Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “I’ll bet you cling to that philosophy. But you must do something else. Do you tell jokes?” The princess seemed amused by him. It probably wasn’t enough, but it was a start.

  “I am trained as a historian, your highness,” he informed her, wondering what Alija and Venira were talking about. Was Alija arranging to buy him as they spoke? Demanding that he be handed over to her? Was he to be taken from here and delivered straight into the bowels of hell?

  “And what else?” the princess asked.

  Elezaar treated her to his most charming smile. “I play the lyre, tell jokes, and speak several languages fluently. My real skill lies in a less tangible area, however,” he added, desperation making him bold. “And it’s that which makes me so valuable to you.”

  Marla smiled at his nerve. “What special gift? Do you have a cock as long as your forearm, or something?”

  “Alas, it is Lorince who has been blessed by the gods in that area. I have a talent for politics, your highness.”

  Marla was disappointed. “Is that all?”

  Elezaar was genuinely horrified. “Is that all? Have you no concept of the power I can bring you, your highness?”

  “What power?” She laughed sceptically. “You’re a court’esa. And a short, ugly one, at that. You have no power!”

  Elezaar had so little time. His palms were sweating as he struggled to maintain an outward air of calm while Alija was probably arranging his death in the next room while that fat slug, Venira, munched grapes and spilled the juice down his chin.

  “I can show you how to manipulate men, your highness,” he told her, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I can show you how to make them do as you desire, not the other way around.”

  “Any court’esa can teach me that,” Marla pointed out with a shrug.

  “I don’t mean just in the bedroom,” he told her, almost whispering now. “I mean anywhere. Any place. I can show you how to rule even a king or a prince, if only—”

  Elezaar cut his words off abruptly as Dherin approached. The older slave coughed politely before bowing low to Marla. “Your highness, the Lady Alija asks if you have decided on the slave Corin yet, or if you wish to see more.”

  Marla looked across at the court’esa in question, eyeing him up and down thoughtfully.

  “He’s very handsome,” the slave added, hoping to push her into a decision.

  “But to say ‘yes’ is tantamount to giving in,” Elezaar said quietly behind her.

  Marla turned to him in surprise. “What did you say?”

  “Selecting a court’esa is tantamount to agreeing with the fate the High Prince has in store for you, isn’t it?” he suggested. Elezaar was only guessing, but at this point he had nothing to lose. Alija was probably buying him right this minute. He had only one chance to impress the Princess Marla or his life was over anyway.

  “How do you know what my brother has arranged for me?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “The whole of Hythria knows about the offer for your hand from the Fardohnyan king, your highness. And I’m sure you don’t object to the principle of being court’esa trained,” he said, taking a wild stab in the dark about the reason for her obvious reluctance to pick a court’esa. “But it’s one thing to be taught the art of love so you can come to the bed of a man you love to give him pleasure all night long. It’s quite another to agree to learn the same skills to entertain some foreigner who, in the normal course of events, you wouldn’t have spared the time of day.”

  Marla stared at him in astonishment. She said nothing. Elezaar couldn’t tell if he’d impressed her or merely hastened his demise by insulting a member of the royal family.

  “Your highness?” Dherin prompted.

  “Tell Lady Alija I will take the dwarf.”

  Elezaar almost fainted with relief at her words.

  Dherin was aghast. “Your highness?”

  “I want the dwarf.”

  “But your highness,” the slave ventured cautiously. “For a young lady such as yourself to be taught by such a . . . creature—”

  “Are you questioning me?”

  “Of course not, your highness,” he hurried to assure her with a grovelling bow.

  “Then go and tell the Lady Alija I have made my choice and I want the Fool.”

  “As you wish, your highness.”

  The slave backed out of the courtyard, bowing as he went. Marla turned to stare at her newly acquired chattel, shaking her head at the folly of what she had just done.

  Elezaar gave her a lopsided smile. “I am yours to command, your highness.”

  “Then I command you to—”

  “Marla! What is this nonsense about buying the dwarf?” Alija demanded before Marla could add anything further. The Lady of Dregian Province strode back into the showroom with Venira on her heels, a look of intense displeasure marring her lovely face.

  “I want him,” Marla shrugged, as if that was all the explanation she needed.

  Alija stared at the young woman for a moment, as if debating something, and then, inexplicably, she smiled.

  “Then we’ll take them both.”

  “Both, my lady?” Venira gasped.

  “The High Prince can pay for the Fool. You may send the account for Corin to me. Barnardo and I will make a gift of him to our cousin. As a birthday present.”

  “There’s really no need,” the princess assured her, as the sorcerer deftly sidestepped Marla’s plans to prevent being court’esa trained. “Besides, I couldn’t possibly accept such an expensive gift.”

  “Nonsense, child!” Alija scoffed. “You’re a princess and soon to be a queen. Nothing is too good for you.”

  “But, my lady—”

  Corin is Alija’s spy, Elezaar realised, as she insisted that Marla accept her offering. I’m not out of the woods yet . . .

  “See to it, Venira,” Alija commanded. “Have them sent to the palace. Today.”

  Without waiting for the slaver to reply, she took Marla’s arm and linked it through her own. “And now that’s taken care of, my dear, I think we should visit my dressmaker. We really should take this opportunity to see about buying you some more fashionable clothes.”

  Elezaar watched them leave then looked over at Corin. Venira had claimed he was a poet. Was he an assassin, too? He didn’t wear the raven ring of the Assassins’ Guild but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill if Alija ordered him to.

  “So it seems we’re to be housemates,” the young man said with a knowing smile.

  “So it seems,” Elezaar agreed cautiously, wondering if Corin’s apparently harmless statement was actually a threat.

  I may have just stepped out of the pot and into the kiln, he realised with despair.

  But he had confronted Alija Eaglespike and was still alive and that, in itself, was nothing short of a miracle.

  Part II

  BROKEN PROMISES,

  SHATTERED DREAMS

  chapter 19

  D

  espite the Convocation of Warlords approving his inheritance, Laran Krakenshield’s thirtieth birthday was an occasion for celebration for very few people. His mother, Jeryma, was pleased, no doubt, and probably his youngest half-sister, Riika. His other half-sister, Darilyn, hadn’t stopped lamenting her own woes for long enough to notice her brother was having a birthday. His half-brother Mahkas was, more than likely, already making a list of the titles he thought he deserved as the only brother of Krakandar’s Warlord.

  The vassals and the people of Krakandar province, however, probably weren’t rejoicing at the prospect of Daelon Krakenshield’s son stepping up to take his place.

  Krakandar had been under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective for almost twenty-eight years. Those who remembered the last Warlord recalled a savage, brutal, hot-headed young man whose folly cost him his life. Nobody was particularly anxious to have history repeat itself when his son inherited the throne.

  The Collective’s governance of Krakandar had been both benign
and astute during the years they had held it in trust for its heir. Consequently, Laran had inherited a province that was in a much healthier state than the one left to him when his father was killed in a drunken duel. He was now one of the richest Warlords in Hythria.

  But his good fortune had a downside and Laran knew he would need every skill he owned to secure his newly acquired lands and position. Every move he made would be watched by the other Warlords. The nature of Hythrun politics was such that instability tended to prevent any one Warlord from rising to dominance. But nearly three decades of stable rule by the Sorcerers’ Collective meant Krakandar was enjoying an unprecedented level of prosperity. Rarely had a Warlord commanded so flourishing an empire. Laran privately wondered if he would live to enjoy his birthright for long. Ronan Dell had been murdered for the crime of simply being close to the High Prince. Some nervous Warlord would probably have him assassinated long before he could wield any sort of real power.

  It was a sobering thought.

  But constantly looking over your shoulder for an assassin can be a tiring thing. Laran tried to forget about it and immersed himself in the day to day running of his vast province. Like the other Warlords, Laran commanded the loyalty of seven vassals who in turn administered their own smaller estates, made up of seven boroughs each. Laran was so busy dealing with them, that thoughts of assassins, factions and the distant politics of Greenharbour were pushed far back in his mind.

  But midwinter, two months after his arrival back in Krakandar following the Convocation in Greenharbour and the formal assumption of his inheritance, brought news which both shocked and saddened the young Warlord.

  Glenadal Ravenspear, the Warlord of Sunrise Province, his mother’s fourth husband, was mortally injured in a riding accident. His uncle, Kagan Palenovar, the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, brought him the news himself, arriving unexpectedly on his golden sorcerer-bred mount with his apprentice, Wrayan Lightfinger.

  Laran quickly ordered the palace into action, and then set out with just a handful of guards on the hard ride to the city of Cabradell in the southern province of Sunrise, some eight hundred miles from Krakandar, where his mother lived with Glenadal.

  “Laran! Thank the gods you came so quickly.”

  It had taken just under eleven days and several changes of horses to get to Cabradell. Exhausted from the forced ride, Laran took a moment to collect himself before he embraced his mother. Always a small woman, Jeryma had gained weight since he saw her last, no doubt the result of middle-aged contentment as Glenadal Ravenspear’s wife. There was a smattering of silver among the gold of her hair, too, these days. She was dressed in red, not mourning white, which Laran took as a good sign, although her expression was grim.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he told her, taking in her weary face with concern. “He still lives?”

  “Barely,” she agreed. “He’s been asking for you.”

  “I’ll go to him. You should get some rest.”

  Jeryma smiled. “There will be time for rest soon enough, Laran. Go see your stepfather. Kagan can look after me.”

  The High Arrion nodded his agreement, offering his arm to his sister. Laran spared his mother a concerned glance then strode down the walkway to Glenadal’s chamber.

  The Cabradell palace was more a villa than a fortress, nestled at the foot of the majestic Sunrise Mountains, for which the province was named. Built of white stucco with a red tiled roof, the palace sprawled over the peak of a small rise which gave it a commanding view of the city below. The air was cooler here, closer to the mountains, and the breeze that snatched at Laran’s cloak as he traversed the walkways connecting the various wings of the palace had the taste of distant snow upon it.

  When he reached Glenadal’s suite, the guards on duty opened the carved doors without question, recognising Laran on sight. He stepped into the gloom and the heavy scent of lavender, which was smouldering in oil burners placed around the room. The Warlord lay on a low, exquisitely carved pallet in the centre of the dimly lit room. On her knees beside him was a girl with long fair hair and a tear-stained face. She sobbed silently as she applied a cool compress to Glenadal’s forehead, her tears staining the silk sheet covering the Warlord.

  The girl looked up at the sound of the door closing. When she saw who it was she scrambled to her feet, ran to Laran and threw herself into his arms.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she sobbed, clinging to him.

  Laran held his sister close for a few moments and let her cry, not saying anything. In truth, he wasn’t sure what to say to her, anyway. It was hard to imagine what she was going through, sitting here watching her father die. Riika was just fifteen and beginning to fulfil the promise of her mother’s beauty.

  “Why don’t you go and get some rest?” he suggested gently, when her tears abated a little. “I’ll sit with him for a while.”

  “No. I can’t leave him, Laran. If something happens . . .”

  “Then it won’t be your fault,” he assured her. “Now go! Get some rest! You’re not going to be able to help anyone if you collapse, are you?”

  She hesitated, glancing back at her father. “I really shouldn’t . . .”

  “Consider it a big-brother order then.”

  Riika sighed in defeat. “Promise you’ll call me if anything changes.”

  “I promise.”

  Riika glanced back at her father with a frown. “Maybe I should go to the temple first. I could ask Cheltaran to aid him.”

  “The God of Healing will hear your prayers wherever you are, Riika,” Laran promised. “Rest is what you need.”

  She smiled hopefully. “Maybe . . . now that you’re here . . . he might perk up a little. He’s been hanging on for so long, Laran. I can’t believe the gods could be so cruel as to take him from me now. Not after all this time.”

  “Go, Riika,” Laran urged, walking her to the door, certain that was the only way she was going to leave. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was haggard. There was no telling when she’d last slept. Kissing the top of her head, he held her close for a moment then opened the door. “I’ll stay with him until you get back.”

  She nodded, squinting a little as she stepped out into the light. Laran pulled the door shut before she could change her mind and walked back to the bed where his stepfather lay. Glenadal’s breathing was laboured and a drop of blood-flecked spittle rested on the corner of his mouth. As if sensing the change in the person watching over him, the old man’s eyes fluttered open. It took them a moment to focus on Laran and then he smiled.

  “You’d think,” he rasped painfully, “that at my age . . . I’d have more sense than to try breaking a horse by just climbing on its back.”

  “Is that what happened?” Laran asked, taking a seat on the floor beside the pallet. “Kagan said it was a riding accident.”

  “He’s just being kind. Probably trying to . . . protect my reputation as a wise . . . old statesman.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Damn it, boy!” Glenadal gasped, “I’ve got a couple of infected ribs poking through my lungs! What do you think?”

  Laran smiled. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Glenadal took a couple of painful breaths before he answered. “Promise me you’ll take care of Riika.”

  “You know I will.”

  “And your mother. Take care of her, too.”

  “Of course.”

  The old Warlord closed his eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly, while he gathered his strength. Even from where Laran sat, he could smell the sickness on Glenadal’s breath. The infection that had turned a simple punctured lung into a life-threatening injury had a firm grip on the old Warlord now. When he opened his eyes again, he reached for Laran’s arm. The grip was frail, but determined.

  “This . . . accident is a great opportunity for you, Laran.”

  “You’re going to die on me, old man, and leave me a sister and a mother to take care of,” La
ran said with a smile. “I’ve seen the way you spoil them. I’ll be bankrupt in a month.”

  Glenadal smiled wanly. “It’s good you’re here, Laran. Everyone else has been tiptoeing around me . . . like I’m too stupid to know I’m dying.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that you may actually survive this, you old fool?”

  “I thought about it,” he said, shaking his head painfully. “But I know my time is up. I can feel it. I can feel Death sitting at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to falter.”

  “And this great opportunity you speak of?”

  “My death will save Hythria.”

  Laran smiled at the old man fondly. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Just have to think you’re the most important person in the world.”

  “I mean it, Laran. I have no legitimate son.”

  “Then whoever Riika marries—”

  “No!” Glenadal gasped, gripping his arm with desperate strength. “I promised her mother . . . your mother, I’d never force our daughter into a marriage she didn’t want. You must swear to me you will honour that promise.”

  “I swear, Glenadal,” Laran agreed doubtfully. “And it’s a noble sentiment, but realistically—”

  “I have drawn up my will, Laran. I have named you as my heir.”

  Laran stared at him, shocked beyond words. “But . . . but you can’t! I already hold Krakandar. The Convocation will never grant me lordship over Sunrise as well. Gods, Glenadal, that would give me control of a third of the whole damn country.”

  “I know.”

  “This is insane!” Laran said, shaking his head. “Who else knows about this idiotic idea?”

  “Only your mother.”

  “And she agreed to it?”

  “As you will. When you’ve had time to think about it.”

  “When did you get time to cook up this ridiculous scheme between you?”

  “We didn’t cook it up. At least not the way you’re thinking.” He had to stop to catch his breath before continuing. “We just discussed how you were the only unmarried Warlord . . . and how, up until now, no Warlord was in a strong enough position to make an offer that could counter the Fardohnyan offer for Marla Wolfblade’s hand.” Glenadal smiled wanly. “And don’t look at me like that. I didn’t seek my deathbed deliberately. Circumstances have . . . conspired to aid us, lad. Don’t be a fool. Take the opportunity and run with it.”