O
f all the wounds Mahkas Damaran had received at the hands of his ungrateful nephew, the most inconvenient was the fact he could no longer command authority simply by speaking his will. Damin’s rage-driven fist had severed his vocal cords and only Rorin Mariner’s ability as a magical healer had saved Mahkas’s life and stopped him bleeding to death where he fell. But the young man was not skilled enough, it seemed, to save his voice.
Mahkas had his suspicions about that. Although he’d heard Rorin pleading with Damin to spare his uncle’s life, his reasons were political not personal. Rorin Mariner couldn’t have cared less about Mahkas Damaran. What he cared about was the political make-up of the Convocation of Warlords. That preserving one meant saving the other, was purely incidental.
Perhaps,
Mahkas mused, it
wasn’t a lack of skill, after all, that prevented the young sorcerer from repairing my throat, but a lack of will.
He paced his office impatiently, rubbing at the sore spot on his arm as he worried about it, working himself into another frenzy. The lump in his arm was swollen and painful. He’d barely left it alone since Damin attacked him.
“Did you hear me, Uncle Mahkas?”
He looked up in surprise. With all this worrying, he’d forgotten Xanda was in the room. He’d forgotten what they were talking about, too.
“Of course I heard you!” he snapped in a hoarse whisper.
“Then you don’t mind if I issue the order to unseal the city?”
“Why?” Mahkas demanded anxiously. Unsealing the city meant letting strangers in. Worse, it meant letting Damin back in.
“Because … as we were just discussing … the threat of the plague seems to be waning,” Xanda explained patiently. “We’re not surrounded by refugees fleeing the southern provinces as we feared we might be. There hasn’t been a new case of the plague reported in weeks. And the issue of food is becoming critical. We can avoid most of
those
problems right now by simply throwing open the gates.”
“Throw open the gates,” Mahkas muttered, pacing up and down behind the desk. “He’s probably just waiting for me to do that.”
Xanda strained to hear him. “Who’s waiting for what?”
“Your damned cousin,” he rasped, pointing to his ruined throat. “The bastard who did this to me!”
“Damin is in Cabradell,” Xanda reminded him.
“He says he’s in Cabradell,” he exclaimed, his scorn actually causing him physical pain. “Who can believe a word that treacherous bastard says? For all I know he’s sitting at the Walsark Crossroads with an army—
my
army, mind you—just waiting for me to open the gates. Just waiting for me to let down my guard.” He rubbed furiously at the sore spot on his arm again. “He’s already tried to get the rest of them, you know. Tried smuggling them out of the city under the pretext of a Fardohnyan invasion. But I put a stop to that, quick smart. There weren’t many men anxious to join that smug little bastard once I put an arrow through Raek Harlan’s chest, let me tell you.”
“I was there, Uncle,” Xanda said in an odd tone. “I saw what happened.”
Mahkas chose to take Xanda’s flat voice as a favourable sign. At least he didn’t fly into a rage over the smallest little things like his cousin. “He’s out there, Xanda. You mark my words.”
“If you fear that, Uncle, let me send someone out to check,” his nephew offered.
He kept shaking his head, back and forth, like a dog worrying at a bone. “They might not come back. Whoever I send might desert us. Or Damin would kill him. Yes, that’s what would happen, Damin would kill him. Like he tried to kill me. And to think, I was almost going to let him marry my daughter!” He coughed painfully, alarmed to find his spittle flecked with blood. Rorin had warned him not to overdo it, but it was hard. So very, very hard.
Particularly when he had so much to say.
The door opened while he was still recovering from his coughing fit. It was Bylinda, all pale and pathetic in her mourning white. She never bothered to knock these days. Nobody did. There was no point. They couldn’t hear him calling permission to enter.
She smiled wanly at Xanda. “Good morning, Xanda.”
“Aunt Bylinda.”
“Will you and Luciena be joining us for dinner this evening?”
Mahkas glared at her. There were more important things going on here than her bloody social arrangements.
“Do you mind!” he tried to shout, but she ignored him, pretending she didn’t hear his hoarse yelling.
“Actually, my lady, Luciena and I thought we should join the children in the nursery for dinner. Lady Lionsclaw’s boys are feeling a little homesick and they miss their mother. She feels they need the company.”
Bylinda touched his arm, her grip fragile. “You’re very good to those children, Xanda. And a good father to your own children, too. You don’t see that too often, these days.”
She curtseyed to her nephew and, without even acknowledging her husband, turned and drifted out of the room, off to do the gods knew what. She’d been like that a lot, lately. Vague, detached … her eyes, on the rare occasion Mahkas could get her to look at him, full of grief. Full of pain.
And full of accusation.
“It’s her own fault, you know,” Mahkas rasped.
Xanda looked at him. “Pardon?”
“What happened to Leila,” he explained. “It’s Bylinda’s fault.”
Xanda actually looked surprised.
Young men … they just don’t get it,
Mahkas lamented silently
. They splash their seed around and sire a few brats and think fatherhood gives them some sort of insight into human nature.
“Women are weak,” he explained to his nephew, glad of the opportunity to impart some of his own wisdom to the young man. “They need to be disciplined. That’s why Leila was so easily corrupted. I let Bylinda take care of the discipline when she was younger and it clearly wasn’t enough …” He coughed again, the pain in his ravaged throat getting worse with every word he uttered.
Xanda rushed to his side and helped him into his seat. “You need to stop talking, Uncle. You need to rest. Trust me, you’ve said quite enough for one day.”
Mahkas nodded wordlessly. It hurt too much to speak.
“I’ll take care of things here,” Xanda promised. “You should go back to bed and take something for the pain.”
He’s such a good lad, Xanda Taranger.
Living proof of Mahkas’s theory about women and discipline, too. Mahkas had removed the irritation of Xanda’s mother, Darilyn, from the boy’s life when he was only six years old and look how well he’d turned out without a woman to corrupt him.
“Just one thing,” Mahkas managed, as Xanda helped him to his feet and gave him an arm to lean on as they walked across the rug to the door.
“What’s that, Uncle?”
“Unseal the city without my authority,” he gasped painfully, “and I’ll have you hanged for treason.”
Xanda didn’t react immediately to his threat. He hesitated just long enough for Mahkas to be certain that’s exactly what his nephew had been planning to do as soon as he had his back turned.
“As you wish, Uncle,” he said eventually, opening the door.
Xanda beckoned one of the guards waiting outside to help his lord to his room. Mahkas winced as he accepted the soldier’s support, but was satisfied he could sleep now, and wake to find he still had a city under his control.
He smiled at his nephew, just to let him know he knew what he’d been thinking, but he didn’t hold it against him. He was a bigger man than that. “Just so long as we understand each other, Xanda.”
“I understand, Uncle,” Xanda replied. “Better than you think.”
“Then there won’t be any problems, will there?”
“No, my lord.”
Mahkas patted his arm encouragingly. “There’s a good lad.”
And then he turned and let the guards help him back down the long corridor, leaving Xanda Taranger staring after him thoughtfully and in no doubt about who was really in control of Krakandar Province.
M
arla was working at her desk when the door opened and Kalan let herself into the study.
“Good afternoon, Kalan.” She hadn’t seen her daughter since she’d stormed out of dinner the evening before.
“Mother.”
“Is there something I can do for you? As you can see, I’m rather busy.”
“I came to say I’m sorry.”
Marla put down her quill and studied her daughter thoughtfully. “Is that because you
are
sorry, or because Wrayan told you to apologise?”
“Both, actually,” Kalan admitted as she took a seat on the other side of the desk. “He told me about Elezaar, too.”
Marla shrugged. “It’s a done deed now. No point in losing sleep over it.”
“I can’t believe you’re taking it so calmly.”
“I’m not. I’m just better than you at hiding my feelings.”
Kalan had the decency to look away guiltily. Marla’s heart went out to her. She knew what Kalan’s tantrum had been about, just as she knew that despite everything she’d done to discourage it, Kalan had doted on Wrayan since she was a small child. Her fantasy must have seemed so real, so achievable, Marla thought. Here was a man who hadn’t visibly aged in thirty years. To a young girl with a hopeless crush it must have seemed as if the gods had stopped time for Wrayan, to allow her a chance to catch up. What Kalan didn’t understand—and there had never been any reason until now to explain it to her—was that the two years Wrayan spent among the Harshini had done more than teach him to wield magic proficiently. He’d been one of them. Lived with them. Loved with them. Such a rare opportunity was a double-edged sword. They’d saved his life, given him a chance to live the long life his distant Harshini ancestry would allow him, but it came at a cost.
Wrayan was in love with a Harshini.
The Sisters of the Blade in Medalon had set out to destroy their entire race because of what that could do to a human.
“Did I act like a complete fool last night?” she asked.
“Yes,” her mother replied bluntly. Then she smiled. “But I wouldn’t worry about it, darling. Wrayan doesn’t think any less of you for it.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve been in love just as desperately, Kalan,” Marla told her daughter. “And for a while, I was the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. But it also caused me the most intense pain I’ve ever experienced. Worse, even, than childbirth.”
Kalan frowned. “I thought childbirth was supposed to be a wonderful and moving time for a woman?”
“That’s a lie men spread about to convince us we should keep having babies for them,” Marla grumbled. “Don’t believe a word of it. Childbirth hurts like hell.”
Kalan smiled faintly, but her amusement soon faded in the face of their more serious problems. “What are you going to do about Alija?”
“Destroy her.”
Kalan wasn’t even a little surprised. “That’s a given, I would have thought. But how are you going to do it? You can’t just have the High Arrion killed. That would destabilise the whole damn country at a time we can least afford it.”
“No,” Marla agreed. “But I can have that slimy little sightless ground-slug, Tarkyn Lye, taken care of any time I want. In fact I’ve already arranged it with the Assassins’ Guild.”
“And then what? If something happens to Tarkyn Lye, isn’t she going to suspect it was you behind the attack?”
“That doesn’t bother me.”
“She’ll retaliate.”
“Also a given,” Marla agreed. “Our job is to find a way to see that whatever Alija does, it discredits her, rather than bolsters her cause.”
Kalan stood up and walked to the window to look down over the garden. “She couldn’t have picked a worse time. We’re about to be invaded. How are we going to get the troops belonging to the provinces under the Sorcerers’ Collective control to the border if Alija’s out for vengeance? Then there’s the risk she’ll see this as an opportunity to finally be rid of Damin. If he’s killed in battle, she can hardly be blamed for it.”
“Unless his death is a direct result of her failure to send the troops Hythria needs to defend itself,” Marla pointed out. “But you’re right, of course. We need the Collective supporting the throne, not actively working against it. Which brings up another issue. What do you think of Damin’s plan?”
Kalan glanced over her shoulder at her mother. “The one that has him leading our armies to war or the one that lowers the age of majority?”
“Both.”
She shrugged and sat down on the window seat. “The first one’s easy, Mother. Damin’s trained for this all his life. He’ll make a fine general.”
“And reducing the age of majority?”
“That’s the one that really surprises me,” Kalan admitted. “I never thought my brother smart enough to come up with an idea like that on his own. But then, as Wrayan pointed out to me last night, I’m compiling a fairly impressive list of people I’ve misjudged lately.”
“From what Wrayan tells me, your brother comported himself with remarkable restraint after Leila died.”
Kalan seemed amused at the assessment. “Remarkable is a good word. The man who was bossing everybody around in Krakandar wasn’t the Damin I know.”
“Then I’ll speak to Lernen about it. Hopefully, there won’t be a problem getting him to agree to either suggestion.”
“Do you think he’ll object?” Kalan asked in surprise. “I was under the impression Uncle Lernen signed anything you put in front of him.”
“Ah, the good old days,” Marla sighed wistfully, leaning back in her chair. “Your uncle is a sick man, Kalan. The gods alone know how he avoided falling victim to the plague. But along with the sores and infections he suffers comes a level of paranoia that is truly frightening to behold.”
“What do you mean? Is he insane?”
“That’s something I’ve been trying to decide for twenty-five years.” Marla shrugged. “This is more like unreasonable fear. He thinks everyone’s out to get him.”
Kalan chuckled softly. “Well, if you think about it, Mother, he’s not that far off the mark. A lot of people are out to get him.”
Marla frowned. “I’d probably find humour in the situation too, if his delusions didn’t include even me, on occasion.”
Kalan rose to her feet. “Did you want me to come along? Maybe, if I was there to support you … ?”
Marla shook her head. “If he’s in one of his moods, it will just convince him we’re ganging up on him. No, I’ll speak to him and we’ll get Damin the command he needs. And the authority to use it. After that, we’ll just have to leave the fate of Hythria in your brother’s hands for a while, because you and I, Kalan, will be too busy destroying Alija Eaglespike to worry about it.”
When Marla arrived at the palace the following day, Corian Burl was waiting for her. The old chamberlain bowed as deeply as his weary bones would allow and smiled at the princess as she entered the palace. “You’re early today, your highness.”
“I wanted to see my brother before he gets too engrossed in his latest entertainment,” Marla explained as she walked across the tiled great hall toward her office with the chamberlain at her side. “What is he currently occupied with? Or would I be better off not knowing?”
The old man shrugged. “Surprisingly, his highness’s amusements have been quite dull of late, madam. He has decided the garden on the roof of the west wing contains too many advantageous places of concealment for assassins. He actually hasn’t left his room for the past three days. He informs me he’s officially in hiding.”
Marla sighed. “Perhaps I should go and speak to him first.”
“That might be a good idea, your highness. He’s been asking where you are.”
Marla turned for the stairs, wondering what sort of mood she’d find her brother in. The news he’d been hiding from assassins for the past three days wasn’t good. It meant he was probably in the full throes of a paranoia attack, which, if it was bad enough, might mean he feared his only sister had turned on him as well. If that was the case, Marla knew she would get nothing useful done until he was over it.
When she arrived outside the magnificent doors of the High Prince’s suite with its gilded wolf’s head escutcheon, she hesitated, took a deep breath, and then motioned the guards on duty to admit her. The soldiers did so without question. Inside, the suite was dark, the heavy drapes drawn and the candles extinguished. When the guards closed the doors behind her she could hardly see anything at all.
“Lernen?”
There was no answer. The rooms smelled musty. In Greenharbour’s humid climate, it was never a good idea to seal rooms up like this. They needed fresh air and light or, before you knew it, there were things growing off the walls. She walked to the window and threw back the drapes before opening the windows to let in some air.
“Lernen? It’s me, Marla!”
“Are you alone?”
She looked around, wondering where he was hiding.
“Yes, dearest. I’m alone.”
“They’re gone then?” the disembodied voice asked fearfully.
“Who?” she asked, walking toward the sofa.
“The assassins the Patriots sent after me. Are they gone?”
“There’s nobody in the palace who looks anything like an assassin,” she assured him. Marla knelt on the seat of the sofa and looked over the back. Hythria’s High Prince was curled into a foetal position on the floor behind the couch. “They’re all gone, Lernen. You can come out now.”
Hesitantly, her brother pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and looked up at her. “Are you sure?”
“I made it here alive,” Marla pointed out.
That seemed to satisfy the old man. He climbed painfully to his feet. “You’re very brave to roam the halls of the palace alone, Marla. They’re everywhere, you know.”
She patted his arm reassuringly. “I’ve had Corian Burl order a sweep of the palace. They’ll find any assassins lurking around and have them killed.”
“Bah!” he spat. “Corian Burl is probably one of them.”
“Then I’ll have him killed too,” she promised. “Come sit by me, dearest. We need to talk.”
Lernen walked around the sofa and took a seat beside her. He wore only a thin loose shirt that he obviously hadn’t changed in days, his spindly legs bare and grubby underneath it. When he got like this, even the slave boys he normally surrounded himself with were banished from his presence. Because of that, he hadn’t bathed for some time, either, she guessed, steeling herself against the smell of his unwashed body. The High Prince of Hythria was apparently incapable of taking a bath without a score of attendants to help him.
Lernen sat himself down beside her. “Have you news for me?” he asked hopefully. “Good news?”
Marla wasn’t sure what her brother considered good news, but it certainly wasn’t what she’d come to deliver. She shook her head. “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. I bring the saddest news of all. Leila Damaran is dead.”
“Little Leila?” Lernen gasped. “Mahkas Damaran’s girl? She’s quite the sweetest creature I ever met. Was it Patriot assassins?”
“She took her own life when her father wouldn’t let her marry the man she loved.”
“Why, that’s appalling!” the High Prince declared. “Did you want me to order Mahkas killed?” He leant forward and added in a low voice, “I can do that, you know. I’m the High Prince.”
Marla nodded solemnly. “I think Damin would like to take care of it himself.”
At the mention of his heir, Lernen smiled proudly. “He’d do it, too, that boy. Will he kill him very slowly, do you think?”
“He can’t afford to, Lernen. If Mahkas dies before Damin comes of age, then Krakandar Province will fall under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective and that would mean handing it to the Patriots. Of course … if he was of age already …”
“Then we must do something!” Lernen insisted, his fear of the Patriots apparently the order of the day. Tomorrow he might be frightened just as easily by a teapot. “We can’t let something like this go unavenged.”
“I couldn’t agree more, brother, but unless you did something like lowering the age of majority to twenty-five so if Mahkas dies, Damin can inherit Krakandar immediately,” she sighed mournfully, “I don’t see how we can risk doing anything at all.”
He looked at her curiously. “Lower the age of majority? Can I do that?”
“You
are
the High Prince,” she reminded him.
He slapped the sofa cushions determinedly. “Then we’ll have to lower the age of majority, by the gods! Damin must be free to take vengeance! Leila’s death deserves nothing less.”
“I’m so glad you thought of doing such a brave thing, Lernen,” Marla told him, squeezing his hand affectionately. “I’d never have come up with such an inspired solution on my own. And I promise, Damin won’t—”
“Damin won’t what?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.