Warlord (65 page)

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Authors: Jennifer Fallon

BOOK: Warlord
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“Elezaar would tell you that we’d done the right thing.”
“He hated Alija. His opinion wouldn’t have been objective.”
“Well, you have your vengeance for him, your highness. I think he’d appreciate that.”
“What were her final thoughts?”
“It’s over and done with, your highness. Let her rest. She can’t hurt you or your family now.”
“Tell me. Please.”
Wrayan looked at her oddly. “Did you
want
the gory details?”
“I don’t need to be protected from them, Wrayan. What were her last thoughts?”
Wrayan hesitated before he answered her. “She was cursing me. And you.”
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you? I have broad shoulders, you know. I can bear the responsibility.”
He rubbed his temples, as if easing a headache, and then looked at her. “The responsibility is mostly mine, your highness. I could have done something about Alija years ago. What’s more, I should have. And it wasn’t like I didn’t have the opportunity. Gods! Even Brakandaran would have helped me if I’d asked him. Come to think of it, he even offered once.”
“Why didn’t you accept his offer?”
“Because I was doing exactly what you’re doing now. Trying to convince myself I was better than that. That my motives were somehow nobler than Alija’s. That I was the better person. But I wasn’t. None of us are. We’re all just human and we’re flawed and we do what we have to, to keep the ones we love safe.”
“Even if it means killing in cold blood?”
“Even that,” Wrayan agreed.
Marla wasn’t sure if she was comforted by Wrayan’s words or disturbed by them. “Galon told me just now that I should be proud of my children, of the way they’ve turned out. Do you think they’d be proud of their mother if they knew even half the things I’d done?”
“Maybe,” he said, “but if you want my advice … don’t tell them.”
“Because they’d despise me?”
“Because they might
not
despise you,” he warned. “They might admire you, and then you’d really have a reason to lie awake at night worrying about the future.” Wrayan let go of her hand and bowed politely. “I should go, your highness. The man I’m going to meet will wait on no one and I don’t want to miss him.”
“Go then. I’ll see you later.”
She watched him leave and then took a deep breath and headed back into the crowded hall. Looking around, Marla smiled. Here was everything she’d fought so hard to preserve, so hard to protect.
And she’d succeeded. Her family was safe. Fardohnya was defeated. The plague was done with. Hythria was secure. Alija was dead.
If only,
she lamented silently,
Elezaar had been here to see it.
Oddly, she was experiencing a few doubts but absolutely no remorse. She did have a vague sense of ineffable sadness, though, as she realised that an entire era had come to an end.
Revenge should feel better than this. More satisfying.
Victory, Marla decided, had a bitter aftertaste if you savoured it for too long.
But the threat of the Eaglespikes—and with them, the entire Patriot faction—was gone, now. For the first time in two decades, her first thought on waking wasn’t wondering if Alija Eaglespike was planning to destroy her family today. Marla smiled thinly, thinking it a sad comment on her life to discover the threat Alija represented might have been what drove her to greatness.
Elezaar would have been the first to point out
that
particular irony.
In a strange way Marla was free; in another way, bereft. Elezaar was avenged, her children were safe, her son was a Warlord, the Assassins’ Guild was on her side and there was no Alija Eaglespike to rally the voices of discontent.
Elezaar had a rule for that, too.
Accept that which is
unchangeable; change that which is unacceptable.
Marla had lived by that rule all her life.
And tomorrow, she would wake in a world that she had finally made acceptable.
 
T
he wharf district of Greenharbour City was massive. This was, arguably, the largest and busiest port in the world. It was loud and raw and a forest of masts stretched around the harbour. It stank like rancid fish, wet hemp, sweat and salt, yet it seemed to offer a safe port of call for every lost soul in the world.
It was not surprising, then, that this was where Wrayan had found Brakandaran the Halfbreed.
He hadn’t been looking for Brak, just as he was quite certain Brak wasn’t expecting to be found. Wrayan had come down to the wharves to check on the ship Luciena had arranged to transport Prince Lunar Shadow Kraig back to Denika. It wasn’t one of her regular ships. Most of Luciena’s fleet were coastal traders that rarely sailed out of sight of land, plying the trade routes between Hythria, Fardohnya and Karien. The voyage across the vast Dregian Ocean to Denika required a much larger vessel.
Luciena had contracted Captain Soothan to carry the prince home, but Marla was still concerned. She had invited Kraig here to discuss a treaty, been forced to protect him from raging mobs, quarantine him from the plague, hide him by having him pose as a sex slave, involve him in a war and then have him witness foul murder in Krakandar as the family settled its differences. Marla was convinced she had stretched the friendship with Denika to breaking point. She was justifiably nervous about sending their crown prince home, only to have the ship sink halfway to Denika because it was unseaworthy.
For no other reason than to ease the princess’s mind, Wrayan had offered to check out the ship himself and make a few inquiries about Captain Soothan’s credentials among his contacts in the Thieves’ Guild.
The last thing he’d expected was to find Brak a member of Soothan’s crew.
Once he’d found him, however, there was no chance he was going to let him get away without some sort of explanation. Wrayan had spent the last thirteen years fearing Brak was dead and he didn’t intend to spend the next thirteen years wondering why he wasn’t. Brak was reluctant to even acknowledge that he knew Wrayan, however, but had finally agreed to meet with him the following day in a tavern close to where the ship was anchored, if only he’d leave and stop making a fuss.
The time Brak wanted to meet was right in the middle of Princess Marla’s reception, but it couldn’t be helped. Even though he half expected him not to show up, Wrayan was waiting at the appointed time, figuring after all he had done for her, Marla would forgive his rudeness.
Somewhat to his surprise, the Halfbreed appeared a few moments after he said he’d be at the tavern, looking tanned and fit and every inch a born sailor.
“How did you find me?” Brak asked as he slid into the seat opposite Wrayan in a booth near the back of the taproom.
“Hello, Brak, nice to see you too. I’m well, thanks, how are you?”
“I haven’t got time for small talk, Wrayan, we sail on tomorrow’s tide. How did you find me?”
He shrugged, disappointed Brak was feeling so unsociable. “Just lucky, I guess. I wasn’t actually looking for you. Princess Marla asked me to check on an ocean-going vessel she hired to return someone to Denika, and there you were.”
“I chose that ship
because
it was an ocean-going vessel on its way to Denika,” Brak said, waving to the tavern wench to bring him ale. “She stays at sea for long periods of time. It keeps the gods away. They don’t like to mess with Kaelarn.”
Wrayan studied him curiously. “Are you dodging any god in particular?”
“Mostly Zegarnald and Dace, at the moment. They’re both peeved at me for one reason or another.”
“What did you do?”
“I quit my life of crime in the Sunrise Mountains, which didn’t please the God of Thieves very much. And I meddled in Zegarnald’s precious war, too. It came to a resounding halt a whole lot sooner than he was planning. He’s pretty ticked off with me about that.”
“How could you meddle in the war? You weren’t anywhere near it, were you?”
“I was for a while. Zeggie had this great plan, you see, to flood Hythria with Fardohnyans and then put someone really smart in charge of the Hythrun defence so it would drag on for years. I took the liberty of changing the odds. Once the numbers evened up a bit, lo and behold, a victory! I didn’t even really care which side won, just so long as somebody did. It’s a popular misconception, you know, this notion that one should win a war to honour Zegarnald. He’d much prefer you keep on fighting.”
Suddenly, a number of things began to make sense. “So it
was
you who blew up the Widowmaker.”
Brak looked at him curiously. “How did you know about that?”
“Rory was there. He felt someone drawing on the source.” Wrayan smiled and added, “He guessed it must have been you. But even if Rory feeling your magic wasn’t enough to convince me you were involved somehow, Elarnymire popping up out of nowhere to tell him to run like hell probably would have given it away.”
“Damn demons.”
“Under the circumstances, I think Rory was grateful for the warning.”
Brak’s brows drew together curiously. “Rory? That lad we busted out of Westbrook? How’s he doing?”
“Just fine,” Wrayan assured him, determined not to let the Halfbreed change the subject just to avoid answering any awkward questions. “How are
you
doing?”
“Just fine.”
“Shananara told me what happened with Lorandranek, Brak,” he sympathised. “She said—”
“One more word,” Brak cut in with a dangerous snarl, “and you will not see out the next minute, old friend.”
Wrayan stared at him in alarm. Brak was deadly serious.
“I didn’t mean …”
“I did.”
“Then … let’s find a safer topic. How long have you been a sailor?”
“This time?” Brak shrugged. “Not long. But I’ve been to sea before, you know. Several times. One tends to try any number of professions when one has several lifetimes in which to master them.” He leaned back as the tavern wench placed his ale on the table. Brak winked at her before turning his attention back to Wrayan.
The thief sighed. Some things never changed.
“What?”
Brak asked, with a wounded look.
“Nothing,” Wrayan replied. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the chain he’d been keeping there. “I have something for you.”
He placed the
couremor
on the table. The little crystal cube with its tiny dragon magically etched inside caught the sunlight coming in from the window and refracted the light in a spray of rainbow colours across the beer-stained table. Brak picked it up and looked at it with vague disinterest, before slipping it into his own pocket.
“Thanks.”
“I used it to call Shananara.”
“I gathered as much.”
“She told me you weren’t dead.”
“Traitor.”
Wrayan hesitated, wondering how far he could go before he pushed Brak too far, but he felt compelled to say something. And he had a selfish motive. If he could convince Brak he should return to Sanctuary, even for a short time, there was the remote possibility he would allow Wrayan to accompany him and that would mean a chance to see Shananara one more time.
“They want you to go home, Brak. She said—”
“I don’t have a home any longer,” the Halfbreed insisted. He swallowed a good half of the tankard in one go and slammed it down on the table. “Are we done now? I have to get back to my ship.”
Wrayan sighed again. It was worth a try. “Will I ever see you again?”
Brak shrugged. “Maybe. By the look of you, you’re going to be around for a while yet. Provided you stay out of trouble.”
“That’s not likely.”
“Well, take care of yourself,” Brak instructed, rising to his feet. “Don’t let Dace bully you.”
Wrayan looked up at the Halfbreed. “I’ll be all right. I’m the Greatest Thief in all of Hythria. When will you be back?”
“When they need me,” he said, and then, before Wrayan could respond, he tossed a few rivets on the table for his ale, turned on his heel and walked away from the table without looking back.
 

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