Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  And full of questions about what would happen next.

  Riika wondered if Mahkas thought her father had named him the heir to Sunrise. He would not think Laran a likely candidate, already being a Warlord in his own right. And Mahkas knew of Glenadal’s promise to Riika that she would never be forced into a marriage against her will. Did he think that made him the only likely successor? Mahkas had got along well enough with his stepfather and with no independent wealth of his own—Mahkas’s father had been a penniless aristocrat whose marriage to Jeryma had been arranged to repay a political favour—he was certainly well placed to take advantage of his stepfather’s generosity.

  Poor Mahkas, Riika thought. He’ll be devastated when he learns the truth.

  Darilyn and her boys stepped up next. Her sister placed a delicate posy of blue mountain roses—the tiny wildflowers that grew prolifically throughout the Sunrise Mountains and were the symbol of the House of Ravenspear—on the shroud. Each of the boys then placed a small carved horse, representing Glenadal’s favoured mounts, Nofera and Thunder, beside the flowers. When they were done, the boys returned to their mother’s side and it was Riika’s turn.

  She hesitated, reluctant to step forward, reluctant to perform this final, irrevocable act of farewell. Bright sunlight, robbed of its warmth by the wind, beat down mercilessly, making her a little light-headed. Perhaps, if she didn’t take this last, fateful step, Glenadal would still be alive. Perhaps she’d wake up from this nightmare to find her father standing by her bed, holding a candle that illuminated his jovial features, laughing at her foolish nightmare, promising he’d live forever, just as he’d done when she was small. Don’t you worry about me, he used to say. Death will take one look at me and run the other way, screaming in fright.

  He’ll hear one of your jokes is what you mean, her mother would respond with a smile, as if the ritual was some time-honoured tradition between them. They’re enough to make anybody run screaming in the opposite direction, even Death . . .

  “Riika,” Laran whispered in gentle reminder. “It’s time.”

  Riika shook herself, forced her limbs to move. She stepped forward, clutching her father’s shield. It was heavy and cumbersome and her arm ached from carrying it, but it bore the crest of the Ravenspear House and as his only child she felt she deserved the honour. Mahkas had advised against it, offering to carry the shield for her. The weight might be too much for her, he claimed. He sounded genuine in his concern, but she did wonder for a moment if Mahkas had offered to bear Glenadal’s shield because he thought it would be a good thing for all these spectators (or more specifically, all these citizens of Cabradell) to see him holding such a potent symbol of her father’s lordship over their province. If he thought himself the only logical heir, then it was possible. On the other hand, Mahkas may simply have meant exactly what he said. The shield was very heavy and at the funeral, with the whole of Cabradell watching, it wouldn’t do for her to stumble or falter. Laran had thought the same thing. But he didn’t offer to carry it in her place. He had simply taken her aside, just before they joined the long procession up the hill to the family crypt, and shown her the best way to hold it and the safest way to lift it up onto the bier. That was the difference between her brothers, really. One was all substance, the other all show.

  With a small grunt, Riika lifted the heavy metal shield and placed it atop her father’s shrouded body, the way Laran had shown her. The act itself did little to ease her grief. She didn’t feel any sudden sense of closure. The only weight she was relieved of was the physical weight of her father’s shield. Riika felt let down. Wasn’t this supposed to make it easier? Wasn’t the whole point of a funeral to give the family a chance to say goodbye? Wasn’t it supposed to alleviate the pain, somehow? What was the point of a funeral, otherwise? Death had already taken Glenadal away. This ceremony was for the living, really, not the dead.

  Oh, Papa! Why did you leave me? Did I do something wrong? Am I being punished for something?

  “It’s all right, Riika,” a voice told her soothingly. A strong arm encircled her shoulders and drew her gently away from the bier. It was Laran, she realised. She’d been standing there like a fool, sobbing shamelessly. What must people think of me?

  What do I care?

  What will happen to me now?

  Laran handed her over to Jeryma and then stepped forward with Mahkas and the other pallbearers honoured with placing Glenadal’s body in the tomb. The two men who took position at the front were her father’s most loyal confidant, Orly Farlo, and his most senior captain, Chaine Tollin.

  Riika had objected loudly to the captain’s inclusion in the funeral party. There was a persistent rumour around Cabradell that Chaine Tollin was Glenadal’s baseborn son, a completely unfounded and malicious piece of gossip that Riika refused to acknowledge. Nobody with half a brain believed it. He didn’t look a thing like Glenadal. He was too tall, too dark and far too irritating to be her father’s son. Besides, Riika already had two half-brothers. She was sure that if she shared any blood-bond with Chaine, she would have felt something in his presence, other than the urgent need to slap him for the insolent way he spoke. Far from putting paid to his delusions of grandeur, letting him take part in the funeral procession gave the rumours credence. Nobody would think Chaine was included because he was the captain of Glenadal’s personal guard. They would all assume some deeper, more significant motive.

  The other pallbearers were Haril Guilder, her father’s closest vassal, the Earl of Valcan Pass and Kahl Pendagin, the Baron of Tyenne, the man who had sold the Warlord of Sunrise the stallion that would eventually kill him. Riika had not thought him deserving of such a place of honour, either, but had been overruled by her mother. Jeryma considered the ongoing need for Lord Pendagin’s support more important than placing blame for what had been—even Riika was willing to admit—a tragic accident.

  On an almost inaudible count from Laran, the six men lifted the stretcher from the bier to their shoulders and marched slowly towards the crypt where Riika’s ancestors were interred. Although the small marble building was elegantly designed, its ageless architecture reminiscent of the Harshini, the tomb terrified Riika. It was customary to come here every year on the Feast of Death during the month of Corlio, to enter the tomb and pay one’s respects to one’s ancestors. She had done everything, including faking illness in the past, to avoid being made to pay homage to all those dusty old skeletons.

  And now Glenadal was to become one of them.

  It just didn’t seem fair.

  They waited in silence for the pallbearers to emerge from the tomb. Riika surreptitiously tried to blow her nose, fearful of the sound carrying across the silent slopes. She was spared the embarrassment by one of Darilyn’s boys. Bored with this grown-up ceremony he didn’t understand (and obviously bribed into good behaviour by his mother) Xanda squirmed out of his mother’s grip and turned to stare at the silent crowd before addressing Jeryma, rightly assuming she was in charge of such things.

  “Can we please go home, Grammy?” he asked in a startlingly loud voice. “I’ve been a good boy. I want my surprise now.”

  The tension suddenly broke as an uncomfortable titter ran through the people waiting on the slopes. Jeryma smiled and bent down to pick up her grandson. “Of course you can have it, darling.” She looked up then, addressing the people of Cabradell as much as Xanda. “We should all go home. To celebrate Glenadal’s life while we mourn his death.”

  The pallbearers emerged from the tomb as the crowd began to disperse. Darilyn snatched Xanda from Jeryma’s arms, scolding him sharply for embarrassing her.

  “He did nothing wrong, Darilyn,” Jeryma said. “Leave him be.”

  “What’s the matter?” Laran asked, as he and Mahkas rejoined the family, obviously wondering why Jeryma was reprimanding Darilyn.

  “It’s nothing,” Jeryma said. “Give me your arm, Laran. Let’s get back to the house.”

  Mahkas looked at Riika as Laran led th
eir mother down the path towards the town. “Are you all right, kiddo?” he asked gently.

  Riika shook her head wordlessly, a fresh batch of tears blinding her momentarily.

  Mahkas slipped his arm around her and turned her in the direction Laran and Jeryma were heading. “You’ll feel better, Riika. The pain goes away. Eventually.”

  “How would you know, Mahkas Damaran,” Darilyn snapped behind them. “You never even knew your father.”

  “But I knew yours,” Mahkas replied over his shoulder. “We all got over his death in record time.”

  “Don’t you dare sully my father’s name—”

  “Stop it!” Riika cried. “Both of you!”

  She tore herself out of Mahkas’s embrace and ran down the path, past Laran and her mother, past Kagan, past the people of the city come to gawk at her father’s funeral. She even outran the guard.

  Not that it did her one bit of good.

  Because try as she might, Riika couldn’t outrun her pain.

  chapter 24

  M

  indful of his pact with Dacendaran, Wrayan spent much of his time in Cabradell on the lookout for something to steal, in order to keep his promise to the God of Thieves. Stealing a trinket from the Warlord of Sunrise was going to be easy enough. Wrayan was a guest in the palace with unlimited access to anywhere he chose other than the private family suites.

  After several days of surreptitiously examining each room for a likely object, he settled on a small statuette of a water dragon, carved from a piece of delicate green jade. It looked Fardohnyan to Wrayan’s eye, perhaps a souvenir of some trip Glenadal had made across the border in his youth. And he chose to steal it during Glenadal’s wake, not because he needed the cover several hundred guests would provide, but because he was honouring the God of Thieves and there was little honour in an act that had no element of danger in it.

  Besides, there was no point in half measures and Wrayan couldn’t risk offending a god. If he was going to honour Dacendaran, he was going to do it properly. Stealing a statuette from the Warlord’s private study with half of Cabradell present was far more daring than simply stepping into the room as soon as nobody was looking and slipping the trinket he had promised Dacendaran into his pocket.

  It was late in the day when Wrayan judged the time right to honour the God of Thieves. The palace was filled with guests from the funeral. The muted buzz of conversation hovered over the public rooms of the palace, a background hum that permeated the whole building. He worked his way around the main hall all afternoon and had just excused himself politely from a discussion going on between two Cabradell matrons about the best husband for Riika Ravenspear now that her poor father was dead, when he judged the time right. With a quick look around the hall to ensure he was unobserved, he slipped inside the study, closing the door gently behind him.

  Wrayan glanced around, the sudden silence after the buzz in the main hall ringing in his ears. It was a large room, with a heavy carved desk by the wall under the window covered in rolls of parchment and a low table surrounded by colourful cushions near the centre of the room, where Glenadal liked to conduct most of his business. On his left was a beautifully embroidered folding screen, done in a multicoloured geometric design which matched the cushions around the table; behind it was another, smaller writing table where Glenadal’s scribe normally sat, close by his master.

  The jade water dragon was on the mantel over the fireplace, which was built of polished red granite from Krakandar. Wrayan was headed across the rug towards the fireplace when the latch on the door turned. Instinctively, he dived behind the screen near the secretary’s desk as the door opened and Laran Krakenshield entered the study followed by the captain of Glenadal’s personal guard, Chaine Tollin.

  Wrayan skidded silently on the polished floor, coming to a stop a bare hand’s-breadth from the wall, breathing hard. He swore silently under his breath. There was no need for him to hide. He was a member of the Sorcerers’ Collective. If he wanted to seek the solitude of Glenadal’s study, then nobody would question his right to be here. Nobody but Dacendaran knew the real reason he was in the study. All he need do was step out from behind the screen and make his presence known. There was nothing to worry about. He didn’t even have the water dragon on him yet. He could come back later, when they were gone . . .

  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Laran Krakenshield said to the captain before Wrayan could act on his decision.

  “I thought it was more an order than a request, my lord,” Chaine replied. The captain sounded annoyed, as if he’d had a choice when it came to an order from a member of his ruling family.

  Go out there now, Wrayan told himself sternly. Before it’s too late and they find you here, lurking behind the screen, and you have to think up a reason why you’re lurking behind the screen.

  “You have something to tell me, I assume? About the will?”

  “That. And a favour to ask of you,” Laran said.

  “A favour?”

  “When the will is read.”

  “You know what it says then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I mentioned?” the captain asked cautiously.

  “No, Chaine,” Laran said. “You’re not mentioned.”

  The captain was silent for a time, and then he swore softly under his breath. “So the old bastard refused to acknowledge me. Even at the very end.”

  “He had his reasons, Chaine.”

  “And all of them begin and end with Riika Ravenspear,” the captain replied with an edge of bitterness in his voice.

  “This has nothing to do with Riika. Glenadal had a far grander scheme in mind. One I’m not sure I agree with, but it does have merit, not just for Sunrise, but for the whole of Hythria.”

  “And for this grand scheme I’m supposed to just forget that my father refused to ever acknowledge my existence?”

  “You’ve always been treated well here, Chaine. He made you the captain of his personal guard.”

  “I earned that rank, Lord Krakenshield. Glenadal Ravenspear gave me the job in spite of the fact I was his bastard, not because of it.”

  “Aye,” Laran said in acknowledgement of the truth of Chaine’s claim. “And if you recall, it was I who supported your promotion over older, more experienced men.”

  “For which I am grateful, my lord. But your support purchased my appreciation, not my soul.”

  “You have always been an honourable man, Chaine. And it’s for that reason I need you now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Glenadal named me as his heir.”

  Chaine was silent as that news sank in. When he spoke, he sounded amused. “You’ll last a week. Tops.”

  “That is also my assessment of the situation. Unless I have your help.”

  Chaine laughed harshly. “You want me to aid you in taking what should have been mine? You’ve got a nerve.”

  “I’m asking you to trust me, Chaine.”

  “You’re asking me to turn my back on who I am. I have a right—”

  “You have no right. Glenadal never acknowledged you, Captain. Even if your birth is an open secret, you have no proof and nobody to back your claim. Without that, you’re just another mercenary looking for an opportunity.”

  “Then why did you call me here? To remind me of that? To gloat?”

  “I brought you here to make a deal.”

  “What sort of deal?”

  “The sort that gives us both something we want.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Glenadal told me before he died that he would never acknowledge you. He was too afraid of causing Jeryma and Riika pain. But he did ask me to make things right, and I intend to.”

  “How?”

  “By seeing you get what is owed you.”

  “And the cost of this remarkably generous act?”

  “Your support. And the support of Sunrise’s army.”

  “You have your own army.”

  “I’m
going to need yours as well.”

  “And what guarantee do I have that you won’t use my army for your own ends and then have me disposed of when I’m no longer of any use to you?”

  “You have my word.”

  “And what do I get?”

  “What do you want?”

  “What if I said I wanted Sunrise Province?”

  “I’d tell you that you were asking the wrong person. It’s not mine to give.”

  “Of course it’s yours to give,” Chaine argued. “It’s yours down to the last blade of grass. Even if Glenadal hadn’t named you his heir, you’re his only legitimate child’s legal guardian. That makes this whole province and everything in it yours for the taking, my lord, and don’t treat me like a fool by pretending I don’t know it.”

  “Chaine, I will swear by any god you name that my interest in Sunrise has nothing to do with preventing you from claiming what you think is owed to you. I’m doing this because it’s the only way to stop a Fardohnyan heir to the High Prince’s throne. If you think your chances of ever seeing any part of what you believe is your birthright are small now, imagine what they’ll be if the next High Prince is the son of Hablet of Fardohnya.”

  “And I’m supposed to do nothing? Say nothing? Suppose all this power you suddenly have goes to your head? Suppose once you’ve dealt with Hablet, you decide to turn your attention closer to home? What then?”

  “Then it will be up to men like you to make certain it doesn’t,” Laran replied.

  Wrayan waited, unconsciously holding his breath, wondering what Chaine’s answer would be. There was nothing worse than a disenfranchised bastard running loose after the death of a Warlord. When that bastard had a great deal of personal support in his late master’s army, the danger was extreme. Laran was very wise to take the time to warn Chaine of what was about to happen and to seek his support. Wrayan was beginning to understand why Kagan thought his nephew so capable. The knowledge gave the young sorcerer a warm feeling of provincial pride. Laran Krakenshield was Krakandar’s Warlord, after all: Wrayan’s Warlord (although sorcerers were supposed to eschew all loyalties other than to the Collective and the gods).