Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

“Come on, Laran!” he laughed. “Find a partner! They’re about to start the Novera!”

  The Novera was a peasant dance that had recently become popular among the young nobility of Greenharbour. It involved a great deal of foot stamping, hand clapping, partner swapping and laughter. Alija had seen it performed at a number of functions this year and been rather amused by the scandalised matrons who considered the whole thing raucous and unseemly.

  “Oh! Hello, Alija!” Nash said, suddenly noticing Laran was not alone. “And Barnardo! This is Marla.”

  He pulled the young woman forward as he introduced her. The girl curtsied, a little awkwardly, and giggled. She appeared to have consumed rather a lot of wine. Alija stared at her in shock. “Marla Wolfblade?”

  “That’s right,” Nash declared. “I forgot, she’s your cousin, isn’t she, Barnardo? There you go, your highness! You said you wanted to meet them, and here they are! Lord and Lady Eaglespike!”

  “You’re not what I expected, Lady Alija,” Marla said with another giggle, clinging to Nash’s arm possessively.

  “Neither are you,” Alija replied, still shocked to meet Lernen’s sister like this. She was a pretty little thing, all doe-eyed innocence and come-ravishme charm. Alija guessed Marla had yet to be trained by a court’esa. No young woman with the benefit of a court’esa education would act so foolishly in public. And certainly not with a young man who could be considered a serious contender for her hand when there were negotiations well underway to marry her to a foreign king. Where were her minders? Where were the people who should be watching over her, making sure something like this wouldn’t—couldn‘t—happen?

  “We shall have to get together soon, Marla,” Alija suggested with a friendly smile. “We are cousins, after all, if only by marriage. I suppose you don’t have many female friends in Greenharbour.”

  “Hardly any,” Marla admitted. “Well, none . . . actually.”

  “Then I shall see your brother and arrange for us to go shopping, perhaps? You really shouldn’t miss out on all the fun of the city just because you don’t know anyone here.”

  “That would be . . . nice.” Marla seemed a little uncertain. Lernen had probably convinced the poor girl that Alija was the demon child, or something equally frightening. It amused Alija to make friends with the princess. And it would irritate the hell out of Lernen and Kagan Palenovar.

  “Well, you two can plan shopping trips later,” Nash announced. “Right now, you need to find a partner for the Novera, Laran. What about you, Alija?”

  Nash was smiling at her, fully aware of what he was suggesting. Barnardo might not know of her relationship with Laran, but Nash certainly did and he was enjoying the opportunity to work a bit of mischief.

  Alija sighed regretfully. “I couldn’t possibly, Nash—”

  “Yes, you can, dearest,” Barnardo assured her loudly. “It’s all the rage, I hear, but far too boisterous for me. Here, Laran, dance with her!”

  “I’ve no wish to force the Lady Alija into anything she doesn’t want,” Laran said gallantly as Barnardo thrust her into his arms.

  “Nonsense!” Barnardo laughed. “She’s just saying that so I won’t feel bad.”

  He smiled cheerily at his wife, delighted he was able to arrange this opportunity for her to let her hair down.

  Idiot.

  “Off you go, my dear. Have a little fun. I’m sure your reputation will be safe with Laran.”

  In the end, there seemed little point in objecting. With some reluctance, Alija allowed Laran to lead her onto the dance floor in Nash and Marla’s wake. As they took their places, the princess was staring up at Nash as if there was no other person in the whole world. Interesting.

  “I never thought I’d find you in my arms again,” Laran remarked as they found room among the lines of dancers.

  Alija turned from Marla and Nash and looked up at Laran. He had his arm around her waist and she could feel the lean strength of him through the itchy black robes she wore.

  “Don’t get too used it, Laran. My husband might object.”

  Laran smiled briefly, but it never reached his eyes. “Ah, your husband . . . I hear you recently bore him another son.”

  “Serrin,” Alija confirmed, thinking her children a safe topic. “He’s nearly six months old.”

  “You’ve really outdone yourself, Alija. A respected member of the Sorcerers’ Collective. A Warlord’s wife. Mother of two healthy boys. Now what? Are you planning to be the next High Arrion? Ah, but that’s right! You’re planning to be the next High Princess, aren’t you?”

  “At least we’d have a High Princess,” she retorted, a little hurt but not really surprised by his scathing tone. “That will never happen while Lernen sits on the throne.”

  “And you think that gives you the right to unseat him?”

  “Is that what you think?” she asked curiously. “I’m doing this because I want to be High Princess of Hythria?”

  “Is there another reason? It surely can’t be because you think Barnardo is a better man than Lernen.”

  “Your average beggar on the streets is a better man than Lernen Wolfblade, Laran. Don’t insult me by pretending you don’t know it.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to replace him, Alija. Lernen Wolfblade is the legally anointed High Prince. To take any action to change that, either by assassinating him or replacing him with his cousin, would be wrong.”

  “And leaving such a reprobate on the throne is right?”

  “In the short term, perhaps, it may be difficult,” he conceded. “But Hythria’s security in the long term is threatened more by what you’re trying to do than anything Lernen is up to.”

  “You think a Hythrun heir spawned by Hablet of Fardohnya isn’t a long-term threat to this nation? What world do you inhabit, Laran? It can’t be the same one I’m living in. In my world, we’re on the fast road to oblivion, either by the hand of the fool who currently claims the title of High Prince, or the deal he’s about to do with a man we know we can’t trust. Where exactly in all that is the long-term security of Hythria you’re so determined to protect?”

  Before Laran could answer, a loud voice bellowed from the podium where the orchestra was ensconced. “Lords and ladies! Take your places!”

  There followed a great deal of good-natured pushing and shoving as the dancers found themselves a place in the lines. Alija and Laran were separated briefly and then pushed together again as the orchestra struck up the lively Novera, putting an end to any further meaningful conversation.

  Alija joined in the clapping and the stamping, the laughter and the dancing, with one eye on Laran, one eye on Marla and Nash, and a feeling of deep foreboding at the thought Barnardo might be embarrassing himself while she was not there to prevent it.

  chapter 11

  I

  t was quite some time before Wrayan was able to escape the Fardohnyan delegation. He didn’t like diplomacy; liked his unofficial role as a diplomat even less. The Sorcerers’ Collective was supposed to be above partisan politics. They were supposed to treat all people the same, without fear or favour. It wasn’t supposed to matter what nationality you were or which faction you belonged to.

  The reality, of course, was quite the opposite. Since the disappearance of the Harshini over a hundred and fifty years ago, only the Sorcerers’ Collective was left to ensure peace among the nations of the world. And they had failed dismally. Karien in the north eschewed all gods but Xaphista. Medalon had hunted its pagans into extinction. Fardohnya had made it increasingly difficult for any sorcerer to live or work within its borders, the suspicion being that because the Sorcerers’ Collective maintained its headquarters in Hythria, it was—by definition—a Hythrun organisation. Hablet’s first act as king when he took the throne (after he’d systematically disposed of any rivals, of course) had been to either imprison or banish all members of the Collective from Fardohnya.

  As for Hythria, it was—in Wrayan’s opinion—on the brink of self-de
structing. The only reason Alija Eaglespike and the Patriot Faction were having any success in their campaign to remove the current High Prince and replace him with Alija’s husband was the gradual decline of the Wolfblade House. Four generations ago, the Wolfblades were being hailed as the reason for Hythria’s prosperity and stability. Now they teetered on the edge of ruin, their scion nothing more than a spoiled, perverted man-child with no thought for the long-term consequences of his actions. All that was left of the Wolfblades, the only hope for their redemption—and with it the redemption of Hythria—lay in the hands of an unsuspecting fifteen-year-old girl with no training in politics, no experience at court and no idea what was about to happen to her.

  “We’re doomed,” Wrayan said aloud to no one in particular. It was very late, the first tentative rays of dawn were just feeling their way over the horizon. His walk had taken him away from the palace and the noise of the party still going on in the ballroom and along the deserted jetty where the High Prince’s barge bobbed gently on the turning tide. He smiled in the humid darkness. “I should have stayed home and been a pickpocket like my pa.”

  “Yes,” a voice declared peevishly behind him. “You should have.”

  Wrayan turned to find a fair-haired boy of about fourteen or fifteen perched precariously atop one of the pylons behind him. He was dressed in a ragtag collection of cast-off clothes. The lad must have been sitting very still when Wrayan walked past him. He hadn’t noticed the boy at all.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should have stayed in Krakandar. With your pa.”

  “How do you know I come from Krakandar?” Wrayan asked. He’d spent a lot of effort trying to lose his northern accent. Apparently, to no avail.

  “I just do,” the boy shrugged. He untangled his legs and jumped down, making no sound as he landed on the wooden decking of the wharf. “You’ve got a bit of Harshini in you, too, I reckon.”

  Wrayan smiled. This was Kagan’s work, no doubt. “Do I now? And how do you figure that?”

  “Well, you can see me.”

  “That’s probably got something to do with the fact I have eyes,” Wrayan pointed out, wondering what Kagan was up to. His master had suggested on a number of occasions in the past (usually when he was drunk) that Wrayan’s power came, not from any human talent, but from some unknown Harshini ancestor.

  Does he think I’ll believe his wild theory if someone else says it too?

  “Well, it’s proof you have Harshini eyes,” the boy conceded. “You knew I was there as soon as I spoke. For that matter, you heard me, too. That doesn’t happen with humans normally. We have to make it happen with them, or they can’t see or hear us at all.”

  “Us?”

  “The gods.”

  Wrayan laughed outright at that. “So you’re what? A god?”

  The boy drew himself up, looking mightily offended. “Well, what did you think I was?”

  “A rather poor actor, if the truth be told.”

  The boy stamped his foot impatiently. “What is it with you mixed-bloods? You’re all so disrespectful it actually hurts.”

  “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, Divine One,” Wrayan replied with a grin, quite impressed by the boy’s petulant scowl.

  “Don’t you Divine One me,” the child pouted. “You’re only saying that to appease me. You don’t mean it.”

  “Then prove you’re a god,” Wrayan said with a shrug.

  “You’re supposed to have faith. I shouldn’t have to.”

  “Tell you what,” he suggested. “Ask one of the other gods to appear, right now, and I’ll believe anything you want.”

  “Why should I? I know I’m a god. I don’t need to prove it to anyone.”

  “Then I really should be getting back to the party.”

  “Jelanna’s in there,” the boy told him. “And Kali. Zeggie’s floating around somewhere, too. He can smell blood from a year away.”

  Wrayan started at the boy. “You want me to believe the Goddesses of Love and Fertility and the God of War are wandering around the High Prince’s ballroom, mingling with the guests?”

  “Of course not, stupid! Nobody can see them. Well, nobody except you.”

  “And what are they doing here?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “You seem to be.”

  The boy sighed heavily, speaking to Wrayan as if he was more than just a little stupid. “Jelanna and Kali are here because any time someone holds a big do like this they can draw power from it.”

  “How?”

  The boy grinned impishly. “Free-flowing alcohol and dancing. The two things guaranteed to lead humans off the path of celibacy and into the arms of the Goddess of Love. Jelanna and Kali hang around together a lot at parties.”

  “They do, do they?” Wrayan remarked, biting back his smile. “Why?”

  “Kali ploughs the field and Jelanna gets to reap the crop, I suppose. She is the Goddess of Fertility, after all.”

  “And the God of War? Why is he here?”

  “Because Hythria is Zegarnald’s playground,” the boy shrugged. “You lot would rather fight than eat. He likes that in his humans.”

  “And Kaelarn? The god for whom this extravaganza is being staged? Where is he? Holding court in one of the palace fountains?”

  “I dunno,” the boy shrugged. “Back in the Dregian Ocean, I suppose, where he usually hides out. He couldn’t care less about what humans get up to.”

  “Then this is all a bit of a waste. Which god are you?”

  The boy looked shocked. “You have to ask?”

  “Well, if you make me guess and I get it wrong, you’ll probably turn me into something disgusting. I thought it safer to ask.”

  “You know, it’s really rude to mock a god, Wrayan Lightfinger.”

  The boy knew his name, confirming Wrayan’s suspicion that his master had something to do with this. Kagan had probably worded the lad up before the party, just waiting for the right moment to get his apprentice alone and convince him of his magical origins. Wrayan wondered where Kagan had found the time to organise such a prank.

  “Forgive me, Divine One,” he begged insincerely.

  “Only if you honour me.”

  “And how would you like me to honour you, Divine One?” he asked, thinking that, with his luck, Kagan had this lad posing as the God of Music. Honouring Gimlorie would probably require Wrayan to walk back into the ballroom to sing some bawdy and entirely inappropriate ditty at the top of his voice in the middle of all those important guests. Kagan did things like that when he’d had a few too many ales.

  “Actually, here comes somebody who already has,” the boy replied, suddenly and unaccountably amused by something which escaped Wrayan entirely.

  “What?”

  “I do believe your friend has managed to honour both me and Kali in one go,” the boy chuckled. “Not a bad feat for a human.”

  Footsteps sounded on the wharf behind him. Wrayan glanced over his shoulder to discover Nash Hawksword and Princess Marla hurrying along the jetty, apparently unaware he was there. He turned back to the boy. “What are you babbling about?”

  The would-be god laughed delightedly. “Your friend there has stolen a heart.”

  “This way!” Nash called softly, his voice choked with laughter. “Quickly! Or someone will see us!”

  A little panicked at the thought of Nash Hawksword fleeing into the darkness with Marla Wolfblade, Wrayan glanced over his shoulder at them and then turned back to the boy. But the motley-dressed youth was gone. Wrayan turned back just in time to discover a rather inebriated Marla throwing herself into Nash’s arms, oblivious to the fact that Wrayan was watching them from the shadows.

  “Are you sure we won’t get into trouble?” the princess asked. “Coming out here without a chaperone?”

  “Not if we don’t get caught,” Nash assured her. He peeled the young princess’s arms from around his neck and held her at arm’s length. “Besides, I think you might be
nefit from the fresh air. You really have had a little too much wine, your highness.”

  “I don’t care! My life is over anyway!”

  “That’s a bit extreme, don’t you think—”

  “Don’t you understand?” Marla cried, shaking herself free of Nash. “I have to marry that Fardohnyan pig!”

  “I know, but—”

  “Help me, Nashan, please,” Marla begged, throwing her arms around him again. “I’ll die if I have to go through with this!”

  “Oh, if only I could, your highness,” Nash declared, with all the sincerity of a young man concerned only with the girl in his arms and not in the least bit interested in what she had to say. It was at that point that Wrayan decided, for the sake of Hythria, he should probably make his presence known.

  He coughed loudly, emerging from the shadows. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything, my lord.”

  Marla squealed with fright. Nash pushed her away as if she had suddenly turned white-hot, although his panic receded a little when he realised it was Wrayan.

  “Er . . . no . . .” Nash stammered guiltily. “Her highness and I were merely . . . admiring the barges . . .”

  “Might I suggest you admire them from the balcony, Lord Hawksword? In the light. Where everyone can see you?”

  The young man glanced at Marla and nodded. “That’s probably a good idea. I mean, people might get the wrong idea . . .”

  “People might,” Wrayan agreed.

  Marla glared at them for a moment, rather put out, it seemed, by the suggestion that she was involved in anything untoward.

  “Why should we go back inside?” she demanded. “To save my precious reputation? Well, I don’t care about it! I don’t care if everyone thinks I’m ruined.” Her voice was rising steadily. Wrayan glanced back at the palace nervously. They weren’t so far away that she couldn’t be overheard. “In fact, I think it’s a wonderful idea! Then that Fardohnyan pig won’t want me, and I won’t have to be sold off like a prize brood mare to—”

  Marla never got to finish her complaint. Wrayan froze her mid-sentence with a simple wave of his arm.