“I see you’ve managed to maintain a healthy dose of cynicism about it all,” Wrayan remarked.
“It’s a survival tactic,” Rorin laughed. “I’d go crazy otherwise.”
“I see. So what about you and Kalan?”
“What about me and Kalan?” the young sorcerer asked with a puzzled look.
“Are you two . . . ?”
Rorin laughed aloud at Wrayan’s unsubtle suggestion. “No. Why?”
“Starros thought you might be.”
“Then Starros doesn’t know Kalan as well as he thinks. Or me. Anyway, even if she weren’t my best friend, I still wouldn’t go there. I have no intention of being one of young Lady Hawksword’s castoff lovers, thank you, and believe me, there’s a growing list.”
Wrayan shook his head, uncomfortable with the very idea. “Don’t tell me that. Not about Kalan.
She’s still a little girl in my mind.”
“Take a really close look when she gets here, Wrayan,” Rorin said, as voices in the hall told Wrayan it wouldn’t be long before he had the opportunity to do as the young man suggested. “She’s not a little girl any longer.”
Wrayan wasn’t pleased at all with Rorin’s attitude. “Shouldn’t you be protecting her from that sort of thing?”
“I promised to keep her safe from any magical harm, Wrayan. I can’t do much about who she takes to her bed.”
No sooner had he finished talking than the rest of the family burst into the dining room. Damin was in the lead and had obviously come straight from the training yard. He was wearing muddy trousers, but his shirt was clean, and he was sporting a fresh cut over his left eye and a bruise on his chin that looked quite painful. His hair was damp but he looked fit and healthy and in fine spirits. There was a young woman with him, laughing over something the prince had said, whom Wrayan mistook for Leila initially. She was slender and fair, dressed in a pale blue robe with dark blue sleeves. But it wasn’t Leila.
This young woman only came up to Damin’s shoulder . . .
“Kalan?”
As Leila and Starros followed them into the dining room, the young woman turned and looked at him, her face lighting up when she realised who he was.
“Wrayan!” she screeched in a most unladylike fashion. She pushed past her brother and ran around the table. Wrayan rose to greet her and Kalan threw herself at him, almost knocking him off balance, hugging him so tightly he could barely breathe.
Damin watched the entire spectacle with a shake of his head. “Don’t hold back on us now, Kalan. Tell us how you really feel.”
“Shut up, you fool!” Kalan ordered her brother, without taking her eyes off Wrayan. She released her death grip on him and leaned back in his arms, her eyes alight with pleasure at the sight of him. “You look exactly the same, Wrayan. I swear you haven’t aged a day since the first time we met. Is that because you’re part Harshini?”
“Should you be saying that out loud?” Leila gasped, glancing at the slaves.
“Everybody here knows the truth, Leila,” Kalan shrugged, and then she turned her beaming smile on Wrayan again. “You’ll stay for a while, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then let’s have some breakfast. Or is it lunchtime already? I’m starving.”
“Who won the fight?” he asked as he resumed his seat, Kalan taking the chair on his left.
“Damin, of course,” Leila informed him, as Starros held her chair out for her. “Naturally, Almodavar claims he let him win.”
“Well, by the look of Damin, the old man gave a good account of himself.”
Damin grinned as he took his seat and the slaves began to pile his plate with food. “He says that to save face. Almodavar hasn’t been able to get the better of me for years. I only let him land the odd blow now and then to make him feel better. I’ll give him one thing, though,” he added, fingering his bruised jaw gingerly. “The old bastard can hit hard.” The prince glanced at Starros, his smile fading as he spied the young man heading for the door. “Where are you going? Aren’t you joining us?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Don’t be an idiot! You’ve been up since before dawn. Come and eat something.”
Starros bowed and shook his head. “Assistant chief stewards don’t eat with the family, your highness, you should know that.”
“You are part of this family, Starros,” Damin replied, suddenly serious.
Starros smiled wistfully. “Not any more. So, if you will excuse me . . . ?” He bowed again and walked briskly from the room, leaving them watching after him in an uncomfortable silence.
Wrayan glanced at the young prince curiously, wondering why Damin hadn’t realised how difficult it must for a bastard fosterling to find a place in a world so clearly divided by birthright and bloodlines. Then again, Damin being Damin, maybe he hadn’t thought about it at all. Wrayan glanced around the table at the others. Rorin, protected from his common-born status by his black sorcerer’s robes, seemed unsurprised that Starros had departed, while Kalan looked down at her plate uncomfortably.
It was Leila, Wrayan noted, who inexplicably jumped to her feet and fled the room, leaving her cousins staring after her in confusion.
“What’s wrong with her?” Kalan asked.
“Nothing,” Damin replied shortly.
“But why—?”
“Stay out of it, Kalan.”
He knows, Wrayan thought in surprise, watching the prince turn his attention to his meal, ignoring the puzzled look his sister gave him. He knows about Leila and Starros. How the hell did he find out so quickly? Did Leila tell him? Did Starros?
It didn’t really matter, Wrayan supposed. If Damin Wolfblade knew about the affair, then the damage was already done.
The question now is, the thief mused silently, reaching for his teacup as he surreptitiously studied Damin out of the corner of his eye, what’s he going to do about it?
Wrayan got no chance to worry about it further, however, because at that moment Orleon opened the dining room doors rather dramatically to announce that Lady Lionsclaw of Sunrise Province, fleeing reports of the plague as far north as Izcomdar, had arrived unexpectedly, along with her four young children, and was seeking sanctuary in Krakandar.
Chapter 48
It was strange, Alija Eaglespike decided, how quickly a potential disaster could turn into an advantage. Take this unfortunate plague, for instance. To the casual observer, it was a human disaster on an unprecedented scale. And yet, even though Alija’s intended target had escaped infection, there was a bright side.
Her husband, Barnardo Eaglespike, had been one of the first to fall victim to it.
Being a widow suited Alija. With rank of her own as High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, unlike Marla she had no need to take another husband to protect her interests. And the gods had been kind, too, by waiting until her eldest son came of age before they took his father away. The transition of power had been seamless after Barnardo died. Although the Convocation had yet to confirm Cyrus as his father’s heir because of the plague, it was just a formality. In the meantime, Cyrus was safe back in Dregian Castle with his wife and daughter, ruling his province with skill and wisdom, proving to everyone who mattered that when it came to the question of the next High Prince, there was really only one viable contender.
Fortunately, nobody was sure where the plague that was ravaging Hythria had originated. She felt no guilt about any part she might have played in its spread. The Denikan sailor blamed for starting the plague was roaming the streets of Greenharbour for days before Tarkyn found him. All Alija had done was give the poor man directions.
Still, it was fortunate the population had a focus for their anger. There’s always the need to blame someone. And always a need to exact revenge, even when it really wasn’t anybody’s fault.
If anything, the more helpless the victims felt, the more they hungered for vengeance, as if in the act of seeking retribution, they would somehow regain control
over their lives.
That was what had happened here in Greenharbour as soon as the full realisation of the scope of the deadly disaster had become clear. The people had driven the few Denikans brave enough to venture from their homeland into the streets, as if spilling their blood might wash away the disease.
Some were killed outright, others driven through the city by angry mobs until they fell—either from exhaustion or fear—and were beaten to death, their crime nothing more sinister than the colour of their skin and being born somewhere other than Hythria. Aware that Marla had been making noises prior to the plague about making some sort of treaty with the Denikans, Alija had waited until most of them were dead before she ordered the Sorcerers’ Collective Guard to put down the riot. Of course, by then it was too late to save anyone. By the time the Collective soldiers had arrived, there wasn’t a Denikan left alive in the city and any hopes Marla had for a peaceful treaty with the distant southern continent lay in ruins.
But the disease remained, and death was everywhere. Alija had heard of whole families taken by the sickness; of mothers abandoning their children. Tales of healers barricading themselves in their own houses, for fear of catching the disease they had no way of treating. The few in the Sorcerers’
Collective who hadn’t escaped back to their own provinces were the only ones left to care for the sick—
because Alija insisted on it. But even that small and ultimately futile effort had stopped now. One too many of her people had caught the disease themselves and the few remaining members of the Sorcerers’ Collective still resident in the city were holed up in the Sorcerers’ Palace, refusing to go out into the streets at all. The palaces and townhouses of the rich stood deserted, too, as their occupants either fled the city or were stricken by the disease.
The sickness struck with terrible speed. It killed so swiftly there was a cynical saying around the city: Breakfast with your descendants—dinner with your ancestors. And it was only going to get worse before the plague ran its course. It was still winter—such that it was in the warm, muggy climes of Greenharbour. When the weather warmed up, it was going to be much harder to control.
The plague had no respect for rank or birthright. Bodies were left in empty houses, rich and poor, because there was no one willing to give them a decent burial. At a meeting to discuss the crisis last week, Marla had talked of having the bodies loaded onto ships and setting them afire in the harbour, a sacrilege that Alija would have thought incomprehensible only a few weeks ago.
Now, as the hot, humid months of the rainy season approached, she was starting to think it might not be such a bad idea.
A low moan on the bed distracted Alija from her idle musings and she turned to her patient.
Ruxton Tirstone stirred in his sleep, his body on the verge of giving in completely.
As a favour to Marla, Alija had come when she heard the news that Ruxton had been struck down. And he’d been struck hard. By Alija’s estimate, about half the people who contracted the disease managed to survive, whether they were treated or not, but she doubted Ruxton would be one of them.
There were large inflammations the size of grapefruits in his neck and groin that showed no sign of abating.
It won’t be long now, she guessed. It was as if he was dead from the moment the high fever, the exhaustion, the headaches and the chills set in; his body just hadn’t acknowledged it yet. He’d fallen into a coma several hours ago, his body wrung dry from vomiting and coughing up blood, which he seemed to have done in equal measure for days before finally settling into this uneasy coma. The dark lesions on his face and upper body that were visible above the silk sheets were so purple they were almost black and his breathing was becoming increasingly laboured.
She had little pity for the man, despite the fact that she had willingly risked her own life to come here. Ruxton could have been safe if he’d stayed in Marla’s extensive and well-guarded town house, secure and isolated from the disease-ravaged city.
But no, you had to carry on as if it was business as usual, didn’t you, Ruxton?
He’d been down on the wharves, trying to protect his spice cargoes, when he succumbed to the disease. With plague rampant in the city, Hythria’s ships were being turned away from ports all over the world. Ruxton Tirstone stood to lose a fortune if he couldn’t get his spices delivered. He’d sent his youngest son, Adham, north into Medalon several weeks ago to try to find somewhere to store his precious cargoes until the plague abated, but even that wasn’t enough for him, apparently.
Serves him right, she thought unsympathetically. That’s what you get when you put profit ahead of common sense.
But Alija wasn’t here to help Ruxton. She was here because Marla believed she was a friend and Alija wasn’t ready, just yet, to reveal how wrong the princess was about that.
They enjoyed a strange relationship, Alija Eaglespike and Marla Wolf-blade. Although she showed every indication of being an astute and intelligent woman, even after more than a quarter of a century it astonished Alija that Marla never once suspected how she truly felt about her. The princess had never guessed that her beloved second husband, Nash Hawksword, had been Alija’s lover. She continued to rely on Alija’s counsel, with no clue her supposed friend was behind several attempts on the life of her precious son, Damin.
It never occurred to Alija to think Marla’s ignorance arose out of anything other than her own skill at deception. She scanned the minds of the princess and those closest to her every opportunity she got, but not once had she detected even a glimmer of concern about the High Arrion. Their thoughts were always of ordinary, mundane things. There were no dark thoughts of vengeance or hunger for power in the minds of Marla or her staff.
Alija had been particularly concerned about the dwarf. If anybody knew the truth about the murder of Ronan Dell and his household all those years ago, it was Elezaar. But the dwarf court’esa’s mind was as mediocre as his mistress’s, his thoughts just as bland. If he knew the truth, he had forgotten about it, or buried it so deep he would never remember.
Ruxton moaned again, even the oblivion of a coma not enough to block his pain. Oh, for the gods’ sake, she thought impatiently. Will you hurry up and die?
The door opened and she turned to see who it was, not surprised to find Marla standing there, hesitating on the threshold. You don’t mind sharing your bed with a peasant when there’s a profit to be made, do you, Marla? But it’s a different story when he’s dying of the plague.
“How is he?” Marla asked softly, as if she was afraid her mere words might wake him from his coma.
Alija shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, cousin. But it won’t be long now.”
Marla nodded, dry-eyed and in control. That always surprised Alija about Marla. She seemed to be able to contain her feelings far more than Alija would have expected, given what she was like as a girl. Perhaps it was the result of four calculated and emotionless marriages. Perhaps it wasn’t control at all. Perhaps Marla’s outward calm was just a total lack of feeling.
“You should get some sleep, Alija,” the princess said, looking at the High Arrion with concern.
“It’s bad enough to think I’m soon to lose another husband. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.”
Alija smiled. “Thank you, Marla. You don’t know what it means to me to hear you say that.”
“Can I have something sent up for you?”
Alija shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
Marla spared Ruxton one last long, meaningful look, before closing the door behind her.
Idiot.
The High Arrion crossed the room and stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down on this commoner who had been married to Marla Wolfblade for over sixteen years. What did he have, Alija wondered, that would make Marla want him? She was the High Prince’s sister. Nobody in Greenharbour doubted greed was the reason she’d married a common-born sailor, but after Jarvan Mariner died, Marla could have had any man in Hythria. She’d r
efused every offer for her hand from those of her own class and married another commoner instead.
The reason had always bothered Alija, but she had never been able to fathom it. Marla and Ruxton got on well enough, Alija could attest to that. Ruxton was an intelligent man and more than able to hold his own among his betters. But there had to be more to it. Marla didn’t need his wealth.
Between the fortunes left to her by her first three husbands, Marla’s wealth was bordering on obscene.
Ruxton brought her no alliances Alija knew of, no strategic benefit at all, really. And it wasn’t love, Alija was certain of that. She had seen Marla in love and there was no hint of emotional turmoil in the self-contained woman who had dutifully arrived at the palace each morning for the past twenty-odd years to aid her wastrel brother in holding the country together.
What have you got, Ruxton Tirstone, Alija wondered, that makes her want you so?
Ruxton’s breathing grew ragged, as if her silent question had upset him.
He’ll be gone in a matter of minutes, Alija decided, coldly assessing his chances, hoping the end would come quickly. She had things to do and places to be.
But when you’re gone, the secret of what Marla saw in a common spice trader goes with you.
It was too tempting. Too puzzling. Cautiously, Alija moved around the bed and sat down beside her patient. In order to read his thoughts she would have to touch him, something she’d managed to avoid until now. She hesitated for a time, until curiosity won out over fear, and laid her hand on Ruxton’s limp arm, wondering if, in the last jumbled thoughts of an unconscious man, lay some insight as to how a common-born merchant had won the hand of the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria and managed to stay married to her for as long as he had.
Ruxton’s breathing was deteriorating rapidly as she entered his mind. Even the large bunches of lavender placed strategically around the room could no longer smother the stench of death he exhaled with every tortured breath.
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