Daughter of Blood (66 page)

Kalan's mouth thinned, reflecting on the unpalatable reality that untrained weatherworkers almost always went mad, unable to counteract the weather's sway over their power. He was surprised Faro's foster mother had not foreseen that risk. But perhaps because the boy looked all Blood, and if she saw no warning signs, Kara may have assumed his inheritance of power came solely from Ammaran. Still, at least
the weatherworking should strengthen Sea's ability to claim custody—particularly since Blood's practice of banishing power users would negate Faro's right to the Heirship.

“But regardless of the Oath,”
Kalan told Malian silently,
“Blood's ruling kin will seek to ensure their tenure remains unassailable. So they'll still want Faro dead.”
He paused.
“And once they realize that your claim to the Heirdom of Night and leadership of the Derai may overturn the Oath anyway . . .”
He let the implication hang.

Malian nodded, her expression deeply thoughtful. “Faro does need to be trained, and the sooner the better. It may not have to be on the Wall, though.” Slowly, she rotated the walking stick. “The Lost declined rejoining the Derai, but I believe they would accept him. They are more than capable, too, of dealing with any Blood agents that reach them. Although with the Patrol, the Shadow Band, and the Oakward in between, I doubt there's much danger of that.”

“No Sea ship would carry them south either. Yet the Alliance may say”—Kalan was wry—“that we have stolen him from his rightful guardians.”

Malian's expression remained reflective. “Best, then, if we remove any grounds for such a charge.” The stick circled slowly left, then back to the right. “With your permission, of course,” she added.

I know that look, Kalan thought: she's up to something. “It's not my permission that matters,” he said quietly, “but what's best for Faro, which has to include what he wants.”

“I'll speak with him in the morning.” Malian set the stick aside and retrieved the scroll. “But in the meantime, I believe he'll be safest in our camp.”

Yes, Kalan thought, feeling the night's chill as he nodded. By tacit agreement they both stood up, but Malian put out a hand before he could turn to leave. “Besides Wolf, there's someone else with us that you know.” She paused, a flicker of the very young Malian, from the Keep of Winds' days, in her gaze. “Kalan, I've found Nhairin.”

F
aro, poised to sit up and declare that he wasn't leaving Khar, froze at the quality of the silence that followed Malian's words. A dangerous quiet, he thought, his skin prickling, and had to fight to keep his eyes closed. When Khar finally spoke, his voice was as hard as when he found Lady Myr dead. “Nhairin. Who betrayed us in Jaransor. Or does she blame it all on the Madness?”

Hearing that harsh note, Faro was thankful Malian had lifted Thanir's compulsion and allowed him to explain that he had not betrayed Lady Myr. Or not deliberately anyway, he thought, desolation returning with the memory of the Darksworn's hold over him. Outside, feet tramped past and voices spoke, momentarily distracting him as the guard changed. The honor watch for Lady Myr would be changing, too—but Faro knew that no matter how many came and went, Taly would not stir from her vigil.

I should be with her, he thought, before Malian reclaimed his attention, saying something about the Madness having played its part. “But she and Nerion share an empathy bond, Kalan, one very like ours.”

Kalan
, Faro repeated silently, hearing the name for the second time. “Their bond is also one way,” Malian went on, “in Nerion's favor. And Nhairin has no power, or no other
power, so could not close her out at need. When she first saw me at Rowan Birchmoon's cairn, she was terrified, believing Nerion had found her again.” Malian paused before continuing, her tone as measured as the guards' tread. “From what I've learned since, Nerion was able to blur Nhairin's recollection of the times when she entered her mind and manipulated her will, but could not erase the occurrences completely. So to Nhairin, they seemed like dream memories.”

“While her bond to Nerion provided a chink in Night's defences,” Khar said, still harsh. “One the Darksworn prised open.”

“Once they learned that Nerion's true father, my grandfather, was of Stars, not Night,” Malian agreed, “and that for all their vigilance, a new Chosen of Mhaelanar
had
been born into the Derai.”

Because of what Thanir had said about why Lady Myr must die, Faro understood that Malian's House of Stars heritage would mean the Swarm wanted to kill her, too. He lay very still, and when Malian spoke again, he thought she sounded sad.

“Nhairin loved Nerion, and loves her still, I believe, although there's too much bitterness now, piled on betrayal, to be sure. And she held my father at fault over Nerion's fate, and perhaps her own—but you heard that in Jaransor.” Malian hesitated. “Yet because Nhairin always loved me as well, and was still Derai, she became a person at war within herself.”

“If their bond's like ours, Nerion would always have known where she was, too. No wonder the Darksworn were able to follow us so unerringly.” Khar's grimness sounded more tempered now. “I take it you've blocked their link?”

“I have. Otherwise Nerion could use Nhairin again in exactly the same way, now the Madness has lifted. That's why she was so terrified at the cairn.” When Malian fell silent, Faro could hear the rise and fall of the wyr hounds' breath, their absorption matching his. “If that happened,” Malian added, very softly, “I think it would destroy all that's left of my Nhairin.”

“Probably.” The tempered quality in Khar's voice strengthened. “But you know she may never have been your Nhairin. From what you've said she was always Nerion's—and could easily be so again, even with the old link closed off, if they ever meet in person.”

“I do know that. Nhairin can never return to Night, regardless of whether my father would pardon her for what happened.”

When Khar spoke again, Faro thought he sounded bleak. “Do you think Nerion ever cared about Nhairin at all, or only saw her as a tool?”

This time the silence was so prolonged that Faro risked peering through his lashes. “I don't know.” Malian's expression was shuttered as she tapped the scroll she was holding against her opposite palm. “There's too much I don't know. Except,” she added, with another brisk change of tone, “that you have a vigil that honor and the Code demand you keep, while we need to get Pha'Rho-l-Ynor to Fire's camp.” The scroll tapped again as Faro hurriedly closed his eyes. “I may need this. I'll take the stick, too. And the tray, which is in a sense my own.”

The wyr hounds rose as Malian spoke, but their voice spoke in Faro's mind, preventing him doing the same:
“Be still.”
Startled, he opened his eyes to a glow of gilt-edged light haloing all six beasts. Light surrounded Khar as well—and Faro, transfixed, thought it looked like sunshine, glittering on the face of the sea. When the Storm Spear spoke, his voice was wrapped about with power. “The road to the Keep of Winds is no longer my path.” Khar's eyes were intent on the wyrs, so Faro guessed he was speaking to them. “Nor is the restoration of the Golden Fire my task.”

“No. But my thanks to you, Kalan-hamar-khar: Storm Spear.”
The Sea fleet's mindvoice resonated through Faro, as it had when he returned the essence of
Pha'Rho-l-Ynor
to the Ships' Shrine. From Malian's expression, he guessed she could hear it—hear
her
, Faro corrected himself—too. He almost forgot to breathe as the light about Khar rose into a single shimmering flame, then flowed toward Malian. The
bracelet on her wrist blazed silver, and Faro thought he saw fire glimmer in her eyes, too, before the halo of sunlight disappeared.

Into
her, Faro thought, wide-eyed—as it must have been in Khar all this time. But Malian's armring was still burning, and the light surrounding the wyrs was rising above their bodies, as it had whenever a hound died in the assault. Faro wanted to cry out in protest and beg the light not to abandon the wyr hounds and him, even though he guessed this was why the hounds had left the Red Keep.
“Be of good heart, Pha'Rho-l-Ynor.”
The acknowledgment was a feather touch across his mind.
“You are right, this was always our purpose. Yet if all goes as we hope, it will not be farewell.
”

What if it doesn't, though? Faro thought, feeling the slow slide of tears. But Maurid's light was already gone, streaming across the tent and into Malian of Night, and the six wyrs were silver-eyed hounds again, but nothing more.

I
n the end Faro was too drained to offer more than token argument when Khar insisted he go with Malian and Raven. He stumbled several times in the short walk to the escort's horses, and did not complain when he was put up in front of Raven and the warrior wrapped his cloak about them both, to thwart the cold and prying eyes. When they arrived in Fire's camp, Faro was given his own tent, and a warrior called Duar showed him how the flap lacing worked, so he could come and go as he pleased. But not leave, Faro thought, because when he checked he saw guards at the rear of the tent, as well as at the front. Everyone who spoke to him was kindly enough, but stern, and when they left him alone, Faro cried for the second time that night.

In the morning, he resolved, sniffing, he would find a way to persuade Khar to take him with him, after all. Or maybe it would be better to hide away, as he had on the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
, until it was too late to send him back—although that would mean finding a way to escape from Fire's camp first. Somewhere in the middle of casting about for a means of eluding his guards, Faro fell asleep. When he woke, day
light was rippling across the tent canvas, and the surrounding camp was awake. He lay still, listening to its sounds, the same way he used to lie in his narrow bed above the armorer's shop and listen to Grayharbor waking.

When Mam was alive, Faro thought, tears pricking again. To comfort himself, he recalled the Ships' Shrine again, and the memory of all the vessels in the Sea Keep harbor welcoming him, as the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
had welcomed him in Grayharbor. On the sea journey north, the ship had told him tales of the winds and tides that bore the ships up and down the long coast and out into deep waters, where they battled storms and monsters to keep the world safe. In the Sea Keep shrine, the ships had told him another story: how the vast power loose in the storm the
Pha'Rho-l-Ynor
sailed into, together with Ammaran's sacrifice of his life and power trying to save the ship and Taierin, was what had woken what remained of Yelusin—first in
Pha'Rho-l-Ynor,
and then in the rest of the Sea House fleet.

Raven had given that power a name, Faro thought—which he could not remember now—amid a great deal more that he did not fully understand. But he remembered the ships saying that Ammaran would have been trying to save him, as well as Taierin and the
Pha
'Rho-l-Ynor
. Just like Lady Myr tried to save me, Faro reflected, feeling the ache of yesterday's events return. He knew what his mam would have said, though: that if he truly wanted to honor their memories and their sacrifice, then he needed to get up and shoulder his duty as they both had.

Only I have no duty, Faro thought. But he got up anyway, and confirmed that the guard about the tent remained in place. Because I'm important now, he told himself, and tried to decide how he felt about being a Son of Blood. On one hand, the House of Blood meant Khar and Lady Myr and Mam, and his father Ammaran. On the other, there were all his memories of the Red Keep, most particularly Parannis and Sarein—and Earl Sardon, whom he had heard the Sea Keepers say was prepared to see his own son slain on the Field of Blood. Faro couldn't quite understand what was so
terrible about that, since the son was Parannis, but he was prepared to accept it was bad if the Sea Keepers thought so.

Now Khar and Malian believed Blood's ruling kin might try and have him killed, too. Faro had gleaned that from their voices and the pauses in their speech, as well as Malian's reference to Blood agents. As for Khar not being good enough to look after him, just because the Storm Spear wasn't one of the Derai's horrible nobility—“He's better than the lot of them!” Faro declared, then jumped as one of the guards outside bade someone good morning.

He recognized the voice that answered as Malian's and hastily checked his appearance, all his mam's newly remembered strictures about the courtesy to be shown Derai Earls and Heirs resurfacing. Malian was asking if she could enter before Faro had done more than straighten his tunic and tighten the tie about his braids, but since she added that she had brought breakfast, he said
yes
at once. When she stepped inside, the food smelled so good that he started eating as soon as she set the tray down. “There's more if you want it,” she said, when he finished.

Faro shook his head, because after several days of siege rations, he was completely full. “Am I your prisoner?” he asked, deciding it was best to know.

“Not at all, Faro.” Malian's regard was steady. “I have a matter to discuss with you, but if you wish to leave after that you will be free to do so. But both Khar and I would prefer you to stay here.”

“You called him Kalan last night,” Faro said.

“I did. It's the name I know him by. Yelusin and Maurid,” she added casually, “call him Kalan-hamar-khar.”

Like the long names of the ships, Faro thought, and—if he guessed right—Tirael and his Star knights, where each syllable spoke to the essence of their power. He wondered if he would ever grow into Pha'Rho-l-Ynor, because right now the name felt as alien to him as one of the great sea serpents in the
Che'Ryl-g-Raham
's tales. Abruptly, he returned to what Malian had first said. “Because you both think I'll be safer here?”

“For now, although it's no more practical for you to remain with me than with Khar. And because you're a weatherworker, you must learn to manage your power.”

“But not in the Sea Keep. Not even on the Wall.” Faro's lip started to jut, before he remembered that would disgrace his mam's upbringing before one of the Derai great.

“So you did hear that. What you may not have caught is that because you're a minor, and of Blood's ruling line, Khar is concerned Earl Sardon may be able to claim legal guardianship.”

No
, Faro thought, panic rising. “But you can stop him. Can't you?” he asked uncertainly.

“I believe so. Under the law, marriage outweighs blood kinship's claim to legal custody. And although you're a minor, paper marriages for the purposes of guardianship were created for exactly that purpose. And we,” Malian added, with the smile Faro was coming to think of as tricky, “have a legitimate contract between Blood and Night at our disposal. If you and I use it to marry, I will then be your legal guardian for the seven years until you come of age.”

Faro knew his mouth was open, which his mam would have deplored, but could not help it. “You and me? But isn't the contract between Lady Myr and the Earl of Night?”

“The contracts are always between the Houses, specifying only that the marriage must take place between scions of the ruling kin. The details of names and signatures are filled in as part of the marriage ceremony. So the same contract will cover us, and using it will allow me to protect you.” She paused. “And when the Swarm rises, as rise it will, our contract will also hold Blood to the Night alliance. Whether,” she added, with an edge of steel, “they like it or not.”

She
was
being tricky, Faro could see that. “But we would have to be married?”

“A paper marriage, yes.”

“I still can't stay with you, though, because of the weatherworking?”

Malian nodded. “The marriage will give me an unassailable right to send you somewhere I consider safe, however.
And as I discussed with Khar, there is another place your weatherworking could be trained.” Quietly, she told him about the Derai Lost—although she said they called themselves the Ara-fyr—and how they lived a very long way from the Wall of Night. Almost, she said, as far as Ishnapur. “A very long way from Blood as well,” she concluded, “and the Swarm.”