Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  Barnardo Eaglespike.

  There wasn’t much Alija could do at the Collective, either. She had long ago removed from the Collective’s library any scrolls that gave an insight into the unique power she wielded as an Innate. She didn’t need to be here in Greenharbour to study them. In fact, she was better off not experimenting with the scrolls here in the city, so close to the Collective, where someone might detect her working.

  Kagan and his apprentice were away, so there wasn’t even her nemesis and his sidekick to keep an eye on. The High Arrion’s brother-in-law had been killed recently. He was up north in Sunrise Province, consoling his sister and probably desperately trying to arrange a suitable husband for his niece, Riika Ravenspear, to keep the province in the family. If the Raven-spears arrived at the next Convocation with Riika married to some suitable but inoffensive and uncontroversial candidate, then it was more than likely the Convocation would simply ratify her new husband’s appointment as the next Warlord of Sunrise Province and that would be the end of it. Alija had toyed with the idea of putting forward a husband for the child herself, but in the end settled for sending her condolences instead. There was nobody she trusted enough to place in such a position of power. Besides, the Warlords rarely interfered directly in the succession of each other’s provinces. It set a bad precedent.

  Let’s see who the family comes up with, she decided. I can work with whatever hand fate deals me.

  If there was one thing Alija had confidence in, it was her ability to get what she wanted out of people.

  With a sigh, Alija turned from the window of her private study and glanced at the work still to be done littering her delicately carved writing desk. It was always a chore, relocating between Greenharbour and Dregian. There was the house to close up, slaves to be dispatched, others she had no further need of to be disposed of in the slave markets, invitations she must decline, others she must issue for a final soirée before her departure next week.

  A thousand little details that she couldn’t trust to anyone else.

  She would need to make arrangements for her messages, too. The spies Alija had located all over Hythria would have no way of knowing she was no longer in residence in Greenharbour. She couldn’t risk even one of those messages falling into the wrong hands.

  The only person Alija trusted to take care of such things in her absence was Tarkyn Lye, the court’esa who had been with her since she was sixteen years old. She rarely called upon his services as a court’esa these days, having found him far more useful in other areas to waste him as a pleasure toy. Tarkyn’s loyalty was one of the few things Alija was certain of. She had delved into his mind as far as it was safe to go without killing him and found nothing but dedication to the mistress who had saved him from the slave pits.

  Both Tarkyn and Alija knew that she had purchased him only because it wasn’t possible for her family to afford a quality court’esa, but her status as an apprentice sorcerer had demanded she have at least one, for appearances if nothing else. A Loronged court’esa had been so far out of her family’s reach it didn’t even bear thinking about. So they had gone to the general markets, looking for a bargain.

  It wasn’t uncommon for court’esa, even well-trained ones, to wind up in the general markets. Slaves who had grown too old, become disfigured or had misbehaved in some way were often sold off at the end of their useful lives as regular house slaves. Tarkyn had been sold for the crime of falling in love with another slave. Their master had caught the two of them sleeping together, a crime of gargantuan proportions among slaves, particularly for those considered breeding stock. In a fit of rage, he had Tarkyn’s lover put to death and the court’esa’s eyes put out for daring to look at another woman while in his wife’s service (even enraged, the lord understood Tarkyn was too valuable to destroy out of hand). He then shipped Tarkyn off to the Greenharbour markets to recover what he could on his investment.

  A blind court’esa seemed like a poor buy in the beginning. But Tarkyn’s blindness concealed a sharp mind and a burning desire to seek revenge on the man who had destroyed his lover and his sight. There was another interesting side effect of his blindness, too. A court’esa required to do everything by touch alone was an awesome tutor. And he was an astute political advisor. It was Tarkyn who pointed out that marrying Laran Krakenshield was a waste of time if she seriously wanted to pursue power. It was Tarkyn who had taught Alija the skills she needed to seduce Barnardo.

  And it was Tarkyn Lye who had fathered her two children, although nobody but Alija and her court’esa knew it. Barnard was a fat, impotent fool, but with enough wine in him to goad his ego and a sorcerer wife who could invade his mind at will, the Warlord of Dregian was convinced he was a lover of quite legendary skill and stamina. Her husband doted on his sons and, as they both shared the same fair colouring, it was highly unlikely that anybody would ever suspect the truth. Alija felt no guilt over her deception. She certainly wasn’t the first noble wife to pass off a slave’s bastard as her husband’s child.

  Tarkyn had given Alija her children and, in return, she had given him the revenge he sought. Lord Parrinol, the man who had blinded him, had been found dead several years ago, apparently a victim of his own rather exotic sexual practices, strangled by a noose hanging from the chandelier in his bedroom in what everyone in Greenharbour assumed was a case of a bit of fun gone badly wrong. The practice of trying to achieve a heightened level of pleasure while being starved of breath waxed and waned in popularity among the bored and jaded gentry. At the time of Lord Parrinol’s death, it was long out of fashion, although Alija heard his demise sparked a few close calls in other fools wanting to find out what it felt like to climax while suffocating. Nobody had realised he was a devotee of that particular fetish, but his court’esa swore he did it often and his wife was glad to see the end of him, so nobody questioned his death too closely.

  It had been a very satisfactory episode all round. Tarkyn was avenged, Lord Parrinol’s wife was freed of a nightmare marriage, the court’esa who had so earnestly sworn their Lord was fond of strangling himself for pleasure were rewarded handsomely, and Alija had gained a devoted servant who would willingly lay down his life for his mistress.

  For that, it had been worth every bit of the small fortune it had cost to arrange Lord Parrinol’s “accident” with the Assassins’ Guild.

  As if he knew she was thinking of him, the familiar tap-tap-tap of Tarkyn’s cane sounded on the tiles outside in the hall. She called permission for him to enter before he had even knocked on her door.

  “And to think I imagined I was sneaking up on you,” Tarkyn remarked as he opened the door.

  “You were,” she said, smiling. “But you forget I’m a sorcerer. I wield powerful magic.”

  Tarkyn’s once handsome face broke into a smile. Lord Parrinol had taken Tarkyn’s sight with a burning brand. The skin around his eyes was puckered and scarred, the eyelids sealed permanently shut. Alija had been able to relieve his pain with magic, but restoring his sight, or even reducing his scarring, was beyond her. He wore a scarf over his eyes so as not to offend others with his hideous appearance, but rarely bothered around Alija. In fact, she barely even noticed the scars any more. He tap-tapped his way across the room to the chair in front of her desk where he knew it would be. Alija had whipped slaves for moving the furniture even a few feet from its normal position in the rooms Tarkyn frequented.

  “I’m leaving you here,” she announced as he sat down. “I’m expecting a message from Highcastle and I want you to be here to receive it.”

  “Expecting a progress report on Princess Marla, are we?” he asked, laying his cane across his knees. “I never took you for a voyeur.”

  “I don’t care how she’s getting along with her court’esa, Tarkyn. I want to know how willingly she’s taking part in this marriage. It will help my cause no end if I can claim she was forced into it against her will.”

  “Why?” Tarkyn scoffed. “Most Hythrun noblewomen are forced in
to marriages they don’t want. Nobody will think it the least bit extraordinary.”

  “You think like a man, Tarkyn.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine how that happened.”

  She smiled. “What I mean is, when the time comes to bring down Lernen, those same Hythrun noblewomen who remember being forced into marriages of their own will be looking over their husband’s shoulders, whispering in their ears. Some may even sway their husband’s decision. Even if they’re now content with their lot, they’ll remember what it was like to be young and afraid and faced with a lifetime of servitude to a complete stranger. And they’ll despise Lernen for forcing his sister on a Fardohnyan.”

  “Well, incomprehensible female logic aside, I have some news which may delay your return home.”

  “What news?”

  “Kagan Palenovar is back.”

  “When?” she asked, annoyed that she was only just being told of it.

  “This morning. One of our people spotted him coming through the west gate.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Wrayan Lightfinger was with him, if that’s what you mean. But I have other news which you might find rather more disturbing.”

  “Then spit it out, Tarkyn. I’ve no time to coax it from you.”

  Tarkyn turned his head towards her, as if his blind eyes could actually see her standing by the window.

  “Glenadal Ravenspear named Laran Krakenshield his heir.”

  For a brief, frozen, crystalline moment, Alija’s world remained the way it had been a few minutes ago when her worst problem was the logistics involved in closing up the house in Greenharbour and heading home.

  And then it shattered into a million pieces as Tarkyn’s news sank in and she began to realise what it might mean.

  “I’ll bring Barnardo back to Greenharbour,” she announced, sounding far calmer than she felt. “Now is not the time for him to be out of the city.”

  “I agree.”

  “Do we know if Laran plans to accept the bequest?”

  “Nobody seems to know anything other than Glenadal Ravenspear died and left Laran his province and Charel Hawksword rode to Cabradell as soon as he heard the news. You now know all that I do.”

  She stared out of the window across the flat white rooftops, but saw nothing. “If Laran accepts . . .” she said. “If he can get a majority of the other Warlords to agree . . . Gods, he’ll control more than a third of the country.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Alija looked at the court’esa curiously. “Sorry? For what?”

  “I advised you to put Laran aside for Barnardo. Maybe I was wrong.”

  “There was no way to predict this would happen, Tarkyn.”

  “No, but there’s one problem we wouldn’t be facing now if you’d married Laran.”

  “What problem?”

  “Laran wouldn’t now be unmarried.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Not a lot, I suppose,” the blind court’esa shrugged. “I guess it will only make a difference if the good Warlord of Krakandar realises the value of the prize awaiting him in Highcastle.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “All I’m saying, my lady, is that if I was Laran Krakenshield, right now I’d be making my way to Highcastle as fast as my little legs could carry me, kidnapping Marla Wolfblade and marrying her so I could get her pregnant with the next heir to Hythria.”

  Alija shook her head. “It won’t happen. Laran is far too noble to do anything so calculating. He’ll petition the Collective to manage Sunrise until Riika is married to someone suitable. I know him, Tarkyn. He’s not the kind to get involved in political intrigue.”

  “I hope you’re right, my lady.”

  “Trust me, Tarkyn,” she said with a smile. “Laran is probably trying to get out of this so fast, the thought of kidnapping and marrying a girl the same age as his beloved little sister, just to get an heir on her to thwart my plans, probably hasn’t even crossed his mind.”

  chapter 32

  W

  e have a visitor, my lord.”

  The family was gathered in the main hall of Highcastle at Lydia’s insistence. Marla’s aunt had decided they were not spending sufficient time together as a family and had ordered everyone to be in attendance this evening. Kaul was playing chess with his father, Frederak, on the other side of the fireplace. Ninane and Marla were working on their embroidery with Lydia and her companion ladies. Braun was sitting on the floor by the fire, playing with a hound pup he had brought in from the kennels. The room was warm and quite cosy, which was a rare thing for any room in Highcastle. Marla thought Lydia had deliberately seen to it that the fire was larger than normal, just to make sure neither of her sons decided to wander off in search of other entertainment in chillier parts of the castle.

  Marla’s Uncle Frederak was a gaunt, sour-looking man, whose features belied his genial nature. He looked up from his chess game with relief. As usual, Kaul was beating him soundly.

  “A visitor? At this hour?” Frederak asked the slave. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Lord Hawksword’s son, Nashan, my lord.”

  Marla’s heart skipped a beat at the news. She looked up, stabbing herself with her embroidery needle in the process.

  “Ow!” she yelped, sucking her finger.

  Lydia shook her head disapprovingly. “Marla, you will leave blood stains on the linen. Please be more careful.”

  “Send him in then, by all means,” Frederak ordered the slave, glancing at his son with a puzzled look. The men in the hall looked at each other with interest. A visit from a neighbouring Warlord’s son, late at night and unannounced, was a remarkable thing indeed. Marla turned to watch the door, her heart pounding, wondering why Nash was here. Had he come to visit her? Maybe even rescue her? Filled with anticipation, Marla gave up trying to appear interested in her needlework. She looked at the other women in the circle around the hearth. They were all sewing industriously as if nothing could distract them from so vital a task.

  A few moments later the door opened and Marla thought she might faint from happiness as Nash stepped into the hall. He was wearing leather armour and a thick fur-lined cloak, his dark hair tousled, his skin ruddy from the cold. He strode across the hall as if he owned it. Frederak and his son rose to greet him.

  “My Lord Hawksword,” Frederak said with a respectful bow. “This is an unexpected honour.”

  “Please, don’t get up on my account!” Nash insisted. “I’ve no wish to disturb your family gathering.”

  “The arrival of the Lord of Elasapine’s son could never be counted as a disturbance, my lord,” Frederak replied graciously. “You remember my wife, Lydia, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Nash said with a gracious bow as Lydia rose to her feet. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, your highness.”

  “You’ve no need to grant me a royal title, Lord Hawksword,” Lydia told him modestly. “It was my brother through whom the royal line continued.”

  “And continues yet,” Nash replied, glancing past her aunt and winking at Marla before taking Lydia’s hand and kissing her palm. He then turned to Marla with a smile that made her feel like she was melting. “Good evening, your highness.”

  Marla hastily threw her embroidery aside and rose to her feet, smiling coyly as she offered Nash her hand. “It’s good to see you again, my lord.”

  “You’ve met before?” Lydia asked suspiciously.

  “At the Feast of Kaelarn Ball,” Nash explained as he kissed Marla’s palm. Marla thought she might die from the lump in her throat that was sure to strangle her. “The Princess Marla stole my heart, along with the heart of every other man in Greenharbour, while she was there.”

  “You flatter her, I’m sure, my lord,” her aunt Lydia replied, gathering up her needlework. “And now, if you will excuse us, we ladies shall retire. You obviously wish to speak to my husband.”

  Lydia turned her stern gaze on the other women sitting
in the circle around the hearth. Her three companions and her daughter Ninane immediately took the hint and began packing away their sewing. Marla kept watching Nashan.

  “Marla,” Lydia called. “We must leave the men to their business.”

  “Thank you, but I’m staying.”

  Lydia glared at Marla, obviously annoyed that her niece would dare challenge her authority so casually in front of her small court. “I am sure your uncle will see fit to pass on any greetings from your brother in Greenharbour, my dear,” she persisted in a strained voice.

  At the mention of her brother, Marla glanced at Frederak who was studiously ignoring the exchange. Only on the subject of the Lady Lydia were Marla and her uncle in total agreement. She would be allowed to stay simply because Lydia was insisting she leave.

  “Actually, I do have a message for her highness,” Nash added.

  “Then do I have your permission to remain, Uncle Frederak?” she asked sweetly.

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I would never dream of standing in the way of you communicating with the High Prince.”

  Marla turned to her aunt. “Don’t worry Aunt Lydia, I’ll let you know if it’s anything exciting,” she promised cheerfully.

  Lydia looked set to explode. “As you wish,” she said stiffly and marched out of the room with her ladies and her daughter in tow. Marla was grinning broadly.

  Frederak shook his head ruefully. “Marla, I see you have yet to master the art of diplomacy.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Frederak,” she said quite earnestly. “I really don’t mean to upset Aunt Lydia. She’s just . . .” Marla faltered, unable to describe exactly what it was about Lydia that made her so rebellious.

  “I understand, Marla,” Frederak said with a faint smile. “Truly, I do.”

  “So what brings you to Highcastle, my lord?” Marla asked, turning to look at Nash, wondering if he would blurt out the real reason for his visit (which she was convinced was to rescue her) or if he would be more circumspect in her uncle’s company.