Wolfblade

by Jennifer Fallon

  “Corin wouldn’t risk compromising you if it wasn’t important,” Tarkyn agreed.

  “Venira’s only here for the money though,” she muttered, before turning to Tressa. “Bring Corin here,” she ordered. “Immediately. Tell Master Venira I thank him for his consideration and that I’ll see to it he is compensated for his trouble. And tell Lord Eaglespike, when he wakes, that I wish him to join us.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Tressa hurried off to do as her mistress ordered, leaving Alija staring at Tarkyn with a worried frown. “If that fool has run away . . .”

  “Corin’s not the type, Alija,” Tarkyn assured her. “He’s a Loronged court’esa. He knows how valuable he is. He also knows his owner would spare no effort to hunt him down if he simply ran away. Besides, he’s been in your service long enough now to know the consequences of disobeying your orders.”

  Before Alija could answer, the door opened again and Corin stepped into the study. Alija was shocked by his appearance. The normally handsome and immaculately groomed court’esa was unshaven and dirty. His shirt and trousers were dusty, his boots scuffed and his shirt collar pulled up to hide the jewelled metal collar that marked him as a slave. That was a crime in itself. No slave was permitted to masquerade as a free man.

  “My lady,” he said, with a bow.

  “The news you bring had better mean the difference between life and death for someone, Corin,” she warned, furious that he would arrive so openly at her home in the middle of Greenharbour in broad daylight. Although nobody would be surprised to learn she had placed a spy in Marla’s entourage, to have Venira openly flaunt the young court’esa’s allegiance to the House of Eaglespike was political suicide. “Because, believe me, it will mean life or death to you.”

  “Never fear, my lady,” Corin promised. “I believe the news I carry is worth the risk of exposure.”

  “Is it worth you running away from Highcastle?”

  “I didn’t run away, my lady. I was sent away.”

  “By whom?” Alija demanded. “And for what reason?”

  “I was sent away, my lady, because Princess Marla is getting married and no longer requires my services.”

  “What? To whom?”

  “Laran Krakenshield, my lady.”

  Alija sat down heavily, shocked beyond words.

  “Krakenshield arrived at Highcastle unannounced with Lord Hawksword’s son and several thousand troops on winter manoeuvres, so he claimed, planning to head into the border pass. He asked to speak to Marla alone while he was there and then informed her that the High Arrion had arranged for her to marry him.”

  “And Frederak and Lydia just let her go? When did this happen?” Tarkyn asked.

  “Last Fourthday,” Corin confirmed.

  “Then they would be in Warrinhaven by now,” Tarkyn informed Alija. “The chances are good that Princess Marla is already married.”

  “But to Laran Krakenshield?” Alija cried in disbelief. “He would never dare such a thing! And Lernen would never risk offending the King of Fardohnya by reneging on the wedding arrangement!”

  “Perhaps he would,” Tarkyn said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Laran Krakenshield is now the Warlord of two provinces. He has the armies of Sunrise and Krakandar at his command. By the sound of it, he also has Charel Hawksword backing him; else Nash Hawksword appearing with troops in southern Sunrise to protect the border pass might easily be considered an invasion force. Including Elasapine’s troops, that gives Laran a force of close to a hundred thousand men if he chooses to call up the reserves of all three provinces. He’s Hythrun. And until the other Warlords demand he surrenders Sunrise, for the time being at least, he’s as rich as Hablet. There is no other logical contender. And no other man alive that Lernen would agree to under the circumstances. By sending troops to Highcastle, he’s obviously fortifying the border passes in anticipation of Hablet’s reaction to the news. You can bet Winternest is just as heavily guarded. And in case it slipped your notice, he is Kagan Palenovar’s nephew.”

  “But Laran . . . I can’t believe it. You don’t know him like I do, Tarkyn.”

  “I would suggest, my lady,” the blind court’esa countered, “that it is you who doesn’t know him as well as you think.”

  She turned to Corin again, refusing to accept what the court’esa was telling her. It wasn’t possible she could have misjudged Laran that badly. “You say Marla was a willing participant in all of this?”

  “Marla Wolfblade has steadfastly refused to contemplate a future as the wife of Hablet,” Corin confirmed. “Even to the point of refusing my services. Once she heard Lord Krakenshield’s offer, however, her attitude changed completely. I would say she was more than a willing participant, my lady. She jumped at the opportunity.”

  “It can’t be Laran,” Alija insisted, aghast that she might have read the situation so inadequately.

  “There’s one sure way to find out,” Tarkyn suggested.

  “How?”

  “Go to Warrinhaven. You’ve got Marla’s court’esa here, after all. It’s really the only polite thing to do. Return her property to her. Tell her you couldn’t dream of taking back a gift.”

  “If he’s done this to me . . .” she began, thinking of Laran, fully aware that the moment Marla Wolfblade produced a son to a man as impeccably Hythrun as Laran Krakenshield, the chances of Barnardo ever seeing the throne went from likely to impossible.

  It can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

  “Make the arrangements,” she ordered Tarkyn. “I want to leave within the hour.” She turned to Corin and looked him up and down. “Get yourself cleaned up and be ready to leave with us, although if what you say is true, I suspect there will be no court’esa allowed in that household with any connection at all to the Eaglespike family.”

  Corin bowed and left the room, leaving Alija alone with Tarkyn, but before she could say a word the door opened again and her husband walked in, still wearing his nightshirt. He looked as if he had just awoken.

  “Tressa said you wanted to see me,” he told her, smothering a yawn, although it was almost lunch time. He blinked owlishly at Tarkyn for a moment and then looked at his wife. “You look a little frazzled, my dear. Did I miss something?”

  chapter 40

  I

  n the two weeks between Laran informing her they were to be married and her arrival in Warrinhaven, Marla felt as if she’d aged a lifetime.

  Neither Lydia nor Frederak had objected to Marla leaving Highcastle. Laran had, according to Ninane, taken Lord Branador aside and explained to him in no uncertain terms that if he wished to remain Lord of Highcastle, he would make no attempt to interfere in the business of his new Warlord. Marla had a feeling Frederak might have objected had he thought Marla was being taken against her will, but once she assured him she was leaving quite willingly with Lord Krakenshield to meet her brother, the High Prince, in Warrinhaven, her uncle raised no further objections.

  It seemed as if her journey had taken her much further than the few hundred miles between Highcastle and the eastern border of Sunrise Province. The journey took her from innocence to disillusionment, from trusting naivety to jaded cynicism, all in a matter of a few days.

  While she physically moved from the cold of the mountains to the warm humidity of the alluvial plains, her heart seemed to move in the opposite direction. Marla had left Highcastle resigned to the thought that nothing more than a cold and practical future awaited her, in which politics was the primary concern of everyone involved and her ability to breed the next generation was her most valuable asset.

  Although Marla was heartbroken over the realisation that her dreams of Nashan Hawksword were nothing but her own foolish imagination, she was not so overcome that she couldn’t see the merit of the arrangement. She would always love Nash, she decided privately, but he was out of her reach. She was the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria. For Marla Wolfblade there was no choice.


  It could have been worse, she told herself. It would have been worse had she been forced to leave Hythria for Fardohnya and a life trapped in Hablet’s harem. She was saved from that fate at least.

  Laran Krakenshield was not the sort of man Marla would have chosen, but she accepted things could have turned out far more difficult. Laran wasn’t unbearably old. He wasn’t uncouth or particularly offensive. He seemed quite considerate of her circumstances. He wasn’t even that ugly, although his face was too stern to be called attractive. He was probably court’esa trained. He was certainly rich enough to give her anything she wanted. All she had to do in return was give him a son.

  Or—more to the point—give her brother a nephew.

  It was raining again, as it had almost constantly since Marla arrived in Warrinhaven. The water pattered on the tiled roof and trickled down the window in little grey rivulets, until they merged into a larger puddle on the windowsill. She was wearing her wedding dress, a beautiful red silk gown embroidered in gold and seed pearls, provided by Laran’s mother who had been waiting here at Warrinhaven for Marla and Laran to arrive. It was the Feast of Jashia, the God of Fire, today. Being married on the Feast of Jashia was supposed to mean you were in for a fiery relationship, an unfortunate belief that Lady Jeryma had shrugged off as foolish superstition.

  Am I in for a fiery relationship? Marla wondered. Don’t you need a bit of passion for that to happen? I have nothing. There’s nothing between me and Laran but a polite distance.

  Another, more cynical voice in her mind added: But one day you’ll be the mother of the High Prince of Hythria.

  Chaine Tollin, the captain of Laran’s guard, had told her that before they left Highcastle.

  Marla remembered her conversation with him as she waited for the wedding to begin. It had occurred the day she was scheduled to leave with Laran. Marla had been pacing her room nervously while she waited for Lirena to return with her trunks when Chaine had arrived, along with her breakfast. He directed the house slave to lay out the meal near the hearth, dismissed the slave, then sat down and began to help himself to the honey-smothered wheat cakes.

  “Sit down, your highness,” he’d offered. “Laran and Nash have gone hawking with your uncle, so you have only me for company this morning, I’m afraid.”

  “Where are my slaves?” she’d asked, thinking it very odd that the captain of Laran’s guard would act in such a familiar manner with someone who was clearly so far above his station.

  “The dwarf was arguing with your nurse in the kitchen when I came through. Something about how many trunks you’re planning to bring.” He smiled then, and added, “It looked like they were settling in for a good long fight, so I volunteered to bring your tray up while they slugged it out. The other one . . . what’s his name . . . Dorin?”

  “Corin.”

  “He was on his way to visit Lady Ninane, I believe.”

  “Are you here to guard me?”

  “Do you need guarding?”

  Marla had wavered between being offended by the captain’s rather cavalier manner and hunger. Hunger won, so she had taken the seat opposite Chaine and begun to pile her plate with the wheat cakes.

  “So, the Warlord of Krakandar has Sunrise’s army in his pocket as well as his own,” she’d said, noting the raven embossed on the captain’s cuirass.

  “Actually, Laran and I have known each other since childhood,” he told her. “I grew up in the Cabradell palace.”

  Marla didn’t know that. The power at Laran’s beck and call fascinated her. She could appreciate the danger Laran had brought upon himself by accepting a second province. But with the backing of Sunrise’s army, he had double the forces of any other man in Hythria. And who would have thought they would follow him so readily?

  “Was your father employed in Glenadal’s household?”

  “My father was Glenadal Ravenspear,” the captain replied bluntly.

  She looked at him curiously. “So you’re the bastard?”

  “You say that like you’ve heard of me, your highness.”

  “Just rumours,” she shrugged. “Did Lord Ravenspear not acknowledge you in his will?”

  “No.”

  Marla cocked her head. “Then why are you following Laran Krakenshield, Captain, instead of mounting a challenge against him?”

  “Right now, I believe my interests and Laran’s coincide.”

  “And when they no longer coincide?”

  Chaine smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  “So, who else is in on this little coup?” she’d asked, through a mouthful of wheat cake. “Laran has the High Arrion in his pocket, if I’m to believe what he says about Kagan Palenovar. And obviously Lord Hawksword and his son are allies or Nash wouldn’t be here.” Marla said it without thinking, and then suddenly found herself swallowing down a fresh round of tears. Oh, Nash, why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn me?

  Chaine shrugged. “Laran has plans that even I am not privy to. But for what it’s worth, in his boots, I’d be doing exactly the same thing. Particularly with you as a prize at the end of it.”

  The compliment took Marla completely by surprise.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she said, blushing furiously. “I think.”

  “I meant it as a compliment, your highness.”

  Abruptly, he had put down his empty plate and risen to his feet, brushing away a few stray crumbs, then bowed and walked to the door. Marla got the impression Chaine was here for more than her company, but at the last minute he had changed his mind.

  He’d hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “Your highness,” he said, a little nervously, “if ever . . . if you ever . . .” Chaine had faltered at that point, looking very uncomfortable.

  “Captain?” she prompted.

  “I just wanted to say . . . if you ever need a friend . . .”

  Marla considered him thoughtfully. “I can count on you? Why?”

  Chaine straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath before he spoke. “Because someday you won’t be a child any more, your highness. Someday you’ll be the mother of the High Prince of Hythria. I’m a baseborn son with no chance of claiming what is mine unless I have friends—influential friends—of my own.”

  Marla smiled. “You think I’ll be influential someday?”

  “A good third of the country’s armed forces have been mobilised just because you’re getting married, your highness,” he pointed out. “That’s not a bad effort to start with.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “Well, the offer’s there if you want it.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Marla had replied. Thinking back, she was left with the feeling that Chaine really meant what he said. He might have been trying to curry her favour for his own political ends, but she got the impression there was more to it than that. Perhaps, being an outcast himself, he knew what it was like to be the victim of other people’s schemes and plots.

  “You look lovely, my dear.”

  It’s time, Marla thought, putting aside thoughts of political allies that she may or may not have. She turned away from the window and looked towards the door. Lady Jeryma was standing there, a warm smile on her face, her hand on the door knob.

  “Will anybody care?” Marla shrugged. “It’s my womb they’re all interested in, Lady Jeryma, not what I look like on the outside.”

  Jeryma shook her head and closed the door. She crossed the small bedroom allocated to Marla by Lord Murvyn when she had arrived in Warrinhaven and took the princess by the hand. The Warlord’s widow led her to the bed and sat down beside her, her expression full of sympathy and understanding.

  “I’ve had four husbands, Marla,” she said. “The first was a drunken fool. The second was like a father to me. The third was a brutish pig and the fourth was a man I grew to love dearly. You are lucky, my dear. You’re starting with number four.”

  “Lady Jeryma, I appreciate what you’re try
ing to do—”

  “No, Marla, I don’t think you do,” Jeryma said. “I’m trying to tell you that this is not the end of the world. You are marrying a good man. An honourable man. And you are keeping the throne of Hythria safe from a foreign pretender.”

  “Only if I have a son.”

  “You will,” Jeryma predicted confidently.

  “Suppose I have half a dozen daughters?”

  “Then Laran will love every one of them as if each is the most important person in the world. He’s like that, Marla. Don’t let childish dreams of romance blind you to the fact that your new husband is a good and decent man.”

  “I’ll probably bore him to tears,” Marla warned. “I know he thinks I’m just a child.”

  “You are no child, Marla,” Jeryma told her. “You are a Hythrun princess. You are the future of this land. Don’t belittle yourself by thinking otherwise.”

  “But I don’t know what to do,” she confessed, cursing the tears she’d sworn she wouldn’t shed. “I mean . . . it’s not like being in love, is it? Or even being with a court’esa. That’s easy. Everyone knows their place and what they’re supposed to be doing. But what do I say to Laran? What do I do?”

  “Is that all that’s worrying you, dear?”

  “That and the fact the Convocation of Warlords will probably declare war on us as soon as they learn what’s happened here today,” she pointed out. The Lady Jeryma seemed to have overlooked that minor but extremely pertinent detail in her glowing recommendation of her eldest son.

  “Perhaps,” Lady Jeryma conceded. “But that’s not your problem. As for my son, well, in my experience, he reacts better to the truth than any other kind of persuasion. If you’re frightened, Marla, tell him. He’s not going to punish you for it.”

  “I’m not properly trained, you know,” Marla admitted reluctantly, as she wiped her eyes. “I was so angry about having to marry Hablet that I refused to have anything to do with my court’esa until a couple of nights before Laran arrived at Highcastle.”