“What did she have in mind?”
“Every High Prince needs a steward.”
Starros stopped dead and stared at the captain. “You think I’m capable of becoming Damin’s steward some day?”
“It’s not an unlikely scenario,” Almodavar replied. “You’re a bright lad. Damin trusts you. With the right training, you could be anything you want.”
“I’m a bastard fosterling, Almodavar,” Starros reminded the captain. “That sort of limits my options a little, don’t you think?”
“Hablet of Fardohnya’s chamberlain is a slave and a eunuch,” Almodavar pointed out. “And yet Lecter Turon is one of the most powerful men in Fardohnya.”
“Is losing your balls a job requirement?” Starros asked, a little alarmed.
The captain smiled. “Not unless you’re planning a career in Fardohnya.”
“Then I think I’ll stay right here in Hythria,” he replied with a shudder. “With all of me right where it belongs, thank you.”
“But you’ll give it some thought?”
“I suppose,” Starros shrugged, seeing no harm in agreeing to this. He couldn’t imagine himself ever being offered such a powerful position, despite how highly the princess thought of him. The best Starros thought he could really hope for was to become an officer in the Raiders, albeit one with very important and influential friends. “What sort of special training would I need?”
“I don’t really know. More lessons in economics, I guess. And history. Probably diplomacy. And protocol. Princess Marla has it all worked out, I don’t doubt.”
Starros smiled. “All the stuff Damin can’t sit still for.”
The captain nodded his agreement. “He’s going to have to learn to sit still some day,” he warned. “Damin has the makings of a formidable warrior, but he’s not going to make much of a High Prince if he can’t get his head around the things that really matter.”
“I thought the only thing that really mattered to a warrior was getting into a good fight?”
“Aye,” Almodavar agreed solemnly. “And I’ll grant you this—Damin is going to be an awesome fighter some day. But before you can tell if it’s a good fight, you have to know what it is you’re fighting for, Starros. That’s where you come in. A prince needs to know more than how to spill blood efficiently.
And that’s what Damin has yet to learn.”
“Do you think Damin will make a good High Prince?” Starros asked curiously.
“He’s only twelve,” Almodavar shrugged. “Ask me again when he’s thirty.”
“It’ll be a bit late by then.”
“Then we’ll just have to surround him with people like you. People we can trust to serve Hythria well.”
“Cover for him, you mean,” Starros suggested with a canny smile. “The way Princess Marla covers for High Prince Lernen.”
“You mind your tongue, boy. It’s not up to you to speculate about what Princess Marla is or isn’t doing.”
Their walk had taken them past the stables towards the riding yards where Damin’s stepsister, Rielle Tirstone, his cousin Leila and his half-sister Kalan were doing a circuit of low jumps under the careful watch of Krakandar’s Master of Horse, Jozaf Pasharn. Starros and the captain stopped to watch, leaning on the rail as, one after the other, the girls rode the course.
Rielle, the tall, flirtatious, sixteen-year-old sister of Rodja and Adham Tirstone, was riding a spirited grey mare but handling her well, guiding her over the jumps with the sure hand of an experienced horsewoman. Leila followed on a handsome gelding with a golden coat and deep chest that hinted at a touch of the prized sorcerer-bred bloodline in his ancestry. By contrast, Kalan’s piebald pony had the rugged look of a stock horse, which rather matched the way she was riding it.
“For the gods’ sake, Kalan!” the Horse Master yelled, as Kalan dragged her pony around for another go at the second jump when it shied from it. “Think of that poor beast’s mouth!”
“Of the three of them, Leila’s the better horsewoman,” Almodavar remarked.
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at them,” the captain ordered. “Rielle rides like a mistress commanding her slave.”
“It’s not just horses she treats like that,” Starros remarked with a grin.
Almodavar smiled, nodding in agreement. “I’ve noticed she’s rather unconcerned that her stepbrother will one day be her High Prince.” The captain pointed at Kalan then, his smile fading.
“Kalan’s fearless, but she rides like she’s at war with the beast. Now Leila,” he said, pointing to Damin’s cousin, “she’s at one with that horse. They’re a team.”
Starros nodded, thinking it was Leila’s gentle nature that made her so attuned to her horse. “She has plans for them too, I suppose.”
Almodavar glanced at Starros curiously. “Who has plans for whom?”
“Princess Marla. For the girls. She has plans for me. I was just thinking she probably has plans for all of us.”
“Probably,” Almodavar agreed. “But it’s really none of your business, lad.”
“She wants me to study to be a High Prince’s steward,” Starros replied, ignoring the captain’s warning about it being none of his concern. “She’s arranged for Rielle to marry Darvad Vintner. Travin is being groomed to govern Walsark and I’ll bet you all the midges in the fens that Princess Marla didn’t invite Xanda to Greenharbour for the good of his health. Luciena Mariner is about to be adopted into the family, undoubtedly with the intention she takes over her late father’s shipping empire. Narvell’s future is pretty set, I suppose, because he’s Charel Hawksword’s grandson and therefore the heir to Elasapine, but I’ll wager you a month’s pay Princess Marla has plans for Rodja and Adham when they’re grown. I wonder what she has in mind for Leila and Kalan.”
“It’s not your place to speculate about such things, Starros.”
“I know,” he shrugged. “But one can’t help but wonder about it, can one?”
“Actually, one can,” Almodavar announced brusquely, pushing off the rail. “And you’d be well advised to mind your tongue on the issue, my lad. Diplomacy is the first skill needed by a steward.”
“Assuming I want to be Damin’s steward.”
Almodavar stopped and looked back at him in shock. “For the gods’ sake, lad! Why would you refuse such an honour?”
“I didn’t say I was going to refuse it. I just think it would have been nice if someone asked me first.”
“I’m asking you now,” Almodavar pointed out.
“And if I refuse?”
“That wasn’t discussed.”
“Because a bastard fosterling wouldn’t dare refuse?” he challenged.
Almodavar shook his head at the young man’s tone. “Because Princess Marla thinks you have more sense. Maybe she was wrong.”
“And what do you think, Captain?” Are you proud of me? If I do this, your bastard son might one day be counted among the most powerful men in Hythria. Isn’t that enough to make you own up to me?
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
Starros stared at the captain for a moment, wondering what he had ever done to this man to earn a lifetime of denial. He wasn’t even sure if he was hurt or just puzzled by it. Leila’s theory was that Almodavar took his job as Damin’s bodyguard so seriously, he refused to admit to any familial ties that might weaken his resolve; a theory that she was convinced was proved when Almodavar made Damin do forty laps around the training yard for not killing him.
“No, Captain,” Starros agreed eventually. “I don’t suppose it does matter what you think.”
Maybe Leila’s right, he told himself silently. Maybe Almodavar is as proud as any father, just unwilling to admit the fact for fear of exposing a chink in his armour and weakening the circle of protection surrounding the next High Prince of Hythria.
Chapter 9
Corian Burl was waiting for Marla when she arrived at the palace. He was a tall man and had been a han
dsome court’esa once, a fact which even old age was unable to disguise. His hair was white, his face a craggy testament to his years, but his eyes were bright with intelligence and he walked with an indefinable air of confidence that seemed rather inappropriate in an old slave.
The chamberlain bowed low to the princess as she entered Lernen’s study and waved his arm to encompass the table behind him, laden with scrolls and ledgers. “We have a lot to get through this evening, your highness.”
Marla nodded. “I know. I would have been here earlier, but I was meeting with my stepdaughter.”
“Ah, the Mariner girl. Did you find her satisfactory?”
“Better than satisfactory, actually,” Marla replied thoughtfully. “She seems very astute.”
“Then your plans for her future are progressing as intended?”
“I think I’ll wait until she gets to Krakandar before I pass judgment on that.”
“I am pleased for you, your highness,” Corian said with another short bow. “Perhaps that will leave time to solve the dilemma of what to do with your son.”
Marla nodded in agreement. “You speak of Damin’s fosterage arrangements, I assume?”
“In some circles little else is spoken of these days, your highness.” Corian glanced at the table with concern. “A good half of the letters the High Prince has received this past month have been either asking for the opportunity to foster the High Prince’s heir or complaints about who they think is going to receive the honour. You must make a decision soon.”
“I know.” Marla walked past Corian and took her seat at the table. It was hot and muggy in the room. Normally a breeze picked up late in the afternoon, cooling the city and offering some relief, but the sheer curtains over the long windows facing the bay hung still and lifeless and the candle flames burned steady and even. Not so much as a hint of a breeze lifted off the water to offer a reprieve from the heat.
As usual, Marla avoided looking at the walls. Lernen had decorated his office with a series of lewd murals ranging from the bizarre to the truly disgusting. Even after coming here on an almost daily basis for the past eight years, Marla wasn’t used to looking up from her work to be met by them. She still found it disconcerting to be confronted with the agonised face of a young man being taken against his will by a fantastical beast that looked like a cross between a bull, a man and a goat. The creature, depicted in life-sized colour, stood almost eight feet tall. His head was that of a horned bovine, his body that of a man, but his legs ended in cloven hooves. Marla could never define exactly what it was about that particular panel that disturbed her so much. She was neither prudish or easily shocked. Perhaps it was the notion her brother could imagine such a thing and call it entertainment. Or worse, that someone else had shared his vision so comprehensively they had been able to recreate it vividly on a fresco.
“Do you have any thoughts on the subject, Corian?” Marla asked, fixing her attention on the chamberlain in order to avoid having to look at the murals.
Corian noticed her determined focus. He knew what she thought of her brother’s taste in decor.
“We could meet in one of the other rooms, your highness.”
Marla shook her head. “Everything is here, and I really am pressed for time. I do, however, frequently daydream of having these damn walls painted over.”
“It would be foolish in the extreme to even contemplate the idea,” Corian advised. “Prince Lernen is High Prince of Hythria and even though much of the country either knows or suspects it’s really his sister who keeps a steady hand at the helm, they pretended it isn’t the case. There is no other way for the Warlords to accept a woman in such a position of power and still maintain face.”
“They don’t seem to mind that the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective is a woman,” Marla pointed out.
“The Sorcerers’ Collective has no direct control over them, so they’re willing to let a woman rule, bow to her wisdom on occasion—even allow her to perform the rites that make the Convocation of the Warlords a place where they can meet in peace. However—”
“However, to openly admit their High Prince is a figurehead and that Hythria’s prosperity is a direct result of the competent and efficient governance of a woman is more than their misogynistic little hearts can deal with,” Marla cut in with a shake of her head.
Corian smiled faintly. “Something like that.”
“And if I redecorate the High Prince’s private study to suit my own tastes, I’d be rubbing their noses in the fact that Lernen hasn’t done much more than screw around in his garden and get drunk for the past eight years.”
“Exactly, your highness.”
“I know. Truly, I do.” Marla sighed and picked up a sheaf of paper to fan herself against the unbearable heat. “It’s just sometimes . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and turned to Corian decisively. “Let’s get back to the business at hand. My original thought was to share the fosterage around. You know—six months here, six months there.”
“But?” Corian prompted.
“Before she died, Jeryma made me promise I would do nothing of the kind.”
“Lady Jeryma Ravenspear?”
Marla nodded, feeling a little guilty. She’d not spared her late mother-in-law a thought in more than a year. Jeryma’s death last year, like so many other important events in her life, had passed almost unremarked, overwhelmed by all the other crises clamouring for her attention. “She went to some trouble to remind me that the whole purpose of a fosterage is to give the fosterling something to learn.
Jeryma contended that the only thing the Warlords will do if they get access to Damin for a few months each is attempt to outdo each other trying to show him a good time.” Marla smiled in remembrance. “I believe her exact words were: ‘Damin will learn nothing, be spoiled rotten, and there’s a good chance one of them will try slipping a daughter into his bed, and before you know it, my grandson will be married at fourteen to the pregnant and uneducated get of some unscrupulous Patriot and everything I’ve worked for will be destroyed!’”
“Your mother-in-law was a wise woman, your highness,” Corian agreed.
She looked at him curiously. “Do you have an opinion about who I should allow to foster Damin?”
“I can tell you who you mustn’t choose.”
“Who?”
“Charel Hawksword of Elasapine, for a start.”
Marla nodded in reluctant agreement of the slave’s assessment. “Because he is the grandfather of my youngest son and already has unfettered access to Damin?”
“Partly. Remember, your nephew, Travin Taranger, was fostered in Elasapine until recently, too.
Then there is the certainty that Narvell will go to his grandfather when he turns thirteen.”
“You’re suggesting the other Warlords already think Charel has too much influence over Damin?
You might have a valid point.”
“Nor can you allow Chaine Lionsclaw to have him.”
“I suppose my mistake there was allowing Xanda to be fostered in Sunrise Province?”
Corian shook his head. “Not just that. Chaine Lionsclaw is only recently elevated to power and the bastard son of a Warlord,” he reminded her. “He’s competent, I’ll grant you, and loyal to the Wolfblades, but he’s barely been a Warlord for ten years. The others would take placing your son in the care of someone so inexperienced as a grave insult.”
“Anyone else?”
“That narrows the field down to four, your highness.”
“Three,” Marla corrected. “Dregian Province is out of the question. Sending Damin to Barnardo Eaglespike would be as good as passing his death sentence.”
“I don’t think anybody would dare—”
“It wouldn’t be murder, Corian,” Marla told him with absolute certainty. “It would be some terrible accident that couldn’t be avoided; some tragic set of circumstances which only the gods could have predicted. There would be no blame. Alija
would see to that.”
“Surely you’re not suggesting the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective and her husband would deliberately seek to harm the High Prince’s heir, your highness?”
“She’s done it before, Corian. I’m quite sure she’s capable of doing it again.”
Corian looked quite horrified. “But, your highness, if you have proof of such treachery—”
“I don’t have proof.”
“Then such an accusation—”
“Would be foolish in the extreme if I made it publicly,” Marla finished for him with a smile.
“Don’t panic, Corian. I’ve taken precautions.”
“Precautions?” he gasped. “What precautions can you take against such seditious gossip leaking out?”
“Do you remember when you first came to the palace? It was just after my second husband died.”
Corian’s expression darkened, a clear indication that he had not forgotten his time in the slave pits. “Of course I remember, your highness.”
“Do you recall meeting a young man the very first day you were here? Tall, dark-haired, quite good-looking in a rough sort of way? His name was Wrayan Lightfinger.”
“I remember him vaguely, your highness. You said he was an agent of yours. I’ve not seen him since that day. I assumed he was a spy of some kind.”
“He’s more than that,” she informed him. “He was Kagan Palenovar’s apprentice.”
“I see,” the old man said cautiously.
Marla’s smile widened. It was patently obvious that he didn’t see at all. “Wrayan is a magician, Corian. A very capable one. He shielded your mind that day. Just as mine is shielded, and Elezaar’s mind, and the mind of anyone else close to me. Alija Eaglespike cannot penetrate my thoughts or the thoughts of anyone around me. She has no idea I suspect her of anything.”
“But surely, your highness, if she is able to read the thoughts of others, the mere fact that she cannot read your thoughts is, in itself, a warning.”
“I thought so too, but according to Wrayan, Brakandaran the Halfbreed showed him how to shield a mind without a lesser magician being able to detect it’s been tampered with.”
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