“You might think so, Kagan, but you’re a fool if you think the Convocation will stand by idly and let this happen.”
“You underestimate how much respect Laran has among his peers, my lady. It’s quite possible he’s the only man in Hythria who could have gotten away with such a bold plan.”
Alija nodded her reluctant agreement. Laran’s standing among the Warlords wasn’t accidental. She knew Jeryma had quite deliberately fostered her son with both Charel Hawksword and Bryl Foxtalon when he was a boy, so both Warlords looked upon him with almost paternal pride. His mother had also insisted Laran spend time during his youth learning the arts of war, not from their own commanders in Krakandar, but from Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, the province which bordered Krakandar to the south. “Do you think that, with three of Hythria’s Warlords thinking of him as a son, the High Prince in his pocket, the High Arrion a close member of the family and direct control over another two provinces, it means nobody will dare challenge Laran?”
Kagan smiled serenely. “I rather think it does, Alija. Laran—and the High Prince, for that matter—are beyond anything you and your increasingly immaterial faction can do to them.”
“For now,” she agreed, wondering if Kagan thought she had abandoned her plans for her husband to eventually take the throne.
“Now is all that matters,” Kagan replied, and then he turned and walked away, leaving her staring after him, wishing she could find a way to channel the helpless rage that threatened to overwhelm her.
During her short stay at Warrinhaven, Alija noted, with some concern, that Marla seemed quite indifferent to Corin’s return, a situation that would not make it easy for him to become her close confidant and would limit his effectiveness as a spy. That role seemed to be reserved for the dwarf, who appeared to enjoy a much higher level of intimacy with his mistress than the handsome court’esa Alija had given Marla as a gift.
It had proved next to impossible to convince Barnardo to accept the inevitable. He had his heart set on the High Prince’s throne and was convinced every action Lernen took simply strengthened his position in the eyes of the other Warlords. In the end, Alija used her Innate magic and changed his mind for him, effectively putting an end to his whining about it until they could return home, regroup and come up with a way to deal with this unexpected turn of events.
Marla came to see them off when Alija and Barnardo left Warrinhaven. Alija had cautiously skimmed the young princess’s mind as they embraced and found nothing amiss on the surface. She seemed to accept the inevitability of her position. There was even a hint of self-importance lurking in the background. Someone had obviously planted the idea in Marla’s mind that she had some noble purpose in life. That might prove a problem in the future if she ever truly came to believe it.
The only other thing Alija had been able to determine from her brief glance into Marla Wolfblade’s mind was that she was still in love.
And, as Alija knew, it wasn’t with her husband.
“I do hope you’ll be happy, little cousin,” Alija had told her, hugging the princess warmly as Barnardo’s white carriage was brought around to the front of the small palace. Trimmed with burgundy leather and gilt, it was a beautiful vehicle pulled by six matching greys, all wearing the green and gold colours of Dregian in the plumes on their harnesses. The whole outfit screamed outrageous wealth, which was exactly the impression Alija was aiming for.
Warrinhaven was really nothing more than the country seat of a fairly insignificant nobleman, but some sound investments and careful management of the borough for several generations meant Lord Murvyn enjoyed a lifestyle usually reserved for a Warlord. The palace, although small, was quite beautiful, the mosaic-tiled steps where they waited reaching down to a broad plaza and a large fountain cast in bronze that depicted the god Kaelarn.
Marla shrugged, pulling her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. It was cool this morning. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t let them bully you,” Alija whispered, kissing Marla’s cheek. “Especially Jeryma Ravenspear. She can be a real old cow.”
“Truly, Alija,” Marla assured her, “I’ll be all right.”
“Well, just you remember, if you need comfort, Corin is there for you.”
“I’ll remember.”
Alija frowned, wondering if Marla would bother to call on the court’esa at all. Newly wed and weighed down by the burden of expectation, she probably wouldn’t think of much else besides producing the heir everyone was so determined she should bear.
Perhaps I should send her another slave, Alija decided. A female slave, this time. This girl doesn’t want a lover. She needs a friend.
“And you really should think about getting rid of that dwarf, Marla,” she advised. “He’s really not an appropriate companion for a Warlord’s wife.”
“Laran promised me I could keep him.”
“He’s probably just trying to be nice to you, dear. But if you care for your husband’s position at all . . . well, think how it looks. A Fool like that as a court’esa to entertain you? What does it say about your husband?”
“I’ll think about it,” Marla promised, although it was clear she had no intention of doing anything of the kind.
“You do that, Marla. And if you ever need my help, for anything at all, just send for me. I will come.”
Marla smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
Alija hugged her again and crossed the tiled plaza to the carriage where Barnardo was waiting for her. She allowed a slave to hand her into the carriage and waved at Marla with a smile as they drove off, surrounded by the guard of Dregian Raiders they had brought as an escort.
Almost as an afterthought, Alija released the hold she had kept on her husband’s mind to prevent him saying anything stupid before they could get out of Warrinhaven.
“Are we leaving?” Barnardo asked, as if waking from a long sleep.
“Yes, don’t you remember? You insisted we leave Warrinhaven immediately.”
“I did?” he said, a little vaguely. “Did I say where we were going?”
“Home,” she informed him. “To Dregian.”
“The boys have missed you,” he ventured.
“And I’ve missed them.”
Barnardo glanced out of the window of the carriage, clearly puzzled about why he would suddenly decide to return to Dregian. “Did I mention how long we’d be staying this time?” he asked cautiously.
“Actually, you sounded quite determined to stay there for a while. I suppose that’s why you wanted so many visitors.”
“Did I mention visitors, too?”
“Don’t you remember, dear? You were quite enthused by the idea of organising some serious hunting in the spring. You were talking about inviting Rogan down from Izcomdar to join you.”
“He’d like that. Did I mention anyone else?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a proper hunting season if we didn’t invite the Falconlance boys. And you mentioned bringing up a few of the sons of your vassals this year. To give you a chance to get to know them.”
“That’s a good idea,” Barnardo said, embracing the notion as if it were his own.
“There was someone else,” she told him, making a pretence of thinking about it. Then she smiled suddenly. “Of course, that was the other name you mentioned.”
“Who?”
“Nash Hawksword,” Alija told her husband. “You said you really wanted a chance to get to know Nash Hawksword better.”
“Do you think it might help us?”
The game is still on, she reminded herself. It’s simply the field of play that’s changed.
Alija smiled at her husband knowingly. “You have no idea.”
chapter 43
M
ahkas Damaran was used to being overlooked. As the only one of Jeryma Palenovar’s four children who did not inherit a substantial fortune from their deceased fathers, he had spent his whole life living on the charity of his siblings. He held his commiss
ion as a captain in Krakandar’s army because of his brother.
He rode a sorcerer-bred mount because his brother had given it to him. The food he ate, the very clothes on his back, were there because of Laran’s charity.
And it drove him to distraction.
The frustration Mahkas felt was only compounded by his posting to Winternest to protect his sisters. Or, more specifically, to protect Riika, in case somebody decided that with the late Warlord of Sunrise Province’s only daughter as their wife, they might have some chance at claiming her legacy.
There had been no such attacks. With Laran now married to Marla Wolfblade, the backing of Charel Hawksword and Bryl Foxtalon, and the High Prince agreeing to the unheard of condition of Laran taking Sunrise without the blessing of the Convocation of Warlords, there was simply nobody in Hythria who thought the idea of challenging Laran worth the effort. Even Chaine Tollin, Glenadal Ravenspear’s bastard son, had decided it was easier to back Laran than oppose him.
Disappointingly, Hablet, the jilted king of Fardohnya, hadn’t bothered to retaliate, either. Mahkas had been hoping for that much at least. With four thousand bored troops hanging around Winternest waiting for something to happen, it would have been nice to give them something to do. But no, even the King of Fardohnya had apparently come to the conclusion, like everyone else, that it simply wasn’t worth trying to challenge Laran Krakenshield on anything.
Inaction was making Mahkas edgy. He was snapping at his nephews when their games became too rowdy and had reduced Darilyn to tears again this morning when he grew tired of her constant whining about how long it was taking for her new harp strings to get here from Greenharbour and told her to shut up. Even Riika’s sweet gentleness was wearing on him. One more heavy sigh, one more wistful look into the distance when someone inadvertently mentioned Glenadal’s name, and Mahkas was sure he would have to strangle his youngest sister, too.
Still, Mahkas was hopeful things would improve soon. With two provinces to administer, Laran had more than he could handle and Sunrise needed to be sorted out. Logically, Laran should head back to Krakandar to look after his interests there while his younger brother set about making Sunrise secure. Mahkas could see himself in that role. He didn’t really want any more power than that. But he was certain he deserved some consideration.
Laran owed him that much, at least.
More than anything, Mahkas wanted to go home an important man. Krakandar Province might belong to Laran, but it was Mahkas’s home too. He wanted to be recognised for his own achievements, not bask in the reflected glory of Laran’s accomplishments. In a perfect world, he would head back to Krakandar after subduing Sunrise, marry his promised bride, Bylinda Telar, the daughter of Krakandar’s most wealthy merchant family, and settle down to a life of comfort and respect.
In a perfect world . . .
Putting aside his worries about his future, Mahkas glanced up at the sky as he crossed the bridge between the southern and northern arms of Winternest Castle, thinking it might snow again later today. Mahkas spent much of his time in the castle’s northern wing. It was the business end of the fort and usually filled with traders and soldiers, unlike the southern half which was filled with whining women and irritating small boys.
The Raiders on the stone bridge high above the road saluted Mahkas as he crossed over. He returned the salute and exchanged a friendly greeting with them as he passed. Mahkas enjoyed being popular among the men. It made him feel as if he was in command because the Raiders liked and respected him, not because he was their Warlord’s penniless half-brother.
Once across the bridge, he jerked open the door that led to the stairwell and took the narrow torch-lit stairs down to the lower levels. Despite the fear of attack from Fardohnya once Hablet got wind of the fate of his promised bride, trade was still brisk between the two countries. With the pass further south at Highcastle blocked by snow, probably well into next spring, all the traffic was now being funnelled through Winternest, making it much busier than usual.
Nash Hawksword had been and gone. After waiting around for over a month for something to happen with his Elasapine Raiders, following their visit to Highcastle, Nash eventually decided to return home to Byamor. It had only taken a week before the first off-duty brawl had broken out. Both commanders had agreed it might be for the best to have a little space between the forces. Nash was still close enough that Mahkas could call on him and have him arrive with reinforcements in a few days if the need arose, but an extra couple of thousand Elasapine, Krakandar and Sunrise troops hanging around Winternest and nobody to fight but each other was simply asking for trouble.
The main hall of the northern side of Winternest was part customs house, part tavern and part administration post for all the commerce between Fardohnya and Hythria. As usual, it was full of people trying to get their documents processed by the rather frazzled-looking customs men whose job it was to decide what tax was payable on each load going in and out of Hythria. Mahkas didn’t envy the men their jobs. Most of the merchants heading into Hythria had already been taxed on the Fardohnyan side of the border for the privilege of leaving the country. They were never happy to be taxed again a few hours later for the privilege of entering Hythria. A lot of the merchants were regulars on the route, but to hear them protest about it, you’d think the taxes had been imposed just last week instead of centuries ago.
Mahkas pushed his way through the crowded hall to the bar at the other end where a small tavern was doing a roaring trade, keeping the throats of all these thirsty merchants well lubricated. The man behind the counter saw Mahkas approach and dipped a cup of ale for him from the open barrel behind the counter, waving away any payment.
“On the house, Captain,” the tavern-keeper told him with a grin.
“Thanks,” Mahkas replied, as if he wasn’t expecting such generosity. It was an act of course. Mahkas hadn’t paid for ale all the time he’d been here. The merchants of Winternest knew how to stay in favour with their new Warlord’s brother.
Taking a sip from his tankard, Mahkas made his way to the table nearest the roaring fire that warmed this end of the hall. There were two men seated at the table, both Fardohnyan merchants by the look of them. Mahkas knew the man on the left—Grigar Bolonar, a slaver from somewhere near Lanipoor. The man on his right was a stranger. He was completely bald and had the furtive air of a man trying to look inconspicuous.
“Hello, Grigar,” he said, curious about the man’s companion.
“Lord Damaran!” the merchant cried, jumping to his feet. “What a pleasant surprise!”
“I’m sure the sight of me has made your day,” Mahkas replied with a smile. “Who’s your friend?”
The bald man rose to his feet. “Symon Kuron,” the man replied, offering Mahkas his hand. “I’m here in Hythria with a view to purchasing breeding stock for my slaves. The blonde colouring so common among your people is highly sought after in Talabar, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Mahkas replied, wondering why the man seemed so anxious to explain his presence in Hythria. He really didn’t need to know his reasons for being here. Didn’t care much, either. “I trust you’ll find what you’re looking for in Greenharbour.”
“Actually, my lord, I was hoping not to have to go that far.”
“Then your next best option is Warrinhaven. I hear old Murvyn keeps quite an impressive stable.”
Symon Kuron smiled. “I thank you for your assistance, my lord.”
“You’ve no need to call me lord,” he replied. “Captain will do.” The merchant raised one eyebrow curiously. “But are you not the half-brother of Sunrise’s new Warlord?”
“That doesn’t make me a lord,” he said with a shrug, swallowing down a good half of his ale in one gulp. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Trader Kuron. Grigar.”
He turned away, not wishing to get into any discussion about his title, or lack thereof. And certainly not with some greasy Fardohnyan merchant.
“Do you have any
slaves here I could purchase, Captain?” the slaver asked.
Mahkas turned back to face him. “No.”
“But I saw you earlier today on the battlements with a young woman of most exquisite aspect. Is she not for sale?”
He smiled. “Absolutely not.”
“Then the rumours are true?”
“What rumours?”
“That Laran Krakenshield has hidden his new wife away here in Winternest for fear of a Hythrun assassin?”
Mahkas laughed aloud at the very idea. “You should know better than to listen to rumours, Master Kuron.”
“Of course, Captain.” The merchant bowed with courtly grace. “Please accept my apologies for paying such rumours any credence at all.”
“You’ve no need to apologise. Just don’t repeat the rumours and give them life.”
“Of course not. My lips on this matter are sealed for an eternity.”
Mahkas looked at the man askance for a moment and then downed the rest of his ale. “Good,” he said, slamming the tankard on the table. “See they stay that way.”
A little while later, when Mahkas was returning to the southern wing of the keep for lunch, he found Raek Harlen on the bridge between the two towers, stamping his feet against the cold. He stopped and glanced down over the road then turned to look at the young man.
“Raek, have you heard the rumour that Marla Wolfblade is here in Winternest?” he asked.
“Yeah,” the lieutenant replied with a short laugh. “It’s been around for a while. I first heard it not long after your sisters arrived, I think.”
“How the hell did it get started?”
“Riika probably.”
“You think Riika started the rumour?”
“No. I think Lady Riika’s presence here started it,” Raek explained. “She’s the same age as Marla Wolfblade and the same colouring, from what I hear, and few people realise that Glenadal had a daughter, he kept her so sheltered in Cabradell. Do you think it’s a problem?”
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