Warlord (18 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Fallon

BOOK: Warlord
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Terin was a little drunk, but he wasn’t so far gone that he failed to heed Tejay’s warning. He’d tried to bully her once before and come off second best. And he feared Damin for any number of reasons, but mostly because he was physically bigger and politically more powerful. Terin was intimidated by things like that.
“If I catch you with him, you’ll both die!” he threatened, determined to get the last word in.
“Fine,” she said with a shrug. “Are we done now?”
Terin glared at her. “Whore!”
“You said that already.”
When Terin couldn’t think of an answer, he turned on his heel and stormed out of her room, slamming the door behind him. Tejay stared after him, shaking her head at the foolishness of all men and with nothing resolved and a long night ahead of her trying to figure it out, she resumed her restless pacing.
 
D
amin trained each morning with Narvell, Almodavar and their senior officers, as well as those Sunrise officers who wished to take part in the bouts. It was a habit drilled into the young prince from an early age by the old captain and a much needed release for his pent-up frustration. Mindful of the reason Charel Hawksword had sent Narvell out to challenge him on the border, Damin made a point of letting his younger brother win, every now and then. This morning, however, Narvell hadn’t come down to the yards and as Damin was feeling particularly restless, he trained with Almodavar instead.
Although well into his fifties, there was no other man in his service Damin trusted as much. Almodavar was the only man Damin wasn’t afraid of injuring seriously if he didn’t hold back. If anything, he knew he’d find himself in trouble if he gave the fight anything less than his all.
Almodavar, after all, had punished Damin as a child for failing to kill him when he had the chance.
“Damin!”
He turned at the call to find Narvell hurrying along the vine-covered walkway behind him. Damin was heading back to his rooms in the sprawling Cabradell Palace to clean up after his training bout before confronting whatever round of fresh calamities were likely to find him this day. He was sweaty and dusty and bleeding from several small nicks Almodavar had inflicted on him when he foolishly let his guard down. The wind was chilly on his bare flesh as it whistled off the distant snow-capped Sunrise Mountains in the west, down through the Cabradell Valley and along the open walkways of the palace. Damin hadn’t wanted to get blood on his shirt, so he carried it in his left hand, leaving his nicks and bruises for all the world to see.
Narvell stopped when he caught up with his brother and eyed him curiously. “Was there a war this morning and I missed it?” he asked.
“I trained with Almodavar.”
“It looks like he tried to kill you.”
Damin shrugged. “He looks worse. Where were you this morning?”
“I had … something else to do.”
“Did that
something else
involve Kendra Warhaft?”
Narvell avoided meeting his eye. “You’re going to get mad at me if I say yes, aren’t you?”
Damin sighed at his brother’s recklessness. “She’s supposed to be under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective. If Warhaft catches you two …”
“He won’t,” Narvell promised.
“Famous last words, Narvell. Can’t you just let things be until we speak to Lernen?”
“That could be months from now!”
“Deal with it, little brother,” Damin told him unsympathetically. “I’ve stretched the limits of my power about as far as they’ll go to keep her away from her husband for you. I can’t do anything more to protect her—or you—if Warhaft finds you breaking our agreement.”
“We’ll be careful …”
Damin frowned, thinking if Narvell understood the meaning of the word
careful,
he wouldn’t be trying to sneak time alone with Kendra in the first place. “Where was Rorin while you two were so blithely courting disaster?”
“He was there … sort of.”
“Define
sort of.
”
“He was in the next room.”
“Right after we have a little chat about the definition of
careful,
I’m going to have a talk with my pet sorcerer about the meaning of the word
chaperone.
”
“It wasn’t his fault …” Narvell hesitated at the sound of footsteps, glanced past Damin to see who approached and then warmly greeted Lady Lionsclaw.
“Tejay!”
Damin turned to find the lady of the house walking toward them, dressed in a sleeveless blue gown, her thick blond hair arranged to perfection, a slave at her side taking notes as she issued orders about the daily running of the vast Cabradell Palace, the very picture of the perfect Warlord’s wife. She stopped when she saw the two of them, pulling her shawl around her bare arms against the cold, dismissed the slave and then, as Narvell had, eyed Damin’s battered body curiously.
“Have fun working out this morning, did we, your highness?”
“I trained with Almodavar. There’s no better sparring partner when one is looking for something to hit, so one doesn’t fall for the temptation of venting their frustration on one’s host.”
She smiled. “Have you considered the possibility, Damin, that Almodavar really
does
want to kill you?”
“Actually, the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion,” he laughed, and then he glanced down at the bruises on Tejay’s upper arms which she was trying to hide with her shawl and his smile faded into a scowl. “What’s your excuse?”
Puzzled, she looked at him oddly. “What do you mean?”
He took her arm, pushed the shawl aside and held it up so she could see the bruises. “Who’s been trying to kill
you?
”
Tejay impatiently shook her arm free. “It’s nothing, Damin. I was just clumsy, that’s all.”
“But those bruises look like handprints,” Narvell pointed out with concern. “Did someone attack you, my lady?”
The Warlord’s wife laughed at the very notion, but it was forced and Damin could tell she was lying. “Don’t be foolish, Narvell. I can fight better than most of Sunrise’s Raiders, What man would be foolish enough to—?”
“I can think of one,” Damin cut in ominously.
She shook her head at him. “This is none of your business, Damin.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
Tejay put a restraining hand on his arm. “I can deal with it, Damin. I don’t need a protector.”
“Well, you’ve got one, my lady,” he informed her, shaking off her touch as he changed his mind about returning to his room. “Whether you want it or not.”
Terin was in the main hall holding court when Damin found him. The doors banged open as the prince pushed his way into the hall, his anger controlled but no less dangerous for that.
One unexpected outcome of his altercation with Mahkas was that Damin had acquired a reputation for being unpredictable when enraged. People who had heard the story and didn’t know him well now treated him with a degree of cautious fear he’d never encountered before, particularly if they thought he was angry. At first it amused him, and then it began to irritate him. Right now, it seemed a rather useful reputation to have acquired. People scurried out of his way as he approached the business end of the hall, their eyes full of apprehension.
Renulus stood at his lord’s right hand, whispering something to his master. Damin pushed his way through the petitioners until he was standing in front of the podium that held Terin’s throne. The throne and the elaborate silk banner on the wall behind it bearing the lion’s head escutcheon of the Lionsclaw House were new, Damin thought. Terin’s father, Chaine Lionsclaw—the baseborn son of a nobleman who rose to the rank of Warlord—had never felt the need to rule his province from a throne.
Sensing Damin’s mood, Renulus stepped between the prince and his lord, drawing himself up pompously. “I’m sorry, your highness, but we’re in session here and you don’t have an appointment.”
Damin replied by belting the fool in the mouth. It wasn’t much, just a short, sharp jab, but it had the desired effect. Howling in pain, Renulus dropped to the floor at Damin’s feet, nursing a split and swollen lip.
Interestingly, only one of the guards flanking Terin made a move to intervene.
Damin glared at him. “Back off.”
The guard stepped smartly back into place, stood at attention and didn’t move another muscle.
Wiping the blood from his mouth, and blubbering in protest, Renulus began to climb to his feet. With his foot, Damin shoved the Karien backwards. “I’ll tell you when you can get up.”
The Karien thought about it for a moment, and then wisely stayed on the floor, muttering unhappily about uncontrollable brutes while dabbing at his bruised and still-bleeding lip.
On the throne, Terin glanced down at his seneschal’s bloody mouth and then leaned back against the cushions and began to applaud slowly. “Behold the mighty Damin Wolfblade,” he mocked. “Is this how you intend to rule us when you’re High Prince, your highness? By throwing your royal fist around?”
“You’d know all about throwing your fist around, wouldn’t you, Terin?”
“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about your wife.”
The Warlord smiled. “Why? Do you think you have some claim on my wife?” Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Ah. I see what this is about. Surely you’re not going to get all hot and bothered over a few bruises acquired during a …
conjugal engagement …
between a husband and his wife, are you? Besides demonstrating a rather squeamish side to your character, your highness, it’s not really any of your business.”
Damin stepped up to Terin’s throne, grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him out of his seat with one hand, holding him a few inches from his own face.
“I’m
making
it my business,” he warned with a snarl, watching Terin shrink back from him in fear. “And if I ever see so much as a hair out of place on Tejay’s head again, I will break your spine into so many pieces your children will be able to use it to play knucklebones.” He shook Terin’s limp form to emphasise his point. “Do you understand that, or are you too
stupid
?”
“How dare you stand in my own hall and tell everyone I’m stupid!” Terin gasped in a show of defiant bravado.
Damin let him go with a shove. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it was a secret.”
He turned on his heel and headed toward the door. It was only as an afterthought that he glanced over his shoulder at Renulus, still cowering on the floor.
“You can get up now,” he said and then pushed through to the doors at the end of the hall and headed back to his suite to wash away the blood and the dust from his body, wishing there was some way of washing away the sour taste in his mouth that seemed to develop every time he had to deal with Terin Lionsclaw.
 
B
y the time they reached Greenharbour, Kalan and Wrayan were saddle sore, weary, mightily sick of travelling, and a little surprised to find the city gates open when they arrived. The High Prince had ordered them opened only the day before, one of the sentries on the gate informed them, when they stopped to learn what news they could about the state of affairs inside Greenharbour’s walls. The plague appeared to be on the wane, the guard told them, and the High Prince was anxious to get rid of the bodies before another batch of diseases had time to incubate as a result of all those rotting cadavers lying about the city.
As they pushed through the crowded streets, they passed scores of work crews wearing rags tied across their faces against the smell, loading dead bodies in various stages of putrefaction onto wagons to be taken outside the city and disposed of in the mass graves they’d passed on the way in. Wrayan gagged at the smell, wishing they could ride faster to escape the stench of death and decay, but there was no easy way to push through the streets without trampling scores of people with stunned, grief-stricken eyes who seemed to be roaming Greenharbour without purpose or hope.
It took several hours before they reached Marla’s townhouse. When Marla’s housekeeper opened the door to them, they were so travel-stained and weary she almost refused them entry until she realised it was her mistress’s own daughter standing on the threshold.
. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” the housekeeper gushed, standing back to let them into the foyer before dropping into a deep curtsey when she realised who it was. “I wasn’t expecting you and we’ve been having some rather strange guests of late.”
“It’s all right, Cadella. Is my mother home?”
“No, my lady. She’s at the palace. I’m expecting her back shortly, though.”
“This is Master Lightfinger,” Kalan told the slave. “Could you arrange for rooms to be made ready for us? And a bath. I doubt I’ll ever be able to wash away the stink of this city, but I’d certainly like to try.”
“Aye, it’s bad out there at the moment, my lady. Can I get you some refreshment?”
“Thank you, Cadella. We’ll take it in the hall.”
Cadella bowed again and hurried away to tend her visitors. Wrayan followed Kalan into the hall, looking around with interest. He’d only seen Marla’s private palace once before, many years ago, when Kalan was just a toddler. That was the night he arranged the introduction between Princess Marla and the Raven, the head of the Hythrun Assassins’ Guild. He’d not had time that night to study the place in detail, but he was fairly certain the room had changed.
The last time Wrayan had been here, Marla was the wife of Nash Hawksword and the decor reflected his taste as much as hers. Now it was all Marla, from the carefully placed knick-knacks on the shelves down to the scattered, multicoloured cushions that seemed to pick up every hue woven into the expensive, imported Fardohnyan rugs.
“Oh, gods! No!”
Wrayan looked around and discovered Kalan had wandered out through the tall open windows and onto the terrace and the small walled garden beyond. He hurried out after her and found her standing on the lawn, looking down at two fresh graves. He slowed as he neared them, reading the headstones curiously. One of the graves—not surprisingly—was Ruxton Tirstone’s final resting place. The other had simply one name carved into the wooden marker.
Elezaar.
“Not Elezaar, too,” he sighed, when he read it. “The plague must have taken him.”
“Not the plague, Master Lightfinger,” Cadella informed them.
They both turned to look at the housekeeper curiously. She placed the tray she was carrying on a small table by the door and stepped out onto the terrace.
“What happened, Cadella?” Kalan asked.
“Can’t say for certain, my lady.” The housekeeper shrugged. “He disappeared a few weeks ago. We’d just about given him up for dead when he came back all grubby and dishevelled, like. He walked in, sat down, talked to the princess for ten minutes or so and then keeled over. I didn’t even realise there was anything amiss until Master Rodja came by to speak to your mother about an hour later and he opened the door and found her holding the dwarf’s poor dead body, sobbing like a child.”
Kalan looked at Wrayan with concern. “Mother must be devastated. She relied on Elezaar for everything.”
“She’s not herself,” Cadella agreed. “And it doesn’t help having the Assassins’ Guild around here every five minutes, banging the door down and making a scene.”
“The
Assassins’
Guild?” Wrayan asked, wondering what Marla had done to incur their wrath.
Cadella glared at him suspiciously.
“It’s all right, Cadella,” Kalan assured the slave. “Wrayan is a trusted friend.”
The slave seemed unconvinced. “I’m sure you think so, my lady, and I know it’s not really my place to say so, but perhaps this isn’t the right time to be bringing your gentlemen friends home to meet your mother.”
Kalan glanced at Wrayan, amused by the slave’s assumption he was her boyfriend. “Actually, Cadella, Wrayan is also my mother’s friend.”
“In fact, Mistress Cadella, we’ve met before,” he added, deciding to put an end to any foolish speculation about where he fitted into the general scheme of things.
“I don’t remember you,” she said, squinting at him shortsightedly.
“It was just after Kalan’s father, Lord Hawksword, died,” he reminded her. “I was here with Princess Marla.”
She stared at him, clearly unconvinced. “You’d have been a mere boy then,” she declared, obviously judging his age at no more than thirty, which (by her calculation) would have made him only ten or twelve when Kalan’s father died. “I don’t recall seeing you before. Were you here for Lord Hawksword’s funeral?”
No,
he wanted to answer,
I was here to introduce your mistress to the head of the Assassins’ Guild and to put a mind shield on you and every other member of the household.
But on reflection, perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea. Nor did he have the heart to tell her that her estimate of his age was off by a good fifteen years.
“There were so many people coming and going, you probably don’t remember,” he agreed. “But rest assured, I am a loyal friend of the family.”
“Tell me what’s going on with the Assassins’ Guild,” Kalan demanded of the slave. “Has someone taken a contract out on my mother?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the housekeeper assured her. “But she seems to be doing an awful lot of business with them lately, if you take my meaning.”
“Actually, Cadella, just exactly what is your meaning?”
The slave spun around at the sound of her mistress’s voice. Marla was standing in the doorway, her expression grim. She was dressed in widow’s white, which made her seem almost ethereal.
“Your highness!” the slave gasped guiltily.
“Mother!” Kalan flew across the lawn and into her mother’s embrace.
“Might be a good time to make a strategic exit,” Wrayan suggested in a low voice to the slave. Cadella fled before she was forced to offer any excuse for being caught gossiping about the princess’s business.
Marla let the slave go without comment, hugging Kalan tightly until she realised who else was standing by the graves.
“Wrayan
?”
“Your highness,” he replied with a bow. “It’s good to see you well.”
“What, in the name of all the Primal Gods, are you doing in Greenharbour?”
“It’s a long story, Mother,” Kalan said. “And a painful one. Can we clean up first? We’ve been on the road for weeks.” She glanced over her shoulder at Elezaar’s small grave. “And you’ve your own tales to tell, too, I suspect.”
Marla nodded. “We’ll meet for dinner.” Impulsively, she hugged Kalan again and added, “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you, darling. Both of you, in fact.”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Kalan asked, eyeing her mother warily.
“We’ll talk at dinner, Kalan. In the meantime, go soak in a nice warm bath for a while. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it.”
Kalan kissed her mother’s cheek and walked inside, leaving Marla standing at the door, staring thoughtfully at Wrayan.
“Should I not have come?” he asked, curious about her silence.
“No, you couldn’t have picked a better time, actually.” The princess smiled thinly. “Do you remember once offering to kill Alija for me?”
“The offer still stands, your highness.”
“Then I’m very glad you’re here, Wrayan.”
He nodded in understanding. “You’ve finally tired of Alija?”
“I’ve finally tired of Alija,” she agreed.
“I can tell you one thing that might help bring her down.”
Wrayan was bathed and clean and sharing a wine with the princess while they waited for Kalan to finish her ablutions. It was dark outside. Marla stood by the window, framed by the darkness. In the candlelight and her sleeveless white gown she looked even more delicate than she had when Wrayan had first seen her in the garden earlier today. She was pale, too, and she looked tired. Although Marla was unlikely to admit it, the loss of Ruxton and Elezaar, so close to one another, had obviously hit her hard.
“You know something I can use?”
“Tarkyn Lye fathered her children, not Barnardo Eaglespike.”
Marla shook her head. She seemed unsurprised. “Don’t even think about going there, Wrayan.”
He was shocked at her quiet acceptance of his news. “What do you mean,
don’t even think of it?
She’s trying to pass off a couple of slave’s bastards as descendants of the royal family.”
“Just as I would have sworn by every Primal God I could name that Kalan and Narvell were Laran Krakenshield’s children, had Nash Hawksword refused to claim them.”
He looked at her in surprise.
“You?
”
The princess smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not above swearing a false oath if it will save my family. Few women are. Just as few women are willing to take the risk of not producing an heir.”
“I’m not sure I understand what this has to do with the fact Cyrus and Serrin Eaglespike are actually the sons of Tarkyn Lye.”
“If we were to expose Alija’s deception in this matter,” Marla replied, “every noblewoman in Hythria would be suspect. Do you imagine Alija’s sons are the only children fathered by slaves? The practice is rampant. But it’s never spoken about. And for damn good reason. Expose Alija and you endanger every mother in the country, even those whose children are quite legitimately the sons and daughters of their fathers.”
“You condone her lies.”
“I condone the need for them,” Marla corrected. “And much as I’d like to bring Alija down, it won’t be that way. If I make public the news that a woman of Alija’s status bore her
court’esa
two sons and passed them off as her husband’s heirs, how many other husbands will look at their children and start to wonder if they’ve also been duped? At best, it will cause dissension in countless previously happy homes. At worst, innocent women will die. I won’t go there, Wrayan. Not even for Alija.”
“I admit, I never thought about it like that.”
“That’s because you’re a man, Wrayan. You don’t have to worry about losing your children. The law in Hythria favours fathers over mothers.”
He finished his wine and walked to the small table near the window where Marla was standing, to help himself to a refill. “You always manage to make being a woman in Hythria sound something akin to one of the seven hells.”
“Try it sometime,” she suggested grimly. “You might be surprised.”
Wrayan turned to the princess and looked at her curiously. “Are you all right, your highness?”
“Are you reading my mind, Wrayan?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not the clever actress I thought I was.” She handed him her glass for a refill. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lost. You can’t know what it meant to lose Elezaar.”
“I think I can guess.”
She shook her head. “No. Unless I open my mind to you and let you see the wounds for yourself, you will never understand.” Marla’s eyes filled with unwanted tears. “She took him from me, Wrayan. And she forced him to betray me. I think that’s what I hate her for most.” She brushed away the tears impatiently. “Isn’t that odd? She stole Nash from me. She’s tried to kill Damin the gods know how many times. And yet the thing I really despise her for is that she made Elezaar fear me.”
“That’s understandable.”
Marla turned to face him, her eyes glistening. “I’ve been putting on such a brave face, pretending I don’t know what’s happened to him. Pretending it doesn’t hurt that he’s gone. Pretending I don’t care what he did …” She sniffed and wiped her eyes, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blubber like a child. It’s just you’re the only person in Hythria I can’t lie to, Wrayan, so you’re the unfortunate recipient of my maudlin self-pity.”

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