Alija stared at her in disbelief. The picture Marla had painted was a very believable one. But highly improbable for all that. The woman’s gall was breathtaking. “And to avoid all this, you want me to commit
suicide
?”
Marla nodded. She didn’t seem to find anything about this bizarre proposal the least bit extraordinary. “My daughter suggests you would kill yourself before you did anything to jeopardise your sons or what you believed was Cyrus’s chance at the throne. I’m gambling on that holding true for him simply hanging on to Dregian Province.”
Alija had had enough of this game. “Don’t take that tone with me, Marla Wolfblade.”
The princess looked at her innocently. “I beg your pardon?”
“That holier-than-thou attitude you’re so fond of. That noble ‘I’m only doing this for Hythria’ act you’ve played so well all these years. It doesn’t impress me. And it certainly isn’t going to drive me to suicide.”
“I thought perhaps your concern for Cyrus and Serrin might.” Marla picked up the document and folded the decree with a shrug. “Still, if you want them to remember you as a stain on the Eaglespike name, the woman who broke a once-great House out of stubbornness, rather than the woman who selflessly took her own life to spare her sons the embarrassment of her dishonour, that’s entirely up to you.”
Marla turned away, her contempt obvious.
“Wait!” Alija called, as Marla headed for the door. “How do I know you’d even keep your word?”
The princess hesitated, and then turned to face Alija. “You mean what’s to stop me standing over you while you fall on your sword, and then have Cyrus tossed out of Dregian, anyway, as soon as you’re dead?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Marla considered her answer carefully. “Actually, there’s nothing stopping me, Alija. Except for two things. One, I would give you my word, which you may or may not accept, and two, it would be stupid of me to do it. We both know the consequences of advertising how many supposedly legitimate heirs are really the spawn of favoured
court’esa.
If I no longer have to worry about you, then I’m not going to worry about your son. He can be Warlord of Dregian if he wants. But if he wants my brother’s throne he’ll have to find a way to take it himself, without any help from you or the Sorcerers’ Collective.”
Alija knew that suicide—under the right circumstances—was considered a noble, if somewhat archaic tradition in Hythria. The ultimate sacrifice to the God of War to redress a wrong and restore honour to one’s House. But if Marla Wolfblade thought she was going to win this conflict by threats of some vague accusation she couldn’t prove, then perhaps she wasn’t the clever politician Alija feared. Maybe it had been the dwarf who owned all the political acumen and now that she had lost him, Marla was floundering.
She looked down at the decree the princess was holding, as if she was actually contemplating the idea. “If I … if I did this? You’d guarantee my sons’ safety?”
“Your eldest son is a Warlord now, Alija. I don’t know I’d be able to guarantee his safety, but I could guarantee nobody would challenge his right to rule Dregian Province.”
Alija savoured the moment, watching Marla thinking she might win, and then shook her head, smiling coldly. “This is just another one of your twisted schemes to cover your brother’s incompetence. Did you really come here thinking you could make me do such a thing?”
Marla shrugged. “It was worth a try, don’t you think? And I did so want to see the look on your face when I gave you your present.”
Sheer force of will was the only thing holding back Alija’s fury. She wished for the power she’d had that day long ago, when she’d used the Harshini enhancement spell and burned out Wrayan Lightfinger’s mind. She’d have done it now to Marla, except for that damnable shield. “I think you have no idea who you’re dealing with, Marla.”
“Nor do you,” Marla replied. “But I will give you one little bit of advice. Some of what Elezaar told Tarkyn Lye really is true and some of it was a complete fabrication. I’ll leave it to you to figure out which is which.” The princess frowned, then added with concern, “Do sit down, Alija. You’re looking quite peaked. I can see myself out.”
Marla gathered up her skirts and sailed serenely from the room, leaving Alija staring after her in speechless rage. It didn’t seem possible Marla would challenge her so openly. Marla was the Queen of Avoidance. She had made a career of never rocking the boat. In Alija’s opinion, that’s all she’d ever been good for. She didn’t have the brains or the wit to deceive someone like Alija Eaglespike so completely …
And then she remembered something else Marla had said.
Did Elezaar mention that Wrayan’s actually here in Greenharbour at the moment?
That was the name of her nemesis.
Wrayan Lightfinger.
T
he temple devoted to the God of War in Cabradell was far less pretentious than the temple in Greenharbour. At this late hour it was deserted, lit only by a single candle burning on the altar at the far end of the hall. Near the doors were two tall pillars covered with spikes to allow worshippers a chance to prick a finger on their way out of the temple, leaving a blood sacrifice—however symbolic—for their god.
Brak wasn’t sure what had brought him here tonight. He certainly had no intention of offering the God of War a sacrifice. As far as he was concerned, Zegarnald was getting plenty of satisfaction from the war currently brewing between Fardohnya and Hythria. He didn’t need any of Brak’s blood spilt to add to his joy.
Maybe he missed Ollie’s company, he wondered, walking further into the temple. Piled in front of the altar were a number of dead animals, ranging from cats and dogs to a newborn kid, left by petitioners seeking more than a simple blessing from their deity. The young Fardohnyan bandit had driven Brak insane on their journey here with his credulous, wide-eyed acceptance of everything he heard, and his foolish, romantic notions about being a spy. But he’d been company of sorts and Brak hated being alone with his thoughts. Ollie kept his mind on other things and in that regard, he missed the young man sorely.
Stepping up to the altar, Brak saw that scratched on the wall, like some sort of chaotic abstract mural, were the names of generation after generation of firstborn sons offered to Zegarnald by their fathers the night of their birth. That custom, along with the Hythrun propensity to solve most of their problems by fighting about them, had a lot to do with the God of War’s fondness for these people.
The Halfbreed was intrigued by what the War God was really up to, and although he tried hard to convince himself it was none of his business, Brak knew, in his heart, that if he could do anything to foil Zegarnald’s plans, he’d probably do it. The gods didn’t often directly interfere with the mortal world. The results were never what they hoped and often catastrophic. If the God of War was meddling now, then he had a reason, and Brak would dearly like to know what it was.
So he had come here tonight, it dawned on Brak at that moment, to ask the god outright what he was up to, and be done with it.
“Zegarnald!”
Brak waited a moment and then called again.
“Zegarnald!”
“Well, well,” the god remarked, appearing before Brak in a blaze of light. “Lord Brakandaran té Cam in my temple. And without being invited. Or dragged here against his will.”
“Do you mind?” Brak complained, raising his arm and averting his eyes. Zegarnald was almost too bright to look upon, his golden armour emitting a light of its own. It wasn’t necessary. It was an affectation, Zegarnald glorying in his growing power. And gloating about it.
“What can I do for you, Brakandaran?” the god asked curiously, as he faded to a more tolerable luminescence. “Can I assume that now you have abandoned your foolish dalliance with the followers of Dacendaran, you have come to beg my forgiveness? And perhaps ask for my patronage?”
Brak lowered his arm now he no longer needed to shield his eyes, amused by the very idea. “Now why would I want
your
patronage, Zegarnald? You’re far too demanding a god for my liking. At least Dace just wants his followers to steal something. And he doesn’t ask for blood, either, even a symbolic amount.”
“If you do not seek my patronage, Brakandaran, what are you doing in my temple? Why did you summon me?”
“Maybe I just wanted to talk.”
“In seven hundred years you have never
just wanted to talk,
Brakandaran.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Zegarnald glared at him. “I have not the time to waste, while you entertain yourself with riddles at my expense. Why did you summon me?”
To ask you what the hell you’re playing at
, was Brak’s first thought, but he was too familiar with the gods to expect an answer to such a direct question. Getting anything out of a god required subtlety. “Actually, I came to congratulate you, Divine One. You may have finally arranged things so that Hablet of Fardohnya will achieve what no Fardohnyan king has ever managed to do before—reclaim Hythria and unite the two kingdoms for the first time since Greneth the Elder divided Greater Fardohnya and awarded it, and his twin sister, to Jaycon Wolfblade twelve hundred years ago.”
“Was it really so long ago?” Zegarnald asked. “It’s so hard to keep track of these things.” The god hesitated, frowning. “What do you mean, Hablet will reclaim Hythria? I’ve arranged no such thing. I expect the Hythrun to resist the Fardohnyan invasion with every man they can muster. It will be a glorious and epic struggle that will go on for years and be honoured by generations of my followers.”
“I have no doubt that was your intention,” Brak agreed. “But you messed up somewhere. Not only has Voden’s little dalliance with the plague cost you tens of thousands of believers, it devastated Hythria’s militia. They’re down to a fraction of the numbers they could muster before the epidemic. And just to make it really interesting, what’s left of your Hythrun army of desperate defenders is going to be led by that well-known disciple of mediocrity, Lernen Wolfblade. Somehow, I think Hablet might prevail a little more quickly than you planned, don’t you?”
Zegarnald was obviously confused. “Is not the Wolfblade scion leading the Hythrun forces?”
“From what I hear, it wouldn’t help your cause much if he did. He’s a regular chip off the old block, by all accounts.”
“You are mistaken, Brakandaran. I have taken some pains to ensure the Wolfblade heir is a worthy successor to the throne. And a devout follower of his god. He seemed most anxious to honour me when I spoke to him.”
Brak was shocked. “You
appeared
to Damin Wolfblade? In person?”
“I can appear to anybody I please.”
“Isn’t that crossing the line? I mean, it’s one thing to arrange circumstances to suit your agenda, Divine One, but if you start sticking your nose in too closely, won’t the other gods think they can do the same?” Brak’s brow creased in concern at the thought. “I can just imagine what Kalianah would do if she thought she had a free hand to make people fall in love on her whim. You might find your armies otherwise engaged when you sound the battle cry if the Goddess of Love had been let loose among your followers with the idea that it’s open season on your believers.”
He watched the apprehension grow on the War God’s face. Long experience had taught Brak that the easiest way to upset him was to suggest the Goddess of Love was trying to encroach on his territory.
Zegarnald shook his head in denial. “You are wrong, Brakandaran. Kalianah would not dare interfere with my war. Even she knows what is at stake here.”
“We are talking about the
same
Kalianah, aren’t we?” Brak enquired with a raised brow.
The God of War thought it over for a little longer, clearly not pleased. “Have you been speaking to her?” he demanded. “Putting ideas in her head?”
“Of course not, Divine One!” Brak assured him. “You know me. I never get involved in your business if I can avoid it.”
“So you claim.”
“So how did he take it?”
“How did who take what?” the god asked in confusion.
“The Wolfblade lad. When you appeared to him.”
“He was honoured. Naturally.”
Brak eyed the god doubtfully. “Well, you
would
think that, wouldn’t you? What did you tell him?”
“Just that I supported his endeavours.”
Brak swore under his breath. “Oh? Is
that
all?”
Zegamald drew himself up self-righteously. “I have not interfered in another god’s domain, Brakandaran,” the god insisted. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. The lad was quite moved to meet his god.”
“I’ll bet he was,” Brak agreed sourly. “So moved, he’ll probably lead every man under his command to their deaths in your honour, because he thinks you’re on his side.”
“I am not unaware of the risk. In fact, I have provided him with a mentor to ensure he puts up a decent fight. As you say, it would be a pity if the conflict ended too soon.”
Brak stared at him suspiciously. There was something else going on here, more than just the God of War playing games to bolster his disciples. “What’s the real reason for this war, Divine One?”
“I need Hythria and Fardohnya, both, ready to tackle the real enemy.”
“Who?”
“Xaphista.”
For once, Brak was stunned into silence. Of all the motives he’d imagined Zegarnald had for stirring up this conflict, the god of the Kariens was the last thing he’d have thought of.
“There will be a confrontation, Brakandaran,” the War God continued. “It will not happen for a time yet, but there
will
be a confrontation, and when it comes, the fate of every nation on this continent will hang in the balance. Already, plans to deal with the threat of Xaphista are in motion. You’ve even had a hand in them, unwittingly.”
That sounded ominous. “
I’ve
had a hand in them?”
“Indirectly,” the god agreed.
Brak wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that meant. “And how exactly is a war between Fardohnya and Hythria supposed to weaken Xaphista? If they wipe each other out, you’ve just handed the Overlord the whole continent on a platter.”
“No human has fought a proper war in more than a generation. The nations of the south have grown lax. Their devotion wavers and their warriors grow fat. To face the final battle, they will need experience.”
That Zegarnald was probably right about the Hythrun and the Fardohnyans lacking real experience in battle didn’t make his actions any easier to live with.
“There’s a name for this inconvenient state of affairs, you know,” Brak reminded him. “It’s called peace.”
“It is not
peace.”
the God of War corrected, almost choking on the word. “It is complacency.”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Zegarnald, but your timing’s a little off. Your precious, well-trained scion isn’t old enough to lead anybody anywhere. His uncle is in charge, and Hablet of Fardohnya will walk all over Lernen Wolfblade like a well-worn doormat. Between Lernen and all those fat warriors, this little war you’ve stirred up will be lucky if it lasts a month.”
The God of War didn’t appear amused. “A situation you would find to your liking, I suspect, Brakandaran,” he accused.
Brak couldn’t help himself. He smiled. “You know me, Divine One. I find the machinations of the gods an endless source of entertainment.”
“Then perhaps,” the god suggested, clearly irritated by his smirk, “I should find something else to keep you amused.”
In the blink of an eye the walls around Brak faded, replaced by tall, snow-tipped pines. A bitter chill sharpened the air and his breath frosted as he exhaled in surprise.
Below him, a white palace rested on a small island near the edge of a lake, the water reflecting the torchlit palace in its obsidian surface so perfectly it appeared as if the lake itself was on fire. Dotting the plain surrounding the lake and the nearby town were countless camp fires, stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see.
Brak knew immediately where he was. That was the Winter Palace down there and near it the city of Qorinipor. The camp fires were Hablet’s army, gathering for the invasion.
He was back in Fardohnya.