Daughter of Blood (4 page)

“We'll have to live
there
for seven years first,” Sardonya yelled back, “in a keep where
honor
guards have murdered a member of their Earl's household.”

“Put down his outsider bitch, you mean,” Parannis said, below the roar. Sarein mimed applause.

Anvin rested both fists on the table, glaring at Kharalthor. “What better sign that the rot's really set in, when an Earl forgets himself to the extent of rutting with outsiders and his guards realize they've no honor to defend anymore? Yet you ask one of our sisters to enter such a den?”

“I'm not asking!” Kharalthor's fist pounded again, and Myr wondered how long the chair would survive such treatment. “The contract's been signed. Blood's honor is at stake!”

“And what about Sarein's and my honor?” Sardonya flung back. “Perhaps our father should have thought about that before putting his name and seal to the agreement.” Her glare was wasted, though, because the Earl had closed his eyes again, his expression unyielding as a slab of stone.

Why does he let them rage at each other like this? Myr wondered. Is it a test, to see who is strongest, or most determined, or simply the most virulent? Almost involuntarily, her gaze slid to Parannis and Sarein, although she kept her lashes lowered like a protective veil. The younger pair of twins had their heads close together, whispering behind their hands. Myr looked away, feeling a headache begin to press. She knew the drug Ise would prescribe for it, and where to find it in the Rose woman's store, but that did her no good now. Instead she focused her breathing into the rhythm Ise had taught her, trying to stave off the worst of the pain until she could escape.

Sardonya had continued to scowl at the Earl's unresponsive face, but now she tapped her foot. “Besides, I've already made one marriage of convenience outside of Blood. It's someone else's turn.” The gaze she turned on Liankhara was steel. “Yours, perhaps, Sister Spider?”

“The Earl of Night's clearly not particular.” Parannis began cracking his knuckles. “Perhaps he'd take you, Kharalthor, since you're so keen on the match?”

Hatha chuckled, but the look her twin leveled at Parannis was hard. “Huern, Anvin, and I have all made strategic marriages, cementing our line's bonds with Blood's satellite holds—something you have yet to do. So step carefully, little brother.”

Parannis shrugged, but did not respond. Even Hatha, Myr knew, had made a marriage of policy when she was younger, and had a son growing up in his father's Hold. Liankhara looked around the table. “The agreement specifies a child from the union, an Heir for the House of Night. I think Earl Tasarion may prove quite particular about that.”

This time Parannis sniggered, while Sarein pursed her lips—but until the meeting got down to serious business, Myr knew she would leave the talking to her twin.

“He should have shown his particularity a little sooner, then.” Sardonya spoke more quietly than before, although every word was acid-etched. “I don't see how you can expect either Sarein or me to bed, let alone bear children to an Earl who has sullied himself with an outsider. We'd spend another seven years after we got home cleansing ourselves of the pollution.”

“More like fourteen!” Anvin scowled from Kharalthor to Liankhara.

“No amount of wealth,” Parannis added, “could be expected to compensate either of my sisters for that.”

His comment had come just a little too quickly, Myr decided. That suggested Sardonya and Sarein must be working together, either to carve out more concessions, or simply to win a decisive round against Kharalthor and their older siblings. In which case they were playing a dangerous game,
with the agreement between the two Houses already signed. She concentrated on keeping her breathing calm and the headache's pain dull as Kharalthor spread his great hands wide.

“For the Nine's sake! The child would be heir to the Derai Alliance itself, not just the House of Night.”

Huern spoke for the first time since Myr arrived, his tone reflective. “And if anything should happen to the father, the mother becomes regent.”

“And would then have to dwell in the Keep of Winds until her child was of age.” Sardonya curled her lip at him. “Marrying the Sword Earl's brother and living in their keep for three years was more than bad enough.” She paused, her expression growing thoughtful. “Mind you, if the contract had been with the son rather than the father . . .”

“Only it wasn't. And no one in the Keep of Swords showed any desire to prolong your stay once the three years were up.” Liankhara regarded her sister dispassionately. “Try not to show yourself up for a fool, Sardonya. A Daughter of Blood standing as regent to the Heir of both Night and the Derai Alliance—we've been awaiting an opportunity like this for centuries.”

Parannis and Sarein smirked in unison as Sardonya's expression darkened, but it was Anvin who replied. “Do you intend to make sure it bears fruit, Sister Spy?”

Liankhara raised one shoulder in a half shrug. “For now, the alliance itself is sufficient for our purpose. The Heir of Night will be our blood relative, and if we bind his or her marriage back into our own kinship web as well . . .” She shrugged again, her smile thin. “A circumstance the Heir's mother will undoubtedly be able to influence. If we play the hand this marriage deals us well, we shall see the leadership of the Derai pass to
our
bloodline within a generation.”

“Where it should be,” Kharalthor agreed. His heavy gaze swung between Sardonya and Sarein. “A true Daughter of Blood would put the good of her House before self-interest.”

Sardonya snorted, but Anvin was frowning. “What of the taint? How can we keep our line free of that?”

He sees the greater advantage, Myr thought. Possibly because they were the children of the Earl's second wife, Paranna of Oath Hold, and half-siblings to the rest, Sarein and Parannis were only ever for themselves. But Anvin might be won over—and despite Liankhara's accusation, Sardonya was no fool. She would detect Anvin's potential defection and the advantage shifting to Sarein, who could rely on her twin's unswerving allegiance. Myr's headache pulsed in anticipation of Sardonya's fury, darkness hovering at the periphery of her vision. Doggedly, she concentrated on a scratch in the tabletop and pushed both pain and darkness back.

“The taint came into their line from Earl Tasarion's first, Sea House wife.” Kharalthor was dismissive, but Parannis laughed.

“How glib you are, brother. Earl Tasarion also has a Night kinswoman with the taint, one who resides in the Keep of Winds' Temple quarter. So the only sure way to keep our line and House pure is to make no marriage and allow no child that will expose us to risk.” His smile widened as Sarein extended a hand, crooking long fingernails into his forearm. “Although we could argue that the integrity of our bloodline has already been compromised.”

Myr's head throbbed as Kharalthor surged to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. “How
dare
you insult our father!” Two more chairs grated back as Anvin and Parannis leapt up, too, the latter laughing—until Earl Sardon spoke above the uproar, flat as iron.

“Sit down, all of you.” He waited until they were seated before leaning forward, his stare boring into Parannis. “Be warned: I will not have your barbs—or those your sister has sharpened for you—on this matter. As for the rest, I am out of patience with your interminable arguments.”

Liankhara bowed from her chair. “The matter must be settled, my Father, otherwise word of our reluctance may trickle back to Night.”

“Does that matter, Sister Spider?” Now Parannis was cool, and Myr's stomach muscles clenched. “Perhaps they need to know how little we care for what they think.”

Earl Sardon held up his hand, commanding silence. “Not before this marriage is secured and the advantage it will bring us consolidated.” He frowned around the table. “I said that I would have a decision today and I mean it. Sardonya, Sarein: ask for whatever gilding will sweeten this bargain for you and I will consider it favorably. But be very sure, if you do not reach a decision between yourselves, then I will choose for you.”

Sardonya, spear-straight in her chair, tossed back her long auburn hair. “Perhaps, Father, you should have consulted with us before pledging your honor and that of our House to this path. You may compel all you like, but neither of us will go willingly.”

Myr did not dare look at her father, but despite the pain behind her eyes she did turn at Sarein's delicate cough. “We have heard that this Night Earl, amongst his many peculiarities, is a stickler for our Derai law.” Her half-sister's tone was demur. “Laws that forbid any Derai being forced into marriage, even to aid the cause of Earl and House.”

The silence that followed was infinitely worse than the shouting had been, and even Sarein, Myr noticed, was not quite brave enough to meet their father's stare. “So you both refuse?” The Earl's voice was a blade, and the pain in Myr's head cut deeper. Across the table, Huern and Liankhara made an elaborate show of looking at each other.

Of course, Myr thought, the deal makers—and felt sure that any scheme these two proposed would have been dreamed up long before. The only question was who else they had enlisted to back their play, since they would not show their hand until certain it would win the game. Despite the headache, she made herself focus as Liankhara spoke. “One of our line must make the sacrifice for Earl and House.”

Here it comes, Myr thought, keeping her eyes on the tabletop.

“So if Sardonya and Sarein continue to refuse their duty . . .” Liankhara's pause stretched—until Myr's head lifted to find not only her sister's gaze, but Huern's and the Earl's, also fixed on her. Mesmerized, she stared back.

“Then,” Huern finished smoothly, “the Bride must be Myrathis, now that she's old enough.”

I'm not . . .
Myr struggled to stay upright, to continue breathing evenly despite all their eyes fixed on her.
I can't . . . I haven
't . . . No—
Darkness wavered at the edge of her vision again, but odd details intruded: Hatha's little knife, hanging motionless above her sister's nails, and Sardonya's scornful look.

“Her?” Sarein said finally. “The Half-Blood?”

“Who can barely use a sword,” Parannis added, “and dabbles with healing under the ill-advised tutelage of the Rose crone? You cannot be serious.”

The silence endured an instant longer before all her siblings' voices clamored, shouting over the top of each other. Unable to move or speak, let alone think coherently, Myr gave in to the hovering darkness and fainted.

T
he three hooded figures came up Grayharbor's Sailcloth Street just as the rain swept in off the sea for the second time that day. The deluge brought a swirl of leaves and rubbish down the deep gutters on either side of the cobbled thoroughfare, and all three leapt for the portico of Seruth's temple where Faro had taken shelter. He heard one of the strangers curse as his boot came down in the flood. The fine black leather was soaked in an instant, and the man cursed again as he followed his companions into the porch. Faro moved further back, into the corner closest to the temple door, wary of the long black cloaks and deep hoods that did not fall back even when the newcomers sprang for shelter. They were carrying swords, too. He recognized the shape of hilt and scabbard beneath their cloaks and knew that likely meant other weapons as well.

The man who had stepped in the gutter said something, half under his breath, but his companions did not reply. Faro shivered, feeling chilled, although Summer's End rain was seldom icy. He registered the man's unfamiliar accent, too, when he had thought he knew all the nationalities that brought their ships into harbor and hawked their wares among the trading houses. He had even seen an Ishnapuri
mariner once, with wide silk trousers, curved knives thrust into her waistband, and curled toes to her shoes. She had winked when she caught him staring and tossed him a small silver coin with the lion and stars of Ishnapur on one side, and a ship on the other. He had drilled a hole through it and wore it still, on a leather thong around his neck.

Faro stared at the downpour and contemplated edging inside the temple itself, but feared the movement might draw the strangers' attention. He studied them covertly, noticing both their height and the way the tallest man's hood was constantly moving. That fascinated him—until he realized that the leather of the soaked boot was already dry. He would have bolted then, except the boot's owner turned and stared straight at him from within the concealing hood. The chill around Faro intensified and he tried hard to look past the hood, rather than directly into the face beneath it.

“Guttersnipe.” The man spoke in the River tongue, which was also the language of Grayharbor, but still with the unknown accent. Faro recognized the lordly tone, though, from listening to the mercantile nobility of Ij. “Do you know where the Ship House may be found?”

Faro regarded him warily. “D'you mean Ship's Prow House, sir?”

“Ship, Ship's Prow,” the man returned. “Surely it's all the same?”

“Nossir.” Faro kept both face and tone neutral. “The Ship House is an inn down harborside. Ship's Prow House is a merchant's place that gets rented out to River folk with business here. It's not far,” he added, when the man remained silent. “You go up Awl Lane, off the top of this street.” He shivered, rubbing at his arms, and wished the rain would stop so his uncomfortable companions would leave.

“You will take us there,” the stranger said.

Not for nothing, I won't, Faro thought. The nearer of the other two, the one without the moving hood, turned as though overhearing his thought and held up a copper coin between black-gloved fingers. Faro hesitated, aware of the sharpness within his stomach and that an Ijiri penny would
buy him both a meat pie and an unblemished apple at the market.

“Well?” the first man demanded, and Faro nodded reluctantly, snatching the coin out of the air when the second stranger flipped it to him. After that it was a matter of waiting for the rain to slacken sufficiently to venture out, while trying not to look at his companions at all. Once they did set out up Sailcloth Street, the cobbles still dark with rain, the two strangers walked to either side of him, with their companion in the moving hood immediately behind. Silently, Faro cursed himself for having given in to the coin's temptation.

Awl Lane was steeper and narrower than Sailcloth Street, hemmed in by tall stone walls with narrow gray houses rising behind, which forced them to walk single file. The first stranger trod close on Faro's heels, a heavy hand resting on his shoulder. Once he closed his fingers, steel biting into flesh and muscle, and Faro bit the inside of his mouth so as not to cry out. I won't give him the satisfaction, he resolved, but was conscious of the accelerated thumping of his heart, and the chill sweat filming his skin.

The lane ended in a small square, with more of the tall, narrow houses set around it and short flights of steps up to wooden doors. The fountain in the middle of the square was dry, except for the water left by the rain. A bronze archer rose from its central plinth, suggesting that this must have been a prosperous quarter once. Now all the houses, like the fountain, had a slightly shabby air, the paint on their shutters and doors faded.

The ship's figurehead that gave their destination its name was set over the door of the largest house on the square. It always made Faro shiver, because rather than being the usual depiction of a heroine or hero out of story, it was a fierce-eyed mer-horse, with a long horn spiraling from its forehead and ears pressed flat to its skull so it looked half serpent. The colors of the savage head and horn, and the scaled body, must have been brilliant once—gilt and scarlet and deeps-of-the-sea green—but had grown as faded as the house's flaking woodwork. The door was framed and banded with iron, and
despite the heavy hand on his shoulder, Faro still noted that both looked new. The hinges and lock, too, as well as the hasps on the shutters, he thought, squinting up—and saw that some wag, a 'prentice most likely, had left a chisel blade stuck into the figurehead's spiraled horn.

I'll come back for that later, Faro promised himself, so I'll have something to stick into the likes of these three, next time someone tries to nab me. “The Ship's Prow House,” he said, and tried to pull clear, but the stranger was quicker. His grip clamped down, forcing Faro to his knees.

“Not so fast,” his captor said.

Faro felt the chill from the temple porch bite deep into his flesh, and had to ball his hands into fists to prevent them shaking. The three hooded figures stood in a semicircle around him, studying the figurehead and the door. No one knocked, but eventually Faro heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back. A moment later the door opened slightly and a boy his own age peered through the crack. “The master's not at home to visitors.”

The man with his hand on Faro's shoulder laughed, short and hard. “He'll see us.” He shoved Faro ahead of him. “Up you go.”

Faro twisted and struggled, despite the pain of the man's grip, aware that the other boy was trying to close the door. The man holding him laughed again and uttered a single, unrecognizable word—and immediately, Faro froze in place. His throat was locked, too, as his captor shouldered the door wide and thrust him bodily inside. The door banged into the other boy's face, knocking him backward.

His nose is broken, Faro thought, seeing its crookedness and the gush of blood. But he's frozen, the same as me; he can't do anything to help himself.

As the door closed behind them, his captor spoke another, indecipherable word and Faro's rigid body went limp. The man shoved him away at the same time, and he collapsed in a sprawl of arms and legs, gasping for breath. Running footsteps sounded, then came to an abrupt halt. Still sucking in breath, Faro peered up at the new arrivals: an elderly servant,
and a much younger man with dark shoulder-length hair and an ascetic expression.

“This is an outrage,” the servant began, but his voice was shaking.

Don't be a fool, old man, Faro thought. The three who had entered the house with him said nothing, but the dark-haired man sank to his knees, dragging the old man down with him.

“Prince Aranraith,” he husked, as though his mouth was as dry as Faro's. “You honor this house.” He bowed forward until his forehead touched the floor, and after a moment's hesitation the old man, clearly bewildered, did the same. Faro lay absolutely still, aware that this hall, too, had grown cold. He was trying to breathe shallowly, but he could see the air misting just past his lips.

All three strangers lifted back their hoods—and Faro stifled a cry, because now he could see why the tallest man's hood had moved. He closed his eyes, hoping that he had fallen asleep in the temple porch and when he looked again the nightmare would be gone. But the stranger was still there, a powerfully built man in gold-washed black mail, with long coils of hair falling down his back. Except that the coils were not hair at all, but a sinuous twist of blue-black snakes, their forked tongues a perpetual flicker about the stranger's head and shoulders.

Nauseated, Faro screwed his eyelids shut again, but his heart still hammered painfully and he had to fight to control his trembling. Outside, the rain began to drum.

“Where is Nirn?” The voice that spoke was darkness and shadow, with a rustling sibilance through it, and Faro knew without opening his eyes that it belonged to the man with the serpent hair. This time he understood the strangely accented words, although he had to concentrate to make them out.

“Forgive me, Prince Aranraith,” the dark-haired man replied in the same language. “But he has ordered us not to disturb him. Under any circumstances, he said.”

“Fool.” Faro heard the first stranger's fingers snap as he switched back to the River dialect. His tone was that of a man commanding a dog. “You, boy! Fetch your master.”

For a moment Faro thought the stranger meant him, but when his eyes flew wide the other boy was lurching to his feet, his nose still bleeding. “Now, dolt!” the stranger snapped. The boy ran, scrambling up the dark wooden stairs at the far end of the large chamber. Before he reached the upper level, another tall figure with startling, bone-white hair had appeared at the balustrade. A flare of lightning reflected through the windows in a way that made it seem to emanate from the white-haired man, but no rumble of thunder followed. The only sounds were the rain, and a hissing from the snakes as Prince Aranraith and the newcomer stared at each other.

The prince's two companions had fanned out to his left and right, and now Faro saw the last of the strangers clearly for the first time. His black armor was honed to spur points at elbow and shoulder, while the sword at his hip was long and curved toward the tip. The eyes that rested on Faro were set slantwise in a face that was all austere planes and sculpted angles, their expression dark and impenetrable as the void. Faro froze again, unable to look away.

He did not see the boot coming, only screamed as agony exploded across his body. The force of the kick propelled him several yards across the floor, into a carved wooden chest. He was aware, through the pain and the sobs that he could not check, that the first stranger was staring down at him. The man's eyes were as darkly blue as sapphires in a gem merchant's window, and their color bored through the pain until it was all Faro could see. “You do not look at us without leave, gutter vermin. It will go worse still if I hear you speak.”

Beyond the blue of the stranger's eyes, someone was laughing. At first Faro thought it was the serpent prince, because even above the rain he could hear the laughter's hissing note, but then realized that the sound was coming from the balcony. “How you do despise the natives, Arcolin, beneath your envoy's veneer.” Despite the hissing laugh, the white-haired man's voice was ice: “And here in company with my kinsman, Aranraith, and the great Thanir—a delegation indeed.”

“As you say.” Arcolin turned toward the balcony, releasing Faro. “You've made us work to find you, Nirn, but the time for games is over. We're here to discuss treachery: your hound Emuun's treachery.”

Lightning snapped blue-white from the gallery and fractured the flagstones between Arcolin and the stairs. Faro nearly bit through his lip, because this time there could be no question, the lightning had definitely been inside. When his vision recovered from the flash, the dark-haired man, who had been kneeling a moment before, was standing at the foot of the stairs. The old servant still lay with his hands over his head, moaning.

Darkness rose about the three intruders and flowed between them and the staircase. Faro, enthralled and terrified together, found he could not look away from the shadows that writhed through it, or block out their sibilant whispers. The susurration echoed the prince's serpent locks, which had risen as one, their fangs extended, when the lightning seared. They hissed again as the prince held up a hand weighted with jeweled rings, the gemstones glittering in the afterdazzle.

“Your adept's behavior suggests he fears us, Nirn.” The prince's eyes glinted, garnet red beneath heavy lids, and the dark-haired man paled. “Or believes we mean you harm—as if we were Derai, tearing ourselves apart with petty feuding.”

“Petty?” Nirn's voice was still ice. “When you accuse one who is my blood kinsman, his service to our cause well proven, of treachery?”

“They also entered your house without leave, Master,” the dark-haired man said, although his voice shook as the serpents twisted his way.

The warrior spoke for the first time, pitching his words to carry above the rain. “Rhike is dead, Nirn—we believe by Emuun's hand.”

Faro was still finding it painful to breathe as Nirn descended the stairs. Despite Arcolin's threat, he could not stop his gaze returning to the sorcerer's emaciated countenance and the fine scar that cut from temple to chin. “Rhike?” Nirn said finally. “That
is
a loss. And she, too, was kin.” The scar,
livid against his pallor, twitched as his pale gaze settled on Arcolin. “I heard you were wounded, Poisoner. Did one of those brands you were busy thrusting into southern fires leap back out and burn you?”

“Retract your fangs, Nirn.” Aranraith's command resonated through the hall as he crossed to the table at its center and pulled out a chair. His serpent hair subsided as he sat. “Sit, all of you.”