Warrior

by Jennifer Fallon

  Marla seemed too dumbstruck to be angry with him. She would find her voice soon, he figured.

  Elezaar had confessed much, but he’d yet to reveal his worst, and most recent, crime.

  “I saw my brother fall in Ronan Dell’s palace,” he continued while he still had the strength. “I saw them take his body away. I believed my brother was dead. For twenty-five years I had no reason to think otherwise.”

  “Are you telling me you think he might not be dead after all?”

  “I got a message a few days ago. Venira’s doorman came to the house. He told me they had a slave called Crysander. I arranged to meet him.”

  “And never came back,” Marla reminded him.

  He couldn’t answer that accusation so he just kept on talking, feeling the heat from the poison infuse his body, warning him his time was growing short. “We arranged to meet at the Lucky Harlot.

  When I got there, Bekan was waiting for me. With my brother. And Tarkyn Lye.”

  Marla rose to her feet and began to pace the room, back and forth. She didn’t need to be told what Tarkyn Lye’s presence meant. It seemed as if she was trying to walk off her fury. After a while, the princess stopped pacing and turned to look at him.

  “What exactly have you done, Elezaar?”

  “They had my brother, your highness, and Ronan Dell’s favourite toy.” His eyes filled with tears again and he could no longer stop them falling. “Please, your highness . . . understand . . . I . . . I couldn’t watch it happen again. It almost destroyed me once before, standing by helplessly . . . I couldn’t let them do the same to my brother. Not when I had it in my power to stop it.”

  For a moment, a glimmer of sympathy flickered across the princess’s face. “What did you tell Tarkyn Lye, Elezaar?”

  “Everything.”

  Marla stared at him in shock. “What do you mean, everything?”

  “Exactly what I said, your highness. I told him everything. I told him about Wrayan Lightfinger.

  About the mind shields. About how you’d known Alija and your second husband were lovers since before Lord Hawksword died. I even told him how you found out Luciena’s mind had been tampered with and why you’d kept the discovery a secret. By the time I was done, I was looking for things to tell him.” Elezaar no longer noticed his tears. He looked up at his beloved princess and shook his head sorrowfully. “I’m so sorry, your highness. I know you deserve better than this, but I had to do something

  . . .”

  Marla was stunned into speechlessness.

  “In the end, for the secret about Rorin’s magical ability and the reason you’d allowed Kalan to join the Sorcerers’ Collective, they gave me a moment alone with Crysander.” The tears coursed freely down his face as he forced himself to finish his tale. It was an effort to sit upright now and it wasn’t just the veil of tears that made his vision blur. “It was too late by then to undo the damage I’d done to you, my lady. But I was able to ensure they would never use Crysander against me again.”

  “Elezaar—”

  “It was quick, my lady,” he assured her. “I’m small, I know, but I’m stronger than I look. He didn’t feel any pain.”

  She stared at him, the pain of his betrayal replaced, momentarily, with the shock of this latest confession. “Are you saying you killed your own brother?”

  “I made sure they couldn’t use him against me. Not again.”

  Unable to hold himself upright, he toppled sideways, feeling the spittle on his chin he no longer had the ability to contain. He heard Marla cry out as she realised something was terribly wrong, something far more serious than guilt or treachery. Dizzy and holding on to consciousness with the very last of his will, Elezaar felt the princess’s cool hand on his burning forehead. It made the pain worse, because he knew he didn’t deserve such consideration from the woman he had betrayed so heinously.

  “By the gods, Elezaar . . .” She sounded desperate, rather than angry. “What have you done to yourself? What have you taken?”

  His vision had all but gone, fading into dimness. With his one good eye, he tried to focus on Marla’s face. He wanted his last memory to be of her.

  “I am my own judge, your highness,” he whispered, lacking the strength to speak any louder.

  “And my own executioner.”

  With the darkness closing in around him, Elezaar felt Marla gather him into her arms and hold him, rocking him like a small child. He was foaming at the mouth, his muscles twitching uncontrollably.

  She must realise by now that he’d poisoned himself. Marla wasn’t a fool. She would know, just by looking at his pallid, clammy skin, that he was on the brink of death. And he knew she must despise him for his treachery.

  In spite of that, she held him against her body, as if her shock, her disappointment and even her anger were unimportant matters she was willing to put aside simply because Elezaar the Fool was dying.

  “Oh, Elezaar,” Marla murmured softly.

  Strange, but she sounds like she’s crying. He lost himself in her last embrace, his head resting on her breast, thinking that for this one tender moment, it had almost been worth it.

  “Why try to face this alone, you little fool? Why didn’t you come to me?”

  He wanted to tell Marla that he was a coward. He’d been afraid. Afraid of losing her protection.

  Afraid of being cast back into the pit. Afraid of being sold by one highborn house after another, until he was worthless. Afraid he’d wind up as bear-bait when he was past his prime.

  And he wanted to remind Marla he’d tried to warn her, time and again, not to place her trust in him. It was the Fourth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power. Trust only yourself.

  Most of all, Elezaar wanted to tell his beloved princess that he was afraid of never seeing her again. But he could feel his tongue swelling, making it impossible to speak.

  Don’t leave me, little man, he imagined he could hear her sobbing. What will I ever do without you?

  Elezaar knew her words were merely his own wishful thinking. He understood what he had done and knew he was beyond redemption. Beyond forgiveness. But it was nice to dream. It was nice to think he would draw his last breath with her forgiveness on his lips.

  With death so close he could reach out and touch it, the dwarf felt cool lips pressing on his forehead and wondered if he was dreaming again. Then he felt a soft cheek pressing against his face and tasted salty tears on his swollen tongue.

  And then, when the effort to hold on became too much for him, he willingly let go. Wrapped in the embrace of the only woman he had ever loved, Elezaar let the darkness take him.

  Chapter 72

  Wrayan Lightfinger and Kalan Hawksword worked through the night on Starros, but as dawn broke over Krakandar City, Wrayan still wasn’t certain they’d be able to save him. The young man had been beaten more savagely than anything Wrayan had ever encountered before, and he was astonished that Starros was still able to draw breath.

  Wrayan wished, not for the first time, that his magical ability included more healing. He knew a little. The Harshini had shown him a few things during his years with them, but having the knowledge of how to fix something and having the power to make it happen were two entirely different things.

  Starros was probably still alive because Wrayan had used what little power he wielded to keep him that way. To heal him completely, however, would take somebody with Brak’s formidable power or the active cooperation of the gods, a step Wrayan was extremely reluctant to take unless it was their only option.

  The last time Wrayan had begged a god for help, it had cost him his soul.

  The door opened behind him and Kalan slipped into the dim room, holding a steaming mug of tea. She closed the door and handed it to Wrayan, then looked down at Starros’s unconscious body with a frown.

  “How is he?”

  “Unchanged,” Wrayan told her, sipping the tea appreciatively. “Any word yet about how much longer before Rorin gets here?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  He glanced out of the dusty window and noticed it was lighter outside. He’d been up all night, watching over Starros. Kalan had stayed with him for much of the time and he was surprised by how much he’d enjoyed her company as they worked to use what skills they had—Kalan’s quite-substantial medical knowledge ( they have to teach us something at the Collective, you know) and Wrayan’s limited Harshini healing skills—to keep Starros alive.

  Wrayan had always had a soft spot for Kalan, and in between tending their wounded friend, they’d spent a lot of the night catching up. She kept him entertained with tales of her life in Greenharbour and her apprenticeship at the Sorcerers’ Collective—an institution that seemed quite different and far more structured than the haphazard organisation Wrayan remembered.

  He was amazed at how grown up Kalan seemed, how mature and in control of herself she was.

  He supposed he shouldn’t really have been surprised. Princess Marla’s youngest daughter was twenty-two years old now and had always been the brightest of the bunch. More like her mother than either Damin or Narvell—well-educated, a little cynical and accustomed to the viper-pit politics of Greenharbour—Kalan Hawksword was far removed from the child Wrayan remembered.

  He stretched his shoulders to ease the stiffness a little, leaned forward, pinched out the candle stub beside the bed, and then glanced up at her. She looked remarkably fresh and alert for someone who’d been awake the better part of the night. She’d even had time to brush out her long fair hair and braid it loosely down her back. Only her rumpled green silk gown betrayed the fact that she’d not come straight from the palace.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting back home?”

  “Not until I know he’s going to be all right,” she said, looking down at Starros with concern. His breathing was shallow and laboured, but it was steadier than it had been when Kalan first brought him to the Beggars’ Quarter last night. “Did you want to get some sleep? I can sit with him for a while.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t need sleep as often as—”

  “Us poor humans?” she finished for him with a smile. “Rorin says the same thing.”

  Wrayan looked up at her. “I wasn’t going to say it quite like that, but yes, one advantage of having even a little bit of Harshini blood in your veins seems to be the ability to go for a long time without sleep. How about you?”

  “I got a few hours. Fyora made up a pallet in the other room for me.”

  The safe house where they had brought Starros was a couple of streets away from the Pickpocket’s Retreat. Wrayan used it sometimes, when he wanted to be alone, or when he had business to conduct that he didn’t want witnessed by the patrons of the Pickpocket’s Retreat. Only Fyora, Luc North and a few other trusted lieutenants knew about it and he was certain they would never betray either Starros or the location of the house.

  Kalan sat on the edge of the bed and took Starros’s swollen hand in her own, stroking the splinted bandages gently. Two of his fingers were broken, and quite a few of the bones in his hand, as if Mahkas had deliberately laid his hands out and smashed them with his iron bar. “He’s not getting any better, is he?”

  Wrayan shrugged, unable to answer her question. “It’s hard to tell. I think he’s going to live.

  Unless he’s bleeding internally. Rorin will be able to tell better than me.”

  “And then what?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at him, Wrayan. We’ve managed to keep him alive, but even with Rorin’s help, some of these injuries are never going to heal properly. He’ll be crippled, at the very least.” Kalan fell silent, but Wrayan got the impression she wanted to say something else.

  “And . . .?”

  “I was just wondering . . . isn’t there something else you and Rorin can do?”

  “You mean magically, I suppose?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve done everything I know how to, Kalan. Rorin should be able to do more. His power is more inclined towards healing than mine.”

  “But he’s not as strong as you.”

  “But the Harshini taught him,” Wrayan reminded her. “Shananara gave him the knowledge he needed to use his power. I know it included some healing. I’m just not sure how much.”

  “I remember once, not long after we got to Greenharbour, we sneaked out of the Sorcerers’

  Collective during the Festival of Jashia to watch the fireworks. I slipped off the wall and hurt my ankle.

  Rorin fixed it without even knowing how he did it.” She smiled in remembrance. “It drove him mad for weeks afterwards, trying to recall what he’d done. He said he just knew what he had to do, but afterwards he couldn’t say what it was.”

  “Then let’s hope that when he gets here, he can help Starros, because the only other alternative is to ask the gods for help.”

  Kalan looked at him in surprise. “You can do that?”

  He shook his head reluctantly. “Don’t get too excited about the idea, Kal. Calling on the gods for direct intervention comes at a very high cost.”

  “What sort of cost?”

  “Your soul, usually.”

  She laughed at him, obviously thinking he was teasing her. “Are you telling me you’ve sold your soul to a god, Wrayan Lightfinger?”

  “Every last bit of it. To save your mother, actually.”

  Kalan’s smile faded. “Are you serious?”

  Wrayan nodded. “It happened a long time ago. Before your mother was even married to Laran Krakenshield. I accidentally cast a spell on her and had to call on a god to lift it.”

  “The God of Thieves,” Kalan guessed. “Dacendaran.”

  He smiled. “I had to promise to become the greatest thief in all of Hythria.”

  “And are you?” she asked.

  “I like to think so,” he replied smugly.

  She smiled. “And if you call on Dacendaran again?”

  “Then I suspect Starros is going to have to consider a career change.”

  Kalan shrugged and looked down at her foster-brother. “That may not be such a big deal, you know. I’m fairly certain he doesn’t have a future waiting for him in Krakandar Palace any longer.”

  “Even so, it’s a big thing to ask of someone. My father was a pickpocket. I grew up worshipping the God of Thieves. I made my deal with Dacendaran fully aware of what it meant. Starros doesn’t have that luxury, and I’m not sure, in his place, that I’d like to wake up to find my soul’s been traded away on my behalf without being consulted.”

  “Let’s see what Rorin can do first then,” she agreed, “before we start invoking divine intervention.” Kalan glanced up at the rapidly brightening day and frowned. “Speaking of Rorin, I wish I knew what happened up at the palace last night. Damin looked pretty angry when I left.”

  “Well, you can be fairly certain both your uncle and your brother are still alive.”

  “How?”

  “No bells,” he told her. “If anything really awful had happened to either Krakandar’s regent or her prince, the city would be ringing with them.”

  “That’s a really comforting thought, Wrayan.”

  He grinned at her tiredly. “I do try my hardest to help, you know.”

  The sound of the front door opening put an end to any further speculation about the fate of her uncle or her brother. Wrayan put the tea down beside the smoking candle stub and together they hurried out into the main room to find Fyora carefully locking the door behind her. Rorin was with her, dressed in regular street clothes rather than his black sorcerer’s robes—a wise move if one didn’t particularly want to be noticed in the Beggars’ Quarter.

  “Where have you been?” Kalan demanded of Rorin, as soon as she saw him.

  “I came as soon as I could,” Rorin replied. “How’s Starros?”

  “Struggling,” Wrayan told him. “It’s time to find out how much healing knowledge Shananara left you with.”

  The young man nodded. “I’ll do what I
can. Have you seen Damin?”

  “No,” Kalan replied. “Why?”

  Rorin seemed more than a little concerned. “I thought he might have come down here last night, after he . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked at Kalan as if he didn’t have the words to tell her what he must.

  Wrayan studied him for a moment, reading Rorin’s unease simply from the way he was standing, the whole manner in which he spoke, rather than picking up on his thoughts. Whatever news the young man brought, it wasn’t good.

  “Fee, can you put the word out on the street that Damin might be somewhere in the city? See if anybody’s seen him?”

  Annoyed by the realisation that she was being sent away, Fyora nodded her agreement reluctantly and let herself out of the small house, muttering about ungrateful wretches who didn’t deserve her aid or assistance.

  Kalan waited until she saw Fyora’s shadow pass by the window facing the narrow street before she demanded an explanation. “After Damin what?” she asked suspiciously.

  Rorin looked away uncomfortably. “Damin and Mahkas had something of an altercation, I suppose you could call it.”

  “What’s that mean in reality?” Wrayan asked doubtfully.

  “He damn near killed him.”

  “Mahkas almost killed Damin?” Kalan gasped.

  “Damin almost killed Mahkas,” the young sorcerer corrected. “I’ve never seen anybody so furious in my entire life, Kal. I swear, if Tejay Lionsclaw hadn’t been there to reason with him, Damin may have actually killed your uncle with his bare hands.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Wrayan said. “Damin and Starros were always close. He wouldn’t have stood by and let what’s been done to his best friend go unchallenged.”

  Rorin shook his head. “It wasn’t about Starros . . .” He hesitated, obviously unsure about how to go on. “I guess there’s no easy way to break this to you. I’m so sorry, Kalan. Leila killed herself within minutes of Mahkas telling her Starros was dead.”