Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  The dwarf glanced at Kalan and then at the retreating figures of her brothers as the door to the nursery slammed shut behind them. “Forget something?”

  “Did you want a hand packing up, Elezaar?”

  The dwarf smiled as he picked up the little figures and placed them, one by one, on the velvet-lined trays into which a slot was cut for each. “What do you want, Kalan?”

  “What makes you think I want something?”

  “Children of royal blood never offer to help slaves tidy up unless there’s something in it for them. It’s one of those immutable laws of the universe I was telling you about the other day.”

  Kalan frowned. If she was going to be an important person some day, she would have to learn to be much less transparent. Still, this way she didn’t have to muck about finding a way to broach the subject delicately. “What should I be when I grow up, Elezaar?”

  The dwarf stopped what he was doing and looked at her curiously. He was standing on a stool so that he could reach the figurines in the centre of the table. “A princess?” he suggested tentatively.

  “I know that,” she snapped impatiently. “But what am I going to do?”

  “You’ll have a household to run, I imagine. And it won’t be a small one. You’ll be sister to the High Prince when Damin inherits your uncle’s throne. Whoever you marry will be a very important person.”

  “But I don’t want to marry a very important person,” she complained. “I want to be a very important person.”

  “What do you think you can do to alter your fate, Kalan?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you. Isn’t your Second Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power to accept what you can’t do anything about, and do something about the stuff you can?”

  “Accept what you cannot change,” the dwarf corrected. “And change that which is unacceptable.” He smiled and added, “And be smart enough to know the difference.”

  “Which is why I’m asking you, Elezaar. I want to find something useful to do when I grow up.

  Getting married and being somebody’s glorified housekeeper is unacceptable.”

  Elezaar put the figurine he was holding into the tray and stepped down from the warboard.

  “Come here, Kalan,” he beckoned, walking to the worktable by the window where she normally sat with the others during her lessons. The dwarf hoisted himself up onto one of the chairs and indicated she should join him. Kalan took the chair beside him, turning it to face him. Sitting down, they were almost the same height. Kalan’s legs touched the floor, however, while Elezaar’s didn’t even reach halfway. “Tell me what the problem is.”

  “I don’t want to be like Rielle. I want to do something important. Like Mama does.” She brightened as something suddenly occurred to her. “Do you think I could do what Mama does?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know? I could rule Hythria while Damin has orgies and stuff.”

  The dwarf looked as if he was about to choke on something. “Kalan, do you know what an orgy is?”

  She thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “It’s some sort of party Uncle Lernen has a lot, isn’t it?”

  “Something like that,” Elezaar agreed with a strangled cough. “But I doubt you’ll be able to count on your brother ruling Hythria the same way your uncle does. Your mother has gone to rather a lot of trouble to ensure that doesn’t happen.”

  Kalan was getting exasperated with her limited options. “Then what can I do? They don’t let girls do anything useful. They won’t let me be a Warlord, and that’s not fair ’cause I was born first, so I should be the heir to Elasapine, not Narvell.”

  “Not under the laws of primogeniture,” the dwarf explained.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means succession through the male line. The only country I’ve ever heard of that doesn’t practise it is Medalon. There, the succession is through the distaff line.”

  “Well, that’s not very fair. If people in Medalon can do it, why can’t we?”

  “Probably because along with their progressive notions about female succession in Medalon come a whole lot of other, rather less attractive ideas—like the Sisters of the Blade, and purges against anyone who believes in the Primal Gods. The Sisterhood was responsible for eradicating the Harshini, you know.”

  “But they didn’t really eradicate them. Wrayan says they’re still around, just in hiding. He says he’s met them.”

  “Wrayan Lightfinger is a thief, Kalan,” Elezaar warned. “Which means he’s also a disciple of Jakerlon, the God of Liars, along with the God of Thieves. I know you like him. But he says a lot of things you probably shouldn’t take at face value.”

  “He’s a magician, too.”

  Elezaar rolled his one good eye sceptically. “So he says.”

  “But he is! He used to be the High Arrion’s apprentice.”

  “That doesn’t mean he has any magical ability, Kalan.”

  Now she was really confused. “How can that be?”

  “There haven’t been any real magicians for over a century; nearly two centuries, in fact,” he explained. “Once the Harshini were wiped out by the Sisterhood, the few that were left fled Hythria and Fardohnya and went into hiding—”

  “Just like Wrayan says!” she interrupted triumphantly.

  “Yes, just like Wrayan says,” Elezaar agreed patiently. “But that was over a hundred and sixty years ago, Kalan. Even if they managed to find somewhere safe to hide, even if Sanctuary was a real place, and even as long-lived as they purportedly were, it’s unlikely any of the Harshini have lasted this long. And that’s why we don’t have any magicians any more. Except for the odd Innate like Alija Eaglespike, who apparently really does have some ability, the rest of the Sorcerers’ Collective are just people who study the texts of the Harshini, dreaming of what might have been, or people who think they can gain some sort of political influence. But without the Harshini, nobody really knows for certain how to make the magic work. All we have left are legends and people—like Wrayan Lightfinger—who like to make us think there’s still a chance the Harshini are out there somewhere and will come back some day when the Sisterhood is no longer a threat.”

  This was new territory for Kalan and she was fascinated by the possibilities. “So the High Arrion before Alija? He wasn’t a magician, either?”

  “Kagan Palenovar? He couldn’t light a candle without a flint and taper.”

  “I see,” Kalan mused as a new, unexpected career direction opened up before her. “How old does one have to be to become an apprentice sorcerer?”

  This time, Elezaar didn’t even try to hide his laughter. “Forget it, Kalan. There is no way your mother would allow you to be apprenticed to the Sorcerers’ Collective. Although . . .” The dwarf hesitated for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his ugly little face. Then he sighed and shook his head. “No, it’s not even worth considering. There is no chance your mother would permit it.”

  “Why not? If I joined the Sorcerers’ Collective, I could be High Arrion one day. That would help Damin when he’s High Prince, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would be very useful,” the dwarf agreed. “If you survived that long.”

  “Why wouldn’t I survive? Is the training terribly difficult?”

  “It’s not the training, it’s the politics. There are factions in the Sorcerers’ Collective who aren’t very sympathetic to your uncle. The danger to you would be extreme.”

  “I’m not scared of anything!”

  “Your mother is, however.”

  “But it’s not fair! I want to do something important!”

  He smiled at her, patting her hand comfortingly. “And I’m sure your mother has something very important in mind for you,” he promised. “I’m fairly certain it doesn’t involve you becoming a sorcerer, though.”

  Kalan snatched her hand away and jumped at to her feet. “Don’t patronise me, Elezaar. I might be a child, but I’
m not stupid.”

  The deformed little court’esa bowed his head. “You’re right, your highness,” he apologised. “It was remiss of me to give you the impression that I thought you were so easily fooled.”

  Elezaar had only ever called Kalan “your highness” about three times in her whole life, so she figured his apology was genuine. It didn’t help her much, though. She was still doomed to be somebody’s wife, rather than somebody.

  “What would I have to do to convince Mother I should join the Sorcerers’ Collective?” she asked.

  “Find yourself a real magician to watch over you,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I can’t think of any other way your mother would place you under the influence of someone like Alija Eaglespike.”

  “Someone like Wrayan, you mean?”

  “If you accept what he says about his ability, then yes. But I’ve never seen any proof of it.”

  “Where do I find someone like Wrayan?”

  The dwarf shrugged, obviously thinking such an impossible task would put an end to her foolish notion. “Why don’t you ask Wrayan?”

  Kalan thought about that for a moment and then nodded decisively. “Thank you, Elezaar. I think I will.”

  Kalan was quite certain that, given sufficient warning, her mother would veto any notion of her daughter joining the Sorcerers’ Collective unless it was a fait accompli. There was no way Kalan could send a message to Wrayan Lightfinger, however, without her mother finding out about it, so she was forced to find another way to contact him.

  It was easy to sneak past Leila, sleeping soundly in her bed, into the dressing room and through the slaveways to Damin’s room. Uncle Mahkas believed the entrance to Damin’s room had been sealed, but several years ago, Damin and Starros had managed to have a copy made of the heavy key that opened the lock. That had been an exercise in strategy and tactics that would have impressed even Elezaar. They’d had to wait until Uncle Mahkas was away with Almodavar on a border patrol, get access to his office while he was gone, get the key out of the palace, copied and returned to the study, all without getting caught. Kalan was still astonished they’d got away with it.

  Wrayan had helped them that time, too. He was the only person in the whole of Krakandar who had the sort of contacts who could copy a key on short notice without asking any questions. That was the best thing about Wrayan, Kalan thought. He probably knew what the children were up to—it was rumoured he could read minds, after all—but he didn’t lecture them or tell them what they were doing was wrong. He just made the arrangements to get the key copied and warned the children never to attempt anything like it again without asking his help. The Beggars’ Quarter was a dangerous place, he reminded them. Especially for sheltered, unsuspecting highborn children whose entire world was defined by the walls of a palace.

  Kalan had to stand on her toes to reach the key, and then made certain the door had locked behind her. Even sneaking around the slaveways, Kalan had been so well indoctrinated about protecting her brothers, she would never have even thought of leaving the door unlocked. When she walked into the main room, she discovered it was empty, the candles flickering in the slight breeze coming from the open windows. Then she heard soft voices in the darkness and smiled.

  She found the boys out on the palace roof, sitting on the sloped tiles watching the heat-lightning streak the sky to the south. They were all there: Starros, Damin, Rodja, Adham and, somewhat to her annoyance, her twin brother, Narvell. Kalan climbed through the window and inched her way forward on her bottom until she was perched between Damin and Starros.

  “Hello,” she said brightly.

  “What are you doing out here?” Narvell asked, sounding a little peeved. He was going through that stage, Lirena had explained to her, where it was more important to be “one of the boys” than “one of the twins.” “You’re not allowed out on the roof.”

  “Neither are you,” she pointed out, wiggling her bottom a little to get comfortable.

  “You know, if you fell from here, it’d kill you,” Damin said, leaning forward a little to look at the dizzying drop to the courtyard below.

  “Then I won’t fall,” she said simply. “Leila says we could never get a message to Wrayan without getting caught.”

  The boys looked at her in surprise.

  “What?” Starros asked, speaking on behalf of all of them.

  “I need to see Wrayan about something,” she explained. “I told Leila you could help me, but she said you’d never be able to do it without getting caught.”

  “We got Wrayan to help us with the lock,” Rodja reminded her.

  “But Uncle Mahkas was away that time,” she said softly, aware that too much noise would bring the guards into Damin’s room to investigate and they’d all be in serious trouble if they were caught out here on the roof. “And Mama wasn’t here, either. Leila says you’ll never get away with it this time.”

  “You never said anything of the kind to Leila, Kal,” Damin scoffed. “She’d go running straight to Mahkas if she thought you were planning any such thing.”

  Kalan frowned. The older they got, the less gullible her brothers seemed to be. Or maybe it was her? The boys didn’t seem nearly so enchanted by their little sister as they once had. “Could you do it, though? Get a message to Wrayan?”

  “I’m quite sure we could,” Starros replied. “The question is, Kalan, why would we?”

  “I have to ask him something.”

  “Write him a letter.”

  “I can’t risk it falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Into the wrong hands,” Rodja echoed in an ominous tone. Then he laughed at her. “You’ve been listening to my father’s stories about his adventures with the spice caravans, haven’t you?”

  “I meant my mother, idiot!” she snapped, rolling her eyes. “Not some Fardohnyan spy.”

  “What do you want to ask Wrayan that you don’t want Mother to know about, Kal?” Damin asked.

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Maybe not,” her older brother agreed. “But there’s no way we’re going to help you get a message to him unless we know why.”

  Starros and the other boys nodded their agreement. Kalan frowned. She hated having to confide in them but knew Damin meant what he said. And it was worth the risk of ridicule. If they did agree to help her, the gods wouldn’t stand in their way.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Try us,” Starros prompted with an encouraging smile.

  “It’s because I want to join the Sorcerers’ Collective,” she said.

  Chapter 23

  Of all the Krakandar siblings, Rielle Tirstone was the closest in age to Luciena, so they gravitated towards each other naturally. The spice trader’s daughter was an outrageous flirt, but according to the gossip Aleesha had heard around the palace, that was all she did. She had her own court’esa—a handsome young man named Darian Coe—whom she was quite willing to share, but in general, it seemed her flirting was just a hobby; a way to pass the time until she married Darvad Vintner and started her new life as the mistress of Dylan Pass.

  Her fiancé had arrived in Krakandar yesterday, along with his family, which included his uncle, Rogan Bearbow, the Warlord of Izcomdar, and a whole raft of relations from the province who were introduced to Luciena when they arrived and whose names she promptly forgot ten seconds after she met them all.

  The only visitor who made an impact on her, really, was Tejay Bearbow. The Warlord of Izcomdar’s only daughter was a year older than Luciena. Tall and solid, with thick blond hair that constantly threatened to escape the loose braid she impatiently fashioned to confine it, Tejay was handsome rather than beautiful, sturdy rather than ladylike, and was—so Aleesha had informed her mistress last night in a scandalised whisper—rumoured to be quite an outstanding swordswoman who could hold her own against most of the Raiders in her father’s army.

  The three girls had gathered in Rielle’s room to discuss their wardrobe for this evening’s b
all, having narrowed down their selections from the day before to only a half-dozen garments each. Tejay was there under protest, she announced, as she flopped inelegantly onto the bed. Her father had decided she needed to look like a proper highborn lady at least once during her visit to Krakandar, and she supposed the ball was as good a time as any to pander to his unreasonable demands.

  “The green or the red?” Rielle asked the other two girls as her slave held up the two garments in question. Luciena was sitting on the bed next to Tejay. In the past two days, Luciena was quite sure Rielle had made her slave parade the entire contents of her wardrobe for their approval.

  “Depends whether you want to look like an old maid or a whore,” Tejay replied.

  Rielle turned and studied the dresses thoughtfully. The green was a high-necked, wispy, floral silk creation. The red dress was an outrageous, crystal-beaded, Fardohnyan-inspired two-piece outfit that would flaunt as much as it concealed.

  “I could live with whore,” Rielle said with a grin, taking the red dress from the slave and holding it against herself.

  “What about your fiancé?” Luciena asked, a little shocked. She was the only one here whose mother had actually been a court’esa, yet she was astonished to discover how much more modest and reserved she was compared to these girls raised among Hythria’s nobility.