Daughter of Blood (36 page)

As if it's all sport, Myr thought, still unable to look away as the two figures in the center of the field clashed. She was conscious, too, of her father's impassivity, his demeanor more that of image cast in stone than a flesh-and-blood Earl. Does it mean nothing at all to him, she wondered, that one of those whose life is at stake is his son? Parannis might never have lost before, but Blood was a warrior House: they all knew no combat was ever certain.

The adversaries were locked in a tight, trampling wheel of cut and thrust that made it impossible to decide who was winning or losing now, although Khar's use of the two blades did appear to have counteracted Parannis's previous dominance. Soon, Myr thought her brother might be starting to give ground as often as he pressed an attack. Kharalthor leaned forward. “It looks,” he observed, “as if we have a fight on our hands, after all. Better,” he added, speaking past her to Asantir, “than the pallid fare we've endured these past few days, eh, Commander?”

Myr did look around then, an involuntary sideways glance at the warrior seated, cool as a shadow, on her left. The Commander of Night inclined her head, acknowledging the remark, but the gesture could have meant anything at all. Myr did not understand how Kharalthor could address his fellow judge so lightly, knowing it was her honor
at stake, not to mention a man's life. And my prestige, Myr supposed, although that was of little account when set against a life.

Commander Asantir had given Khar the use of her swords; that alone suggested she was fully aware of what was at stake. Myr stole another glance the Commander's way and thought her face, gazing down into the arena, was as inscrutable as the visage masks in Ise's stories, the ones worn by the ancient lords of the Derai. Myr shivered at both the image and the savagery of the combat, as Huern spoke for the first time since the duel began.

“A fight indeed, my brother,” he said, in his smooth, dark way. “I think Myrathis's champion may actually be going to win.”

D
arkness draws darkness . . .
Wielded together, the black blades were absorbing the bulk of Parannis's power and deflecting the remainder to either side of Kalan. The effect felt like fighting inside a cocoon of clear air while the storm crackled outside its perimeter. When Kalan had trained against the Night honor guards, with no challenge of power to answer, the swords' power must have lain dormant. But with his life threatened by an opponent wielding old power, the magic concealed within them had flared into life as soon as Kalan drew the second blade.

Steel clashed against steel again as Parannis hammered his way forward. For a split second, Kalan's counterattack locked the Son of Blood's blade, his eyes boring into the narrow eye slot—and he felt Parannis's momentum falter as the buffer of power was leached away. An instant later the Son of Blood wrenched the trapped blade free, recovering his equilibrium. Even without his reserve of old power, he remained a strong and agile swordsman. But Kalan had fought agile and strong opponents before and flowed back into the rhythm of blade and body, breath and mind, a gyre of life and death in which the paired blades forced Parannis to keep his shield in play. Steadily, inexorably, he drove his opponent into a defensive pattern.

The Son of Blood was not used to losing the offensive; Kalan perceived that through the way his swordplay tightened. Mentally, as well as physically, Parannis was being driven onto the back foot. His counterattacks became more ragged, and his attempts to regain the initiative wilder. The jerk of his head was more noticeable this time, signaling the same feint and sweep toward Kalan's knees that he had attempted earlier—only this time it was a double feint, with Parannis poised to flow into a counterstroke. Spinning to meet it, Kalan blocked Parannis's cut with Asantir's longsword. Simultaneously, he extended the shorter weapon in a stop thrust to the throat. The blade slipped between Parannis's body and his shield, now too far offline, and although the Son of Blood leapt back it was too late. Kalan's swordtip scored his gorget and tore mail.

Parannis landed badly, collapsing over his right ankle, then staggered sideways, trying to recover his stance and interpose his shield as Kalan advanced. Another blow sent the Son of Blood reeling back, and this time he could not regain his balance when the ankle collapsed again. He attempted to roll left instead and force himself up using his shield and good foot, but Kalan was faster. His kick sent Parannis sprawling back, and the smiling visor cried out as Kalan stamped down on his sword hand. Turning the longsword against the inside of the Son of Blood's shield arm to prevent any counter blow, he slid the shortsword through the rent in the coif, checking the tip just clear of Parannis's throat.

In an Emerian tournament, the victorious knight would now call on his opponent to yield. But this was the Derai Wall and the duel was to the death. Kalan's body was one heaving breath, his vision dark as he stared down at Parannis of Blood. How many have you dispatched without compunction, he wondered, not to mention the cruelties visited on the so-called tainted, if Lady Sarein's taunts are true?

The Son of Blood was tainted himself, although he probably did not know it, but that did not absolve him of the
many lives that stained his hands. If the stop-thrust had gone home, Kalan would have spared little regret for his death. But to deliver the same blow once the combat was over, and mind and vision already shifting out of battle focus—that, Kalan found now, was another matter. And he had promised the hydra symbol of his House that he would keep faith, not least with himself.

Kalan might not be absolutely sure what Malian would do in the same situation, but he knew what Lord Falk would advise. And Yorindesarinen also, he suspected, recalling the glade between worlds. “I choose mercy,” he said, his voice still thick and a little fast. He kept his blades in place, though, because he did not trust Parannis of Blood.

“A champion, after all this time.”
The ghost whisper was so soft, and the thunder of his pulse still so loud, that Kalan thought he might have imagined it. The senior provost stepped into his line of sight, and the voice of the crowd began to intrude again, but he kept his eyes on Parannis.

“Weak,” the Son of Blood said—a whisper, since he still had a sword at his throat. Kalan, conscious of Brother Belan's tales, took care not to let steel touch flesh, but he felt the hunger in the blades, as if they sensed the proximity of an enemy's lifeblood. And his power? Kalan wondered, recalling how the swords had absorbed the psychic assault. This close, too, he could see his opponent's eyes clearly, despite the visor, and read their blaze of hate as Paranis spoke again. “The old Earls should have done a better job of stamping out your kind.”

“Maybe so,” Kalan replied, and let humor glimmer. “But I don't see you driving your throat onto my blade.” He pitched his next words to carry beyond the approaching provosts to those crowded into the galleries, denying them their finale of life's blood and death. “I give you back your life, Parannis of House Blood, which is forfeit to me.” A collective exhalation and low uncertain grumble answered from the stands: the beast, it seemed, did not know what to make of this. Kalan let the sound roll over him before speaking again. “But I leave
you this, as a reminder, ever after, of my kind—and that your life is a gift.”

And sheathing the longsword in order to better contain the black blades' power, he turned the tip of the shorter weapon, scoring a fine line of blood across Parannis's throat.

F
or a moment Myr thought Khar had slain Parannis after all—and guessed, from a fleeting glance at Sarein's frozen profile, that she thought so, too. But then Khar stepped back, and the provosts surrounded both contestants in a loose circle. To her right, Kharalthor was talking with Banath, who said he thought Parannis's ankle might have broken. On the field, Khar took another step away, clearly allowing his opponent room to rise. Myr dared not look at Sarein again, but she did glance toward the Sea company and Faro's face, white with tension and exultation.

He thinks it's over, she thought, pitying the boy, because the provosts' circle had already told her it was not. Most of those around her, as well as those in the nearby stands—the ones who were not still watching the field—were either openly or covertly eyeing the triumvirate comprised of her father, Kharalthor, and Huern. Teron was speaking to Asantir, his voice very low, but Myr could see he had relaxed and that, like Faro, he thought the matter settled. His attention, she suspected, might have already shifted to the road home, because once her Honor Guard and its new captain were named, Night's business in the Red Keep would be done.

In the dueling circle, Khar was wiping his unsheathed
blade clean. Her father, Myr saw, was studying him with the same hooded look he had given the oriflamme when it rose above the Storm Spear's pavilion. The Earl looked away as Khar sheathed the sword, his gaze traveling from Hatha to Anvin as they and the respective seconds approached from either end of the field. Myr's eyes went immediately to Taly, walking on Hatha's left. The first day of the group trials had been almost over before she realized that Taly was no longer competing. When she ventured a question, Kharalthor had shrugged and said it was the Earl's decision. “It's fitting that the best of your household guards should support your champion as seconds. And a signal honor. When our father learned of your Dabnor's training injury, he nominated one of his own Honor Guard in his place.”

The same guard who had offended Sarein, if rumor was correct, which Myr thought illuminated how much was honor, and the rest her family finding a way to remove Taly from the Honor Contest. Currently, Huern was leaning on the back of Kharalthor's chair, where he could speak to either the Earl or Battlemaster without being overheard. When he looked around and found Myr watching him, his gaze was so dispassionate she felt as though she were meeting a stranger's stare. Mesmerized, she gazed back, her discomfort sharpening when the curtain into the gallery was lifted aside and Kolthis stepped through.

So it's certain, Myr thought, watching his progress to Huern's side. They will make him Honor Captain as they always intended, no matter what I may wish. Kolthis did not so much as glance her way, but the smile he directed at the field was a small, tight curve comprising equal parts malice and satisfaction. The thought of crossing wild country with a Guard captained by him made Myr's stomach churn. Blindly, she stared down at the arena—and remembered that her father had promised her a boon.

Perhaps she
should
ask for a captain of her own choosing, since it was a request her father could reasonably grant, especially if she asked before Kharalthor made his wishes known . . . Myr almost stopped breathing as she realized that
once her father ruled on the matter, it would do her siblings no good to rage. Even if they raged anyway, the matter would be settled, so she wouldn't have to listen—a thought so startling that Myr blinked and sat up straighter, bringing events on the field into focus again.

Hatha and Anvin were in conversation with the provosts, as Parannis's seconds helped him to his feet. In the gallery, Huern turned to Earl Sardon, speaking so all those nearby could hear. “Arguably, since the duel was to the death, the Storm Spear's life is forfeit for defying both its terms and your will in approving them.” He did not so much as glance Myr's way. “And since the role of the seconds is to guide their principal, they must share in his punishment.”

Not Taly, Myr thought, unable to move. Please, she begged silently, of any of the Nine that might be listening: not Taly. Not anyone, she added a moment later, and her hands, concealed within the folds of her robe, clenched until the fingernails cut into her palms.

“Is that the custom of Blood?” Commander Asantir was politely inquiring. “My understanding of the Code is that even in a duel to the death the victor may grant clemency.”

“Death means death,” Kharalthor said flatly, “or should do so.”

“There is no place in Blood, whether keep or hold, for those who set their will against the Earl's. Always,” Huern added, “a failing of the Storm Spears, I believe.”

“Parannis is also our brother,” Myr tried to say, but her voice was a whisper and she did not think anyone heard as her father raised his hand. Slowly, the arena grew quiet, the silence widening out from the Earl's chair.

“The matter must be adjudicated.” Earl Sardon turned to Banath. “Parannis and his party are to leave the field. Hatha and the provosts will escort the Storm Spear and his seconds here. Convey my instructions personally, Banath.”

It could only have been a few minutes, Myr supposed, from the time Banath strode onto the field, until the moment Khar and his escort started toward the gallery. Yet it felt like an eternity, especially listening to the crowd shift, although
the overall quiet persisted. She thought Parannis must have argued at first, judging by the way Anvin grasped his arm and spoke close to his ear. Parannis jerked his arm away, but allowed his seconds to help him toward his pavilion, a splendor in crimson and black that dwarfed the Storm Spear's tent.

Now that she dared really look around, Myr saw that many sections of the crowd were sporting crimson and black as well. Showing their support for the New Blood, she supposed, although it also occurred to her, with a tiny glance at her father's impassive profile and Huern's inscrutable one, that the duel had drawn them out into the open. Regardless, she suspected there would be many in the galleries, especially those who had lost kin or comrades to Parannis's dueling, who would be wishing the Storm Spear had killed him.

Myr could appreciate their point of view, but she also hoped her father realized that the death of the Bride's half-brother at her champion's hands, on the field consecrated to her honor, would shroud Myr's name with ill luck and blight the Night marriage. We should be grateful to Khar for his forbearance, she thought, not proposing to execute him—and her hidden hands opened and shut hard again as the Storm Spear and his companions stopped below the Earl's seat.

Khar had removed his helmet, so Myr could see his face as he gazed up at Blood's Earl and ruling kin, all frowning down on him. Sweat had darkened his hair and still gleamed on his skin, although his breathing was steady. Myr thought the gaze he directed toward Asantir was as searching as one of the Night Commander's own, but when his eyes found hers he inclined his head. How can he be so composed? she wondered, then gasped as he drew the longer of his two swords and all the honor guards present stepped forward as one.

Myr thought Khar's quickly suppressed expression might be a smile, but he was already raising the sword in a salute to her father, before acknowledging Kharalthor as Heir and Battlemaster, as was only right. The third time Khar's blade rose and swept down again, the deep and deliberate courtesy was for Myr. Finally, he saluted Asantir, a very public
reminder that his victory was for both of them. His victory and his clemency as well; momentarily, Myr felt faint, but steadied herself.

Beside her, Asantir rose and answered Khar's salute, placing the tips of her fingers above her heart and inclining her head in formal recognition. A chair scraped as Kharalthor stood, too, echoing Asantir's tribute. Of course, Myr thought. Khar's just made the victor's salute to the ruling kin, and Kharalthor's the Battlemaster so he has to acknowledge it—which also means acknowledging Khar. It was
all
spectacle: the whole contest, including the duel, was as much about pageant as the practical exercise of choosing an Honor Guard. Clearly, Khar understood that. He had fought a combat to the death and won, and now he was dueling again. No matter the weight of power arrayed in the gallery above him, he hadn't given up—which made Myr want to cry now, rather than faint. Instead she looked past the Storm Spear to Taly.

She'll know what's at stake, too, Myr thought. Oh, Taly . . . But Khar was turning toward the Sea contingent as Kharalthor and Asantir sat down, sheathing his sword before raising a hand to acknowledge Faro. The boy flushed, his hand half rising before he snatched it back, frowning and looking away in a gesture that said he was not so easily appeased. Myr would have smiled, if not for her makeup mask—and because her father was speaking.

“You have fought well, Storm Spear, both today and during the early part of the Honor Contest.” The surrounding galleries rustled, the weathervane of the House veering before its Earl's praise. “Still, the terms of the duel were clear. The combat was to the death.”

Khar's manner was courteous. “I was not consulted over the terms of the duel, although arguably, as the challenged party, I should have been. But as the victor, it is my right to choose whether I deal death or grant life. I have chosen mercy, Earl of Blood.”

Mercy—mercy—mercy.
The word rippled around the galleries, the initial murmur building like the onset of a storm until the Earl held up his hand and the sound died away. “You
were not consulted because I approved the terms of the contest.” The look he directed at Khar was heavy. “So in effect, Storm Spear, you have defied me.”

“Lord Parannis is your son.” Khar spoke quietly, but because the crowd had settled his voice carried. Another flurry of whispers disturbed the galleries, to as quickly fade. Myr, who had turned so she could see both Khar's face and her father's, caught Kharalthor's frown at this reminder. Huern remained unrevealing.

The Earl smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes. “I am aware whose son he is. So, having returned his life to me you feel I should be grateful, is that it?” He paused. “On one hand, you leave me with a contest to the death where a life remains forfeit. On the other, our guest, the Commander of Night, agrees that it is your right to show mercy.” He leaned back, surveying Khar beneath half-closed lids. The way Sarein would, Myr thought, repressing a shiver. A hush waited on her father's next words, revealing that he, no less than the Storm Spear, understood grand spectacle. “Yet my son Huern assures me that your life, and that of your seconds for not instructing you better, is forfeit for defying both the terms of the duel and my will in approving them.”

The amphitheater was completely silent, and Myr had no idea what Khar was thinking behind his impassive expression. Taly and her fellow second's faces were also masks, but the ensign's bearing persuaded Myr that she at least was not surprised. Sarein was smiling again, and when she spoke her voice was honeyed. “I need not remind you, my father and my Earl, that one of the seconds is an honor guard, so any failure on his part must also fall on those who serve most closely with him. Since”—and here she lifted her eyes—“it is as much their duty to counsel him, as it became his to guide the champion.”

Myr's swift glance from Banath's face to Kharalthor's suggested that Sarein must be correct. Yet if Khar was within his rights, according to the Honor Code, then his seconds and these other guards must also be absolved. Myr looked toward Asantir, hoping she might intervene, and found the
Night Commander studying her. For once, she knew exactly what Asantir was thinking. Now was the moment when she, Myr, must be a Daughter of Blood in truth and keep faith with her champion.
She
must defend Khar's cause, as he had fought for hers.

No one will listen, Myr thought, not to me. At the same time, she knew Asantir was right: she must play her part in this spectacle. Now, Myr told herself, before the pause drags out too long. Her heartbeat felt erratic, but despite the deadweight of her limbs she
was
standing, using the chair's curved arms to push herself upright.

As slowly as if this were a dream, her father and those around him—Kharalthor and Huern, with Kolthis beside him; Sarein and Sardonya, her brows arched high; and Banath, with a blur of other faces beyond—all turned her way. Myr longed to keep hold of the chair for support, but made herself step away. A corner of her mind was aware of the buzz of speculation from every gallery, but she had to concentrate on her own part: sinking down and down in the deep obeisance, not just of a Daughter of Blood before her Earl, but of a supplicant kneeling to the head of her House.

“My Earl and my father.” Myr used the same formal phrasing as Sarein, but her voice was too faint and she had an inkling of how Parannis's might have felt with a sword against his throat. Yet she knew the formal phrases, as well as the ritual gestures, because intercession was part of the legacy of the Rose, which Ise had been teaching her since she was small. She knew, too, that her words had to carry beyond their immediate circle, even if most in the arena would have to rely on the mime of her gestures for understanding. Myr could almost hear Ise's injunction to project her voice, and when she spoke again she felt as if she were shouting. “You have pledged me a boon.”

“Any request within reason.” Her father did not appear to raise his voice, but his words rang clear. “I have not forgotten.”

Myr's legs started to shake and she prayed for the strength to hold the curtsey. “Khar of the Storm Spears has fought
well and honorably, as you have acknowledged. Even if he erred against our custom in showing mercy, I am grateful, because Lord Parannis is my brother as well as your son.”

“
Half
brother,” Sarein hissed, as another murmur ran around the crowded arena. Myr forced herself to ignore the interruption and resisted bowing her head.