They rode into the bailey of the northern keep just ahead of a long caravan heading out, its wagons filled with barrels of wine, large clay jars of oil, bolts of cloth and two loads of muscular male slaves, probably destined for the mines near Byamor in Elasapine. The slaves were seated in the wagons, covered with blankets against the cold but otherwise unrestrained. The trader was obviously an astute businessman. The slaves would arrive in Byamor in peak condition. There would be no infected sores from chafing chains, no cramped muscles or wasted limbs. They would be fit and ready to work and worth five times a slave who needed to recover from his transport to the mines. There was little chance the slaves would attempt to escape. They were naked and barefoot under the blankets. They’d be lucky to survive more than a day or two in the mountains without shelter.
Laran dismounted as the caravan trundled out of the gates, the caravan driver yelling at the following wagons to keep up. A few moments later a figure emerged from the hall of the main building. He was bald and stocky and wore a large chain and medallion around his neck that indicated he was the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook, an archaic title that dated back to the early days of the new nation of Hythria, when the Fardohnyan border garrison commander was authorised to negotiate with the full power of his king, to save time by not having to constantly refer decisions back to Talabar. The first High Princess of Hythria had been the Fardohnyan King’s beloved twin sister, after all, and her husband, Jaycon Wolfblade, one of his most trusted vassals. King Greneth the Elder had anticipated no unreasonable demands from the new nation and had confidently delegated the responsibility to an underling. That was over a thousand years ago. The Plenipotentiary of West-brook’s authority had been eroded considerably since then by ever more distrustful kings. The man now wielded no more power than the average captain in the Fardohnyan army, but the title was prestigious and he got to keep the impressive gold medallion when he retired.
“There’s a marker about three miles up the road,” the man remarked in fluent Hythrun as he approached. “It says ‘Fardohnya’. I’m guessing you boys don’t realise that means you can’t ride into my keep armed to the teeth and looking for trouble.”
“I’m Laran Krakenshield.”
“Ah,” the man replied. He looked him up and down with a considering expression, his eyes stopping on Laran’s beaten silver cuirass, and then shrugged. “Well, I suppose that makes the circumstances a little . . . extenuating. I am Symon Kuron. What can I do for you, Lord Krakenshield?”
“A member of my family was kidnapped yesterday.”
“How tragic. Why are you telling me?”
“She was kidnapped by Fardohnyans.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“I hope you do see,” Laran warned. “Because if she was brought through here and you let her pass without question, Plenipotentiary, I’m going to be very angry with you.”
Kuron glanced over Laran’s twenty-man escort with a faint sneer. “You frighten me, Lord Krakenshield. I’m positively quaking in my boots. Twenty Hythrun Raiders! Gracious, what will I do?”
“I have a few thousand more where these came from,” Laran pointed out coldly.
“I know,” Kuron agreed with a sigh, “but you see, here’s your problem, Lord Krakenshield. They’re not here, are they?” Symon Kuron snapped his fingers and suddenly they were surrounded. The Fardohnyan guards on the wall-walk had their crossbows trained on Laran and his troop, the soldiers in the bailey had their swords drawn.
Laran held up his arm to halt Raek and his men drawing their own weapons and sparking a bloodbath.
“A wise move, Lord Krakenshield,” Symon Kuron remarked when he saw the gesture.
“We’re expected.” It was a statement, not a question. Riika’s kidnapping obviously went a lot higher than a few slavers stumbling over an opportune target.
The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook nodded. “Yes, my lord, you were expected. Your recent actions have rather disturbed my king and he would very much like a word with you.”
“And for this you kidnapped an innocent girl?” Laran asked as the Fardohnyans moved in to disarm the Hythrun. “Why not just send me a message asking for a parley?”
“Because there’s no profit in that,” Kuron said, as if Laran was a little dim for even having to ask the question. “In the meantime, may I offer you some breakfast, Lord Krakenshield? It will be some time before your escort gets here.”
“Escort?”
“You don’t expect the king to come to you, do you, my lord?”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Not far.”
“And where is my lady?” Raek demanded, unable to contain himself any longer. Laran glanced at him and shook his head. Despite their virtual captivity, there was a good chance he could negotiate their way out of this. If Hablet wanted to talk to him, and had simply kidnapped Riika to get his attention, then it was highly likely he would let them both go once he’d had his fun.
Hablet wouldn’t kill him, Laran was certain of that. No matter how fractious the Warlords of Hythria were normally, nothing would unite them faster than the death of one of their number at the hands of the Fardohnyan king and Hablet didn’t want a war with Hythria. He’d wanted their princess as a wife.
“Her highness is safe and well,” Kuron promised. “And will remain so, while ever Lord Krakenshield is being cooperative.”
“It’ll be all right, Raek.” He turned to the Plenipotentiary. “I’ll want my men to accompany me, too.”
“Of course.”
Laran nodded and watched as his escort was herded away. The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook stood back and politely gestured that Laran should follow him inside. It was only as they entered the hall and the smell of freshly cooking bacon wafted over them from the fires at the other end that Laran thought to wonder why Symon Kuron had referred to Riika as “her highness”.
chapter 51
M
ahkas’s arm ached abominably. He was horrified by how close the Fardohnyan slaver’s man had come to causing him permanent injury, but he could hardly complain about it to anyone. The agreement was that he would be wounded convincingly in the attack, and he had been. Laran had to be convinced Mahkas had endangered his own life trying to rescue Riika. The slightest hint that he hadn’t done his utmost to save her might be enough to cast doubt on his story.
Mahkas just hadn’t realised it would hurt so much.
He hadn’t counted on the Fardohnyans killing the guards either, but there was no way he could take Symon Kuron to task for it now. He’d sent Raek and the rest of the guards back to the castle for the simple reason of reducing the number of men who would need to be subdued in order to take Riika captive. He’d inadvertently saved their lives, not realising the Fardohnyan definition of “subdued” was his definition of “dead”.
Mahkas felt as if he’d done a deal with some evil god, intent on turning him from everything he knew to be good and decent. He wasn’t sure if the evil god was made flesh in the form of the Fardohnyan, Symon Kuron, or in his own sister, Darilyn.
She was the driving force behind this unconscionable betrayal of both Laran’s trust and Riika’s. A few weeks ago he wouldn’t have imagined himself capable of such a thing. But a few weeks ago, Laran hadn’t passed him over for a position of great responsibility that he patently deserved simply because he thought their sixteen-year-old sister more worthy of the trust. A few weeks ago Mahkas had been facing a future with some sort of promise, not a future stretching before him filled with always being someone’s second-in-command.
None of that excused what he had done, of course. But he was on this path now and there was no turning back. He was responsible for the deaths of the four men killed in the raid and, to himself at least, did not try to shift the burden to anyone else. But guilt and conscience were two different things. Just because he felt bad didn’t mean Mahkas wasn’t prepared to go the distance. He knew that should h
is involvement ever come to light he would be ruined. Laran would probably kill him and that would be the kindest fate that could befall him if his treachery were exposed. The thought of others knowing of his betrayal and having to live with their recriminations was more than he could bear to imagine.
With Laran gone, even for a short time, he was able to breathe a little easier. Mahkas didn’t expect his brother to get far with the Fardohnyans. He’ll be back by tonight with nothing to show for his little expedition across the border. The Plenipotentiary would probably just laugh when Laran confronted him. Mahkas didn’t know who held the post at present. He hadn’t really thought to ask. The less he knew about this dangerous enterprise the better. All he knew was that Symon Kuron had assured him the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook was willing to negotiate and would ensure that “Princess Marla” would come to no harm while awaiting her release.
Of course, the slaver had no idea that Riika wasn’t Marla Wolfblade. And that was Mahkas’s protection. Even if someone told Laran outright that his brother had arranged to have Marla kidnapped, Laran wouldn’t believe him. Marla was back in Cabradell, so whoever set this plan up was obviously someone who didn’t know Mahkas and Laran had a younger sister. It couldn’t have been a member of the family. Darilyn was quite adamant on that point. Laran simply wouldn’t believe it, she had assured her brother. Of either of them.
Now, it was just a case of waiting for their share of the ransom. He had done well in the negotiations. Darilyn and Mahkas were to receive twenty-five per cent of whatever the Fardohnyans managed to get for Riika. Symon Kuron had spoken of a figure in the millions. Even if they found out who Riika really was and the ransom demand became more reasonable, their share of the loot was still likely to be a six-figure amount. With that much money he could buy himself a decent holding in another province, be a very wealthy man and no longer beholden to Laran’s whims.
He didn’t give a fig for what Darilyn planned to do with her share of the ransom, although her alibi was probably even more convincing than Mahkas’s excuse. Laran would never believe she would willingly endanger her own children.
The only problem he really had was coming up with a plausible reason for his sudden and unexpected wealth. Perhaps he could claim a forgotten legacy from his father? Probably not a good idea. Jeryma knew his late father’s business affairs too well. A gift from a deceased friend? Mahkas didn’t have that many close—or more to the point—wealthy friends. Better to claim the money came from Bylinda’s family. His fiancée’s father was a rich merchant. It wasn’t inconceivable that he might want to set his future son-in-law up in the manner to which his daughter was accustomed.
But that was a problem for another day. Mahkas cut a lonely, tragic figure as he paced the bridge over the road, his arm in a black sling, waiting for word about his missing sister. The search parties had turned up nothing, as he knew would be the case. Mahkas interrogated each troop anxiously as it returned and sent them out again as soon as possible, swearing he wouldn’t rest until Riika was found.
When Laran returned from Westbrook, he would hear about Mahkas’s dedication, his obvious distress and his desperate attempts to find Riika. And he wouldn’t suspect a thing.
But it was cold out here on the bridge and his arm was aching. Night was falling rapidly. The last of the search parties had returned but there was no sign of Laran. He may have decided to stay at Westbrook for the night and return in the morning. Stamping his feet against the cold, Mahkas turned towards the entrance of the northern keep. He consciously kept his thoughts on his fiancée, Bylinda; her dark hair, her wide green eyes, her smile, even the freckles that lightly dusted her nose. He kept the picture of her in his mind. Refused to let anything dislodge it. That way he didn’t think about Riika and what she might be going through.
There was no point being out on the bridge any longer. They would be closing the gates to the northern keep soon anyway. Mahkas said goodnight to the guards on bridge duty and headed downstairs for a cup of ale before he went home.
The customs hall was uncharacteristically subdued and the tavern-keeper’s greeting much less ebullient than usual. Mahkas drank his ale down, noticing how every other eye in the hall was desperate not to catch his. None of them knew what to say. The common belief around Winternest, he knew, was that Riika had been taken by slavers and was probably on her way to the markets in Talabar by now. They felt for Mahkas; sympathised with his plight. He had tried to save his sister against overwhelming odds (Mahkas had put about the story that there were at least six of them) and failed. And he had the wounds to prove it.
But along with their sympathy came a healthy dose of caution. Nobody was sure if Mahkas should be hailed as a hero for trying to save his sister, or a cur for not being able to, and until the people of Winternest figured which way the wind was blowing, they preferred to avoid the young captain.
Realising there would be no joy here tonight, Mahkas swallowed his ale, refused a refill and headed back to the stairs that would take him up to the bridge and over to the southern keep. Maybe tomorrow, when Laran returned from Westbrook, things would settle down a bit. Maybe tomorrow the ransom demand would come and they could get to work on assembling the money.
Maybe tomorrow he wouldn’t feel like this.
Maybe tomorrow he would wake up and be able to find some small measure of merit in what he had done.
“A messenger has arrived from Cabradell,” Darilyn announced, looking up as Mahkas entered the hall. The fire was lit and it was almost cosy in the normally draughty chamber. Quite an accomplishment when one considered the size of the hall. The boys were absent, probably getting ready for bed, given the hour.
Mahkas was glad they weren’t here; he was in no mood for Travin or Xanda this evening.
“A messenger?” he asked, taking a seat in front of the fire. He relaxed back into the cushions, wishing there was something he could take for the pain in his arm. Or maybe it simply needed to be warmed. The air was icy out on the bridge and he’d been up there most of the day.
“The messenger had a letter for Laran,” Darilyn told him. “From mother.”
“What does it say?”
“It was addressed to Laran.”
“That wouldn’t stop you reading it.”
Darilyn scowled. “It says that it doesn’t matter what we do, dear brother Laran always manages to come out on top.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Mother is pregnant?”
“No, you idiot!” she snapped. “The future heir of Hythria has been conceived, just as Laran planned. He’s single-handedly quelled the Warlords of Hythria and now he’s proved his manhood. Mother is thrilled, as you can well imagine. We will find ourselves bowing at the feet of our own nephew some day, Mahkas. Won’t that be fun?”
“What are you talking about, Darilyn?”
She held up the letter with its broken seal, shaking it at him. “She’s pregnant, fool. Marla Wolfblade is pregnant.”
chapter 52
S
hivering a little in the weak winter sunlight, Marla sat on the edge of the fountain in Jeryma’s private courtyard, trailing her fingers in the chilly water, waiting for Jeryma to finish her discussion with Delon Grym, the Ravenspear family physician. Originally a court’esa, Delon’s skills as a medic had kept him in Jeryma’s household long past the time a court’esa would normally expect to remain in service. Like Elezaar, Delon had other talents to offer his mistress that had secured his place in her household on a permanent basis. In his sixties now, with a head of thick white hair, a quick mind and an arthritic limp, he had delivered all four of Jeryma’s children and was probably the only man Jeryma trusted to deliver her grandson, too.
It was no surprise to Marla that news of her pregnancy had spread through Cabradell, almost before she was certain of it herself. She had been watched with eagle-eyed enthusiasm by everyone in the palace from the first day she had shared a bed with Laran;
and by her mother-in-law most of all.
Marla understood the position she was in and knew, in her heart, that this was as good as it was ever likely to get. This plan to save her from a marriage to Hablet was Jeryma’s idea, Marla realised. Either Jeryma or her late husband, Glenadal Ravenspear, had thought it up, at any rate. She didn’t fool herself for a moment that it had in any way been motivated by the notion that Marla would rather have died than be sent to marry Hablet in Fardohnya. Their plans centred entirely on the desire for a Hythrun-born heir to her brother’s throne. Saving Marla from Hablet was merely a by-product of their scheme.
Laran was not a volunteer. He had been conscripted to their cause, Marla decided, after a few weeks of marriage to him. He was not the type to launch a coup without reason. Laran could see the sense in the plan, was prepared to do what he had to, to ensure its success, but it was clear that he would rather have found a way to achieve his political goals without taking a wife. Particularly a wife almost half his age with whom he had nothing in common.
Marla had not been much help in the early days, either. Still smarting over the harsh realisation that she was, essentially, a walking womb on offer to the highest bidder, she didn’t really have much enthusiasm for fulfilling her duties as a wife. Besides, she was in love with Nash Hawksword. It seemed like a betrayal to even think about sleeping with another man.
She had come to her marriage bed the night of her wedding as drunk as a victorious warlord, and had passed out before anything happened. The second night she had been drunk again—Hythrun wedding receptions went on for days—but this time, instead of passing out, she threw up all over the bed, effectively putting an end to anything remotely romantic for the rest of that night, as well.
On the third night, she began to feel a little guilty that she wasn’t being fair to Laran. She made a new resolution to herself. Stop putting it off. Get it over with. Do what Hythria needs you to do . . .
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