Daughter of Blood (52 page)

“I thought Mhaelanar had placed his shield over us, just like the old tales say.” That was Darrar, sounding solemn.

“Mhaelanar!” Orth snorted. “Priest-kind handiwork, more like!”

“Under the circumstances, perhaps we should just be glad it worked.” Kelyr was very dry, and for once, rather than replying with challenge or derision, Orth remained silent.

“Ay, although it's not weatherworkers who'll see us through this, but the Storm Spear, mark my words.”

The final speaker's pronouncement prompted a string of obscenities from Orth. Kalan thought Tehan must have caught the discussion, too, because she frowned toward the Sword warrior before observing, with apparent casualness, “The giant's no admirer of yours.”

“Though I think he's starting to concede Khar has nerve,” Jad said, joining them, “having seen him stare down that storm. Personally,” he added to Kalan, “I thought you'd taken leave of your senses. As for saluting the enemy, that was just brazen.”

“Impulse,” Kalan replied lightly, and they all grinned, even if their humor was as much reaction as mirth. He was aware, too, that many of the defenders were still watching, either openly or pretending not to, as he and Nimor moved apart from the rest. Kalan kept his voice low. “Does Murn have the strength for another round?”

The envoy looked tired, too, but his reply was matter-of-fact. “We're both overmatched, no question of that. You,
though—” He paused, but did not finish whatever he had started to say.

“Am still overmatched,” Kalan replied, “because they have numbers. The were-hunters may have collapsed, but that doesn't necessarily mean they're dead. And the sorcerer appears relatively unscathed.”

“Ay, he used their power to buffer his.” Nimor's forefinger tapped against his staff. “I can't be sure, but I don't think he was the only adept to come through that portal.”

So what are the others about? Kalan wondered, frowning toward enemy lines. If he were the opposing commander, he would be weighing the Darksworn's apparent reluctance to take losses against the time required to bring the shield-wall down, together with the likelihood that any prolonged expenditure of power would be detected, despite their psychic blockade of the camp. Yet I'll be cursed, he thought, if all I do is sit here and hope against hope, waiting for my enemy to act. “Could you manage a good strong following wind?” he asked Nimor. “The sort that will fan fire into a conflagration and push it fast toward the enemy?”

“They may just push it back at us,” Nimor warned.

“Probably.” Kalan's frown deepened, his eyes returning to the Darksworn force. “But fire's the next thing I'd try, in their place, and we've made all the preparations against it that we can. At least this way we may set them scrambling, and even if all that buys us is a little more time—” He let the sentence hang, but Nimor was nodding, and when Kalan turned and gave his orders, the defenders sprang to give them effect.

“
S
till nothing,” Rook said, and wanted to look away from the despair in the Blood ensign's face—what he could see of it, given the beating she had received. But looking away would only lead to another of Torlun's punishments designed to toughen him up, so Rook kept his eyes straight ahead. He knew Torlun would say the ensign's despair was because her attempt to deceive them had failed. Personally, Rook considered it far more likely she was afraid that all her comrades, and the Daughter of Blood she claimed to serve, were already dead.

“I'm still only in training,” he said, for her sake as much as Torlun's. He
might
have caught the flare of a mindcall earlier, but the single flash was so faint it could equally well have signaled the beginning of his current headache. Rook was not prone to headaches, but knew this one could stem from having overstrained his power—which might have compromised the farspeaking and could also explain his inability to reach the ensign's caravan. “I may be being walled out, too—” he began.

Torlun's gesture cut him off. “Beat her again,” he said. Rook, still staring straight ahead, contemplated the shame of being assigned to his kinsman's service, even if Torlun was
from the First Line of Adamant's ruling kin, while he was only of the Third. Repugnance, however, did not alter the fact that he had been assigned to Torlun's company for the duration of this escort detail. He dared not look away either, as Corlin used his power to hold the Blood ensign immobile, even though her hands were already tied. Sird, another of Torlun's warrior-priests, channeled air and stone, using the ensign as a punching bag until she sagged to her knees.

The Sea marine was unconscious, sprawled where he had fallen when a stave connected with the base of his skull, cutting short his protest at the ensign's treatment. The marine's breathing was shallow, the wound still seeping blood, and Rook knew that he might not come around from such a blow. Compressing his lips, he refocused on the Blood ensign, who was sagging against Corlin's grip. One eye was already swollen closed and the rest of her face—and no doubt her body—was also a mess of swelling and blood. If she lived, she would be livid with bruising, but Rook did not think Torlun had any intention of letting her live.

“Blood must think we're all in the nursery still, to fall for what's obviously one of their own fireside tales.” Torlun's eyes were narrowed on Sird's handiwork. “I'd have dreamed up a more plausible story than a 'spawn infestation large enough to attack a bridal caravan, let alone honor guards vanishing like ghosts.”

Yet the marine supported the ensign's story, Rook thought. The pair bore a letter as well, one stamped with Lord Nimor's personal sigil, together with his diplomatic seal as Sea envoy. Rook found it difficult to believe Sea would publicly set their name to a trap of the kind Torlun perceived. But Orcis, standing in her Second's place on Torlun's right, was nodding agreement. “And Sea loan themselves to the ploy. Those curs always align with the strongest axis within the Alliance.”

Rook considered trying to remind them of the instances in Derai history where farspeakers had been blocked out, to disastrous effect. Torlun's current expression, though, suggested that speaking would not only be futile, but could spark retribution as well.

“Pretending to have a Storm Spear initiating their request for aid does seem strange.” Hur, the watchtower's commander, sounded worried. “Perhaps we should farspeak the Earl and council?”

Torlun's lip curled. “To be told what we already know: that if there
are
Storm Spears left on the Wall, they are not anywhere in Blood? I think not, Commander. Instead I will do what my Lord Grandfather expects and wring every piece of information out of this spy, before I expend a farspeaker's energy and intrude on his time.” Torlun's hard stare bored into Rook, a warning that he had better perform when the moment to farspeak the Keep of Stone came.

“In that case, Sird should ease up or she'll die first.” Rul was Torlun's half-brother and the Earl's personal emissary on this expedition. So far he had surveyed the proceedings without comment, but now picked up the discarded letter. “Knowing she's Ensign Talies of Clan Tavar and Brave Hold doesn't help us. Nor does constant repetition of her fireside tale, especially if we're to decide whether this Blood ruse threatens the safe arrival of our Stars' guests.”

As always, Rook found it impossible to tell what Rul truly thought, but Torlun nodded, however reluctantly, and told Sird to stand back. “And bring her around,” he added.

“Perhaps,” Rul observed, “some scouts might also be in order, since the sentries have reported a creature—or possibly creatures—lurking outside arrow range. This Stars' visit is vital to our current interests, and although our guests' road may not lie through no-man's-land, we can't assume the Blood force will stay out there.”

He did not need to add that the Earl of Adamant was hoping to negotiate a marriage treaty with Stars, as counterweight to the Blood-Night alliance. It was the obvious course, cementing the strongest of the priestly Houses to the only ally likely to give the warrior-kind pause. What no one seemed willing to discuss, according to Rook's kinswoman and closest friend, Onnorin, was the way it locked in the old enmities that had existed since the civil war, further widening divisions within the Alliance. Then again, Rook thought
Onnorin might be the only person who saw that as an issue. She argued that the priestly Houses had let the situation play into Blood's hands by not offering an alternative marriage alliance to Night. But even she, Rook thought, would never dare say that to anyone except him.

The possibility of the Stars' embassy falling into Blood hands on the border of Adamant territory had obviously given Torlun pause. After a brief, frowning moment he nodded again, curtly this time, and told Orcis to send out scouts. Hur cleared his throat. “Once Blood realizes we're not going to fall for their ruse, they could strike against the watchtowers.”

Torlun's stare was flat. “Let them try. They'll get a bloodying to equal their spy's if they do.”

“Yes, sir.” Rook wondered if anyone else had noticed Hur's hesitation. He guessed the commander wanted to make the same point he and Onnorin had often argued with their cadre comrades: that ultimately, small numbers of power users, which was all the watchtowers were able to accommodate, could be exhausted and then overwhelmed by a large enough conventional force. Hur would be conscious of that, stuck out here on the edge of Adamant territory, but Torlun was his superior in rank, as well as ruling kin, so Rook was not surprised the commander stayed silent.

Sird returned with water, which he hurled over the ensign's face and shoulders. When she stirred, groaning, he kicked her with his nailed sandal. “It occurs to me,” Rul said, “that if there
were
truth to this stranded caravan tale, we should not let the gift slip through our fingers. Imagine the political advantage if the Daughter of Blood pledged to Night fell into Adamant's hands. It would be perfect fodder for your blood feud with Night's Commander as well, brother—unless your fervor for that has cooled?”

“Never!” Torlun snarled.

“It's a pity we have to wait on scouts.” Rul was thoughtful. “Now if young Rook could only scry as well as farspeak . . .”

Well, I can't, Rook thought, at the same time as Torlun snorted. “He's not terribly useful for that either. But if we
had farseers or scryers that could see beyond the end of their noses, we wouldn't waste time garrisoning these towers.”

Rook decided that Torlun might be aggressive and physically strong, but he had obviously never spent much time looking at maps. Anyone who had—like Rook, Onnorin, and their cadre—would understand that the watchtowers were as much about asserting a physical claim to this border territory as gathering intelligence. Disbelief over Torlun's blindness helped Rook ignore the disparagement of his farspeaking ability. Despite being an initiate, he was among the strongest of Adamant's current farspeakers, which was why he had been selected for this mission. Although if Torlun was comparing contemporary farseers with those of legend, who could speak across worlds, then Rook supposed his assessment was accurate.

“We've no truthsayer either, unfortunately. But perhaps we could adapt our power and pry more information out of the spy, since beating clearly isn't working.” Rul was still watching Rook, who longed to retort that his power didn't work that way—and he had no desire to try and make it do so. But unlike Torlun, Rul was clever, and there were unsavory rumors about what happened to those who crossed him. Rook knew, too, that most of those present would say he should be eager to serve his House in any way possible, and certainly owed nothing to an unknown Blood warrior foolhardy enough to enter an Adamant watchtower.

Trusting, Rook thought, in a Code that says the office of heralds and emissaries is sacrosanct and their persons must be protected. That reflection alone left a sour taste—and he could not help admiring the ensign's courage in refusing to forswear her mission, despite the punishment meted out. She reminded him of Onnorin, who had taken more than one beating, during their growing up together, that a lie would have prevented.

“The Stars company's been sighted, sir.” Orcis rejoined them. “And the sentries glimpsed whatever's lurking in the rocks again, so I dispatched an eight-squad to escort our guests in.”

Rul folded the letter. “Best if we stow the spies out of sight, since our Stars friends are reputed to be nice in their ways.”

“Squeamish.” Torlun was contemptuous. “Although I doubt they'd care. They've had no dealings with Night or Blood since the Betrayal War, and as for Sea . . .” He spat.

“Why risk their squeamishness? Also”—Rul's expression grew intent—“if there should prove to be something in the caravan tale, we don't want them reaping the benefit in our place.”

Torlun shrugged, but jerked a thumb toward the storerooms built into the tower wall. “Sird, you and Corlin lock them in there.” He watched the unconscious marine and the ensign, who was in little better shape, dragged away, before rounding on Hur. “Have the yard swept and fresh dirt laid over that blood. We'd better muster an honor escort as well, since we're to show this Stars lot respect.”

T
he envoy turned out to be not only one of his House's ruling kin, but the Countess of Stars' second child. His silk and jewels, as well as the silver-chased armor of his company, thirty in number, made the dress uniforms of Adamant's warrior-priests look drab. “Popinjays,” a sentry muttered, as Rook approached the watchtower's small hall. Rul had sent him to fetch a rare wine, brought from the Keep of Stone especially for their guests.

The sentry's watch partner rolled his eyes. “How much'd you bet against every one of them having a name longer than my arm?”

The first speaker shook her head. Rook, already slipping into a formal, processional step as he entered the hall, thought she was wise. The envoy might have introduced himself as Tirael, but Rook knew that any Son of Stars' full name would have at least five syllables. “Too long for everyday use,” Tirael had said, smiling as he dismounted with a swirl of his blue-black cloak.

Torlun's expression, whenever he thought himself unobserved, made it clear he, too, considered the Stars' lord
a popinjay. Rook had learned enough about his kinsman during their journey here to know Tirael's easy smile and the way he drawled his words would annoy Torlun even more than the Son of Stars' finery. But rather than dwelling on that Rook needed to concentrate, because his headache had grown worse rather than better, and the elaborate panels of his dress tabard refused to stay swept behind his shoulders. Having them fall into the cups when he poured the wine would be bad enough, and spilling the wine even worse. Third Line of the ruling kin and initiate farspeaker or not, Torlun would punish him publicly for either solecism.

In the end, however, no mishap occurred and he poured the wine to the correct height in every cup. The cups were gold, with Adamant's sphinx emblem picked out in diamonds, which meant they were probably from the Earl's personal service. So
he
must have known the envoy was to be a Son of Stars, Rook thought: these cups would never have been brought to a border watchtower for anyone of lesser rank. He blinked when Tirael thanked him, but remembered to bow in acknowledgment of the courtesy. Torlun looked derisive but made no comment. Instead, Rul leaned forward, drawing the Son of Stars' attention. “I trust your journey was uneventful, Lord Tirael?”

“Entirely,” Tirael replied. “But what of conditions here, since you had us escorted in?”

“This is a watchtower, on the border of no-man's-land.” Torlun's shrug implied the escort had been routine.

Tirael turned his goblet, his jeweled rings winking in the lamplight that illuminated the tower's windowless interior. “We've been detecting signs of activity for several weeks now, first up near the high Wall, then moving down this way. Mostly it's been on your side of our border, in areas where neither of us has holds. Every time we've sent troops to investigate, we've found nothing concrete, but I wondered if you had noticed anything untoward?”

“I assure you, Son of Stars,” Rul said, forestalling Torlun, “that Adamant has not been building up forces along your border, if that is what you mean.”

“Not at all.” Tirael's hand lifted in a gesture that was as graceful as it was apologetic. “I would have assumed a heavier than usual 'spawn incursion, except—”

“There are no passes in that part of the Wall,” Torlun broke in impatiently. “There never have been.”

Rul frowned at his half brother, an unspoken warning that whatever their guest chose to say, he should not be peremptorily interrupted. Tirael did not appear to have taken offense, although his escort captain's brows had lifted. “I am aware of that,” the Son of Stars said, “hence our desire to know whether Adamant has also encountered unusual activity. One can never be too careful.”