lady Myrathis as well. Once that word spread, Rigan and those about him had edged from neutrality to cautiously including Rook in their conversation. But it was not until Namath visited Tehan that anyone got real news.

“The long-range scouts have just brought word,” the marine said. “A Night brigade has been sighted, skirting Adamant territory and force-marching our way under their Commander's pennant.”

Rook guessed the scouts must belong to the mysterious newcomers. His spirits lifted, because a strong Night force would ensure Torlun stayed well away, then fell again as Tehan said, “Lord Tirael will be leaving, then. He won't risk placing himself or his escort in Night's power.”

But the rumors, Rook objected silently, say the Chosen of Mhaelanar is also the Heir of Night, yet Lord Tirael's still here. The force she led was not
of
Night, though. Could being Chosen of Mhaelanar
mean
being for all Derai, he wondered, not just for any one House—if that was even possible. Distracted, he missed the rest of what Namath said, but thought it was something about others leaving, too, which made sense. They would all go: Tirael and the Storm Spear, Envoy Nimor, and probably this Chosen of Mhaelanar as well.

Rook shifted, trying not to give in to fear, and to get more comfortable at the same time. When he glanced outside again he saw a horsegirl leading Taly's big bay past the tent. So something really is happening, he thought, frowning—and then his heart jumped, because once the bay had passed by he saw Lord Tirael approaching.

“Cursed Stars dandy!” the groom on Rigan's other side muttered.

“No one objected when he and his knights were holding the breach,” Tehan said coolly.

“I don't object to him,” Rigan replied cheerfully, “having heard how well he fights. But you've got to admit he's very gleamy.”

Lord Tirael
was
gleamy, Rook conceded, now the blood and battle grime were gone from his silver-and-pearl armor. His fair hair, riffled by the wind from the plain, was almost as bright as the pale sunlight, even when he entered the tent. Hooking a stool close with his foot, he seated himself beside Rook. “How are you feeling?” he inquired, and Rook sensed Rigan grinning—inwardly, he hoped—at the Son of Stars' drawl.

“Much better,” he replied, although the truth was, he still felt drained and shaky. He hesitated, wondering if he should try and apologize for the failed farspeaking, but Khar had checked his attempted apologies last night and he sensed Tirael would do the same now. “Namath said there's a Night force coming?” he said instead.

Tirael nodded acknowledgment to the marines. “Apparently so, which means the time has come for decisions, including what to do about you, young Rook.”

Rook nodded, trying to appear adult and calm, although his pulse had quickened again. “I would bid you ride with me,” Tirael said, “but that could create difficulties since I'm bound to honor the agreement between Adamant and Stars. If Adamant chooses to break it because of my part in these events, that will be different, of course.”

They won't, Rook thought: they want the Stars alliance too much. But he suspected Tirael knew that. He would have
liked to tell the Son of Stars that he must under no circumstances agree to marry Yhle, whose disposition resembled Torlun's—but despite Tirael's smile and easy manner, it felt like presumption, especially with the other convalescents listening. “Vael,” Tirael continued, “tells me you have a considerable gift for healing.” Namath had suggested the same, Rook recalled, catching the marine's nod from the corner of his eye. “He says you must go to Peace, where you will get the best teaching.” Tirael paused. “Peace would probably take you anyway, but my father is of that House. If you wish, I can ask him to sponsor you.”

I do wish, Rook thought. If another priestly House accepted him, that would help his family, and if he did well there, Adamant might even rescind his banishment—one day.

“I can see that's settled,” Tirael said, smiling, and Rook nodded hastily. “But,” the Son of Stars added, “I'm afraid there is a price.”

Rook's breath caught, and he heard Rigan snort and someone else gasp. When he stole a glance at Tehan and Namath, they were both blank faced. Tirael tilted the stool back, relaxed and apparently oblivious to the surrounding disapproval, although the glimmer of a smile hinted otherwise. “Lady Malian needs a shaving of your hair,” he said, “while I . . . I would like you to tell me more about Onnorin.”

T
he marriage was for the best, Kalan told himself, returning to the camp after the brief ceremony that had formalized the union between the Heir of Night and Pha'Rho-l-Ynor, Ammaran's heir of House Blood. Nonetheless, he felt its unexpectedness, even if it was no more surprising than the alliance Malian had struck with Raven and Fire. Or Faro putting the Sea scroll that held Kalan's death name together with a way Malian could weave the Blood of the Nine Houses into her quest to restore the Golden Fire. She had told him she intended departing on that mission ahead of Night's arrival, and in view of the furor that was about to break loose among the Nine Houses, Kalan judged that he, too, should quietly withdraw.

But not without you, he told The Lovers silently, leaving the wyr hounds outside Myr's former tent while he folded the tapestry small enough to fit into his travel roll. When a pebble scuffed outside, he turned an instant before Tirael appeared, his plumed helmet under one arm. “So you're leaving, too,” Kalan said, and the Son of Stars nodded.

“Needs must. Lady Myrathis was my kinswoman, but she was also pledged to Night, so honor and protocol both dictate that we defer.” He shrugged. “Liad has farspoken the Stars' relief force, as you asked, and halted their advance. Night's Commander is reputed to be level-headed, but I see no point in testing either her or the individual warriors on either side. Our troops will be far better employed investigating whatever's been concealing this new way that's opened near our Wall border.” Tirael spoke with his usual drawl, but his eyes belied his manner. “I'd be glad of you at my side when we do so. Come with me, my brother.”

“I'm sorry,” Kalan said, with genuine regret. “I have business that calls me elsewhere.”

“The offer stands if you ever have need of a refuge, or simply for friendship's sake. Or it may be that I'll call for the Storm Spears' help to close this new way.” Tirael smiled, before growing serious again. “For what it's worth, I think you have done the right thing by the boy. Nimor does, too, and we'll both hold what we know close.”

Kalan nodded. “Thank you. And what becomes of Rook? Will he go to Peace?”

“He will. And Vael's support will allow him to ride with us now, at least as far as Stars' territory.” Tirael glanced to where his knights were mustering, his mouth tightening as he regarded the riderless horses among their company, before he turned back. “Whatever transpires, I don't regret answering the call of Kin and Blood, but I don't want to provoke Adamant unnecessarily either. So Rook's traveling in our garb, and I'll send him straight on to Peace from our border. I am hoping,” Tirael added, his smile returning, “he may recommend me to his kinswoman, Onnorin. Apparently she's one of the few people in the Keep of Stone who laughs.” The
smile deepened into self-mockery: “As well as being another of their Earl's many granddaughters and of the First Line of Adamant's Blood.”

“So this alliance also includes a marriage?” Kalan said.

“So long as the current agreement holds—but I've drawn the line at living in the Keep of Stone. The Bride of Adamant will have to bear with the Citadel of Stars as well as with me.” Tirael shrugged. “So I should be there when whatever business you're about is done.”

“When it's done,” Kalan agreed. He did not say that would only be when his business with the Wall and the Swarm was at an end, and after he had freed Myr's spirit from the tapestry, but he could tell Tirael sensed his reservation.

“You must not blame yourself for Lady Myr's death,” the Son of Stars said, meeting Kalan's eyes with uncharacteristic gravity. “You did all that anyone could, then far more.” Kalan shook his head, not arguing, but Tirael's expression clouded. “The Citadel of Stars will always be open to you,” he said, and embraced Kalan formally. “Light and safety on your road, my brother.”

“Honor to you and your House,” Kalan replied, returning the embrace. He thought there could be no question of the honor in Tirael's case, and watched from the tent entrance until the Son of Stars mounted and the whole shining company, with a still-pale Rook in their midst, passed the inner barrier. As he, too, must go, having already charged Nimor with responsibility for the camp until Night reached it. Since Kalan doubted he would journey to the Keep of Winds any time soon, he had also left the black swords with the envoy, to be returned to Asantir on her arrival.

“He's right, you know.” Taly was standing just clear of the tent entrance, so Kalan did not see her until he stepped beyond it to watch the Stars company depart the outer camp. Her battered face was healing, but she was still wearing her winter look; he guessed it would be a long time before that thawed. “About Lady Myr, I mean. You did do all that anyone could.”

“I had thought you, of all people, would hold me to account.”

Taly shook her head. “There's nothing you need account for. If you failed, then we all did. And you were the captain, you had to be on the perimeter. Whereas I could have stayed with Lady Myr during the final assault, but I didn't.” Her straight, stern gaze met his. “I keep going over what happened, but no matter how many times I do, it never adds up to your failure.”