Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  It really was time to go home, Marla decided. She looked around for Nash, but couldn’t see him anywhere. Instinctively, she looked for Alija, her heart sinking to the bottom of her ribcage when she realised the new High Arrion was missing, too.

  Would they dare it? Here in the Sorcerers’ Collective? At Kagan’s funeral?

  Why not? Marla thought bitterly. He made love to me the first time in broad daylight in the gardens of Krakandar Palace and that didn’t bother him at all. Nash gets a kick out of flirting with danger.

  Noticing it was dark outside, Marla wondered if they were on the balcony, the darkness offering the lovers some protection. She was headed that way when she saw Alija standing in a small group of people by the main entrance. Nowhere near the balcony. Nowhere near Nash.

  “This is ridiculous!” she whispered to herself, under her breath. And it had to stop. She was tearing herself to pieces for no good reason.

  “Are you all right, darling?” Nash asked, coming up behind Marla and taking her arm. “You look quite pale.”

  “Can we go home, Nash?” she asked. “I need to ask you something.”

  “If you want,” he shrugged. “It’s late enough that we can get away without offending anyone, I suppose. Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

  “Just take me home, Nash.”

  “Are you having an affair with Alija Eaglespike?”

  Marla blurted it out in the carriage before she could stop herself. They weren’t even through the gates of the Sorcerers’ Collective. She wanted to die for asking such a thing. But as soon as she took her seat in the carriage she saw the tear in the upholstery where the crossbow bolt had landed. The bolt aimed at her son’s head.

  She had to know before the doubt and the fear drove her insane.

  Nash laughed at her foolishness. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “I have a witness, Nash. Someone who saw you in Alija’s bed.”

  “As we’re not in the habit of inviting an audience, my love, I don’t see how you could have anybody who saw us.”

  Marla stared at him in shock.

  Nash took a few seconds to realise what he’d said, and then he shrugged philosophically. “That came out rather more . . . honestly . . . than I planned.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” Marla asked, surprisingly calm.

  He looked out of the window into the darkness, unable to meet her eye.

  “If you insist on knowing the sordid details, then yes, my love. It’s true.”

  “Stop calling me that!” she snapped, the only outward sign of her torment. “How long has it been going on?”

  “Marla, there’s really no need to—”

  “How long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “How long? A week, a month? A year? Two years? Five? Ten? How long?”

  He sighed and stared out into the darkness again. “The first time was the year you married Laran. Barnard° invited me to Dregian for the Summer Hunt. I took a spill from my horse one afternoon and went back to the castle early. Alija and I got to talking . . . one thing led to another . . . you know how it is . . .”

  “Actually, I don’t know how it is, Nash. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “Marla—”

  “And when you came to Krakandar? Was it really to visit Laran? Or to woo me? Did Alija put you up to it? Is that why you said you loved me, Nash? Because Alija ordered you to?”

  “Marla, don’t do this to yourself—”

  “I want to know, Nash!”

  “Alija told me you were in love with me. I suppose I wanted to see for myself.”

  “So you seduced me? Just to see if I was in love with you? You unbelievably arrogant bastard!”

  “Don’t sit there getting all self-righteous on me, Marla. my love,” he retorted, starting to lose patience with her. “You didn’t rake a whole lot of seducing, as I recall. And you were still married to Laran when you jumped me in that grotto in Krakandar Palace. Check if your own sheets are dirty before demanding that I change mine.”

  “I wasn’t cheating on Laran. I was a widow. He was already dead when I slept with you the first time, Nash.”

  “But you didn’t know that, your highness,” he pointed out harshly. “So don’t start looking down your royal nose at my transgressions. You’ve a few of your own, you know.”

  Marla couldn’t believe he was just sitting there so calmly, as the carriage jolted along, not denying a thing. It was almost as if he was proud of it.

  Or tired of waiting, the traitor in her head suggested. Alija is High Arrion now. Perhaps he’s simply had enough.

  “Did you have anything to do with the attack on Damin, Nash?”

  She expected him to deny it, but instead he smiled unpleasantly. “My, we really do have the knives out tonight, don’t we?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Does it matter?” he shrugged. “You seem to already know if I’m guilty or not. Why should I add to your entertainment by confirming your suspicions?” “You should be denying them.”

  “Would there be any point?”

  “Please tell me you didn’t try to have Laran’s son killed so Lernen would make your son his heir.” She hoped desperately that she didn’t sound like she was begging. It felt like she was begging.

  Nash was silent for a long time before he answered. When he did, his answer took her completely by surprise. “You will ruin Damin with your coddling long before he can become High Prince, Marla. If I choose to do what I believe is in the best interests of Hythria, I don’t expect you to understand. Damin cannot be what you want him to be; what Hythria needs him to be. He’s a wilful, spoilt little monster and your smothering love will only make him worse. I can’t stand by and watch another Wolfblade like Lernen sitting on the throne.”

  She was aghast at his reasoning. “For Hythria you would murder my son?”

  “I’m a Patriot, Marla,” Nash replied coldly. “For Hythria I would do anything.”

  As the carriage rolled to a stop outside their house, Marla, numb with grief and despair, recalled wondering on the day of the attack: Who could be heartless enough to order the assassination of a four-year-old child?

  Apparently, she had her answer.

  chapter 89

  A

  ll her life, Marla had had someone to whom she could turn to make the hard decisions for her. Lydia and Frederak were there all through her childhood, then Lernen decided who she should marry, and then Laran was there. Then Nash . . .

  All her life there had been a man to tell her what to do. Until now. Force of habit sent Marla to the palace to seek her brother’s counsel after she’d confronted Nash, feeling sick to the stomach at the idea she’d been so grandly deluded. She knew it was her own fault. Nash had been playing to a very willing audience. On the way to the palace, she remembered a conversation with Kagan at the ball in Greenharbour the night she first met Nash. What had he said? Don’t be stupid, girl! You met him for less than five minutes and wove an entire fantasy around a misunderstanding. You don’t know him; you don’t know anything about him. If only she’d taken that advice. But her youthful arrogance didn’t allow for the possibility that she might be wrong about Nash Hawksword. I happen to be an excellent judge of character, she’d told the High Arrion that night.

  Ah, yes, Kagan Palenovar had replied. The lady who decided she was in love based on a conversation consisting of two whole sentences.

  Marla wanted to be in love—and to be loved—so badly that she would have believed anything Nash told her, if it meant fulfilling her fantasy of finding true love and living happily ever after.

  Well, there is no happily ever after. Marla realised that now. All that was left was vengeance. And to protect her children.

  With Kagan dead—not that she would have asked his advice anyway—and Elezaar on his way to Krakandar, the only man left in Greenharbour who she might trust with the burden of her grief was her brother. She wasn’t hopeful of getting much
sense out of him, but he was the High Prince. That ought to be worth something.

  When she arrived at the palace, the seneschal informed her that the prince was about to retire to his garden on the roof of the west wing. Marla had no intention of visiting him in that revolting den of iniquity, so she ordered the man to bring her brother to her. Lernen and his disgusting little friends had far too many games going on in the roof garden for her to deliberately place herself within their reach. There seemed to be some sort of unwritten rule that said if you stepped into the garden, you were willing to play the game. She wasn’t, so she sent the seneschal to demand her brother be brought to her and that she would be waiting in his private audience chamber.

  Marla stared at the walls, shaking her head, as she stepped into the chamber. The silk hangings had been removed and the room was in the process of being redecorated with several very explicit murals. The uncompleted diagrams seemed to involve a lot of nymphs, Harshini and other creatures of fable, a lot of very handsome young men with a startling resemblance to Lernen and a number of sexual positions that Marla was sure were physically impossible.

  The table in the centre of the room was scattered with scrolls. She glanced at them, a little concerned. This was the work normally done by Kagan, she suspected, when he visited the palace each day. And yet it was sitting here neglected, while Lernen played in his garden.

  Muttering a curse at her brother’s recklessness, she moved a little closer to examine the drawings on the walls, tilting her head until her ear was resting on her shoulder, trying to figure out how one could get that part of one’s anatomy into that part of another person’s anatomy from that angle, whilst standing on a pedestal with one foot in the air.

  “A friend of mine tried that once,” Lernen told her as he walked up beside her. He examined the diagram and laughed. “Put his back out quite badly, as I recall.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Marla remarked. She turned to look at him and frowned. He was wearing a short loincloth, a pair of stag’s antlers tied to his head, and his face was heavily made-up, his eyes outlined in kohl, his lips reddened with berry paste. He looked like a fool.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I was just going out into the garden,” he told her, a little defensively. “With my friends.”

  “Your idea of mourning, I suppose?”

  “Kagan wouldn’t have wanted me to stop living, just because he’s dead. Life goes on, you know, Marla.”

  “And what about all this?” she asked, waving a hand in the direction of the cluttered table.

  Lernen shrugged. “Kagan used to deal with it.”

  “Kagan’s dead,” Marla pointed out bluntly.

  “Then perhaps the new High Arrion—”

  “Alija? I don’t think so!”

  “I thought you liked her?”

  “I’ve changed my mind.”

  Lernen shrugged helplessly. “I’m not very good with this sort of thing, Marla. Kagan never made me deal with anything I didn’t have to.”

  “You’re the High Prince of Hythria, Lernen. You should be dealing with all of it!”

  “I know,” he sighed. “What did you want to see me about?”

  Help me! Marla had been planning to say. I need your advice. I know my husband is cheating on me. He’s as good as admitted that he arranged the murder of my son. I’m not sure, but I think the new High Arrion is also in on the plot. What should I do?

  But she hesitated. Perhaps, for the first time in her life, Marla looked at her brother and saw him for what he really was. And at that moment, she realised just how alone she was. There was no help to be had here. Lernen wasn’t going to advise her. He was just going to whine about the amount of work he was burdened with and let Hythria fall into wrack and ruin. Marla might not have approved of Kagan’s method of dealing with the High Prince, but for the first time she thought she understood it.

  She forced a smile. “I came to offer my help.”

  “What?”

  “I thought you might like my help,” she repeated. “With all this stuff Kagan left you to deal with. I thought maybe I could come to the palace each morning for a few hours and sort through it for you. You know, weed out the stuff you don’t need to see and just save the important bits for you. I mean, you need the help obviously, and Alija certainly won’t offer to aid you.”

  Lernen smiled, delighted by the idea. “Would you do that?”

  “It’s the least I can do, brother,” she said. “And perhaps, when he’s a little older, I can bring Damin along and he can start to learn about the responsibilities of being the High Prince.”

  “That’s an excellent idea!”

  She smiled and leaned forward to kiss his rouged cheek. “I’ll come back tomorrow then,” she said. “You go and . . . do whatever it is you do in your garden. I’ll take care of everything for you, Lernen.”

  “I’ll see you’re rewarded for your kindness, Marla.”

  Kindness has nothing to do with it, you idiot, Marla felt like telling him. This is about power, and if you don’t know what to do with it, then I do. She remembered what it felt like, sitting opposite the First Sister of Medalon and negotiating that treaty after Laran died. She’d enjoyed that. Better yet, she’d been good at it. She belonged in the halls of power. She had the ability—and, more importantly, the will—to govern that her brother lacked.

  So be it. She was the mother of Hythria’s heir. Marla had a duty to her son. Damin deserved a legacy that wasn’t falling into decay. And she was the High Prince’s sister, so nobody could deny her the right.

  Except her husband.

  But that wasn’t going to be a problem for much longer, she decided coldly, realising what she must do to protect her children. Her husband was guilty of so many crimes she could barely begin to list them all. Treason, adultery, attempted murder . . .

  A snap of her fingers and he would be made to pay. Vengeance was as close as her brother, standing there in his ridiculous stag horns. There was a name for what was wrong with her brother—his latest fetish, anyway. Elezaar had made her learn about it long ago, when she was a silly girl in Highcastle dreaming of that elusive “happily ever after”. Pseudozoophilia, they called it. The sexual fascination for creatures of myth. Of course, I could fill an encyclopaedia with a list of all the other bizarre fetishes my brother has, Marla thought. But so long as she was not required to indulge in them, so long as Lernen left her to do as she wished, he could do what he wanted in his garden on the west wing roof and she didn’t give a damn.

  Elezaar was right about that, too. Knowing what made her brother tick was going to be the only way to handle him.

  No, vengeance may be only a step away, but Marla wasn’t going to take that route. She wasn’t going to drag Nash’s name through the dirt. She wasn’t going to hurt Kalan or Narvell by leaving them a legacy of treason and mistrust. They would grow up believing their father was a good and noble man. She didn’t want Nash’s father cowed either, with the shame of learning his son had betrayed the Hawksword name with his treachery. Nash would be remembered as a wonderful father; a dutiful son.

  Marla had a much more effective, much more direct plan for dealing with Nashan Hawksword.

  All it was going to take was money.

  After all, that’s what we have an Assassins’ Guild for, isn’t it?

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, smiling at Lernen comfortingly.

  “There’s an awful lot there,” he pointed out, obviously relieved that she was going to take some of the burden from him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to get started today?”

  This is your fault, Kagan, she lamented silently to the old man’s ghost. Lernen might not have been the intellectual giant you wanted as High Prince, but you didn’t do any of us any favours by keeping him away from his duties.

  “I can’t I’m afraid,” she told him. “I have another appointment. Something very important I have to take care of. But I’ll be here first thing tomor
row.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise, brother,” she told him with a reassuring smile. “You can always count on me.”

  Accept what you cannot change—change that which is unacceptable.

  It was Elezaar’s Second Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power.

  Marla made a detour on the way home that meant she was late for lunch. By the time she arrived, the twins were down for their afternoon nap. She kissed their unlined foreheads, cautioned the guards standing over their beds to remain silent and not disturb her children, and went to find Damin. He and Starros were in the nursery with Lirena who was knitting by the window while the boys played with a puzzle Elezaar had found for Starros in the markets for his sixth birthday.

  “Look, Mama!” Damin cried as she knelt beside him. “We fixed it!”

  “You broke it,” Starros complained. “That bit doesn’t go there!”

  “Does too!”

  “No, it doesn’t!” Starros insisted, moving an incorrect piece into the correct place, not the least bit intimidated by his young companion.

  “Listen to Starros, Damin,” Marla ordered. “Wanting to be right doesn’t make it so. The piece goes there, where he said it did.”

  Damin tossed the last piece he was holding down in annoyance. “It’s a stupid puzzle, anyway. You wanna get the swords, Starros?”

  The young fosterling calmly finished the puzzle then looked at Damin thoughtfully.

  “I’ll let you get the first hit in.”

  He thought about it for a moment longer then looked at Marla questioningly. “Is that all right, your highness?”

  “Of course it is. Off you go, Starros. Damin, come here and give me a kiss before you go.”

  Damin brushed her cheek hurriedly and then ran outside to find the wooden swords one of the guards had fashioned for the boys. Damin was much more excited about it than Starros, who was far more studious than his foster brother.

  “He’s going to be a handful, that one,” Lirena remarked sagely from her chair by the window.

  “Who? Damin?”

  “Doesn’t like to lose,” the old nurse noted with a slight frown.