Warrior (56 page)

Had the Harshini shown him how? The Halfbreed, perhaps?

And even more puzzling, if Wrayan Lightfinger was so skilled, so powerful now, where was he?

Why had he never come back to the Sorcerers’ Collective to challenge Alija? Or even to seek vengeance for what she’d done to him? In Wrayan’s place, that was the first thing Alija would have done.

Holding her head in her hands against the agony, Alija cursed the darkness loudly, bringing Tarkyn to her side to ask if there was something wrong. She pushed him away, certain she was close to working this out and not wanting the distraction of another human voice to break her train of thought.

How many more? That wretched dwarf Marla keeps as a pet? Almost certainly
. There was Corian Burl at the palace, the seneschal whose thoughts had never seemed to dwell on anything more important than the weather. Marla’s children, whom she’d always assumed were simply shallow creatures with no real ambition, because whenever she brushed their minds there was nothing there for her to see—
Damin, Kalan, Narvell, the Tirstone brothers
. . .

The list seemed endless. All of them shielded from her sight. All of them able to think what they liked; hide whatever secrets they chose; and for years now, she’d been none the wiser.

And Luciena. Of course
.

The reason for the failure of her plan, all those years ago, to use Luciena as an assassin suddenly became clear. The Mariner girl had attacked Damin and the whole thing had been covered up to prevent Alija learning the greater secret—that Wrayan Lightfinger lived and Marla Wolfblade had known all along about Alija’s plans to kill her son and take the throne with Nash Hawksword by her side. Wrayan had simply healed the girl’s mind and let Alija think her attack had failed, just because Marla was willing to bide her time until Damin reached his majority.

Physical pain aside, the realisation severely shook Alija’s faith in her own ability. The knowledge that for more than twenty-five years she had been operating under the false assumption that Marla knew nothing of her activities or her ambitions, that the princess’s mind and the minds of those around her were simply open books laid out for Alija to peruse at her leisure, was completely wrong.

They had known, all of them, that they were vulnerable to me
.

And they had taken precautions.

Alija was forced to reconsider everything she believed about the princess. All these years she had thought Marla little more than a misguided, easily deluded woman overburdened with a sense of duty. She had convinced herself that Marla felt compelled to compensate for her brother’s inadequacies by aiding him in the execution of his royal duties. All these years, Alija thought Marla simply a tool in the hands of wiser, more astute advisors. How wrong must that assessment be?

Suppose it is actually Marla leading the way? Suppose she’s the one responsible for keeping
Hythria together these past twenty-odd years?

Even more shocking was the notion that Marla might be aware of some of Alija’s more treasonous activities, particularly among the Patriots.

But how
much
did she know? And how long had she known it? Why was she biding her time?

Was she waiting for the opportune moment to take her vengeance?

Was Marla aware who the spies in her household were? Had she been feeding Alija nothing but a carefully orchestrated litany of lies and misdirection all this time?

Marla’s barefaced, brazen gall was staggering. The princess had placed her own daughter in the Sorcerers’ Collective, under Alija’s care. It didn’t seem nearly so foolish now, in hindsight. There was nothing Alija could have done to harm her, because Kalan was protected by forces beyond the High Arrion’s comprehension.

When had the Wolfblades become so favoured by the gods?

Rorin’s face pushed its way forward into her consciousness again. This time she stopped to consider why. Luciena’s allegedly talented cousin, who’d proved to be such a disappointment. There was something elusive yet significant in Ruxton’s memories about that young man. Something connected with Wrayan and, improbably, the Harshini themselves.

Was that Rorin’s secret?
Was the faint hint of talent she could feel in him just an illusion? In reality, did he wield far more power than Alija had been able to detect?

Was he like Wrayan, perhaps? Nash Hawksword had told her of Kagan Palenovar’s suspicion that Wrayan was a descendent of one of the many mixed-blood relationships the Harshini were so careless of back in the days of old; back before the Sisters of the Blade destroyed them all.

Is that why Marla insisted the boy study with Kalan?
Because he was a
real
magician? Someone capable of protecting Marla’s precious daughter from Alija’s power? The haphazard memories tormented Alija, tantalisingly close to providing answers to everything she wished to know, yet so insubstantial, it was like trying to net a fog.

And her head felt as if it had been cleaved in two.

She had to figure this out—use reason where the gaps in a dying man’s memory failed her. She
had
to know. Before she took another step. Before she made another move, Alija had to know how much Marla knew.

And really, when all was said and done, there was only one sure way to find out.

She forced her eyes open and turned to look at Tarkyn Lye in the dim light. The blind
court’esa
kept a vigil over his mistress, with a blue scarf tied across his mouth and nose to filter out the evil vapours of death. He must have feared her delirium was the onset of the plague. But he had stayed with her through her long, tortured days and nights of near madness, wiped her brow with a cool compress, and kept her covered when the sweat turned to chills. She appreciated his dedication, but it wasn’t necessary.

There were other ways for Tarkyn Lye to prove his loyalty to her.

“What day is it?” Her voice was dry and cracked, her throat parched.

“It’s the evening of Fourthday, my lady,” the
court’esa
informed her, rising to his feet. “You’ve been delirious for six days now.”

“Who knows that I’ve been ill?”

“Nobody, my lady,” he assured her, silently counting the steps to her bedside. With unerring certainty, the blind man picked up the water jug by her bed and filled her cup, listening to the sound of the liquid to tell when the cup was nearing full. “I told everyone you had taken to your room to mourn the late husband of your dear cousin, Princess Marla.”

Alija smiled weakly and accepted the cup, glad of the chance to quench her thirst, even if it was only water. She felt like she needed something much stronger. “That was clever.”

Tarkyn bowed gracefully. “I live only to serve, my lady.”

“Then serve me, Tarkyn.”

“How?”

“Who is the one person who might know the inner workings of Princess Marla’s devious little mind?”

“Her pet dwarf,” Tarkyn answered without hesitation. “The Fool. Elezaar.”

“I want him.”

“My
lady
?” he asked, a little alarmed by her request.

“Bring me Elezaar, Tarkyn Lye,” Alija ordered. “I don’t care how you do it or what it costs. Bring him to me. Just be sure he is alive and able to talk. And Marla mustn’t know that I have him.”

“It won’t be easy, my lady. With the plague abroad, I doubt he’d be allowed out of the house.”

“But you will find a way to get him out, Tarkyn. And you will bring him to me.”

The
court’esa
seemed reluctant to do her bidding. “My lady, even if you were to torture the dwarf, I doubt you would get much useful information from him. He is truly dedicated to his mistress.”

“
I
will make him talk,” she said confidently, to herself as much as Tarkyn. Then sensing his scepticism, she smiled and added, “You see, Tarkyn, I have the only thing in this world Elezaar the Fool cares about more than Marla Wolfblade.”

“What’s that, my lady?”

“I have Crysander,” she said. “His brother.”

Mahkas Damaran, Regent of Krakandar, returned from Walsark well pleased with the condition of the estate and the responsible manner in which his nephew was caring for the borough. Travin Taranger would be thirty next year, old enough to assume the title of his late father, the Earl of Walsark, and to officially take over the estate. The crops were healthy, the cattle fat, the lambs plump and numerous, and a new kiln was being added to the porcelain works in the town, which—Travin had boasted proudly—meant more jobs for the townsfolk who created the porcelain and worked in the pits, digging out the unique white clay that made the town’s porcelain so valuable.

Something of an anomaly in a country where slaves were the norm, the Walsark porcelain works were almost entirely manned by freeborn workers and the town attracted craftsmen from all over the country. It made the porcelain expensive, but it was highly prized and Walsark’s prosperity would have a flow-on effect to her neighbouring boroughs, too, Mahkas thought with satisfaction. The quartz, feldspar and mica needed to blend with the white clay—the elements that differentiated Walsark porcelain from mere pottery—were all imported from the surrounding boroughs. Their kiln output would be doubled in a year or two, Travin estimated, and the much sought-after Walsark porcelain could be made in sufficient quantities to consider exporting to Fardohnya or Medalon. Perhaps even Karien. He thought it unlikely they would bother with any markets beyond the continent. Sea voyages and porcelain were not happy travelling companions and, by all accounts, the nations across the vast reaches of the Dregian Ocean weren’t civilised enough to appreciate fine porcelain anyway.

Mahkas was very happy with everything he’d seen in Walsark. It was important to him that all went well with Travin. He wanted the world—and specifically Marla—to know what a good job he’d done with the boy. He’d been like a father to Travin and his younger brother, Xanda, just as he’d been to Damin. It was important people recognised that. It was important that people looked at his nephews, smiled and remarked how lucky they were to have an uncle like Mahkas Damaran.

It helped assuage the guilt a little for having been responsible for their parents’ deaths.

Not that he
really
blamed himself. Darilyn was a wicked, self-centred, shallow creature with no real appreciation of the sacrifices she must make to raise her boys. And Laran? Well, Damin’s father had been an ungrateful, power-hungry fool, Mahkas had long ago convinced himself. Letting him die at the hands of a Medalonian Defender was the kindest thing he could have done for his nephew. At least Damin had grown up with some sort of stability and moral guidance in his life.

What sort of role model for a future High Prince was a man who would risk a civil war to
manipulate the succession?
Mahkas often asked himself, forgetting his own ready participation in the same venture.
What sort of man would Damin have grown into with Laran’s distant affection the only
warmth the boy might ever have known?

I did Damin a favour
, Mahkas reminded himself, whenever he started feeling guilty about it. He would rub at the sore spot on his arm and say it to himself over and over.
I did them a favour. I did them
a favour. I did them a favour
.

“Leave it be!” Bylinda told him impatiently.

Mahkas’s head jerked up and he realised he was doing it again—rubbing the tiny scar on his right arm as the carriage trundled along the road towards Krakandar City. He snatched his hand away and pulled his cloak a little closer around him. “It’s getting warmer, don’t you think?”

“Warmer?” Bylinda asked, smiling at him as if she could tell he was simply making conversation to draw attention away from his obsessive worrying at that one little spot on his arm. “Compared to what?”

“Compared to the last few days. I think perhaps spring is on the way.”

“I hadn’t really noticed.”

Mahkas looked out of the carriage window at the brown fields rolling past, divided by tall green hedgerows. There were even a few hopeful vineyards along the Walsark road, roaming over the lower slopes in pleasantly symmetrical lines. They were quite pretty, too, with a native Krakandar rosebush planted at the end of each row. It was for more than just aesthetics that the roses grew alongside the vines. Not nearly as hardy as their neighbours, the roses would always wilt first, warning the vintners there was trouble with the vines.

“Do you think Leila and Damin will have had time to get to know each other a little better while we were gone?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.

“I don’t know,” his wife shrugged. To her credit, Bylinda made no comment about it being the only thing on his mind for the past four days. Then she ruined it by adding, “You won’t be too disappointed if you get home and we don’t catch them in bed together, will you?”

“I wish you wouldn’t joke about this, Bylinda.”

“I wish you wouldn’t push them so hard. If Damin is meant to marry Leila, it will happen whether they love each other or not. For that matter, if Marla wants them to marry, it won’t matter if they despise each other. But there’s no point hoping they’ll fall in love, Mahkas. Marla won’t let that sway her decision.”

“It shouldn’t
be
her decision. I’m Damin’s uncle. His regent.”

“But the High Prince is
also
his uncle, and his legally adopted father, as well. It will be his decision about who Damin marries.”

“Which means it will be Marla’s,” Mahkas complained.

“Yes, which means it will be Marla’s.”

Mahkas shook his head, trying to deny the doubt that kept creeping up like a shadow on his dreams. “Damin seemed quite keen for Leila’s company the day he got home. He said he wanted to talk with her. In private.”

“That’s a good sign then,” Bylinda agreed, more to keep him happy, he suspected, than any real belief that Damin’s suggestion he speak with Leila alone was a sign of much deeper affection.

“Should I let him know I don’t mind, do you think?”

Bylinda looked at him, puzzled. “That you don’t mind what?”