Daughter of Blood (24 page)

“And if we're not in the contest we can't be selected.” The
ensign remained guarded. “Only the very best should be in a Bride's Honor Guard, Lady Mouse. That may not be us.”

You're all I've got, Myr responded silently. “Hatha says you're good, very good even, both of you.”

“Captain-Lady Hatha honors us,” Taly replied formally. She saluted. “I'll send those guards in, then find Dab. We'll need to prepare if we're to do you credit in the competition.”

Myr bowed as the ensign withdrew, both to answer the salute and avoid meeting Taly's eyes again before the door clicked shut. Afterward she stared at the closed door and wondered if Taly and Dab would prefer to be free of her service. She felt sure they were not afraid of competing. And serving in a Bride's Honor Guard meant automatic advancement once the escort returned to Blood, which only made it more inexplicable that Taly and Dab had not entered the contest voluntarily.

Myr frowned, hurt and puzzled at the same time, until boots trod heavily in the outer room and she whisked back into her bedroom ahead of the guards' arrival.

Exactly like the mouse of my nickname, she thought—so perhaps it's little wonder if Taly and Dab are secretly ashamed of serving me, since a true Daughter of Blood should stand tall, like Kharalth of the Battles. But even if they were selected for her escort, Myr knew she was only putting off the inevitable. Once the marriage ceremony in the Keep of Winds was over, they and the rest of the Honor Guard would ride home, leaving her alone in a keep of strangers.

N
oise broke over Myr like a physical wave as she approached the arena known as the Field of Blood. She stopped, almost reeling from its force, while the curtains to the Earl's box stirred before her. Kharalthor's retinue and Blood's guests would be waiting on the other side—and from the roar of sound, every tier that ringed the great amphitheater must be full. Myr took a deep breath, summoning resolve, while her attendants whispered and the guards stood like statues, blank faced.

A Daughter of Blood must not show fear, Myr told herself. She did not want to shame her Rose heritage, or Ise's tutelage either. The old Rose woman had risen early to see her dressed, but Earl Sardon had made it clear he wanted no breath of doubt to cloud his youngest daughter's status as a true Daughter of Blood. So Ilai, not Ise, led the retinue of attendants, and even Myr's hair, the betraying black she had inherited from her mother, must be concealed by another jeweled net rather than braided or worn loose.

Myr took another deep breath, then pushed the curtain aside to meet the crowd's thunder, swelling to acclaim the Bride of Blood. “Smile, little sister,” Kharalthor said, and Myr did, bending to right and left while Ilai and Vela ad
justed her train and the fall of her jewel-embroidered sleeves. The galleries that circled the amphitheater, rise on rise of them, were not just full, they were packed, while the arena below glittered with the massed ranks of Blood contestants. All here, Myr thought, dizzied by the magnitude of it all, to contest for a place in my Honor Guard.

No, she amended immediately, a Bride of Blood's Honor Guard—although there was more to it even than that. The array of colors knotted around the warriors' arms reflected those draped around the tiered galleries: hold and clan, sept or warrior society, the diversity of warrior allegiances and the sheer numbers Blood could muster were both on display. We're not just showing our strength, Myr reflected, but underlining our readiness to take what we see as our rightful place in the Alliance. When she slid a glance toward the Night emissaries, Asantir was studying the mustered warriors keenly. The Sea House delegation was seated in the adjoining box, and Myr had to stop herself staring, fascinated by their cabled hair, the rings in their ears, and the rich colors—sea green and royal blue and violet—of their clothes.

Ilai and Vela finished settling her robe and stepped back, allowing Myr to take her place at last. Kharalthor, as Battlemaster, was to preside over the contest, and Hatha was seated to his right, surveying the field as closely as Asantir. So far, she was the only other Daughter of Blood present. Parannis was also absent, but Anvin was sitting beside Teron and the two appeared to be enjoying each other's company. The Night warrior was leaning forward to see better and plying Anvin with questions. Myr saw the scene again through his reaction to it: not just the densely packed arena and crowded galleries, but the rock walls of the amphitheater that was hollowed from the mountains—so significant a natural feature that Blood had built their keep around it.

When Myr studied the arena again, she realized that the colors and devices on display included some she had never seen before, even on the lists both Ise and Hatha had insisted she memorize. “Splinter septs,” her sister explained, when Myr asked. “They're hard to keep track of, especially
since some of the more remote holds are little better than redoubts.”

“How do we know they're truly ours?” Myr asked, recalling Taly's security concerns. “Couldn't they be enemies in disguise?”

Huern, who was seated behind Kharalthor, raised his eyebrows, while Hatha nodded. “A good question, little sister. But no one passes the Blood Gate unchallenged, and we have wyr hounds, as well as guards, at every entrance.”

Liankhara had her spies as well, Myr supposed—but one of the Sea delegation must have made a jest, because they all laughed. She was startled, but tried not to show it. Blood warriors seldom laughed out loud, and Ise, too, believed open mirth was undignified. Myr thought the Sea Keepers did not look as if they would care, although their apparent ease might also be a way of defying Blood's display of might. She scrutinized the competitors for Taly and Dab, but without success. The front row stood some distance from the Earl's box, and many contestants were already wearing helmets.

Beside her, Kharalthor rose to take the oath, and the gathered warriors turned toward the huge statue of Kharalth that dominated the northern end of the arena. Like the amphitheater, the goddess of battle and war was hewn from the mountainside itself. Her great shield was slung upon her back, but a spear was raised high in her right hand and her left dangled skulls, the fingers crooked into eye sockets or hooked around jawbones. A red wash stained the goddess's arms and was splashed across chest and face, depicting the gore of conflict, but did not obscure the fierce exultation of her expression. “Kharalth!” The competitors' spears clashed down onto their shields. “Kharalth! Kharalth! Kharalth!”

“Kharalth!” Myr chanted with the crowd. For a moment, caught up in the surge of voices, she shared their exhilaration as the contestants turned back to face the Earl's box and their spears clashed again.

“Myrathis! Myrathis! Myrathis!” Momentarily transfixed,
Myr stumbled upright as Kharalthor seized her arm, raising it high in acknowledgment. His sideways grin was fierce.

“See, little sister. Your House loves you.”

No, they don't, Myr thought, although she bowed to right and left again and smiled until she thought her makeup might fracture. She knew the warriors would shout for Sardonya just as loudly, or for Sarein, if either of them stood in her place—which might be the reason her sisters were absent, since neither liked being overshadowed, least of all by Myr. The Night contingent also wore smiles, but when Myr met their Commander's dark gaze she found it measuring. As though I'm a doubtful recruit, Myr thought, nettled. Or, she added, the annoyance fading, an unknown quantity at the very least, which I suppose I am.

Kharalthor finally released her arm and they both sat down as the competitors dispersed to the four marked-out combat grounds: two close to where Myr sat, and two on the far side of the amphitheater. A team of Blood provosts and their sarjeants would oversee each arena, while pages relayed results to the marshals, seated in a stern row below the Earl's box. Myr did not need the shouted announcement from the senior marshal to understand the order of contests; Taly, Dab, and Hatha had described the process at length once she became the Bride. A point all three agreed upon was that Blood was not trying to discover who was best with any individual weapon. The first two days of competition aimed to identify warriors who excelled with a range of arms and could also fight on effectively if their weapons failed.

The unarmed form of the Derai-dan, the combat system reputed to be as old as the Derai Alliance, had fallen out of favor in Blood, although most warriors still knew parts of it. But whether armed or unarmed, the opening days would focus on individual strength and skill, with contestants on foot the first day and mounted the second. All around her, Myr felt expectancy soar as the marshal fell silent and the provosts raised their batons in unison. Kharalthor grinned at Asantir: “Now, Commander, we shall see some fun.”

Myr was less sure that she was going to enjoy herself, but focused her attention on the four combat grounds. The archery trials on the far side of the field involved the competitors shooting at fixed and moving targets respectively, while the squares closer to the Earl's box were for armed combat. The combatants could bring any weapon into the ring, and also continue to pursue an opponent unfortunate enough to be disarmed. The contests tended to be swift and brutal, but Myr was enough Hatha's student to admire the skill of the warrior who held a glaive wielder at bay with sword and dagger, and the fierceness and dexterity with which another plied his war-axe.

“Impressive,” Teron said, as eager as any Blood warrior. Myr thought his grin held more than a hint of the axe warrior's ferocity, but she applauded with the rest as Kharalthor clapped Hatha on the shoulder. When two combatants ended up hammering at each other immediately below the Earl's box, she was as enthralled as any of her companions—and gasped with the crowd as well, her hands flying to her mouth, when one contender's sword shattered. The contestant hurled it aside as his adversary raised his sword, as if intending to strike head from body. Rather than retreating, the disarmed combatant advanced, and in a movement too blurred for Myr to follow twisted the blade clear and threw the swordsman over his hip. In the rapt silence from the galleries, Myr heard the snap of breaking bone.

“Well fought,” Kharalthor roared, applauding, and as though released from a spell, the surrounding tiers clapped, stamped, and cheered. Kharalthor's right, Myr thought, the victor's counter was superb. She kept applauding even when the winner raised his visor to salute them and she realized it was Kolthis. Of course, she told herself, her smile grown stiff: he wants the advancement and need only suffer my service again for a short time to achieve it. And because Kolthis served Huern now, that almost certainly made him one of her brother's candidates, not just for a place in the guard, but for Honor Captain.

Huern's expression gave nothing away, but in the subse
quent combat rounds Myr recognized two of Kolthis's sworn companions by their colors. The first was Ralth, a warrior recruited from the Red Keep's ranks, while the second, Rhisart, had joined the keep garrison from Bane, a New Blood Hold. The jolt of realizing that Kolthis and his cronies were competing took the dazzle off the skill and strength displayed by other contestants. Instead the savagery of the assaults began to dominate Myr's perception, and she found herself counting the wounds and broken bones incurred, despite the combatants supposedly using blunted weapons.

“They are determined to enter your service,” Kharalthor observed, as war horns ended the first half-day of eliminations. His hand checked before clapping Myr on the shoulder, the way he did with Hatha, but the subsequent squeeze, together with the tally of injured being helped or carried from the field, still made her wince inwardly.

“Your Dabnor did well in the archery,” Hatha said cheerfully, as a steward announced that lunch was waiting in the adjoining chamber. “Did you see him?” Myr shook her head as they all rose, aware of Kharalthor's frown and that Huern was also listening. “Taly was more than holding her own, too, from what I saw.” Hatha stood aside to let Myr pass through the heavy curtain ahead of everyone except Kharalthor. “I think they'll both make it into the group contests.”

Nine willing, Myr thought, but was distracted by Anvin's arrival with Teron of Cloud Hold. “The Storm Spear fought well,” her brother said to Hatha. “Did you mark him?”

“I did.” Methodically, Hatha began piling food onto a plate. “He's not overly tall, but he's built like a mountain wall. And I liked the way he countered Bajan of Bronze's glaive with the sword and dagger.”

Huern turned away from the table. “I didn't think Blood had Storm Spears anymore.”

“Nor did I.” Hatha licked her fingers, unconcerned by their company. “It seems we thought wrong.”

“A Storm Spear?” Teron looked puzzled.

“One of our elite warrior societies,” Anvin explained: “From the old days.”

“Possibly the greatest of them,” Hatha observed, which made Myr look up, because if it was anything at all to do with Blood's warrior heritage, Hatha would know. Huern must have thought so, too, because he regarded her thoughtfully.

Anvin, however, dismissed history with a shrug. “We still have a few warrior societies left, but the Storm Spears were supposed to have died out forever ago, maybe in the passage to Haarth.”

“It was after the Betrayal War,” Hatha said. “They were always religious, you see, as well as being obsessed with war and honor. ‘I keep faith,'” she added, “was their motto.”

Does she mean they were warrior-priests? Myr wondered. Ise had taught her that such orders existed, even in the warrior Houses, before the civil war.

“Warrior-priests?” Teron sounded as affronted as any Blood-born warrior at the idea. “Surely there's no such thing.”

Hatha shook her head. “The Storm Spears weren't priests, they just took service to Kharalth, Mhaelanar, and Tawr very seriously. They were also famous for being reclusive.”

“Secretive,” Huern said, as she paused to help herself to a plateful of cakes.

“Reclusive, secretive . . .” Hatha shrugged. “But a small number could well have survived when we thought them gone.”

Anvin, Myr saw, was looking bored. “Well, this one can certainly fight,” he said, “which is what he's here for. Although if they're as religious as you say, they probably believe the same fireside—” He broke off as Hatha's move to take another cake jostled his plate. “Careful, Hath!”

“Sorry.” Hatha blinked at him amiably, while Huern looked amused. Teron, Myr decided, was completely oblivious to the byplay. “Does it matter what they believe?” Hatha bit into another cake. “It's their fighting ability that counts.”

Myr almost smiled when she saw Anvin and Teron exchange an identical glance, before both nodded. Huern still looked thoughtful, but turned as Anvin smiled past him. Myr, turning too, saw Sardonya posed in the doorway. Her sister
waited a moment longer before sweeping into the room and smiling brilliantly on Teron. The young Night warrior looked suitably dazzled—and once they returned to the arena, he seated himself beside Sardonya. I don't suppose he'd believe me, Myr thought, listening to her sister's honeyed tones, if I told him she shouted down Kharalthor several times during the marriage arguments.

She was aware that her sister's flow of conversation showed up her own reserve, but returned her attention to the arena when she realized that both Huern and Asantir were watching her. Hatha lingered to point out Dab, competing to some effect with sword and buckler, then Taly's distant figure among the longbow archers. “Which is the Storm Spear?” Myr asked, because there was something intriguing about a warrior who belonged to a reclusive—or secretive—order that her family had believed vanished.