Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “I’ll catch up,” Brak promised. Unconcerned, Andreanan nodded and walked off toward the tables. Brak turned to Wrayan with a frown. It was probably the only frown in the whole of Sanctuary this night.

  “One more bit of advice,” Brak said. “While you’re finding ‘much happiness’ tonight, don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re in love.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These are the Harshini, Wrayan, and they might look mostly human, but it’s the ‘mostly’ that sets them apart. They don’t love like humans. They’re not monogamous. They don’t understand jealousy or the concept of adultery. They have no grasp of faithfulness and think the human desire to remain with one partner for life to be ridiculous in the extreme. The woman you make love to in the next hour might be making love to me an hour after she’s done with you and another woman an hour after that. Don’t read more into this than really exists. You’re the only one who’ll be hurt because the Harshini will just think you’re crazy.”

  Having delivered his dire warning, Brak headed off in the direction Andreanan had disappeared. Feeling even more confused than he had been before Brak offered his advice, Wrayan wandered among the food-laden tables, returning the smiles of the Harshini as they laughed and chatted to themselves in their own language. It had never really occurred to Wrayan until now that the Harshini didn’t speak Hythrun among themselves. They spoke his language when they addressed him, and were never rude enough to exclude him by falling into a conversation in another language when he could overhear, and, of course, speaking mind to mind involved no language as such, just feelings and pictures. But to hear their musical voices surrounding him, and not know what they were saying, left Wrayan feeling quite alone.

  For the first time since waking up in this magical place, he felt like a foreigner.

  Wrayan finished his wine with a gulp and was looking around for another when his glass magically refilled itself. Shrugging over this unexpected bounty, he wandered aimlessly through the party, smiling and returning greetings whenever he was offered them, being kissed into oblivion by a series of unbelievably beautiful women who then passed him over for their own menfolk, but as the evening wore on, and his glass kept refilling itself, no stunning Harshini came forward to present herself to him for anything more than that; no vision of loveliness stepped across his path and did more than kiss him, smile and move on. Disappointed and more than a little drunk, Wrayan headed away from the tables. He staggered through the amphitheatre, his head spinning from the potent wine, and stumbled down the valley towards the waterfall that supplied Sanctuary with its water. At the edge of his senses he could feel something strange going on, something he couldn’t understand, but in his current inebriated state, he didn’t have the wit to figure it out.

  The path to the pool beneath the waterfall was deserted, although a few times Wrayan passed couples in the bushes who had been heading for the pool perhaps, but had not made it that far before being overtaken by their desire to honour the Goddess of Love. Wrayan found their presence disturbing. It wasn’t that he was particularly prudish—he’d grown up in a society where court’esa were the norm—it was just that every couple, or trio (or whatever the Harshini found entertaining) he stumbled past reminded him that everyone in Sanctuary was honouring Kalianah this night but him.

  It just didn’t seem fair.

  By the time he reached the pool beneath the cascade, Wrayan was burning up. His skin was hot and dry and his head was spinning like one of those little fireworks they nailed to a wall and set alight on the Feast of Jashia, the God of Fire, back in Krakandar. He was starting to think he was sick. He didn’t even notice that he’d remembered something from his childhood that had, up until a moment ago, been lost to him.

  Wrayan reached the pool and stripped off his robes, plunging naked into the cool water. The shock left him gasping, but he forced himself deeper into the crystalline water until his feet no longer touched the bottom. The water seemed to clear his head a little. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, a narrow strip of star-sprinkled darkness far above the valley where Sanctuary was hidden. The cascade tumbled ceaselessly down the rocks above the pool from some three or four hundred feet above at the top of the valley. Floating on his back, Wrayan closed his eyes and let the calm water and the chilly spray from the waterfall cool his fevered body.

  “It’s time, don’t you think, Wrayan Lightfinger,” a voice whispered seductively behind him, “that you and I got to know each other a little better?”

  Wrayan turned around with a splash to find himself face to face with Shananara té Ortyn. She was treading water a mere hand-span from him, the crystal-clear droplets beading on her skin like condensation, her long hair floating out around her like a dark red cloud. The Harshini princess swam closer. She took his hand and raised it to her lips with a smile that promised a glimpse of paradise.

  “Can you feel it?” she asked softly.

  Wrayan was feeling a great deal, but he wasn’t sure if his . . . feelings were quite what the princess was enquiring about.

  “Feel what, your highness?” he asked, a little nervously.

  “Close your eyes,” she told him.

  Wrayan did as she commanded, with the realisation that the cool water no longer seemed very cool at all. It seemed to have been warmed by the heat of their bodies.

  “Your highness—”

  “Shh,” Shananara whispered. “Feel.”

  Wrayan wasn’t sure what she meant, but after a moment he became aware of the odd feeling that had followed him from the amphitheatre. It was bliss, ecstasy, rapture and delight all rolled into one. His skin began to burn hotter and hotter the more aware of it he became and he realised, with some alarm, that in addition to the heat, his body was reacting to the strange stimulus in a way that was impossible to hide in the crystal-clear water of the pool.

  “What is it?” he asked in wonder, opening his eyes to look at her.

  “Kalianah’s gift to the Harshini.” She smiled at his expression. Reaching out to him, she touched his face, wiping away the water drops that lined his upper lip with a feather-light touch of her thumb. “You can feel the Harshini, Wrayan. We’re linked to the same source. What you can feel is that joy being channelled. Humans can’t feel it normally. They’re aware of it, and it makes us seem irresistible to them, but they don’t understand what they’re feeling. Not consciously.”

  “But I can feel it.”

  “That’s because you’re part Harshini.”

  And that, it seemed, was enough for Shananara. She slid her hands around his neck and pulled him to her. Wrayan was too stunned to object. Her mouth tasted like the cool water of the pool mixed with the headiest wine—the taste of all his wildest fantasies distilled into the essence of pure hunger and desire. And then she embraced him with her mind as well as her body, her magic keeping them afloat, and Wrayan thought he might die.

  He quickly lost all sense of where he was, only the cold water caressing his inflamed skin and the hot touch of Shananara’s lithe and slender body against him seemed to register in the maelstrom of his befuddled mind. He felt her breasts against his chest as she wrapped her strong legs around him. He tried to pull her even closer, wishing there was some way to devour her whole. Wrayan had never experienced anything so intense or so consuming. This wasn’t just making love. This was much, much more. This was agony. It was bliss. This was where paradise and hell collided with each other.

  The world blurred around Wrayan as her touch became flame on his already-burning skin. Desire was all he could think of, blended with the sheer rapture of all the other Harshini sharing their experiences as well; the air crackled with lust, and joy, and a thousand other emotions that Wrayan was in no condition to identify.

  He couldn’t say later how long it lasted. It might have been a few moments or it might have been hours. All he knew was that when it was over, he could barely breathe and his body felt like it had been wrung out and tossed aside to dr
y. He staggered out of the water, a little surprised he hadn’t drowned, and collapsed onto the grassy shore. Shananara followed a moment later and sat down beside him, much more in command of her faculties than Wrayan was. He tried to sit up, but she smiled and drew his head down into her lap.

  “There, there, my love,” she whispered softly, stroking his damp hair. “Sleep now. You’ll feel better once you’ve rested.”

  Wrayan lacked the strength to answer her. He closed his eyes and, as he let fatigue overtake him, a thought wormed its way unbidden into his consciousness. What was it Brak had told him? You’ll be incoherent for days.

  Smiling, he let sleep steal over him, exhausted and spent in a way he had never imagined possible. Shananara held him while he fell asleep, crooning to him like a mother comforting a frightened child, and he drifted off into a world of misty veils and whispering kisses that seemed to have no end . . .

  And then his dreams were rudely shattered as he was shaken roughly awake. He blinked owlishly, squinting in the harsh sunlight that had risen over the rim of the valley. Wrayan had no idea what time it was but he was cold, a rock beneath his hip had left him with a stone-bruise, his head was pounding and his mouth felt drier than a Karien nun’s beer garden.

  Shananara was gone, as if she’d been nothing more than a dream.

  It was Brak who had woken him. The Halfbreed loomed over him, his pale eyes furious, his whole body radiating contained rage.

  “Wha—what?” Wrayan stammered in confusion.

  “Get dressed,” he ordered, tossing Wrayan’s discarded robe at him.

  Wrayan caught the white Harshini robe reflexively and struggled to sit up, pulling the garment self-consciously over his head. “Is something wrong?”

  Brak didn’t answer him. He just stood there, waiting for Wrayan to get dressed, glowering at him.

  “Brak? Is something wrong? What’s happened?”

  “You happened,” Brak informed him coldly.

  As soon as Wrayan was clothed and standing—albeit rather shakily—Brak pushed the young man ahead of him along the path back towards the fortress.

  “What do you mean, I happened?” Wrayan demanded, speaking over his shoulder as he stumbled up the path. “What have I done?”

  “What have you done?” the Halfbreed repeated incredulously. He shook his head in disgust, as if Wrayan should already know the answer.

  “But I didn’t do anything!”

  The Halfbreed didn’t seem impressed by his protestations of innocence. “You’re an idiot, Wrayan Lightfinger,” Brak told him unsympathetically. “A reckless, thoughtless, towering bloody idiot.”

  Wrayan stopped and turned to confront the Halfbreed, determined to uncover his obviously dreadful—and completely baffling—mistake before they took another step closer to the fortress. “I don’t understand, Brak! What have I done?”

  “You slept with Shananara.”

  “I know, but—”

  “She’s a té Ortyn.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Don’t you realise what that means?”

  “No!” he cried, wishing Brak would simply explain it to him.

  Brak sighed heavily. “There are more than a thousand women here in Sanctuary, Wrayan, and the only one you shouldn’t have gone near last night was the king’s niece.”

  “Is he angry?”

  Brak ground his teeth in frustration. “You just don’t get it, do you? Lorandranek isn’t angry. He isn’t capable of it. But you . . . you’re about ninety per cent human, by my reckoning.”

  “So?”

  “Sleeping with a member of the royal family is forbidden for humans. Didn’t anybody tell you that?”

  “Well, yes, but I didn’t hurt her, Brak,” he protested. “Anyway . . . well, it was Shananara who started it.”

  “I don’t care who started it, Wrayan. You slept with a té Ortyn Harshini, you fool.”

  “How much trouble am I really in?” he asked sheepishly, remembering the friendly, but stern warning Lorandranek had delivered the first time the king noticed the way Wrayan looked at Shananara.

  “Provided nothing comes of it, you’re in no trouble at all,” Brak informed him, which relieved Wrayan a great deal.

  And then the Halfbreed ruined everything by adding, “But if Shananara té Ortyn is pregnant, Wrayan, well, then you’ve just fathered a demon child.”

  chapter 72

  T

  he death of Laran Krakenshield caught Elezaar unawares and once again threw his future into doubt. It also left him suspicious about the circumstances of the Warlord’s unexpected death. After Marla related the details of his fall in battle, Elezaar began to wonder about the train of events that had taken Mahkas Damaran from penniless half-brother with a brother and two sisters to the wealthy sole ruler of two provinces and the only one of his siblings still alive, in the space of a little more than two years. There was an unfortunate trend emerging around the new Regent of Krakandar and Sunrise Provinces. It worried Elezaar a great deal. If there was some curse on Mahkas Damaran that placed his family under threat, Marla and her son—Mahkas’s sister-in-law and nephew—may also be in danger.

  And if anything happened to them, that was the end for Elezaar, too.

  Elezaar didn’t know Mahkas well. As far as possible, he avoided contact with the other members of the household, and Mahkas in particular. The dwarf was Marla’s slave and content to remain so. He had taken on the role of history tutor to Travin and Xanda because that would put him in the nursery on a daily basis. And it had paid off handsomely. Not only was Elezaar genuinely fond of Darilyn Taranger’s orphaned sons, but over the past two years he’d become so much a part of Damin Wolfblade’s world that nobody would think of taking him away from the child.

  His position was—had been—almost secure. But Laran Krakenshield was dead and his brother, Mahkas Damaran, was going to be ruling in his place until Damin came of age, which meant they were playing a different game now and Elezaar still hadn’t figured out the new rules.

  Elezaar wished Marla had consulted him before offering Mahkas the regency, although even if she had, there was little he could have done to prevent it. Marla was right about that much. There really was nobody else to take over the provinces and the only alternative was to place it in the hands of the Sorcerers’ Collective. That meant Kagan Palenovar now, but one day it might mean Alija Eaglespike and Elezaar hadn’t come this far just to fall under her influence again by default when the old High Arrion died.

  Marla had averted that potential disaster by insisting Mahkas assume the regency, but Elezaar still wasn’t happy about it. There was something about Mahkas Damaran that Elezaar didn’t like; some darkness in his soul lurking just beneath the surface, indefinable, vague, but somehow wrong. It niggled at Elezaar like a pebble in his shoe, so much so he felt compelled to raise the issue with his mistress a few days after she told him what she had done about Mahkas and the regency.

  “Are you sure it was wise to appoint your brother-in-law as Damin’s regent, your highness?” he asked as she was preparing to retire one evening, a few days after the news about Laran had reached them. He was leading his mistress into her dressing room, holding the large candelabrum to light her way, when he posed the question, as if it had only just occurred to him and was not something he’d been stewing on for days.

  “Even if it wasn’t wise, Elezaar,” she said, as she sat down at her dressing table to unpin her white mourning veil, “what other choice is there? Do you think I should let the Sorcerers’ Collective into Krakandar?”

  “Absolutely not!” he agreed, lifting the heavy silver candelabrum onto the table so that his mistress could see her reflection in the gilded mirror. “But it’s an awfully big responsibility for one man.”

  “Laran seemed to manage it quite well.”

  “Your late husband was an exceptional man, your highness,” Elezaar told her, thinking it would do no harm to speak well of the dead, even though he had often questi
oned Laran’s decisions privately to his mistress in order to keep her believing that she needed her court’esa’s counsel. “While Mahkas Damaran is capable, he’s not his brother.”

  “Are you saying he won’t cope?”

  “I think he’ll do well enough.”

  “But?” she asked, turning to face him.

  She looks tired, Elezaar thought, even in the candlelight. It had been a trying few days for the princess and was not likely to get any easier for a while yet. “Why do you think there’s a ‘but’ involved?”

  “I can tell, Elezaar,” she told him. “You just say things like that and let them hang, like you haven’t finished speaking yet. There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere. Tell me what it is.”

  “Very well,” he said, climbing onto the stool beside her dressing table. His feet didn’t touch the floor, but with the princess sitting down, he was almost eye level with her. “I don’t think you should try to keep both provinces. And I’m not sure Mahkas will be able to, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “Laran Krakenshield was the legitimate heir to Krakandar, highly respected and well thought of among his peers. His brother is none of these things. If anything, he has a reputation for being a bit reckless. The Warlords accepting Laran ruling two provinces is a world away from them accepting his half-brother.”

  “But I’m going to ask Lernen to confirm it. Do you think the Warlords will defy my brother?” She began to remove the pins from her hair, dropping them into a small crystal dish on the dressing table that Laran had given her as a gift on the first anniversary of their marriage. “I can have Lernen make this a decree, you know.”

  “I’m quite sure you could make the High Prince decree the sky is pink, your highness,” he informed her as the pins dropped with a metallic “plink” into the dish. “But that’s not the point. Your brother got away with confirming Laran as the heir to Sunrise because Laran was capable of doing the job. Laran held on to Sunrise Province and Krakandar because the other Warlords quickly realised he had no territorial ambitions beyond holding those two provinces. He gave Hythria the Hythrun-born heir she so desperately needed—”