24. Obligations of blood
24
OBLIGATIONS OF BLOOD
Anahrod stared. She stared and felt three times a fool. Understanding came in an instant.
This was how Ris had tracked her down. This was why they’d brought Gwydinion with them into the jungles of the Deep. Naeron’s sorcery centered around blood, didn’t it? If he could track her location by blood left on a handkerchief, then perhaps he could also track her through a blood relative.
Like a half brother.
And now Belsaor had a new marriage, she was the first parent, and her spouse was still mayor of Crystalspire.
“Anahrod.” Her mother said the name like a prayer answered.
She was older than Anahrod remembered—of course she was—but more dignified and elegant for the years, a beauty refined rather than diminished. She reached out a hand to Anahrod.
Toward the veil, Anahrod realized. She wanted to see her daughter’s face.
Anahrod jerked away violently. “Don’t touch me.”
“Please,” her mother said. “I must explain—”
Anahrod felt her teeth grind against each other. “I am so uninterested in your excuses. We are not doing this.”
Belsaor lowered her hand. “I know you must be angry—”
“Angry?” Anahrod leaned forward and whispered, “Angry was when I found children throwing rocks at what I thought was an injured vel hound puppy for sport. Angry was the first time I saw a village turn out an old man because he wasn’t their tribe and thus, they owed him neither food nor shelter. Angry was when I saw a flight of dragons burn down an entire holler for no other reason than because they’d discovered its location. How I feel about you goes beyond anger into an emotion for which I have no words.” She drew back. “Oh, wait. No, I was wrong. I have the words. Three of them: Go to Hell .”
Her mother’s sorrowful gaze was tossed aside like the mask it had always been. Her eyes blazed. “So, you’re not even going to let me try to explain? I’m not giving you an excuse—”
“Good. Then we have nothing to say to one another.” Anahrod stood up, as much as the carriage allowed it. She paused with her hand on the door handle. “But don’t worry. Even though you’re condemning a second child to that beast of a school, I’ll make sure he comes back in one piece.”
She was back outside again before her mother could respond. Anahrod intended to savor that moment—she’d never been allowed the last word as a child.
The mayor gave her a look of mild interest, but he still didn’t seem to realize who she was. Gwydinion, though— her brother —looked so nervous that she knew. Sicaryon gave her one glance and went rigid, five seconds from jumping into the carriage to demand an explanation himself.
Anahrod had to pretend everything was fine.
She’d never been so glad for the veil.
Anahrod shook her head at Sicaryon as she fell in behind Gwydinion. Neither spoke as Gwydinion said his last goodbyes. Together, all three headed to the liner, waiting just for them. She wondered if her mother had planned that, too—Belsaor could’ve contacted Anahrod earlier, if she’d wanted a long and heartfelt conversation with her oldest child. This half-hearted attempt had absolved Belsaor of all responsibility, while freeing her from any ugly apologies. Even if Anahrod had wanted to talk, time wouldn’t have permitted it.
“I’m sorry,” Gwydinion murmured as they made their way toward their room assignment. The others had gone on ahead, likely already settling into their rooms. “This is so awkward. I’d understand if you didn’t want to be around me…”
“What happened back there?” Sicaryon kept his voice low and casual, the cadence one of friendly chitchat.
“Nothing important,” Anahrod lied.
“You could always swap with Claw,” Gwydinion suggested. “I’m sure she’d be happy to wear weapons openly.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Anahrod snapped. “Nobody could be around Claw for more than five seconds without noticing she’s barely older than a child herself.”
“I’m not a child—”
“Besides,” Sicaryon interrupted, “I doubt Ris would’ve tasked Claw with monitoring me, whereas Anari is just the person to keep me from getting into too much trouble.”
“Anari” was the name on her new papers. Close enough to Anah to justify if someone slipped up.
Gwydinion didn’t question the name. Maybe he’d been told in advance. He did, however, take a moment to assess Sicaryon like a banker looking for counterfeit scales. “And who are you again?”
“I’m Cary. A childhood friend of Anari. I’m surprised she hasn’t mentioned me.”
Gwydinion squinted. “Don’t tell me, then. I’ll figure it out for myself.”
Anahrod continued walking. No one said anything for several minutes.
It was a nice liner, although not as nice as the Crimson Skies in some regards. Larger wings, but fewer of them, slower to turn and adjust. Still, just a liner. Its most beautiful quality was how difficult it was to look over the side.
Gwydinion patted down his coat and retrieved a numbered key. “Our suite should be this way.”
No sooner had they turned down the last hallway than another boy, running down the hallway in the opposite direction, slammed into Gwydinion, knocking them both down. Sicaryon put a hand to his sword, scanning the hallway for any danger, while Anahrod pulled the boy off Gwydinion.
“Hey!” the boy called out. “You hit me!” The accusation was levied at Gwydinion.
Anahrod corrected her first impression. Not a boy, but a girl. A quick glance at social rings confirmed that assessment. Admittedly, the girl was late-blooming, but still a girl. Behind the coltish newcomer, a burly man ran to catch up, out of breath and panting. He gave Sicaryon and his-all-but-drawn sword a look of stern disapproval. The man himself was armed with a truncheon and several daggers, all well-used.
“I didn’t—I didn’t do that—” Gwydinion protested.
“You did!” the girl accused. “You totally did.”
A wave of protectiveness overcame her. Anahrod pulled Gwydinion behind her. “He didn’t,” Anahrod told the girl firmly. “Watch where you’re going next time.”
“Kimat!” the student’s minder scolded.
“It wasn’t me, Waja,” the girl protested. “You have to do something. They tried to hurt me.”
“Absurd,” Sicaryon commented. “If we’d wanted to hurt you, we wouldn’t have tried .”
Anahrod sighed. That was perhaps less helpful than Sicaryon had intended.
The man’s expression turned ugly. “What do you people think you’re doing?”
“I know this game,” she told the girl. “Don’t.”
“You’re not going to reprimand your little troublemaker for hitting another candidate?” Waja didn’t conceal his displeasure.
“I would if he had,” Anahrod replied. “But I was watching him the entire time. He didn’t. Whereas your little troublemaker thinks she’s being clever.” She stared at the girl, who was trying as hard as possible to force tears from her eyes. “Next you’ll ask if I know who you are, or who your parents are.”
Sicaryon laughed, while the girl blinked, bemused that Anahrod had guessed the next lines of the play.
“Let’s just go,” Gwydinion suggested. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Waja!” the girl whined.
By this time, the girl’s bodyguard, Waja, had had a chance to give both Anahrod and Sicaryon a thorough examination. Waja was a big man—probably used to people being scared of him.
Neither Anahrod nor Sicaryon were scared of him.
His gaze fell to their swords and his expression turned thoughtful.
Anahrod flexed a hand. Underneath the veil, she smiled.
People who lived and died by violence became good at evaluating risk. A more foolish man might have studied Anahrod—not tall or bulky—and made foolish assumptions about her danger level. Even a foolish man, one who’d dismissed Anahrod as a threat, might still pause when faced with Sicaryon.
Waja wasn’t a foolish man.
Waja clapped a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Let’s get you settled in.” He moved past them both, never releasing his charge.
The girl made a rude gesture as she passed.
Babies, Anahrod thought.
“I really didn’t hit her,” Gwydinion protested.
“A wasted opportunity,” Sicaryon mused.
“She’s going to cause trouble, isn’t she?” Gwydinion was still giving Sicaryon the stink eye, still trying to gauge his role.
“Yes,” Anahrod agreed, “without question.”
“The best ones always do,” Sicaryon added unhelpfully.