“What do you want?”
“What everyone else seems to be getting a piece of lately.”
“Find your own bed, Terin. I’m not in the mood.”
“You’re my wife,” he reminded her, stepping into the room and closing the door. “Your mood is of no consequence to me.”
Tejay glared at him. “Do you remember the last time you tried to lay a hand on me, uninvited?”
“I remember. And you’ll pay for that, too.”
“And who’s going to make me pay, Terin? You?”
“Perhaps I’ll make your lover pay,” he suggested, as he approached her. “Maybe I’ll write to the High Prince. I’m sure he’d be interested in learning what his nephew’s been doing with another man’s wife.”
He stopped in front of her, but she wasn’t afraid of him. Not physically. The only thing she feared about this man was that he had the power to take her children from her, but even then, she’d done what she could to protect them. She had possession of them, out of his reach, and the High Prince’s heir on her side. The rest was up to the gods.
Tejay shook her head, amused at the notion. “You’re going to be sorely disappointed, Terin, if you’re relying on Lernen Wolfblade’s moral compass to serve your own private agenda.”
Her husband grabbed her by the arms and pulled her to him. He tried to kiss her but she turned her face away, making it clear what she thought of his touch.
What happened, she wondered, as Terin’s stubbled chin scratched at her face, to the girl who was prepared to lie down and take whatever she must for the sake of her family, her province, her nation?
She’s had enough, another silent voice answered.
Terin’s grasp was bruising her arms, his breath smelled of wine and he was furious she refused to respond to him. This wasn’t about desire, she knew. This was Terin trying to prove he had power over her.
“Get your hands off me, Terin Lionsclaw,” she told him calmly. “Or I will break your neck.”
Angrily, Terin pushed her away. “Whore! You’ll give it up for a princeling, but your own husband isn’t good enough for you, is he?”
“I will tell you this one more time, Terin,” she told him in a level voice, clenching her fists by her side to stop herself from strangling him. One Warlord, she reminded herself, in a chilling echo of Rorin’s words in Krakandar. We’re one dead Warlord away from disaster. “I am not now, nor have I been at any time in the past, Damin Wolfblade’s lover. I been can’t help it if you don’t believe me. I do suggest, however, that you think very hard before accusing my alleged paramour of something you can’t substantiate. No doubt you’ve heard what happened in Krakandar to Mahkas Damaran. He was family. I doubt my foster-brother will be quite so gentle with you if you make him lose his temper.”
Terin was a little drunk, but he wasn’t so far gone that he failed to heed Tejay’s warning. He’d tried to bully her once before and come off second best. And he feared Damin for any number of reasons, but mostly because he was physically bigger and politically more powerful. Terin was intimidated by things like that.
“If I catch you with him, you’ll both die!” he threatened, determined to get the last word in.
“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Are we done now?”
Terin glared at her. “Whore!”
“You said that already.”
When Terin couldn’t think of an answer, he turned on his heel and stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind him. Tejay stared after him, shaking her head at the foolishness of all men and with nothing resolved and a long night ahead of her trying to figure it out, she resumed her restless pacing.
CHAPTER 24
Damin trained each morning with Narvell, Almodavar and their senior officers, as well as those Sunrise officers who wished to take part in the bouts. It was a habit drilled into the young prince from an early age by the old captain and a much needed release for his pent-up frustration. Mindful of the reason Charel Hawksword had sent Narvell out to challenge him on the border, Damin made a point of letting his younger brother win, every now and then. This morning, however, Narvell hadn’t come down to the yards and as Damin was feeling particularly restless, he trained with Almodavar instead.
Although well into his fifties, there was no other man in his service Damin trusted as much. Almodavar was the only man Damin wasn’t afraid of injuring seriously if he didn’t hold back. If anything, he knew he’d find himself in trouble if he gave the fight anything less than his all.
Almodavar, after all, had punished Damin as a child for failing to kill him when he had the chance.
“Damin!”
He turned at the call to find Narvell hurrying along the vine-covered walkway behind him. Damin was heading back to his rooms in the sprawling Cabradell Palace to clean up after his training bout before confronting whatever round of fresh calamities were likely to find him this day. He was sweaty and dusty and bleeding from several small nicks Almodavar had inflicted on him when he foolishly let his guard down. The wind was chilly on his bare flesh as it whistled off the distant snow-capped Sunrise Mountains in the west, down through the Cabradell Valley and along the open walkways of the palace. Damin hadn’t wanted to get blood on his shirt, so he carried it in his left hand, leaving his nicks and bruises for all the world to see.
Narvell stopped when he caught up with his brother and eyed him curiously. “Was there a war this morning and I missed it?” he asked.
“I trained with Almodavar.”
“It looks like he tried to kill you.”
Damin shrugged. “He looks worse. Where were you this morning?”
“I had … something else to do.”
“Did that something else involve Kendra Warhaft?”
Narvell avoided meeting his eye. “You’re going to get mad at me if I say yes, aren’t you?”
Damin sighed at his brother’s recklessness. “She’s supposed to be under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective. If Warhaft catches you two …”
“He won’t,” Narvell promised.
“Famous last words, Narvell. Can’t you just let things be until we speak to Lernen?”
“That could be months from now!”
“Deal with it, little brother,” Damin told him unsympathetically. “I’ve stretched the limits of my power about as far as they’ll go to keep her away from her husband for you. I can’t do anything more to protect her—or you—if Warhaft finds you breaking our agreement.”
“We’ll be careful …”
Damin frowned, thinking if Narvell understood the meaning of the word careful, he wouldn’t be trying to sneak time alone with Kendra in the first place. “Where was Rorin while you two were so blithely courting disaster?”
“He was there … sort of.”
“Define sort of.”
“He was in the next room.”
“Right after we have a little chat about the definition of careful, I’m going to have a talk with my pet sorcerer about the meaning of the word chaperone.”
“It wasn’t his fault …” Narvell hesitated at the sound of footsteps, glanced past Damin to see who approached and then warmly greeted Lady Lionsclaw.
“Tejay!”
Damin turned to find the lady of the house walking toward them, dressed in a sleeveless blue gown, her thick blond hair arranged to perfection, a slave at her side taking notes as she issued orders about the daily running of the vast Cabradell Palace, the very picture of the perfect Warlord’s wife. She stopped when she saw the two of them, pulling her shawl around her bare arms against the cold, dismissed the slave and then, as Narvell had, eyed Damin’s battered body curiously.
“Have fun working out this morning, did we, your highness?”
“I trained with Almodavar. There’s no better sparring partner when one is looking for something to hit, so one doesn’t fall for the temptation of venting their frustration on one’s host.”
She smiled. “Have you considered the possibility, Damin, t
hat Almodavar really does want to kill you?”
“Actually, the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion,” he laughed, and then he glanced down at the bruises on Tejay’s upper arms which she was trying to hide with her shawl and his smile faded into a scowl. “What’s your excuse?”
Puzzled, she looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”
He took her arm, pushed the shawl aside and held it up so she could see the bruises. “Who’s been trying to kill you?”
Tejay impatiently shook her arm free. “It’s nothing, Damin. I was just clumsy, that’s all.”
“But those bruises look like handprints,” Narvell pointed out with concern. “Did someone attack you, my lady?”
The Warlord’s wife laughed at the very notion, but it was forced and Damin could tell she was lying. “Don’t be foolish, Narvell. I can fight better than most of Sunrise’s Raiders, What man would be foolish enough to—?”
“I can think of one,” Damin cut in ominously.
She shook her head at him. “This is none of your business, Damin.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
Tejay put a restraining hand on his arm. “I can deal with it, Damin. I don’t need a protector.”
“Well, you’ve got one, my lady,” he informed her, shaking off her touch as he changed his mind about returning to his room. “Whether you want it or not.”
Terin was in the main hall holding court when Damin found him. The doors banged open as the prince pushed his way into the hall, his anger controlled but no less dangerous for that.
One unexpected outcome of his altercation with Mahkas was that Damin had acquired a reputation for being unpredictable when enraged. People who had heard the story and didn’t know him well now treated him with a degree of cautious fear he’d never encountered before, particularly if they thought he was angry. At first it amused him, and then it began to irritate him. Right now, it seemed a rather useful reputation to have acquired. People scurried out of his way as he approached the business end of the hall, their eyes full of apprehension.
Renulus stood at his lord’s right hand, whispering something to his master. Damin pushed his way through the petitioners until he was standing in front of the podium that held Terin’s throne. The throne and the elaborate silk banner on the wall behind it bearing the lion’s head escutcheon of the Lionsclaw House were new, Damin thought. Terin’s father, Chaine Lionsclaw—the baseborn son of a nobleman who rose to the rank of Warlord—had never felt the need to rule his province from a throne.
Sensing Damin’s mood, Renulus stepped between the prince and his lord, drawing himself up pompously. “I’m sorry, your highness, but we’re in session here and you don’t have an appointment.”
Damin replied by belting the fool in the mouth. It wasn’t much, just a short, sharp jab, but it had the desired effect. Howling in pain, Renulus dropped to the floor at Damin’s feet, nursing a split and swollen lip.
Interestingly, only one of the guards flanking Terin made a move to intervene.
Damin glared at him. “Back off.”
The guard stepped smartly back into place, stood at attention and didn’t move another muscle.
Wiping the blood from his mouth, and blubbering in protest, Renulus began to climb to his feet. With his foot, Damin shoved the Karien backwards. “I’ll tell you when you can get up.”
The Karien thought about it for a moment, and then wisely stayed on the floor, muttering unhappily about uncontrollable brutes while dabbing at his bruised and still-bleeding lip.
On the throne, Terin glanced down at his seneschal’s bloody mouth and then leaned back against the cushions and began to applaud slowly. “Behold the mighty Damin Wolfblade,” he mocked. “Is this how you intend to rule us when you’re High Prince, your highness? By throwing your royal fist around?”
“You’d know all about throwing your fist around, wouldn’t you, Terin?”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your wife.”
The Warlord smiled. “Why? Do you think you have some claim on my wife?” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Ah. I see what this is about. Surely you’re not going to get all hot and bothered over a few bruises acquired during a … conjugal engagement … between a husband and his wife, are you? Besides demonstrating a rather squeamish side to your character, your highness, it’s not really any of your business.”
Damin stepped up to Terin’s throne, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him out of his seat with one hand, holding him a few inches from his own face.
“I’m making it my business,” he warned with a snarl, watching Terin shrink back from him in fear. “And if I ever see so much as a hair out of place on Tejay’s head again, I will break your spine into so many pieces your children will be able to use it to play knucklebones.” He shook Terin’s limp form to emphasise his point. “Do you understand that, or are you too stupid?”
“How dare you stand in my own hall and tell everyone I’m stupid!” Terin gasped in a show of defiant bravado.
Damin let him go with a shove. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was a secret.”
He turned on his heel and headed toward the door. It was only as an afterthought that he glanced over his shoulder at Renulus, still cowering on the floor.
“You can get up now,” he said and then pushed through to the doors at the end of the hall and headed back to his suite to wash away the blood and the dust from his body, wishing there was some way of washing away the sour taste in his mouth that seemed to develop every time he had to deal with Terin Lionsclaw.
CHAPTER 25
By the time they reached Greenharbour, Kalan and Wrayan were saddle sore, weary, mightily sick of travelling, and a little surprised to find the city gates open when they arrived. The High Prince had ordered them opened only the day before, one of the sentries on the gate informed them, when they stopped to learn what news they could about the state of affairs inside Greenharbour’s walls. The plague appeared to be on the wane, the guard told them, and the High Prince was anxious to get rid of the bodies before another batch of diseases had time to incubate as a result of all those rotting cadavers lying about the city.
As they pushed through the crowded streets, they passed scores of work crews wearing rags tied across their faces against the smell, loading dead bodies in various stages of putrefaction onto wagons to be taken outside the city and disposed of in the mass graves they’d passed on the way in. Wrayan gagged at the smell, wishing they could ride faster to escape the stench of death and decay, but there was no easy way to push through the streets without trampling scores of people with stunned, grief-stricken eyes who seemed to be roaming Greenharbour without purpose or hope.
It took several hours before they reached Marla’s townhouse. When Marla’s housekeeper opened the door to them, they were so travel-stained and weary she almost refused them entry until she realised it was her mistress’s own daughter standing on the threshold.
. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” the housekeeper gushed, standing back to let them into the foyer before dropping into a deep curtsey when she realised who it was. “I wasn’t expecting you and we’ve been having some rather strange guests of late.”
“It’s all right, Cadella. Is my mother home?”
“No, my lady. She’s at the palace. I’m expecting her back shortly, though.”
“This is Master Lightfinger,” Kalan told the slave. “Could you arrange for rooms to be made ready for us? And a bath. I doubt I’ll ever be able to wash away the stink of this city, but I’d certainly like to try.”
“Aye, it’s bad out there at the moment, my lady. Can I get you some refreshment?”
“Thank you, Cadella. We’ll take it in the hall.”
Cadella bowed again and hurried away to tend her visitors. Wrayan followed Kalan into the hall, looking around with interest. He’d only seen Marla’s private palace once before, many years ago, when Kalan was j
ust a toddler. That was the night he arranged the introduction between Princess Marla and the Raven, the head of the Hythrun Assassins’ Guild. He’d not had time that night to study the place in detail, but he was fairly certain the room had changed.
The last time Wrayan had been here, Marla was the wife of Nash Hawksword and the decor reflected his taste as much as hers. Now it was all Marla, from the carefully placed knick-knacks on the shelves down to the scattered, multicoloured cushions that seemed to pick up every hue woven into the expensive, imported Fardohnyan rugs.
“Oh, gods! No!”
Wrayan looked around and discovered Kalan had wandered out through the tall open windows and onto the terrace and the small walled garden beyond. He hurried out after her and found her standing on the lawn, looking down at two fresh graves. He slowed as he neared them, reading the headstones curiously. One of the graves—not surprisingly—was Ruxton Tirstone’s final resting place. The other had simply one name carved into the wooden marker. Elezaar.
“Not Elezaar, too,” he sighed, when he read it. “The plague must have taken him.”
“Not the plague, Master Lightfinger,” Cadella informed them.
They both turned to look at the housekeeper curiously. She placed the tray she was carrying on a small table by the door and stepped out onto the terrace.
“What happened, Cadella?” Kalan asked.
“Can’t say for certain, my lady.” The housekeeper shrugged. “He disappeared a few weeks ago. We’d just about given him up for dead when he came back all grubby and dishevelled, like. He walked in, sat down, talked to the princess for ten minutes or so and then keeled over. I didn’t even realise there was anything amiss until Master Rodja came by to speak to your mother about an hour later and he opened the door and found her holding the dwarf’s poor dead body, sobbing like a child.”
Kalan looked at Wrayan with concern. “Mother must be devastated. She relied on Elezaar for everything.”
“She’s not herself,” Cadella agreed. “And it doesn’t help having the Assassins’ Guild around here every five minutes, banging the door down and making a scene.”
Warlord Page 19
