Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Thank you,” Kagan said, pleased with the way Marla was dealing with all of this. The potential for her to grow into nothing more than a spoiled, profligate wastrel had been high, particularly given the family she came from. Perhaps the isolation of a childhood at Highcastle, away from the corruption of her brother’s court, had done her good. She was certainly dealing with the current situation with a dignity the High Prince seemed incapable of.

  Grateful that at least one part of this increasingly costly plan appeared to be successful, Kagan laid his hand on her shoulder in a silent gesture of appreciation. Marla nodded in acknowledgement of his thanks then turned and led Travin and Xanda down the slope towards the palace.

  It was several days before Kagan began to fully appreciate the potential of Marla Wolfblade. Like every other person involved in this scheme, he had thought of Marla as little more than the instrument of their hopes. She was the vessel who would carry their Hythrun heir and he’d really not given her much consideration beyond that.

  Kagan and Laran were in Glenadal’s old office, going over the arrangements for the management of Sunrise after Laran returned to Krakandar, when Marla knocked on the door and admitted herself without waiting for permission to enter. They both looked up at her approach, Laran with a hint of impatience.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” she assured him. “I just wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Can’t it wait, Marla?” Laran asked. “I’m very busy. There’s a great deal to be done before we leave tomorrow.”

  “Well, it’s sort of about that.”

  “What about it?”

  “Can I suggest something, Laran? About Sunrise Province?”

  “If you’re quick about it.”

  “I know it’s not really any of my business . . . but I think you should make Chaine Tollin the Governor of Sunrise, and let him run the province for you.”

  Kagan wasn’t sure what startled him most: the suggestion that Chaine be given Sunrise or the fact that Marla had proposed it. The young woman who stood before them now was nothing like the dramatic and emotional girl who had wailed so pitifully about her cruel lot in life at the ball in Greenharbour less than a year ago.

  Laran didn’t seem nearly so surprised by the change in her. He simply leaned back in his seat and studied her curiously. “Why?”

  “Because this is his home, Laran. He knows the people of Cabradell, the people of Sunrise, and they know him. More importantly, they respect him. And he backed you to the hilt after Glenadal died at a time when he might just as easily have challenged you, with an excellent chance that—with the army behind him—he could have got away with it. He’s capable, he’s loyal and he’s done the right thing by you. It’s time to do the right thing by him.”

  Kagan was astonished. “Who’s been whispering in your ear, Marla?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did Chaine ask you to speak to Laran on his behalf?”

  Marla looked a little hurt by the notion that without someone else pushing her, she had no care or understanding about what happened in the halls of power. “Don’t you think I’m capable of thinking about something like this on my own?”

  “I’m really not sure what you’re capable of, Marla,” he told her, quite honestly. “And Laran has already arranged for Mahkas to look after things here in Cabradell.”

  Marla shook her head and turned to Laran. “You mustn’t. And it’s not because I don’t think Mahkas capable of administering Sunrise as well as any man. I like Mahkas. But he’s your brother, not Glenadal Ravenspear’s son.”

  “Neither is Chaine Tollin,” Laran pointed out.

  “That’s just an excuse, Laran. Everyone knows he’s Glenadal’s son, even if it’s never been formally acknowledged. Lord Ravenspear never recognising the fact doesn’t stop the whole world knowing the truth. Gods! I knew about him and I’d never even been to Cabradell before I married you.”

  “And you don’t think handing all that power to Glenadal’s unacknowledged bastard wouldn’t be flirting with danger?” Kagan asked.

  “I think you’ve all been flirting with danger from the day you fixed it so that Laran would inherit Sunrise Province,” she countered, surprising Kagan with her willingness to argue the point. He was quite sure it was Elezaar who made Marla pay attention to politics, but she spoke with real conviction. Marla wasn’t repeating something learned by rote. She had thought this through.

  “Do you now?” Laran said, rather more tolerant of Marla’s interference than Kagan was. The High Arrion’s only thought at that moment was: why couldn’t Lernen have even a fraction of the brains his sister apparently has?

  “I think the only things keeping the population of this province from revolting against your rule,” she continued, “are that, firstly, you’ve a reputation for being a reasonable man, secondly, Chaine backed you after Glenadal died and, thirdly, you were Riika’s guardian. While that situation remained, there was always the chance you would either acknowledge Chaine or hand back Sunrise to Riika when she married. Either way, there was hope that Sunrise would stay within the ruling family. That’s all changed now. There’s no stability. The Ravenspear line is broken. Their Warlord’s only legitimate child is dead. You’re Glenadal’s stepson, Laran, and so is Mahkas. And to add insult to injury, you’re the Warlord of another province located at the opposite end of Hythria. You will never be able to convince the people of Sunrise that you’re prepared to put their welfare ahead of Krakandar’s. Placing Mahkas in charge will only exacerbate the feeling and give rise to charges of nepotism, regardless of how capable an administrator he proves to be. Chaine Tollin is the only man you can appoint as governor and return to Krakandar certain you won’t be back here in six months trying to put down an uprising.”

  “Don’t you think Mahkas would be rather upset if I took Sunrise Province from him only hours after awarding it to him?”

  “You’re a Warlord, Laran,” she reminded him bluntly. “Your job is to look after everyone in the province, not just your brother.”

  Kagan stared at her in surprise, realising, for the first time, that Marla was probably the only Wolfblade born in several generations who actually had some inkling of what it meant to be a prince.

  Laran turned to Kagan thoughtfully. “She does have a point, Kagan.”

  “She does,” Kagan agreed cautiously.

  “You’ll do it, then?” Marla asked.

  “I’ll think about it,” Laran conceded.

  “You’ll see I’m right.”

  “Yes,” Laran said with a hint of a smile, “but gloating about it won’t help your cause.”

  Marla smiled suddenly, which cost her the air of solemn dignity she had worn a moment ago and turned her back into a sixteen-year-old girl anxious for praise from someone whose good opinion she was obviously keen to foster.

  “I should go then, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes,” Laran agreed, “you should.”

  “But you will think about it?”

  “I promised I would.”

  “I’ll see you later then.” She dropped into a small curtsey in Kagan’s direction. “Lord Palenovar.”

  “Your highness.”

  When she had closed the door behind her, Kagan turned to Laran with a shake of his head. “Does your wife often drop by to tell you how you should rule your provinces?”

  “Given that we haven’t been married more than four months, she’s not really had the time.” Laran seemed a little bemused by his young wife, but not upset by her audacity. He smiled humourlessly and added, “But I do detect a disturbing trend emerging. It’s my mother’s influence, I think. Between Jeryma and that damn dwarf . . . I swear, Kagan, Marla must own the only court’esa in all of Hythria whose main function seems to be teaching her about politics rather than sex.”

  “Must make for some interesting pillow talk,” Kagan observed dryly.

  “It does,” he agreed, without offering any further exp
lanation. “Do you think she’s right about Chaine?”

  “I fear she might he.”

  “Mahkas won’t like it.”

  “He’ll understand,” Kagan replied. “And even if he’s a little upset, the one thing you can rely on is Mahkas’s willingness to do the right thing by you. He’ll take it on the chin. Besides, he’s itching to get back to Krakandar and marry Bylinda. Once he gets over his initial disappointment, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

  Laran nodded. “I’m lucky to have a brother I can trust so well. I only wish—”

  “That Riika was still alive so you didn’t have to even consider the problem?” Kagan finished for him.

  “She was too young to die like that, Kagan. I’m still half-tempted to raise an army and lay waste to Fardohnya.”

  “You did the right thing, Laran.”

  “I know,” he sighed heavily. “But it would have felt so much better if I’d spilled some blood.”

  “You cost Hablet money, Laran. For him, that probably hurt more than shedding blood. Anyway, enough lives have been spent in this ill-fated quest for a Hythrun heir. Let’s not drown your unborn son in a bloody legacy of eye-for-an-eye that has no end.”

  “I know,” Laran agreed, turning back to the list of appointments they had been going over before Marla interrupted them. “I’m just saying that Riika is dead and vengeance for that unforgivable crime would have felt better if there’d been more blood spilled than gold.”

  Part IV

  LEGENDS, LIES

  AND LEGACIES

  chapter 60

  F

  or a long time Wrayan Lightfinger knew nothing but blinding pain, as if his head had exploded and left his brains splattered all over the inside of his skull. He couldn’t move; might never be able to move again. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel his legs. Or his fingers.

  He knew he’d been hurt; probably beyond help.

  Time lost all meaning. Wrayan drifted in and out of consciousness so often it became his whole existence. Sometimes there was blessed peace for a while, but the relief was temporary. Other times he woke to agonising pain. Sometimes he felt as if he had drifted out of his body and was looking at the world from above it. He had flashes of memory on occasion. And dreams. Dreams that seemed too real to be a work of imagination. And there were faces. Beautiful faces. Beautiful, silent strangers with eyes as black as onyx, inhuman in their whispering serenity.

  I’m dying, Wrayan decided.

  Whatever had happened to him, the pain burned through his brain, damaging him physically as well as mentally. Through the ache he could feel the hand of Death on his shoulder, waiting to lead him into the afterlife.

  Only the beautiful strangers held him at bay.

  There was a story Wrayan had heard as a child; a story about how when Harshini died, unlike mortal men, Death took them body and soul. Have I got enough Harshini in me for Death to want both my body and my soul? Wrayan wondered during a rare bout of lucidity. He looked around him but nothing was familiar. Everything was white. Blurred. As if he was looking at the world through an oily lens. Wherever he was, it was no place he had seen in the mortal world. He drifted off and the dream came back again. The dream that lingered just out of reach, with the answers to all his questions. The dream that served only to confuse him more . . .

  “Wrayan.”

  He always wanted to open his eyes to see who was calling his name, but even in his dream only a part of him remained anchored to his corporeal body. The rest of him was in retreat, hiding from something fearful. He couldn’t speak; couldn’t even indicate that he’d heard someone calling his name.

  “He’s too far gone,” the unknown voice of his dream remarked. “And I’m no healer.”

  The dream always started like that. Disembodied voices talking about him as if they were unaware he could hear them.

  “But he needs help,” a younger voice always replied.

  “Then call Cheltaran. This boy needs the God of Healing.”

  “He’ll claim I’m interfering with the natural course of events.”

  “That’s because you are.” The older voice sounded impatient, irritated.

  “He needs magical help to heal him. Besides, you can’t let him die,” the younger voice insisted. “He hasn’t finished honouring me yet.”

  It was Dacendaran, Wrayan always realised at this point. I sold my soul to the God of Thieves. He didn’t know how he knew that, but somehow he did. Or maybe I’m delirious and this is my final madness-filled nightmare. Wrayan had heard your life was supposed to flash before your eyes just before you died. He’d never heard of anybody having bizarre dreams involving gods and unnamed strangers, though. But then, he’d never really had a conversation with someone who’d just died, so he’d never been in a position to interrogate anyone about it.

  “I should do the lad a favour and let him die,” the other voice replied heavily. “Do you have any idea what you’re asking, Dace? I don’t even know if I can get through the Gateway with a human.”

  “He’s Harshini.”

  “Not enough for it to matter to the Gatekeeper.”

  “Look, if you don’t want to help, Brakandaran,” Dace pouted, “just say so.”

  “I don’t want to help.”

  At this point, Wrayan always became convinced this was some muddled-up montage of everything he’d seen and heard in his long forgotten past; his broken mind’s last-ditch attempt to scrape up some hope of salvation before it gave way to oblivion.

  “But you have to!” the God of Thieves insisted. “He’s dying!”

  “The lad’s as good as dead, Dace,” the Halfbreed pointed out with callous practicality. “His mind has been scoured. Even if you could fix it, without Cheltaran’s direct intervention, it would take months, maybe years.”

  “The Harshini could fix him.”

  “Why would they want to?”

  “Lorandranek likes humans.”

  “A minute ago you were claiming the lad was Harshini.”

  Lorandranek, the Harshini King? Wrayan wished he could see the people in his dream more clearly. He wished he could put a face to the man he knew only from legend. There were a lot of names for Brakandaran. The Halfbreed. The Deathmaker. In Medalon they called him the Sister Slayer, because of the death he’d meted out during the first Purge, but that was more than a hundred and fifty years ago now. The Sisters of the Blade probably thought Brakandaran was dead. For that matter, even in Hythria and Fardohnya, most people thought Brakandaran was dead.

  Wrayan wasn’t sure why he could remember such detailed historical information yet was able to recall little more of his own past than his name.

  “Well, he is Harshini. A bit.”

  In his dream, Brakandaran fell silent for a time at this point and, even though he’d dreamed this scene a thousand times, Wrayan always worried the Halfbreed would refuse to help him.

  “All right then,” Brak replied after an agonisingly long pause.

  “You’ll take him? And you’ll promise to make him better? So he ran finish honouring me?’

  There was silence for a time. Wrayan wondered if the dream was over and if, this time, the voices had stopped because he was about to die.

  But it wasn’t over yet. “Someone’s coming,” Brakandaran warned.

  “It’s the Innate who hurt him,” Dace replied. “And another human. A woman.”

  “An Innate did this?” Brak asked, sounding concerned. “Maybe we didn’t clean the Library out as thoroughly as we thought?”

  “I could come back later and steal some more scrolls,” Dace offered brightly.

  “That may not be a bad idea,” the Halfbreed agreed. “But right now, let’s just get your boy out of here.”

  In his dream, someone scooped him up from the floor and carried him away from the base of the Seeing Stone. Wrayan heard more voices in the distance. Female voices. But he could never make out what they were saying because, at that point, he was always swallowed by the bla
ckness, only to dream the dream once more and puzzle over the inhumanly beautiful faces of the silent, black-eyed guardians who watched over him.

  In time, however, the dream occurred less often, until eventually it stopped completely and even the details began to fade from Wrayan’s memory. The pain receded and finally faded away completely. The silent, black-eyed guardians became less ephemeral, more real; until they resolved into Boborderen and Janarerek, the two Harshini healers who had nursed him back to health. The blurry whiteness took form and became the white walls of a palace.

  And the voices he barely remembered from his dream acquired faces and bodies, and Wrayan awoke to discover he was in Sanctuary, the fabled, magically concealed hideaway of the last of the Harshini.

  Wrayan remembered little of his life before Sanctuary. There was a hole in his memory, filled with blurry, half-formed images from his former life that never seemed to resolve themselves into coherent memories. Wrayan knew he was human. He knew he’d been hurt—badly—by magic, but he couldn’t grasp who had done this to him, or how he’d wound up in a battle with another sorcerer in the first place.

  The Harshini assured him his memory would return in time. These things have a way of healing themselves, Boborderen and Janarerek promised. You just have to be patient.