W
ith only himself to worry about and the furthest distance to travel, Adham Tirstone was able to get away from Byamor and head straight for the pass at Highcastle to see what he could learn about Fardohnya’s troop movements with little or no fuss. Getting Rorin dispatched from Cabradell to investigate Winternest for the same reason proved much more problematic. Not only did Damin have to contend with the dilemma of what to do with Kendra Warhaft while Rorin was gone, Terin Lionsclaw had decided the Widowmaker was
his
pass and Winternest was
his
fortress, and if anybody was going to find out what was happening over the border, then it ought to be Sunrise Province’s Warlord.
“You can’t let him come, Damin!” Rorin begged, when Terin made his announcement. “Please!”
The Warlord was hugely offended by the young sorcerer’s reaction to his suggestion he should be in charge of the intelligence-gathering mission. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
Rorin ignored him. “Spying on the Fardohnyans requires subtlety, Damin, not a bloody military parade.”
Damin was inclined to agree. But Terin’s suggestion had one undeniable advantage. It meant he’d be rid of Tejay’s husband for a couple of weeks at least, maybe longer. That was almost too good an offer to refuse.
“I suppose Lord Lionsclaw could accompany you as far as Winternest,” Damin mused. “And then you could check out the actual pass and the border on your own.”
“Please, Damin,” Rorin pleaded. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying, sir,” Terin bristled.
“He’s not implying anything,” Damin said. “Rorin’s merely concerned for your safety.”
“Actually, Damin, it’s my own safety I’m worried about,” Rorin corrected. “Lord Lionsclaw can look after himself.”
“I will not be insulted in my own palace in such a manner!” Terin declared, slamming his wine glass down on the table and splashing the map beneath it.
Damin winced at his carelessness. The maps they were studying had been hand drawn in excruciating detail in the time of Terin’s grandfather, Glenadal Ravenspear. They were priceless.
“Rorin’s not insulting you, my lord,” Damin assured him. “He’s just used to working alone.”
“I demand an apology!”
“Say sorry, Rorin.”
“But Damin …”
“I said, say you’re sorry,” he repeated, warning the young sorcerer with a look.
Rorin knew what Damin’s glare meant. He backed down unhappily. “I’m sorry, Lord Lionsclaw. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“There, you see? We’re all friends again. My lord, I think it’s an excellent idea that you accompany Rorin Mariner to the border.”
“You do?” Terin asked, suddenly suspicious. “Why?”
“Because you know Winternest better than anybody else. Isn’t that what you just claimed?”
“Well … yes … but …”
Damin smiled as he realised Terin’s offer hadn’t been a serious one and now he was trapped by his own posturing. “Is there a problem?”
Terin’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “My wife will have to come with me.”
“Don’t be absurd! The front lines are no place for a woman.”
“I see,” the Warlord said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You’d rather send me to the front and keep my wife here with you, eh?”
Damin shrugged. “You volunteered, my lord.”
“Do you deny you prefer my wife’s company?” Terin demanded.
Damin looked at him oddly. “To yours? Count on it.”
“That’s
not
what I mean, your highness.”
Damin gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles white, and made a great show of studying the map. “I know what you mean, my lord. And unless you want to have a discussion with me about it involving naked steel, I suggest you drop the subject.”
There was a moment of tense silence and then Terin turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. When Damin heard the door slam, he relaxed and then looked up and grinned evilly at Rorin. “Have fun.”
“I hate you for this, Damin Wolfblade. You know that, don’t you?”
“You’ll get over it.”
The sorcerer shook his head unhappily. “No, I won’t. I’ll probably have to join the Patriots and devote my life to destroying you for inflicting him on me.”
“Fine,” he said. “Just do it after you’ve found out what Hablet’s up to at Westbrook, would you?”
Rorin sighed. “How come nobody quakes in their boots when I threaten them, Damin? You seem to have it down to a fine art.”
“I think you need to rip somebody’s throat out first.”
“I’ll bear that in mind. Would you be terribly upset if I dropped Terin Lionsclaw off a cliff along the way?”
“Not personally,” Damin said. “But we still have that pesky one-dead-Warlord-away-from-Alija-having-control-of-the-Convocation problem hanging over our heads.”
“Ah well, I can dream about it, I suppose.”
Before Damin could offer Rorin his sympathy, the door opened. He looked up and found Tejay standing at the door, looking uncharacteristically nervous about something.
“Damin, can you spare me a moment?”
“Of course. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve been thinking about what Charel Hawksword said in Byamor,” she told him, walking into the office, but leaving the door open. “About Hablet knowing nothing about you other than you being Lernen’s nephew.”
“So he thinks I’m a lecherous fool with nothing other than my own pleasure on my mind. I could be accused of worse things, I suppose.”
“Such a misconception is not a bad thing, if you’re planning to trick him.”
“Assuming we
can
trick him,” Rorin said. He bowed politely to the Warlord’s wife. “Would you excuse me, Lady Lionsclaw? I have to go and write my will. I’m planning to kill myself later today, and I’d like everything to be in order.”
“Kill yourself?” Tejay asked curiously.
“His royal highness—my
former
good friend, here—is sending me to Winternest with your husband, my lady. I’m thinking suicide might achieve the same end result and be marginally less painful.”
“Keep that up and you won’t have to kill yourself, Rorin,” Damin offered. “I’ll do it for you.”
Tejay smiled sympathetically. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”
“Rorin, get out of here,” Damin ordered. “And stay out of Terin’s way. You’ve offended him enough for one day.”
Rorin bowed to Tejay. “My lady.”
She waited until Rorin had left and then turned to Damin. “I like Rorin. He’s very … sure of himself.”
“I would be too if I could throw people around the room just by wishing for it. Is something the matter?”
“I’m worried about Hablet.”
Damin’s brow furrowed. “Aren’t we all?”
“I’m serious, Damin. You can’t risk him realising your potential.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s bound to have spies in your camp. Unless you comport yourself in a manner consistent with the reputation you’re hoping to establish, Hablet will be suspicious of any tactic you employ.”
Damin leaned against the table and studied her curiously. “And how exactly do you define ‘comporting myself in a manner consistent with the reputation I’m hoping to establish’?”
“You need to take a few
court’esa
to war with you, for one thing.”
“War is no place for
court’esa.”
“I agree, but that’s the opinion of a sane and rational man.”
“And I’m supposed to be an inexperienced, lecherous fool?”
“Precisely.”
“I’ve got a bad feeling I’m not going to like where this is leading, Tejay,” Damin sighed, crossing his arms with a frown.
“But you do understand the problem.”
“I suppose.”
“Then you will accept the gift I’m going to give you without complaint.”
“Tejay …” Damin began, but she ignored him, turning to snap her fingers in the direction of the door.
At her command, three
court’esa
entered the room. In the centre of the trio was a young man with a physique that looked as if he’d been carved out of a single block of rich dark wood by a Harshini artisan hoping to depict a god. He had long dark hair threaded with tiny gold beads reaching almost to his waist and an expression of arrogant condescension. The women were of equally impressive beauty and just as disdainful. Both were dark-skinned and dark-haired and of similar statuesque proportions.
Damin looked at them in surprise and then turned to Tejay.
“Denikans?”
“This is Lyrian,” she told him, pointing to the stunning, dark-eyed young woman on the left. “And the other young woman is Barlaina.”
“And him?”
“This is Kraig.”
“I thought all Denikans died within a few months if you tried to enslave them?” Damin asked in surprise.
“Most of us do,” the man replied in a deep and surprisingly cultured voice. “So it’s a good thing we’re not actually slaves.”
Damin looked at Tejay in confusion. “Free
court’esa?
Now there’s a novel concept.”
“The
court’esa
collars are merely a disguise, Damin,” she said. “A necessary one.”
“Are you going to tell me exactly what’s going on here?”
She pointed in the direction of the cushions around the low table in the centre of the room and then looked up at the male
court’esa
. “Would you like to join us, Kraig?”
Tejay sat down as Barlaina closed the door. The man said something in his own language to his companions before taking his place beside Tejay as if he was her equal, not her slave. The two Denikan women moved to stand behind him in a manner that reminded Damin more of sentinels than servants.
As Damin joined them on the cushions around the low table, Tejay introduced them formally. “Damin Wolfblade, heir to the throne and Prince of Hythria, allow me to introduce Prince Lunar Shadow Kraig of the House of the Rising Moon, heir to the throne of Denika.”
Damin studied the Denikan in shock then looked at Tejay. “This is a joke, right?”
“Do you consider it a joke that a slave could be a prince, your highness?” Kraig asked in his deep, measured voice. He spoke without accent but carefully enunciated each word, making it clear Hythrun was not his native language. “Or is it the idea a nation as barbarous as you perceive Denika to be has any notion of what it means to be ruled by kings or princes that you find so humorous?”
Damin stared at the young man warily. “Neither, your
highness
. I was merely referring to Lady Lionsclaw’s apparent belief she could hide someone as important as the heir to the Denikan throne by disguising him as a
court’esa
and expecting me to take him to war.” He glanced up at the two women who were glaring at Damin threateningly. “Your
court’esa
, I suppose?”
“My bodyguards.”
“I see. How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been in Hythria since just after the plague began,” Kraig told him. “I came to your country in response to a request from your High Prince to negotiate a treaty between our two nations. When I got here, I discovered your people beating my people to death in the streets.”
“I imagine that put paid to the treaty negotiations.”
Tejay didn’t appreciate his attempt at levity. “Enough, Damin.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Old habits die hard. How did you finish up in Cabradell, your highness?”
“With emotions running so high—and the danger of the plague—Princess Marla thought it unwise to let us remain in Greenharbour,” the Denikan prince explained.
“By then all the Denikan ships had fled in fear of their lives. So she sent him here,” Tejay continued, “in the hope Chaine could get him over the border at Highcastle and then onto a ship bound for Denika out of Tambay’s Seat.”
“But Hablet closed the borders before you could get out of Hythria,” Damin concluded, beginning to understand the problem. “And now you’re stranded here in Cabradell. I can understand you fleeing Greenharbour, but why the disguise?”
“People believe it was the Denikans who started the plague, Damin,” Tejay reminded him. “They were ready to stone any free Denikan they found walking the streets of Greenharbour.
Court’esa,
on the other hand, are property, therefore much less obvious targets.”
“And what does Terin think of all this?”