Warrior (51 page)

“Why not?”

“I haven’t seen you for four years. I didn’t know if you could be trusted.”

“Let’s just pretend I can be,” Damin suggested, a little put out, Starros thought, by Leila’s accusing tone. “What are you going to do about it?”

“There’s nothing that can be done about it,” Starros shrugged. “Even if Mahkas wasn’t determined to have you marry Leila, I’m the last person in Hythria he’d consider as a consort for his only child. I’m a commoner. I’m a bastard.”

“I could always have the High Prince grant you some sort of title,” Damin offered. “Make you Lord Starros, the Earl of Something.”

“You could make him a Warlord and it wouldn’t matter to my father, Damin. You know that. The only bloodline good enough for his daughter is yours.”

“Haven’t you ever found the idea of us marrying just a little bit icky?” Damin mused. “I mean, we’re first cousins. Our children might have three eyes, or an extra leg or something. It happens with chickens when you interbreed them too closely.”

“Our fathers were only half brothers, so, strictly speaking, we’re only half first cousins, if there is such a thing. And I don’t find the idea
icky
, as you so elegantly put it, Damin. I find it intolerable.”

“Then maybe the first step is to kill the notion once and for all.”

“What do you mean?” Starros asked, not sure if he liked the idea of stirring up such a hornets’

nest with Mahkas. He was in enough trouble today for simply riding at his friend’s side. And there was Leila to consider.

Damin didn’t seem to have the same concerns, however. “Mahkas still harbours the hope that Leila and I will marry because my mother has never actually told him outright that she won’t allow it.

Maybe it’s time she did.”

“Would she do it, though?” Leila asked.

“If I ask her the right way, she might.”

Leila looked up at Starros and, for the first time, he saw a glimmer of true hope in her eyes. “If my father knew there was no possibility . . .”

“Let’s not count our chickens before they hatch, sweetheart.”

“They might be deformed,” Damin added.

Leila turned on him in annoyance. “You know, you might have the veneer of civilisation, Damin Wolfblade, but you still really are that horrible little monster who used to call me names when we were children.”

“I’m sorry,” the prince sighed, almost sounding like he meant it. “I don’t take things seriously enough, I know. Mother’s always at me about it. Elezaar’s convinced it’s my worst fault and that I’ll bring Hythria to her knees because of it. Even Lernen tells me off about it, and coming from someone with his list of vices, that’s really saying something. But it doesn’t mean I won’t try to help you.” He grinned again and added, “It just means I’ll drive you insane while I’m doing it.”

“Go away, Damin,” Leila ordered impatiently. “And lock the door on your way
out
.”

Surprisingly, Damin did as Leila asked. He climbed off the bed and bowed elegantly to them.

“Your wish is my command, my lady. I shall leave now, and you two can pick up where you left off.”

“Get out.”

Starros was afraid Damin might argue the point, but the young prince did as his cousin bid and a few moments later they heard the door to the slaveways snick shut. Alone again, Starros sat down on the bed and held Leila tight, feeling her tremble against him as she allowed the shock of their exposure to overwhelm her for a moment.

“Damin won’t betray us,” he assured her softly after a time, rocking her back and forth gently.

“He said he’d try to help us. And he will. It’s no mean thing to have a prince of Hythria on our side.”

“That’s the problem,” Leila replied, leaning back in his arms to study his face in the dying light of the candle. She seemed better now. More in control. “I don’t doubt his intentions are noble, but my well-meaning cousin’s help may prove the most dangerous thing of all.”

“What do you mean?”

“In trying to help us, he may inadvertently expose us.”

“I think Damin’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for, my love.”

“I hope so,” she replied with a thin smile. “And at least I know where he stands on the matter of our betrothal.”

Starros smiled and pulled her close to him again, kissing the top of her head. Her hair was fragrant, smelling faintly of the rose-scented soap she used. “Did you ever seriously think Damin wanted to marry you?”

“No.”

“Then you have nothing to fear, Leila. By helping you, Damin is helping himself.”

“Self-interest, eh? Now
that’s
a motive I can ascribe to my cousin quite comfortably.”

He bent his head and kissed her again to stop her talking, sick of hearing about Damin and the danger they courted for being so foolish. It had been like this from the beginning, the threat of discovery an ever-present shadow that prevented them from being truly happy.
What would happen, would
happen
, he decided fatalistically, and there was little either of them could do about it.

“Make love to me, Starros,” she murmured against his cheek.

Starros smiled. “I thought you’d never ask,” he breathed in her ear, hoping that, at least for a little while, their lovemaking would keep the uncertainty of their future from suffocating them completely.

The false hope of spring that had blessed the city the day of Damin’s arrival was nothing but a pleasant memory the next morning when Wrayan arrived at the palace for lunch, far earlier than required. He didn’t think his hosts would mind. He had a lot of catching up to do, particularly with Rorin, so as soon as his spies reported Mahkas and his entourage were riding out of the third gate, heading for Walsark, Wrayan handed over the last of the day’s business to Luc, ordered the stable boy at the Pickpocket’s Retreat to saddle up his mount, and headed up to the palace through raindrops that felt like sharp needles driven by an icy wind, as if the God of Storms himself was determined to slow his progress.

Even though it was raining, Orleon met him at the top of the palace steps as usual, made a few snide remarks about ignorant criminals who couldn’t tell the time, and then had him shown, with ill grace, into the dining room, where the family usually gathered for breakfast. When Wrayan got there, however, the only one present was Rorin, although it was clear the others were expected soon by the amount of food the slaves were loading up on the buffet, padding on silent bare feet in a constant line from the tables to the slaveways entrance concealed behind a screen at the back of the room that led directly down to the kitchens.

“Wrayan!” Rorin cried, jumping to his feet as soon as he spied the visitor. “I thought you were coming to lunch, not breakfast!”

“The two seem to blur into each other in this place, by the look of that buffet,” Wrayan noted, crossing the room to shake Rorin’s hand. He’d only seen the young Fardohnyan two or three times since Marla had sent him to the Sorcerers’ Collective. He was a young man now, the same age as Damin, Wrayan realised. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was fair-haired and blue-eyed as any Hythrun.
If you
didn’t know he was Fardohnyan by birth, you’d never guess
, he thought. Dressed in the black robes of the Sorcerers’ Collective, the young man looked quite distinguished. “Where is everybody?”

“Down at the training yards,” Rorin told him, as he resumed his place at the table. Wrayan took the seat beside him. He felt the chill from his ride seeping from his bones as he was warmed by the heat of the two fires that filled the red-granite fireplaces at each end of the room. A slave hurried to his side to fill his cup with fragrant lemon tea. He accepted the tea but waved away the offer of food.

“In this weather?”

“Apparently nothing is permitted to stand in the way when the pride of the Wolfblades is at stake,” Rorin added. “Something to do with Damin and Captain Almodavar. I’m not sure what it was exactly, but as it involved getting up at dawn in a freezing downpour to witness it, I decided to settle for letting Kalan fill me in on the details when it’s done.”

Wrayan smiled. “Ah, Almodavar’s traditional welcome home for the Prince of Krakandar.”

“Some welcome! He takes him out and beats the living daylights out of him?” Rorin chuckled.

“Tries to. I’ll wager you last night’s Guild takings that Damin’s been training for nothing else since he learned he was coming home. Almodavar, too. It’s been going on since Damin was about twelve or thirteen, I think. Ever since the captain gave Damin forty laps of the training yard for not killing him.”

“And to think, I used to wonder why they called the ruling lords of Hythria
Warlords
.”

Wrayan laughed in agreement. “Dacendaran told me once the reason Hythria was such a favourite of Zegarnald is because we’d rather fight than eat.”

“Dacendaran?” Rorin asked with a raised brow. He was curious rather than sceptical.

“Long story,” Wrayan shrugged. “If we get time, I’ll tell you about it while you’re here. I see you’ve graduated to the ranks of a full member of the Sorcerers’ Collective,” he added, looking at Rorin’s black robe. He admired the young man’s willingness to wear it. Admittedly it was warm, but in Wrayan’s experience they were damn itchy things.

“Last year,” Rorin confirmed, “Kalan and I graduated at the same time. She suggested I make a point of wearing my robes while I’m here.”

“Because otherwise Lord Damaran looks at you like you should be out in the stables shovelling manure?” he guessed. Rorin nodded in agreement. “You and Starros should get together and compare notes some time. Which brings up an interesting point, though,” Wrayan added thoughtfully. “How can they test your ability as a sorcerer if there’s nobody left in the Collective with any magical ability?”

“It’s a written examination.”

“You’re kidding me!”

Rorin shook his head. “I don’t think the word
magic
even got a mention. Mostly it was the history of the Harshini and Hythria and a stack of historical and geographical stuff with a bit of mathematics and a smattering of science. Damin could have passed it, if he tried. I just scraped through, incidentally. Kalan passed with flying colours. Naturally.”

“
That’s
how they’re testing for sorcerers these days?”

“Ironic, isn’t it,” Rorin said with a grin. “The only one in the whole damn place with any magical ability and I almost didn’t get through.”

Wrayan studied the young Fardohnyan for a moment, wondering how he’d managed to keep his ability hidden all these years. “Did nobody ever suspect
anything
?”

“Alija knew I had some sort of ability,” Rorin confirmed. “There’s no way to hide it completely.

But she never suspected how much, and after a few futile attempts to have me demonstrate the limits of my power, I think she gave me up as a lost cause. As far as most people were concerned, I was Luciena Mariner’s cousin and Kalan Hawksword’s friend. Once they realised I couldn’t even blow out a candle without taking a really deep breath, nobody cared who I was beyond that.”

“That’s the difference between being an Innate and being able to wield true Harshini magic, I suppose. Alija always had trouble figuring out how much power I commanded, too.”

“She got the better of you once, didn’t she?”

Wrayan frowned. He didn’t like to think of it like that. “She cheated. Anyway, Brak destroyed the scrolls she used to amplify her power. Since then, her ability is pretty much limited to what she was born with. She can read minds if she can establish physical contact, shield them rather obviously, and do a few other parlour tricks, but that’s about it. The fact that she can’t detect a mind shield I’ve created is a telling sign. She can brush over the source and feel it when someone is using magic in her vicinity, but unless she’s witnessed it happen she can’t recognise the residual effect for what it is, even when faced with it on a daily basis.”

“She’s not bad at healing, when she concentrates on it,” Rorin told him, waving a barefoot slave over to refill his teacup. He waited until the slave was out of earshot before adding, “I’ll probably get hanged for saying this here, but she’s actually not that bad as High Arrions go. She’s quite dedicated to sorting the whole mess out. And she’s desperate to find some real magical talent. I must have been a real disappointment to her, I think.”

Wrayan looked at him suspiciously. “Rorin, you’re not thinking about . . .”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. I might applaud Alija’s noble goals, Wrayan, but I know what drives her, and there’s nothing noble about that. She’s after real magicians for the Collective, but only because of what they can do for her plans to raise her own son to the throne. Besides, my loyalty is to the Wolfblades.”

“Are you sure?”

Rorin nodded, not offended by, the question. “Did I ever tell you what happened after you left me with Princess Marla?”

“Not really.”

“Well, on the way back to Greenharbour, she started asking me about my family—you know, who they were, where they were, what they did, if they’d miss me . . . that sort of thing.”

Wrayan nodded a little guiltily, thinking he probably should have done the same thing, but in his grief over Brak’s apparent demise and everything else that had been happening at the time, he’d never thought to ask.

“My father’s a sailor—did I ever mention that? So were my grandfather and my uncles. My family was poor, Wrayan, poorer than slaves, and I was the eldest of seven. I used to envy slaves when I was small because at least they had the benefit of knowing where their next meal was coming from.

When that anvil came through the wall, it was just the last in a long line of bad luck for us.”

“I never understood why they didn’t just put you on a ship bound for Greenharbour and have you jump ship when you got there.”

“Most Fardohnyan ships are crewed by slaves. That’s one of the reasons we were always so poor. Why hire free men when you can buy slaves who’ll work for nothing? I would’ve had to stow away—which meant death if I was caught—or sign on for a ten-year bond on an oceangoing trader. It was easier to go overland. And all we had time for, given the Palace Guard was hot on my heels when I left Talabar.” Rorin smiled at the irony. “Not that it made much of a difference in the end, seeing as how I surrendered when I got to Westbrook anyway.”