Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Take out? You mean they’d kill me? Just because I’m Lernen’s sister?”

  “In a heartbeat.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Ronan Dell was murdered today, Marla, for the crime of being your brother’s friend.”

  That put rather a different light on things. “Oh.”

  Kagan smiled sympathetically. “Right now, you have two choices, young lady. You can accept your fate while those of us who don’t fancy seeing you skewered on a sword try to do something about it. Or you can continue to act like a spoilt child and doom your brother to certain conquest by his enemies.”

  “Why should it be up to me to save Lernen?”

  “Because you had the misfortune to be born the daughter of a prince.”

  “A High Prince,” she corrected absently.

  Kagan sighed heavily. “Marla, we all have to do things we don’t like. I’ve no more desire to sit here lecturing you about responsibility than you have to listen to me. I know you’re disappointed, particularly in light of the rather fanciful plans you had for Nash, but you do me a great disservice by jumping to conclusions. Your life is not going to be the torment you imagine.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if I can possibly find a way to prevent it, you won’t be marrying Hablet of Fardohnya. Right now, that solution is yet to present itself. But we need to buy time. And Hablet is that time. So until a better option comes along, I don’t need you complicating things by acting like a spoilt brat.”

  She sniffed inelegantly and wiped her eyes. “And Nash? What will become of him?”

  Kagan cursed softly and savagely for a moment. “Dammit, girl! Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  “I was just asking,” she said defensively.

  “Stop asking. Stop even thinking it.”

  Marla stared at him sceptically. “Are you really going to try and prevent it?”

  “Only if I can find a way that doesn’t involve a lot of people dying. Including you. And it’s not as if you have to marry him right away. You’ve still a great deal to learn before you’re fit to be anyone’s wife.”

  Marla looked down at her hands, and then she took a deep breath and raised her eyes to meet the sorcerer’s. Suddenly, she felt very certain of what she must do.

  “Could I have a moment alone?”

  Kagan studied her suspiciously. “You’re not planning to kill yourself, are you? Or do anything else stupid?”

  “No,” she promised. “I’d just like a few moments to get used to the idea. If I must do this thing for Lernen, I will,” she declared selflessly, with a heavy, dramatic sigh. “I will put aside my own feelings. For my brother. And for my family. For Hythria. My sacrifice will be my gift to Hythria’s people.”

  “Oh, please,” Kagan moaned, rolling his eyes. But he rose to his feet and did as she asked, leaving her alone in the anteroom to contemplate her fate.

  And what a fate it was. Lernen had married her off to a Fardohnyan. What was he thinking? Surely it would have been better to pick a Hythrun consort for his only sister? Were things so bad that he needed Fardohnya’s help?

  Before she could come up with a satisfactory answer, the door opened again. Marla sighed, thinking she was never to be left alone. But it wasn’t Kagan returning, it was the Lady Tesha Zorell.

  “Lord Palenovar asked me to keep you company.” She smiled as she closed the door behind her.

  “I’d really rather be left alone, Lady Tesha.”

  “Indeed.”

  Marla had no intention of being stuck with Tesha Zorell for any length of time so she forced a bright smile and rose to her feet. “On second thought, I’d like to return to the party.”

  “Are you sure, your highness? Lord Palenovar mentioned you were a little upset over the news of your upcoming betrothal.”

  “I was,” she admitted, with an unconcerned shrug. “But I’m over it now. And the night really is quite young. This may be the only chance I get to enjoy myself before I’m formally betrothed.”

  The Lower Arrion studied the princess for a moment, clearly suspicious, but in the end she shrugged and allowed Marla to head for the door and back to the party.

  chapter 7

  A

  lija Eaglespike halted on the top step of the ballroom and surveyed the hall, her worst fears solidifying into reality as she picked out King Hablet of Fardohnya’s pet eunuch, Lecter Turon, in the crowd, accompanied by the High Arrion’s apprentice, Wrayan Lightfinger. Nothing could have confirmed the rumours that Kagan Palenovar was brokering a marriage between the Fardohnyan king and Lernen’s young sister, Marla, more than seeing those two underlings together.

  Kagan is going to hand over Hythria to Fardohnya without a whimper, she thought. Gift-wrapped.

  And the wrapping will be Marla Wolfblade.

  She let her gaze linger on Wrayan Lightfinger for a moment, let the power swirl around her as a silent warning. Kagan’s apprentice was, perhaps, the only other living sorcerer who could challenge her magically. Kagan certainly couldn’t. The problem was, Alija didn’t really know how powerful Wrayan was. He was very good at shielding his ability.

  As if he knew she was thinking of him, the young man glanced across the hall and met her eye. His expression didn’t change, his gaze didn’t waver. His confidence was disturbing.

  “Here comes Kagan,” Barnardo remarked, breaking her concentration. Alija looked at her husband, fighting back the urge to scratch at her arms where the formal robes of the Collective were making her itch. She rarely wore them. Hardly any of the sorcerers in the Collective did. You would think with several thousand years of magical experience behind them, someone could come up with a robe that didn’t make you itch.

  “Say nothing,” she warned. Barnardo could be an idiot at times. On public outings such as this, she was afraid to let him out of her sight.

  “If he says anything to me about Ronan Dell’s murder—”

  “He won’t,” Alija promised. “He knows better.”

  “Lady Alija. Lord Eaglespike.” Kagan stopped just below the bottom step and bowed, if you could call such a perfunctory nod a bow. “How nice of you to join us.”

  “Lord Palenovar.” Alija responded with a bow just as disrespectful as the one Kagan had treated her to. Kagan had no idea how much Alija would have preferred not to be here this evening. Certainly not with her husband. She was desperately trying to convince the Warlords of Hythria who were leaning towards the Patriot Faction that Barnardo was a viable alternative to Lernen as High Prince. A task much more easily accomplished when Barnardo wasn’t around. But if they hadn’t shown up tonight, people might think they’d had something to do with Ronan Dell’s murder. “Surely, you didn’t think we’d miss something as important as the Feast of Kaelarn Ball? Whatever would the court gossips have made of our absence?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Kagan replied. “Perhaps you could leave and we would find out?”

  “You can’t threaten us!” Barnardo snapped, his petulant whine making Alija wince.

  This all would have been so much easier if I’d not been so impatient, she realised. The chance to take the throne had seemed so easy once. Back when Lernen had just become High Prince and there wasn’t a soul in Hythria who didn’t know him for what he was. Nobody had expected him to last the year out. He had no heir and was not likely to get one. All it needed was the right man to step forward and the High Prince’s seat was his for the taking.

  The right man, Alija had been convinced, was Barnardo Eaglespike. He was Lernen’s cousin, so he had a blood claim to the throne. He was a Warlord with the resources and—significantly—the army of a rich province behind him. He had allies. He had everything needed to step into the breach when Lernen failed.

  Alija was a Patriot. She cared too much about Hythria to let it rot in the hands of a despot. So she had calculated the odds and gone with the favourite. For the sake of her country, Alija had turned her back on a man who loved her an
d chosen the route to power instead, privately convinced that only she could steer Hythria through the coming crisis and back to greatness.

  And where had it gotten her? Nowhere. Somehow, Lernen had clung to his throne. Barnardo Eaglespike had all the necessary qualifications for kingship except one—a brain. Her Innate power frightened her colleagues in the Collective, so instead of winning the post of High Arrion as she should have when Velma retired a few years ago, they had appointed that old fool Kagan Palenovar instead. Not because he was powerful—Alija had more power in her little finger than Kagan would ever command. No, he’d won the post because he was from an old and trusted noble family, his sister had been married to not one, but two Warlords, and he was notoriously uninterested in politics. Those spineless fools in the Collective considered him by far the safer candidate. They had weighed up Alija’s ambition against Kagan’s total lack of it and she had lost badly in the comparison.

  And the irony? Kagan was running the damn country, just as they’d feared Alija might, and nobody seemed to realise it. Had she done nothing; had she simply bided her time, married the man she loved and spent the last few years steeped in happiness instead of intense disappointment, she’d be in exactly the same position. Laran Krakenshield was going to inherit Krakandar Province in the next day or so. He would be Warlord in his own right, richer and probably more powerful than Barnardo, and a far better candidate for High Prince, given he was articulate, well-educated and he commanded enormous respect from the other Warlords, who considered him to have conducted himself with nothing but honour in the manner he had waited for his inheritance.

  Still, Alija didn’t lose much sleep over the route she had chosen. There wasn’t any point. She had played her hand and it hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d expected. She consoled herself with the thought that even if she’d married Laran Krakenshield, the chances were he would never have agreed to make a play for the throne. He was too damned honourable for that. This way, she had power, limited though it was. And wealth. And her boys. They were young yet, still babies really, but she was driven by ambition for Cyrus and Serrin as much as herself these days. And all was not lost. Not yet. It wouldn’t be lost until the moment Hablet of Fardohnya took Marla Wolfblade as his wife.

  And that was something she was willing to go to almost any lengths to prevent.

  “I didn’t come here to threaten you, my lord,” Kagan told Barnardo with a sly smile. “I came merely to suggest you try the oysters. They’re fresh from your own province, I believe.”

  “You think we came all this way to eat our own oysters, Kagan?” Alija asked with a thin smile.

  “You’d better not have come for any other reason, Alija,” he replied softly.

  Alija didn’t miss his meaning. Barnardo, however, took umbrage at his tone and puffed his chest out, looking mightily offended. “My Lord High Arrion! If you think you can stand there and tell us what we should or shouldn’t be doing—”

  “The High Arrion meant no offence, my dear,” she cut in soothingly. “I’m sure he merely wanted to point out the success our trading delegations have been having.”

  “Naturally,” Kagan agreed, with that same oily smile. Alija knew what he was thinking. She knew he enjoyed watching Barnardo make a fool of himself. The High Arrion might be a lazy old drunkard, but he wasn’t blind to her husband’s failings. It was probably why he still supported Lernen. In Kagan’s eyes there probably wasn’t enough difference between the leadership abilities of Lernen and Barnardo to bother changing the status quo.

  “Then we will make a point of trying the oysters as the High Arrion suggests,” Alija said with an oily smile of her own. “One can tell a great deal about the surrounding environment from the taste of an oyster, and I believe tonight is as good a night as any for testing the water.”

  “Then be careful you don’t wade in so deep you drown, my lady,” Kagan replied. “I might find it a little difficult to throw you a lifeline.”

  “You’re assuming I would accept one from you, Kagan Palenovar.”

  “When one is drowning, my lady, one rarely has a choice.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I’m not drowning, isn’t it?”

  “Not yet,” Kagan conceded. Then he grinned. “But the night is young.”

  Alija slipped her arm through Barnardo’s. “I believe, my lord, we are keeping you from your social obligations. Come, Barnardo. I think I see Lord Foxtalon over by the orchestra. We must thank him for the present he sent when Serrin was born.”

  Alija didn’t give Kagan a chance to respond. She tugged Barnardo away from the High Arrion. He turned to her as they descended the steps, followed by their entourage, demanding to know what present from Lord Foxtalon had been so impressive it required a personal thank you. Alija wanted to slap her husband for being so dense.

  Kagan stepped back to let her pass, his gaze barely wavering. He thinks he’s won, she realised. Even with Ronan dead, he thinks that with Marla’s marriage, Barnardo has no hope of claiming the crown.

  And he’s right. If Marla married Hablet of Fardohnya, all Alija’s dreams became just that, nothing more than idle dreams. The fear that Ronan Dell’s murder should have sparked in the High Prince was all but wiped out by the false sense of security he would acquire with the King of Fardohnya for his brother-in-law.

  But as Kagan had pointed out, the night was young. And until the marriage happened, the greatest asset Alija had was the other Warlords’ fear of what an alliance with Fardohnya meant.

  The battle was far from over.

  chapter 8

  T

  his should be interesting.”

  Laran Krakenshield glanced over his shoulder at the young man who had spoken, following his gaze to the entrance of the ballroom where Barnardo Eaglespike and his wife Alija had just entered. He also noticed his uncle, the High Arrion, quickly moving to intercept them. Many other eyes turned towards the sorcerer and her Warlord, no doubt wondering the same thing as Laran: what would happen when they confronted the High Prince and his new Fardohnyan ally?

  “That’s one situation we’d do well to stay clear of,” Laran advised.

  Nash grinned. “You’re not even a tiny bit interested in what your uncle is saying to your former lover?”

  “Alija and I were never lovers,” Laran corrected, turning to the ice sculpture on the table which he’d suddenly decided required his undivided attention. The frozen water dragon was melting rapidly in the humid closeness of the ballroom.

  “You’d have to be the only male past puberty in Hythria she hasn’t slept with,” Nash chuckled.

  “Really? And when did you sleep with her?”

  “Well, I didn’t,” Nash conceded. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “There you go, then,” Laran cut in. “Now shut up and mind your own business.”

  Nash smiled knowingly, still watching the commotion at the entrance, while Laran studiously ignored it. Alija was Barnardo’s wife now and there was no point in thinking about her. No point in wondering what might have been. Besides, she had brushed him off like an annoying insect when she realised what Barnardo could offer her. Laran was unproved and unknown, caught in limbo until his thirtieth birthday and the time when he could take charge of his wealth and his province. Barnardo was a much safer bet for an ambitious woman like Alija—a powerful and wealthy Warlord and cousin of a weak and easily manipulated High Prince. Alija was many things, Laran thought. Sentimental definitely wasn’t one of them.

  “Are you going to speak to her?” Nash asked.

  “Who?”

  “Alija, of course.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to her.”

  “You’ll have to say something eventually,” Nash suggested. “I mean, she’s bound to want to congratulate you when the Convocation votes you your province in a few days.”

  “If they vote me my province,” Laran corrected.

  “They will,” Nash promised. “They have no choice. You’re the only man in Hythria
who actually wants to live so far from the capital. I really don’t know what you see in Krakandar, myself. Far too close to those vicious sluts running Medalon, if you ask me.”

  “The Sisters of the Blade don’t give us much trouble,” he shrugged. “They’re too busy trying to rid their own country of pagans to worry about the pagans south of the border.”

  “Yes, but one day those nasty bitches may actually succeed in ridding themselves of their own pagans,” Nash said. “And then you know what they’ll do, don’t you?”

  “Invade Karien?” Laran suggested with a faint smile, taking a sip from his glass. The wine was too sweet and he winced at the taste of it, trying very hard to give the impression that he had no interest in what was going on between Alija and Kagan across the hall.

  “Now there’s a thought!” Nash was saying, oblivious to the direction of Laran’s thoughts. “I wonder who’d win that little skirmish? What are there—a few thousand Defenders to take on a few hundred thousand Kariens?”

  “I’d back the Defenders any day,” Laran said, forcing himself to look away. There was nothing between him and Alija any more. And no point wishing there was. He fixed his attention on Nash. “One well-trained Medalonian Defender is worth a hundred reluctant Karien conscripts.”

  “You sound like you actually admire them!” Nash accused, looking a little alarmed at the thought.

  “I do,” Laran agreed. “I mean, I’ve no time for the Sisterhood, but their Defenders are trained better than any other soldiers in the world. Including ours.”

  “You know, that’s bordering on sacrilegious, Laran.”

  The future Warlord smiled. “Maybe Zegarnald created the Defenders to give us a worthy opponent?”

  “What’s this about the Defenders?” a voice boomed behind them. “I turn my back on you two for five seconds and now you’re planning to declare war on Medalon!”

  Laran and Nash turned to find Laran’s stepfather, Glenadal Ravenspear, the Warlord of Sunrise Province, standing behind them. He was a big man with a broad grin and a voice that could decalcify a man’s spine at fifty paces when the mood took him. Laran liked him a great deal, not because he was a powerful Warlord, or a clever one, but because he had made Laran’s mother happy. After a lifetime of misery brought on by a series of unhappy arranged marriages, she deserved some small measure of peace.