Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  When Xanda finally spoke, his voice was icy. “Are you feeling better?”

  Does Marla give the whole family lessons in speaking like that? she wondered irreverently. Fear was making her foolish, almost hysterical. The idiocy of the thought made her want to giggle, a fatal impulse she forced herself not to give in to. Instead, she nodded, not trusting herself to speak—or even certain she was able.

  “Captain Almodavar claims you’re in some sort of shock.”

  Luciena nodded again, warily. Not long ago, Xanda had wanted to kiss her. He looked at her now as if he wished they’d never met. It surprised Luciena to discover how much that hurt.

  “I . . . I don’t know . . .,” she managed to stammer, her urge to giggle forgotten as tears blurred her vision.

  Xanda looked down at his boots.

  “What’s going to happen . . . to me?”

  “Nothing for the moment,” he informed her with all the emotion of a slave delivering a report on the state of the livestock. “I think . . . I mean, there’s a suggestion someone tampered with your mind. You won’t be executed until we know for sure.”

  “But I will be executed,” she said, finding it easier to reach for the words she wanted each time she spoke. The veil of her torpor was wearing away, abraded by fear.

  For the first time, Xanda showed some sort of emotion when he looked at her, and it seemed to be despair rather than the anger she anticipated. “What did you expect, Luciena? You attacked the heir to the Hythrun throne! You tried to kill him!”

  “But I don’t remember!” she cried, wiping away her tears impatiently so she could see him more clearly. “I don’t remember anything!”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “Gods, even if I could bring myself to believe your mind wasn’t your own, he’s only a child! Didn’t some part of you understand what you were doing?”

  “I don’t know what I was thinking, Xanda! The first coherent memory I have after the markets yesterday was Damin belting me in the jaw, just before he tried to rip my arm off.” She wanted to add that he might only be a child, but Xanda’s precious little heir to the Hythrun throne had a fist like a sledgehammer and she had the bruises to prove it. But apparently nobody cared about her injuries.

  Surprisingly, Xanda’s demeanour softened a little. He took a step closer and grimaced as he examined her bruised jaw. “It looks pretty painful.”

  “I’ll live. At least until they hang me.”

  He reached out and touched her injured face with unexpected gentlness. Luciena wasn’t sure how it happened, but the next thing she knew Xanda was holding her in his arms while she sobbed against his shoulder. She clung to him desperately, the horror of her predicament finally getting the better of her. Xanda let her cry, saying nothing, seemingly content to just hold her close and comfort her.

  After a while, the tears abated and she sniffed and leaned back in his embrace. “Won’t you get accused of being a traitor, coming here to visit me?”

  Xanda shook his head. “I’d have come anyway. I sort of feel responsible for this. I was the one who convinced you to visit Aunt Marla. If I hadn’t done that, she wouldn’t have invited you here. And if she hadn’t invited you to Krakandar, Alija probably wouldn’t have tampered with your mind—”

  “Alija?” she asked in shock. “You mean Alija Eaglespike? The High Arrion?”

  Xanda nodded. “I’m hoping she’s the one who made you do this. Otherwise you’ll be hanged as a Fardohnyan spy. We won’t know for certain until Wrayan gets back, though.”

  Now she was really confused. “Wrayan? The man from the Thieves’ Guild who came to lunch that day? The chap Kalan has a crush on?”

  Xanda smiled faintly. “That’s the one.”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “Wrayan’s a sorcerer,” Xanda told her. “He’ll be able to tell us what happened to you.”

  “And what happens if this Wrayan of yours decides my mind hasn’t been tampered with?”

  Xanda hesitated before he replied. “Then the only conclusion we can draw is that you knew exactly what you were doing. That you’re a Patriot assassin. Or working for the Fardohnyans.”

  She stepped out of his arms, shaking her head. “But that’s impossible! I don’t even know any Fardohnyans.”

  “That’s not what your slave claims.”

  Luciena sighed and threw up her hands. “My father had a brother . . . they fought when they were young men and hadn’t spoken to each other for over thirty years when my father died.”

  “Then why were you trying to see the High Arrion?”

  “I got a letter . . . it came out of the blue. I’d never even heard from my uncle before. He claimed his grandson was magically gifted. Aleesha thought he was just trying to extort money out of me.”

  Xanda smiled sympathetically. “You don’t have to make up stories about stray magicians to convince me you’re innocent, Luciena.”

  “I’m not making anything up,” she protested. “My cousin is an Innate, or something like that—

  I’ve never met him, actually, so I can’t say for sure.”

  “And you believed this letter?”

  Luciena shrugged, resenting Xanda’s tone. She wasn’t nearly as gullible as he believed. “For all I know, it’s true. I know my father used to joke all the time that we had a Harshini ancestor. When Warak Mariner wrote wanting me to arrange passage for his grandson to Hythria so he could join the Sorcerers’

  Collective as an apprentice, it didn’t seem that outrageous to me.”

  “So you get a letter from a complete stranger in Fardohnya and you immediately race off to see the High Arrion? To do what? Enrol your cousin in the Sorcerers’ Collective?”

  “What else was I supposed to do? If you recall, I was flat broke by then so I couldn’t have sent him money, even if I’d wanted to. I thought . . . if Rory really was gifted, then maybe Lady Alija . . .” Her voice trailed off as she searched his face, hoping for some sign that he believed her. “Why are you interrogating me like this? I swear on my mother’s grave, I’m not making this up, Xanda. I’m a loyal Hythrun. I didn’t come to Krakandar to harm your cousin. Or anybody else, for that matter.”

  Xanda nodded again and then, after a long moment, he smiled cautiously, taking her hands in his. “Actually, I don’t believe you did, either.”

  “But it’s not up to you, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Should I speak to Princess Marla? Tell her—”

  “That’s probably not a good idea right now.”

  Thinking of the rage Marla Wolfblade must be in, Luciena had the feeling Xanda’s words might be something of an understatement. She sighed heavily, consoling herself with the thought that at least they weren’t planning to drag her out into the courtyard and summarily execute her. “How long do I have to stay locked up in these cells?”

  “Until Wrayan gets back.”

  She could feel the despair starting to overwhelm her again. “Will you visit me, every once in a while?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Luciena nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll come.”

  Despite the hope that simple promise gave her, the silence quickly grew thick between them, taut and filled with unspoken emotions that neither of them was sure about or willing to examine too closely. When she could bear it no longer, Luciena shrugged, certain the only thing she could say to him was the truth. “I’m innocent, Xanda. You’ll see.”

  Xanda let go of her hands, nodding guardedly. She wasn’t sure if he was agreeing that she was innocent, or that he’d see soon enough, one way or the other. He moved back towards the door and knocked on it. The guard waiting outside unlocked it and waited for Xanda to step outside.

  “I’ll try to come again tomorrow,” he promised.

  The thought that at least one person might still be on her side bolstered Luciena’s fading courage. “I’ll try to squeeze you into my busy schedule.”

  Xanda smile
d at her weak attempt at humour. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “For getting you into this mess?” he asked heavily.

  “For believing in me.”

  He didn’t reply to that; perhaps just as uncertain about his feelings as she was. In the end, after hesitating for a moment, he simply turned and left the cell. The guard closed the door behind him and locked it and Xanda’s fading footsteps in the corridor outside were the last thing Luciena heard for a long, long time.

  Chapter 30

  The man from the Fardohnyan Thieves’ Guild was waiting for them when they arrived at Westbrook, just as the gates were closing for the evening. A rather less impressive version of Winternest, Westbrook was built to a similar scale, although it lacked the elegant lines provided by a bridge over the road linking the two arms of the keep. Brak recalled that the current buildings had replaced a ramshackle fort, constructed mostly of wood—a dilapidated series of dangerously unstable structures, that had been unroofed, without fail, almost every winter, surrounded by a flimsy wooden palisade that wouldn’t have stopped a concerted attack by a gang of hungry children.

  Now it’s a solid, damn-near-impregnable fortress, Brak thought, trying to remember the first time he had come through here. It must have been more than six hundred years ago, he realised with mild surprise, back when it was still under construction. No wonder it’s starting to look old.

  Brak and Wrayan rode into the vast bailey of the northern keep behind a long Hythrun caravan they had caught up with in the last half mile of the pass. The lead wagon was loaded with barrels of ale and several large clay jars of mead, the next three were stacked with bales of wool and the remaining half dozen were wagonloads of raw quartz from the mines near Byamor in Elasapine. Wagonloads of raw quartz were much less tempting to bandits. Despite the gold locked inside the rocks, they weighed too much for too little return to a criminal, so the ore caravans were usually allowed to pass though the Widowmaker unmolested. Still, it was heavily guarded and the caravan owner visibly relaxed as the first gate boomed shut in the darkness.

  “Wrayan Lightfinger?”

  Brak dismounted and turned to look at the man who had spoken Wrayan’s name. He was a slender fellow of average height with pale, piercing grey eyes that didn’t seem to belong in his swarthy face. He was holding a torch in his left hand, which spluttered and flared, making it impossible to read his expression. Next to him was a lad of about ten, who looked more like a stable boy than a thief.

  Wrayan peered at him in the gloom, too, and then nodded. “Danyon Caron?”

  The Fardohnyan thief offered Wrayan his handshake, glancing over Wrayan’s shoulder at Brak.

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Brak Andaran.”

  “From the Guild?” Danyon asked suspiciously.

  “I can vouch for him,” Wrayan said.

  The Fardohnyan thief nodded. “The boy will see to your horses,” he told them, as the lad stepped forward. “For a price.”

  Wrayan fished a few copper coins from the pouch at his belt and handed them to the boy. The lad looked at them critically for a moment and then silently held out his hand for more. With a shake of his head, Wrayan handed over more coins. This time the child seemed satisfied. He pocketed the copper rivets and took the reins of both horses, leading them away to the stables on the left.

  “Seems robbery isn’t restricted to the Thieves’ Guild around here,” Wrayan remarked.

  The Fardohnyan thief shrugged. “Boy has to make a living. You almost didn’t make it before the fortress closed,” he added as the second massive metal-reinforced gate was ponderously pushed shut for the night.

  “We were delayed,” Wrayan told his contact, as they walked up the steps towards the keep’s main hall with Brak trailing them. “Trouble with bandits in the pass.”

  “Getting so you can’t make a decent living these days, without some thief attacking you,”

  Danyon agreed with a smile. There was music coming from the hall and the sound of many voices.

  Everybody staying in the keep tonight would be gathered in the hall, Brak knew, the ritual here having altered little in the hundreds of years the fortress had stood.

  “Were they yours?” Brak asked curiously.

  “All thieves worship Dacendaran, Master Andaran.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Danyon smiled cryptically but didn’t offer any other answer. He turned to Wrayan instead.

  “Good thing you got here when you did. I’d just about given up on you. I’ve been here for three days and this isn’t my favourite place in Fardohnya, you know. If you didn’t get here tonight I was going to head back to Qorinipor in the morning.”

  “Thanks for waiting,” Wrayan replied. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private? Do you have a room here?”

  The Fardohnyan shrugged. “Nobody has a room here, Wrayan, unless you’re very good friends with the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook. Everyone bunks down in the main hall at night. But don’t worry about being overheard. You can’t hear yourself think in there when it’s busy. Unless someone is reading our minds, we’ll be secure enough.”

  That comment got a faint smile from Wrayan, who glanced back at Brak. He shrugged. “You go on ahead. I think I might check on the lad with the horses. That beast of mine can be a bit of a bastard,”

  he warned, then added with a pointed look at Wrayan, “when he’s in a mood.”

  Wrayan didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ll see you later then.”

  Brak watched Wrayan and Danyon Caron disappear into the hall, and then turned for the stables. The lad was doing a competent job, although the stables were quite crowded and the horses were forced to share a stall. Fortunately, Wrayan’s mount was a mare and Brak’s a gelding. After the better part of a month on the road together, the two horses were familiar with each other’s company.

  The stable boy stared at Brak suspiciously when he arrived, but his wounded feelings were quickly soothed by the application of more copper rivets. Brak asked him to re-saddle the horses after they were fed and rubbed down. The boy demanded even more money—which Brak parted with reluctantly—and then went back to brushing down Wrayan’s mare.

  That minor but important detail taken care of, Brak left the stables and headed across the deserted bailey. Even though it was summer, the nights were cold at this altitude, but the wind had dropped and the sky was a dark blue carpet sprinkled with precious stones. Only the faint sounds of music and raised voices from the hall disturbed the night, the creaking leather armour of the guards on the wall-walk above, and the occasional drunk staggering out of the hall to take a leak in the shadows.

  The Hythrun caravan with its load of ore was parked near the stables, the guard sitting on the lead wagon nodding off to sleep on his watch. He didn’t even stir as Brak slipped past him. In the deep shadows between two of the outbuildings, Brak stopped and glanced around to ensure he was unobserved, and then he closed his eyes and sent out a silent call.

  Elarnymire!

  The little demon popped into existence in front of Brak almost before he completed the thought. She blinked at him with her huge, liquid black eyes, her ears drooping, a disapproving frown on her wrinkled little face.

  “Well,” the demon announced. “You took your sweet, precious time getting here.”

  He squatted down until he was face to face with the little demon. “I had to fetch Wrayan,” he replied in a whisper, glancing through the darkness of the laneway to the bailey beyond. There was no sign of anybody, and Elarnymire would probably vanish the moment someone approached, but he’d still have to explain what he was doing lurking in a laneway, talking to himself, if he was discovered.

  “What use is Wrayan Lightfinger, Brakandaran? Admittedly, the lad can wield a little magic, but he has so little Harshini in him we can’t even tell which clan he belongs to,” Elarnymire reminded him.

  “No more than the child they hold in the du
ngeons here.”

  “Which is precisely why I need him,” Brak explained. “Even if I could go back to Sanctuary, my lady, this child doesn’t belong among the Harshini. He’s human. Wrayan will see him safe. Is he all right?”

  “They’re not feeding him very well,” Elarnymire informed him. “But he’s not starved yet. And they put him in with the women rather than the men. He’s been getting a little impatient. Did you want me to tell him rescue is at hand?”

  “No, I’ll find him.” Brak looked at her curiously. “Was it your doing, to keep him with the women here?”

  The demon shook her head. “You told me not to interfere.”

  Brak smiled thinly. “And you always do exactly what I ask.”

  Elarnymire shrugged. “Truly, it wasn’t my doing. He’s a child and several of the women incarcerated here have children with them, too. I suppose they thought that’s where he belonged.”

  Brak was relieved to hear it. The fate of a twelve-year-old boy in a dungeon full of hardened criminals was not likely to be pleasant. “I’ll go and get him now then.”

  “Why now?”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve closed the gates.”

  “They’ll open again soon,” Brak predicted confidently.

  Elarnymire didn’t seem very happy, but she nodded in agreement. “And when this is done?

  What then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The demon looked up at him with a harsh, unblinking stare. “Are you coming home, Brakandaran?”

  Brak didn’t answer immediately. When he did, all the anguish of his terrible deed felt concentrated into a painful lump stuck somewhere in the pit of his belly. “I have no home any more, Elarnymire.”

  The demon placed her long bony hand over his. “Only you believe that, Brakandaran. The Harshini will welcome you in Sanctuary. Korandellen and Shananara want you to go back. Even the Gatekeeper asks after you.”

  “I can never go back, Elarnymire. You know that.” He shook off her hand and stood up, leaning against the cold stones of the outbuilding. “Koran and Shanan know it, too.”

  “And this is how you intend to repay the Harshini for all they’ve done for you?” she asked, looking up at him crossly, “By turning your back on them?”