Warlord

by Jennifer Fallon

  Her latest problem seemed to be that she was losing her mind. Or her memory. Things were missing she could have sworn she’d seen only the day before. Nothing so large it was noticeable, but odd things, like the silver tray that sat on the sideboard in the dining room that seemed to be there one day and gone the next. Or the silver figurine depicting Kalianah, the Goddess of Love, that was on the mantle in her bedroom last week and now was nowhere to be found. And now, just as the light began to fade, when she’d reached for the candelabra that normally sat on the side table in the morning room, she discovered it wasn’t there. In fact, there wasn’t a candlestick to be had anywhere in the room.

  “Orleon, have you done something with the silverware?” she called, emerging from the morning room into the main foyer of the palace in search of some light. The grand staircase sweeping up toward the upper storeys was already shadowed by the gathering gloom.

  The Chief Steward stopped and turned to look at her. “No, my lady. Why do you ask?”

  “There’re no candles in the morning room.”

  “I’ll see to it at once, my lady,” he said with an apologetic bow. The old steward snapped his fingers at a nearby slave who was lighting the lamps in the foyer and ordered him to see to the morning room first. “The problem will be rectified immediately.”

  “Thank you, Orleon. I swear they were there last night before I went to dinner. Every time I turn around lately, there seems to be something missing.” She hesitated a moment, before asking, “Have you ever had a problem with pilfering among the staff?”

  He shook his head, a little offended by the question. “The vast majority of the servants and slaves in Krakandar Palace have been with the family for years, Lady Taranger. If there is a problem with thievery, it’s only started since you arrived.”

  She smiled at his thinly veiled insinuation. “I’m not even sure if there is a problem, Orleon. This isn’t my home and I don’t really know what’s what. I might simply be imagining things.”

  “I can order a full inventory to be taken, my lady, if you so desire. Just to be certain nothing is missing.”

  Luciena frowned. Such a move might unsettle the already nervous staff. On the other hand, it might give them something to worry about, other than the possibility of Mahkas exploding unexpectedly and ordering them all lashed to death, a fear—her slave, Aleesha, had informed her anxiously—that was the prime topic of conversation below stairs these days.

  “Perhaps we should look into it,” she agreed. “But let’s do it discreetly. I’ve no wish to pour oil on a simmering tinderbox at a time like this.”

  The Chief Steward bowed in acknowledgment of her wisdom. “As you wish, Lady Taranger.”

  The old man turned and continued on his way, leaving her standing in the vast entrance hall, wondering if perhaps the insanity of this place really was starting to get to her. She hoped she was wrong. Given the mood of the palace, if one of the staff was discovered stealing, the fear of being lashed or beaten to death by Krakandar’s regent was quite a reasonable one.

  “It can’t be that bad.”

  Luciena started a little and turned to find her husband standing behind her. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been standing here in the foyer, just staring off into space, looking like you have the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, Luci. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

  “You’ve just come from Mahkas,” she replied, tartly. “You tell me.”

  “He’s not too bad today,” Xanda replied uncomfortably. The topic of Mahkas Damaran was not a happy one between them.

  “As opposed to yesterday?” she asked. “When he ordered a man hanged for complaining he was hungry?”

  Xanda was obviously pained by her interpretation of events. “The man was standing on a box in the marketplace, suggesting the people of the city rise up and slaughter the Regent of Krakandar,” he reminded her. “And everybody else in the palace, incidentally. Including you and our children.”

  “Because he was hungry,” Luciena retorted.

  Xanda sighed heavily. “I’m trying my hardest to fix this, you know.”

  “You’re trying your hardest only so far as it doesn’t rock the boat,” she corrected.

  “Which is precisely what Damin asked me to do.”

  “Don’t try shifting the blame onto your cousin, just because he’s not here to disagree with you. Damin wouldn’t put up with what’s happening here, Xanda, and you know it. He’d have openly challenged Mahkas weeks ago.”

  “Which is just fine for Damin Wolfblade, my love, because he’s actually the heir to this province and has the legal right to do something about the way it’s being managed. I’m only his cousin and my authority to do anything in Krakandar is strictly limited. You know that.”

  She shook her head, unwilling to acknowledge their helplessness. “You have to make him unseal the city, Xanda. People are getting very, very hungry out there and there’s no good reason to keep them confined any longer. That poor man Mahkas condemned yesterday was only the beginning. More and more people are going to start complaining and the louder they get, the more they’ll start to wonder why Mahkas Damaran is keeping them virtual prisoners in their own city. He can’t hang every soul in Krakandar who disagrees with him.”

  “It won’t come to that …”

  “Xanda! Open your eyes! You can’t really think he’s doing this for any other reason than fear, surely?”

  Her husband shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first man in history to make a foolish decision out of fear of the plague, Lucy.”

  “I’m not talking about the plague. I’m talking about Damin. Mahkas is terrified of losing Krakandar.”

  “Damin’s not even here …”

  “And if he was, he’d be camped outside the walls, unable to get back in,” she pointed out bluntly. “Think about that, my love, the next time you stand by and do nothing to stop your precious uncle from butchering innocent people.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her closer, aware that the main foyer of the palace was the last place they should be having a discussion like this. “Don’t you think I want to see an end to this insanity?”

  “Xanda …”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like for me?” he hissed impatiently, lowering his voice as a slave hurried by, heading for the kitchens. “This man raised me. He’s like a father to men.”

  “He lashed your cousin to within an inch of her life, drove her to suicide and then beat one of your best friends into a bloody pulp. Oh, did I mention he killed Raek Harlen in cold blood? He was a friend of yours too, wasn’t he? Exactly what part of your idyllic childhood does his death evoke fond memories of, Xanda?”

  He let her go, clearly wounded by her lack of sympathy. “I’m doing what I can, Luciena, to keep you, our children, the Lionsclaw children, and the rest of the city safe. I’m also trying to ensure my cousin has a city to come home to. I’m sorry if you don’t like the way I’m going about it, but I can’t help that.”

  Luciena sighed apologetically, feeling a little guilty for attacking him so harshly. “I’m sorry, Xanda. You didn’t deserve that. I know you’re doing what you can. I just worry about the children, that’s all.”

  “We’re all worried, Luci,” Xanda agreed, his expression grim. “You don’t have a monopoly on that.”

  “Then I should …” Her voice faltered as she noticed Bylinda Damaran walking in their direction. “We should talk about this later.”

  Wondering at her warning tone, Xanda glanced over his shoulder. Bylinda was walking slowly across the foyer dressed in her nightgown, even though it was just on sunset, smiling vaguely, as if something only she could see amused her. Luciena wondered if she’d even bothered to dress this morning.

  “Aunt Bylinda?” Xanda said warily. “Is everything all right?”

  “Hello Xanda,” she replied distantly. “Luciena.”

  “My lady,” she replied, with a small curtsey. “You’re still in yo
ur nightgown. Are you unwell?”

  “Not particularly.”

  She glanced at Xanda with concern before asking, “Would you like me to see you back to your room?”

  “Where are the children?”

  “In the day nursery, my lady,” Luciena told her. “Given the hour, they’re probably having dinner. Perhaps you’d like to visit them?”

  It might help, she hoped. Bylinda’s grief over Leila’s death had destroyed her. The woman who wandered so aimlessly through the palace corridors these days, looking for something only she knew how to find, was a pale echo of the Bylinda Damaran that Luciena had met the first time she came to Krakandar. His aunt’s descent into inconsolable grief had been even harder for Xanda to witness. If Mahkas Damaran had been the father Xanda never knew, Bylinda had been his mother, the woman who had taken him and his brother, Travin, to her heart after their mother hanged herself with a harp wire in the fortress at Winternest when Xanda was barely six years old.

  “Watch over Emilie, Luciena,” Bylinda advised, reaching up to touch her face gently. “You never know when she’s going to be taken from you.”

  Bylinda’s hand was icy against her cheek. Luciena glanced at Xanda in concern before she answered. “Is there some particular reason I need to watch over my daughter, my lady?”

  “Because she’s your daughter,” Xanda’s aunt advised, her empty eyes blazing with passion for a rare moment. “Daughters are precious commodities, Luciena. They sell precious commodities, don’t you know? Trade them. Barter them. And sometimes they destroy them.” She smiled and the passion faded, to be replaced by the familiar hollow emptiness. “But then … you’re in trade, aren’t you dear. You’d know that already.”

  “I’d never let anybody hurt my daughter, my lady,” Luciena assured her. “Nor would her father.”

  Xanda, who was standing right beside Luciena, nodded in agreement. “Luci’s right, Aunt Bylinda. I swear, nobody will ever hurt my daughter and live to tell about it.”

  Bylinda Damaran’s smile faded. She fixed her eyes on Luciena. “Don’t make the mistake of believing their lies. That’s what my husband said about his daughter, Luciena. I’m still waiting for him to keep his oath.”

  Without another word, Bylinda wandered off, leaving Luciena and Xanda staring after her with concern.

  “What do you suppose she means,” Xanda asked after a long silence, “by Mahkas fulfilling his oath?”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask,” Luciena replied, more disturbed by Bylinda’s strange words than she cared to admit.

  CHAPTER 31

  With only himself to worry about and the furthest distance to travel, Adham Tirstone was able to get away from Byamor and head straight for the pass at Highcastle to see what he could learn about Fardohnya’s troop movements with little or no fuss. Getting Rorin dispatched from Cabradell to investigate Winternest for the same reason proved much more problematic. Not only did Damin have to contend with the dilemma of what to do with Kendra Warhaft while Rorin was gone, Terin Lionsclaw had decided the Widowmaker was his pass and Winternest was his fortress, and if anybody was going to find out what was happening over the border, then it ought to be Sunrise Province’s Warlord.

  “You can’t let him come, Damin!” Rorin begged, when Terin made his announcement. “Please!”

  The Warlord was hugely offended by the young sorcerer’s reaction to his suggestion he should be in charge of the intelligence-gathering mission. “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Rorin ignored him. “Spying on the Fardohnyans requires subtlety, Damin, not a bloody military parade.”

  Damin was inclined to agree. But Terin’s suggestion had one undeniable advantage. It meant he’d be rid of Tejay’s husband for a couple of weeks at least, maybe longer. That was almost too good an offer to refuse.

  “I suppose Lord Lionsclaw could accompany you as far as Winternest,” Damin mused. “And then you could check out the actual pass and the border on your own.”

  “Please, Damin,” Rorin pleaded. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I don’t like what you’re implying, sir,” Terin bristled.

  “He’s not implying anything,” Damin said. “Rorin’s merely concerned for your safety.”

  “Actually, Damin, it’s my own safety I’m worried about,” Rorin corrected. “Lord Lionsclaw can look after himself.”

  “I will not be insulted in my own palace in such a manner!” Terin declared, slamming his wine glass down on the table and splashing the map beneath it.

  Damin winced at his carelessness. The maps they were studying had been hand drawn in excruciating detail in the time of Terin’s grandfather, Glenadal Ravenspear. They were priceless.

  “Rorin’s not insulting you, my lord,” Damin assured him. “He’s just used to working alone.”

  “I demand an apology!”

  “Say sorry, Rorin.”

  “But Damin …”

  “I said, say you’re sorry,” he repeated, warning the young sorcerer with a look.

  Rorin knew what Damin’s glare meant. He backed down unhappily. “I’m sorry, Lord Lionsclaw. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “There, you see? We’re all friends again. My lord, I think it’s an excellent idea that you accompany Rorin Mariner to the border.”

  “You do?” Terin asked, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because you know Winternest better than anybody else. Isn’t that what you just claimed?”

  “Well … yes … but …”

  Damin smiled as he realised Terin’s offer hadn’t been a serious one and now he was trapped by his own posturing. “Is there a problem?”

  Terin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My wife will have to come with me.”

  “Don’t be absurd! The front lines are no place for a woman.”

  “I see,” the Warlord said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’d rather send me to the front and keep my wife here with you, eh?”

  Damin shrugged. “You volunteered, my lord.”

  “Do you deny you prefer my wife’s company?” Terin demanded.

  Damin looked at him oddly. “To yours? Count on it.”

  “That’s not what I mean, your highness.”

  Damin gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, and made a great show of studying the map. “I know what you mean, my lord. And unless you want to have a discussion with me about it involving naked steel, I suggest you drop the subject.”

  There was a moment of tense silence and then Terin turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. When Damin heard the door slam, he relaxed and then looked up and grinned evilly at Rorin. “Have fun.”

  “I hate you for this, Damin Wolfblade. You know that, don’t you?”

  “You’ll get over it.”

  The sorcerer shook his head unhappily. “No, I won’t. I’ll probably have to join the Patriots and devote my life to destroying you for inflicting him on me.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Just do it after you’ve found out what Hablet’s up to at Westbrook, would you?”

  Rorin sighed. “How come nobody quakes in their boots when I threaten them, Damin? You seem to have it down to a fine art.”

  “I think you need to rip somebody’s throat out first.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind. Would you be terribly upset if I dropped Terin Lionsclaw off a cliff along the way?”

  “Not personally,” Damin said. “But we still have that pesky one-dead-Warlord-away-from-Alija-having-control-of-the-Convocation problem hanging over our heads.”

  “Ah well, I can dream about it, I suppose.”

  Before Damin could offer Rorin his sympathy, the door opened. He looked up and found Tejay standing at the door, looking uncharacteristically nervous about something.

  “Damin, can you spare me a moment?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Charel Hawksword said in Byamor,” she told him, walking into the office, but leaving th
e door open. “About Hablet knowing nothing about you other than you being Lernen’s nephew.”

  “So he thinks I’m a lecherous fool with nothing other than my own pleasure on my mind. I could be accused of worse things, I suppose.”

  “Such a misconception is not a bad thing, if you’re planning to trick him.”

  “Assuming we can trick him,” Rorin said. He bowed politely to the Warlord’s wife. “Would you excuse me, Lady Lionsclaw? I have to go and write my will. I’m planning to kill myself later today, and I’d like everything to be in order.”

  “Kill yourself?” Tejay asked curiously.

  “His royal highness—my former good friend, here—is sending me to Winternest with your husband, my lady. I’m thinking suicide might achieve the same end result and be marginally less painful.”

  “Keep that up and you won’t have to kill yourself, Rorin,” Damin offered. “I’ll do it for you.”

  Tejay smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  “Rorin, get out of here,” Damin ordered. “And stay out of Terin’s way. You’ve offended him enough for one day.”

  Rorin bowed to Tejay. “My lady.”

  She waited until Rorin had left and then turned to Damin. “I like Rorin. He’s very … sure of himself.”

  “I would be too if I could throw people around the room just by wishing for it. Is something the matter?”

  “I’m worried about Hablet.”

  Damin’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t we all?”

  “I’m serious, Damin. You can’t risk him realising your potential.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s bound to have spies in your camp. Unless you comport yourself in a manner consistent with the reputation you’re hoping to establish, Hablet will be suspicious of any tactic you employ.”

  Damin leaned against the table and studied her curiously. “And how exactly do you define ‘comporting myself in a manner consistent with the reputation I’m hoping to establish’?”