Wolfblade (20 page)

“You’d not be the first mistress to order that, your highness,” Elezaar shrugged. “Some even did it to discipline me.”

“And the others?”

“Pleasure comes in many forms, your highness. Some of it is painful.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean some people—more than you might expect—find pain arousing.”

“That’s absurd!” Marla scoffed. “Why would anybody enjoy pain?”

“Because pain, if sustained for a sufficient length of time, can bring on a state of euphoria.”

“You’re making that up!”

“It’s true. I swear. Mind you, it’s not a sport for amateurs. It is a precarious game finding the pain threshold that triggers the euphoria, but for those who hunger for the feeling, well worth the effort.”

“I can’t imagine ever wanting to inflict pain on somebody I love.”

“What makes you think arousal has anything to do with love, your highness? You don’t love King Hablet.” Suddenly, the dwarf smiled. “In fact, one can, without using too much imagination, see your highness gaining a great
deal
of pleasure from inflicting pain upon her new husband.”

Marla laughed delightedly. “You are a wicked little man, Fool.”

“But I’m
your
wicked little man, your highness,” he reminded her with a courtly—albeit awkward—bow.

“What else can you teach me?”

“Anything you want to know. I can teach you about love. And hate. And I can teach you the Thirty Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power.” Then he added with a cheeky grin, “Provided we do it downstairs. Near a nice warm fire.”

“I suppose we should go in,” she agreed. “I’m just so sick of Lirena and Ninane and Aunt Lydia. They’re driving me mad.”

“You have nothing to worry about for the next few hours, your highness. Your aunt and Lirena are currently engaged on an inventory of the pantry, and your cousin . . . well, she is easily taken care of.”

“How?”

“Send Corin to her.”

“You want me to let that horse-faced bitch have my
court’esa
?”

“It’s not as if
you’re
interested in using him, your highness.”

“I know . . . but it’s . . . well, it’s the principle of the thing. Why should she get to enjoy him?”

“Because it will give you power over her.”

“How?”

The dwarf smiled mischievously. “I promise you, Princess Marla, if you instruct him correctly, Corin will see to it that your cousin will do anything you ask of her in the future, if the reward is the promise of another visit from—what did Venira call him?—your ‘silver-tongued’
court’esa.”

“That is a truly evil plan, Fool.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it.”

“Then might I offer you my assistance, your highness? Those stairs are icy and quite treacherous.”

Marla let the dwarf take her arm, thinking it was the first time in weeks that she hadn’t felt the gloom of depression weighing her down like a winter
fog.
Perhaps the Fool was right
. Maybe, if she used her head instead of moping about like a lost child, she could do something about her future.

At the very least, she might get rid of her cousin for a few hours and would not have to seek the battlements to find a few moments of peace.

“If this works, Fool,” Marla announced as they descended the icy stairs, “I will have to find a way to reward you.”

“You could start by calling me Elezaar,” the Fool replied.

R
iika Ravenspear saw her father laid to rest in the Ravenspear family vault through a haze of unbelieving tears. She had never, in her short life, been forced to confront the death of a loved one; had never even contemplated the notion of living without her doting father watching over her like an indulgent guardian angel. She knew she was shamelessly spoiled; knew Glenadal and Jeryma had protected her from many of the harsh realities of life.

And she knew, with certainty, life would never be the same again.

Shivering in the cool wind coming off the high peaks of the Sunrise Mountains, Riika stood beside Laran, clutching her half-brother’s arm for support as her uncle, the High Arrion, beseeched the gods to watch over Glenadal’s soul. Almost the entire population of Cabradell had turned out to watch. The hillside around the family crypt was crowded with people; a silent, curious mob, come to see the ruling family in mourning and a great man laid to rest.

Laran glanced down at her every now and then, to see how she was holding up. Aware that she was being watched by so many people, Riika was trying very hard to be strong. She would have given much for even a fraction of her mother’s dignity. Even Darilyn’s dry-eyed composure was better than the blubbering wreck Riika had been since her father finally succumbed to the simple infection that had robbed him first of his strength and, eventually, his life.

Riika glanced at Darilyn out of the corner of her eye. Her sister had arrived two days after Glenadal’s death, complaining endlessly about the state of the roads in the provinces and demanding to know why nobody did anything about them. For once, Riika envied Darilyn, who managed to appear both regal and suitably grief-stricken at the same time. Dressed in widow’s white, her veil embroidered with delicate gold flowers, a hand resting on
each of her young sons’ shoulders, Darilyn was still making much of her own husband’s death while on a border raid into Medalon with Laran and Mahkas nearly two years ago. Darilyn enjoyed being a widow, Riika thought uncharitably. She liked the attention it got her. She liked the sympathy. And Darilyn thought she looked rather becoming dressed in white.

Kagan finished his prayers and stood back to allow Jeryma access to Glenadal’s shrouded figure. Her mother laid the Warlord’s sword on top of the shroud, then stepped back, her lips moving silently beneath her veil in a prayer to whatever god she thought best equipped to guide her husband through the afterlife. Zegarnald probably. The God of War was a favourite of Riika’s father.

Laran gently let go of Riika’s arm and stepped up to place her father’s dagger beside the sword, followed by her half-brother Mahkas who placed Glenadal’s favourite goblet on the funeral bier. Although three years younger than Laran, Mahkas was by far the more handsome of the brothers, a roguish charmer who relied on charisma as much as skill to get what he wanted out of life. A captain in the Krakandar army, he wore a beaten silver breastplate embossed with the kraken of his home province and a long blue cloak against the chill breeze. Mahkas had arrived only yesterday, full of apologies for being late and lamenting the fact he’d not been able to speak to Glenadal before he died.

And full of questions about what would happen next.

Riika wondered if Mahkas thought her father had named
him
the heir to Sunrise. He would not think Laran a likely candidate, already being a Warlord in his own right. And Mahkas knew of Glenadal’s promise to Riika that she would never be forced into a marriage against her will. Did he think that made him the only likely successor? Mahkas had got along well enough with his stepfather and with no independent wealth of his own—Mahkas’s father had been a penniless aristocrat whose marriage to Jeryma had been arranged to repay a political favour—he was certainly well placed to take advantage of his stepfather’s generosity.

Poor Mahkas
, Riika thought.
He’ll be devastated when he learns the truth
.

Darilyn and her boys stepped up next. Her sister placed a delicate posy of blue mountain roses—the tiny wildflowers that grew prolifically throughout the Sunrise Mountains and were the symbol of the House of Ravenspear—on the shroud. Each of the boys then placed a small carved horse, representing Glenadal’s favoured mounts, Nofera and Thunder, beside the flowers. When they were done, the boys returned to their mother’s side and it was Riika’s turn.

She hesitated, reluctant to step forward, reluctant to perform this final, irrevocable act of farewell. Bright sunlight, robbed of its warmth by the wind, beat down mercilessly, making her a little light-headed. Perhaps, if she didn’t
take this last, fateful step, Glenadal would still be alive. Perhaps she’d wake up from this nightmare to find her father standing by her bed, holding a candle that illuminated his jovial features, laughing at her foolish nightmare, promising he’d live forever, just as he’d done when she was small.
Don’t you worry about me
, he used to say.
Death will take one look at me and run the other way, screaming in fright
.

He’ll hear one of your jokes is what you mean
, her mother would respond with a smile, as if the ritual was some time-honoured tradition between them.
They’re enough to make anybody run screaming in the opposite direction, even Death
. . .

“Riika,” Laran whispered in gentle reminder. “It’s time.”

Riika shook herself, forced her limbs to move. She stepped forward, clutching her father’s shield. It was heavy and cumbersome and her arm ached from carrying it, but it bore the crest of the Ravenspear House and as his only child she felt she deserved the honour. Mahkas had advised against it, offering to carry the shield for her. The weight might be too much for her, he claimed. He sounded genuine in his concern, but she did wonder for a moment if Mahkas had offered to bear Glenadal’s shield because he thought it would be a good thing for all these spectators (or more specifically, all these citizens of Cabradell) to see him holding such a potent symbol of her father’s lordship over their province. If he thought himself the only logical heir, then it was possible. On the other hand, Mahkas may simply have meant exactly what he said. The shield was very heavy and at the funeral, with the whole of Cabradell watching, it wouldn’t do for her to stumble or falter. Laran had thought the same thing. But he didn’t offer to carry it in her place. He had simply taken her aside, just before they joined the long procession up the hill to the family crypt, and shown her the best way to hold it and the safest way to lift it up onto the bier. That was the difference between her brothers, really. One was all substance, the other all show.

With a small grunt, Riika lifted the heavy metal shield and placed it atop her father’s shrouded body, the way Laran had shown her. The act itself did little to ease her grief. She didn’t feel any sudden sense of closure. The only weight she was relieved of was the physical weight of her father’s shield. Riika felt let down. Wasn’t this supposed to make it easier? Wasn’t the whole point of a funeral to give the family a chance to say goodbye? Wasn’t it supposed to alleviate the pain, somehow? What was the point of a funeral, otherwise? Death had already taken Glenadal away. This ceremony was for the living, really, not the dead.

Oh, Papa! Why did you leave me? Did I do something wrong? Am I being punished for something?

“It’s all right, Riika,” a voice told her soothingly. A strong arm encircled her shoulders and drew her gently away from the bier. It was Laran, she realised.
She’d been standing there like a fool, sobbing shamelessly.
What must people think of me?

What do I care?

What will happen to me now?

Laran handed her over to Jeryma and then stepped forward with Mahkas and the other pallbearers honoured with placing Glenadal’s body in the tomb. The two men who took position at the front were her father’s most loyal confidant, Orly Farlo, and his most senior captain, Chaine Tollin.

Riika had objected loudly to the captain’s inclusion in the funeral party. There was a persistent rumour around Cabradell that Chaine Tollin was Glenadal’s baseborn son, a completely unfounded and malicious piece of gossip that Riika refused to acknowledge. Nobody with half a brain believed it. He didn’t look a thing like Glenadal. He was too tall, too dark and far too irritating to be her father’s son. Besides, Riika already had two half-brothers. She was sure that if she shared any blood-bond with Chaine, she would have felt something in his presence, other than the urgent need to slap him for the insolent way he spoke. Far from putting paid to his delusions of grandeur, letting him take part in the funeral procession gave the rumours credence. Nobody would think Chaine was included because he was the captain of Glenadal’s personal guard. They would all assume some deeper, more significant motive.

The other pallbearers were Haril Guilder, her father’s closest vassal, the Earl of Valcan Pass and Kahl Pendagin, the Baron of Tyenne, the man who had sold the Warlord of Sunrise the stallion that would eventually kill him. Riika had not thought him deserving of such a place of honour, either, but had been overruled by her mother. Jeryma considered the ongoing need for Lord Pendagin’s support more important than placing blame for what had been—even Riika was willing to admit—a tragic accident.

On an almost inaudible count from Laran, the six men lifted the stretcher from the bier to their shoulders and marched slowly towards the crypt where Riika’s ancestors were interred. Although the small marble building was elegantly designed, its ageless architecture reminiscent of the Harshini, the tomb terrified Riika. It was customary to come here every year on the Feast of Death during the month of Corlio, to enter the tomb and pay one’s respects to one’s ancestors. She had done everything, including faking illness in the past, to avoid being made to pay homage to all those dusty old skeletons.