By the time they reached Greenharbour, Kalan and Wrayan were saddle sore, weary, mightily sick of travelling, and a little surprised to find the city gates open when they arrived. The High Prince had ordered them opened only the day before, one of the sentries on the gate informed them, when they stopped to learn what news they could about the state of affairs inside Greenharbour’s walls. The plague appeared to be on the wane, the guard told them, and the High Prince was anxious to get rid of the bodies before another batch of diseases had time to incubate as a result of all those rotting cadavers lying about the city.
As they pushed through the crowded streets, they passed scores of work crews wearing rags tied across their faces against the smell, loading dead bodies in various stages of putrefaction onto wagons to be taken outside the city and disposed of in the mass graves they’d passed on the way in. Wrayan gagged at the smell, wishing they could ride faster to escape the stench of death and decay, but there was no easy way to push through the streets without trampling scores of people with stunned, grief-stricken eyes who seemed to be roaming Greenharbour without purpose or hope.
It took several hours before they reached Marla’s townhouse. When Marla’s housekeeper opened the door to them,
they were so travel-stained and weary she almost refused them entry until she realised it was her mistress’s own daughter standing on the threshold.
. “I’m so sorry, my lady,” the housekeeper gushed, standing back to let them into the foyer before dropping into a deep curtsey when she realised who it was. “I wasn’t expecting you and we’ve been having some rather strange guests of late.”
“It’s all right, Cadella. Is my mother home?”
“No, my lady. She’s at the palace. I’m expecting her back shortly, though.”
“This is Master Lightfinger,” Kalan told the slave. “Could you arrange for rooms to be made ready for us? And a bath. I doubt I’ll ever be able to wash away the stink of this city, but I’d certainly like to try.”
“Aye, it’s bad out there at the moment, my lady. Can I get you some refreshment?”
“Thank you, Cadella. We’ll take it in the hall.”
Cadella bowed again and hurried away to tend her visitors. Wrayan followed Kalan into the hall, looking around with interest. He’d only seen Marla’s private palace once before, many years ago, when Kalan was just a toddler. That was the night he arranged the introduction between Princess Marla and the Raven, the head of the Hythrun Assassins’ Guild. He’d not had time that night to study the place in detail, but he was fairly certain the room had changed.
The last time Wrayan had been here, Marla was the wife of Nash Hawksword and the decor reflected his taste as much as hers. Now it was all Marla, from the carefully placed knick-knacks on the shelves down to the scattered, multicoloured cushions that seemed to pick up every hue woven into the expensive, imported Fardohnyan rugs.
“Oh, gods! No!”
Wrayan looked around and discovered Kalan had wandered out through the tall open windows and onto the terrace and the small walled garden beyond. He hurried out after her and found her standing on the lawn, looking down at two fresh graves. He slowed as he neared them, reading the headstones curiously. One of the graves—not
surprisingly—was Ruxton Tirstone’s final resting place. The other had simply one name carved into the wooden marker. Elezaar.
“Not Elezaar, too,” he sighed, when he read it. “The plague must have taken him.”
“Not the plague, Master Lightfinger,” Cadella informed them.
They both turned to look at the housekeeper curiously. She placed the tray she was carrying on a small table by the door and stepped out onto the terrace.
“What happened, Cadella?” Kalan asked.
“Can’t say for certain, my lady.” The housekeeper shrugged. “He disappeared a few weeks ago. We’d just about given him up for dead when he came back all grubby and dishevelled, like. He walked in, sat down, talked to the princess for ten minutes or so and then keeled over. I didn’t even realise there was anything amiss until Master Rodja came by to speak to your mother about an hour later and he opened the door and found her holding the dwarf’s poor dead body, sobbing like a child.”
Kalan looked at Wrayan with concern. “Mother must be devastated. She relied on Elezaar for everything.”
“She’s not herself,” Cadella agreed. “And it doesn’t help having the Assassins’ Guild around here every five minutes, banging the door down and making a scene.”
“The Assassins’ Guild?” Wrayan asked, wondering what Marla had done to incur their wrath.
Cadella glared at him suspiciously.
“It’s all right, Cadella,” Kalan assured the slave. “Wrayan is a trusted friend.”
The slave seemed unconvinced. “I’m sure you think so, my lady, and I know it’s not really my place to say so, but perhaps this isn’t the right time to be bringing your gentlemen friends home to meet your mother.”
Kalan glanced at Wrayan, amused by the slave’s assumption he was her boyfriend. “Actually, Cadella, Wrayan is also my mother’s friend.”
“In fact, Mistress Cadella, we’ve met before,” he added,
deciding to put an end to any foolish speculation about where he fitted into the general scheme of things.
“I don’t remember you,” she said, squinting at him shortsightedly.
“It was just after Kalan’s father, Lord Hawksword, died,” he reminded her. “I was here with Princess Marla.”
She stared at him, clearly unconvinced. “You’d have been a mere boy then,” she declared, obviously judging his age at no more than thirty, which (by her calculation) would have made him only ten or twelve when Kalan’s father died. “I don’t recall seeing you before. Were you here for Lord Hawksword’s funeral?”
No, he wanted to answer, I was here to introduce your mistress to the head of the Assassins’ Guild and to put a mind shield on you and every other member of the household. But on reflection, perhaps that wasn’t such a good idea. Nor did he have the heart to tell her that her estimate of his age was off by a good fifteen years.
“There were so many people coming and going, you probably don’t remember,” he agreed. “But rest assured, I am a loyal friend of the family.”
“Tell me what’s going on with the Assassins’ Guild,” Kalan demanded of the slave. “Has someone taken a contract out on my mother?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” the housekeeper assured her. “But she seems to be doing an awful lot of business with them lately, if you take my meaning.”
“Actually, Cadella, just exactly what is your meaning?”
The slave spun around at the sound of her mistress’s voice. Marla was standing in the doorway, her expression grim. She was dressed in widow’s white, which made her seem almost ethereal.
“Your highness!” the slave gasped guiltily.
“Mother!” Kalan flew across the lawn and into her mother’s embrace.
“Might be a good time to make a strategic exit,” Wrayan suggested in a low voice to the slave. Cadella fled before she
was forced to offer any excuse for being caught gossiping about the princess’s business.
Marla let the slave go without comment, hugging Kalan tightly until she realised who else was standing by the graves. “Wrayan?”
“Your highness,” he replied with a bow. “It’s good to see you well.”
“What, in the name of all the Primal Gods, are you doing in Greenharbour?”
“It’s a long story, Mother,” Kalan said. “And a painful one. Can we clean up first? We’ve been on the road for weeks.” She glanced over her shoulder at Elezaar’s small grave. “And you’ve your own tales to tell, too, I suspect.”
Marla nodded. “We’ll meet for dinner.” Impulsively, she hugged Kalan again and added, “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you, darling. Both of you, in fact.”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” Kalan asked, eyeing her mother warily.
“We’ll talk at dinner, Kalan. In the meantime, go soak in a nice warm bath for a while. I’m sure you’ll feel better for it.”
Kalan kissed her mother’s cheek and walked inside, leaving Marla standing at the door, staring thoughtfully at Wrayan.
“Should I not have come?” he asked, curious about her silence.
“No, you couldn’t have picked a better time, actually.” The princess smiled thinly. “Do you remember once offering to kill Alija for me?”
“The offer still stands, your highness.”
“Then I’m very glad you’re here, Wrayan.”
He nodded in understanding. “You’ve finally tired of Alija?”
“I’ve finally tired of Alija,” she agreed.
“I can tell you one thing that might help bring her down.”
Wrayan was bathed and clean and sharing a wine with the
princess while they waited for Kalan to finish her ablutions. It was dark outside. Marla stood by the window, framed by the darkness. In the candlelight and her sleeveless white gown she looked even more delicate than she had when Wrayan had first seen her in the garden earlier today. She was pale, too, and she looked tired. Although Marla was unlikely to admit it, the loss of Ruxton and Elezaar, so close to one another, had obviously hit her hard.
“You know something I can use?”
“Tarkyn Lye fathered her children, not Barnardo Eaglespike.”
Marla shook her head. She seemed unsurprised. “Don’t even think about going there, Wrayan.”
He was shocked at her quiet acceptance of his news. “What do you mean, don’t even think of it? She’s trying to pass off a couple of slave’s bastards as descendants of the royal family.”
“Just as I would have sworn by every Primal God I could name that Kalan and Narvell were Laran Krakenshield’s children, had Nash Hawksword refused to claim them.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You?”
The princess smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not above swearing a false oath if it will save my family. Few women are. Just as few women are willing to take the risk of not producing an heir.”
“I’m not sure I understand what this has to do with the fact Cyrus and Serrin Eaglespike are actually the sons of Tarkyn Lye.”
“If we were to expose Alija’s deception in this matter,” Marla replied, “every noblewoman in Hythria would be suspect. Do you imagine Alija’s sons are the only children fathered by slaves? The practice is rampant. But it’s never spoken about. And for damn good reason. Expose Alija and you endanger every mother in the country, even those whose children are quite legitimately the sons and daughters of their fathers.”
“You condone her lies.”
“I condone the need for them,” Marla corrected. “And much as I’d like to bring Alija down, it won’t be that way. If I make public the news that a woman of Alija’s status bore her court’esa two sons and passed them off as her husband’s heirs, how many other husbands will look at their children and start to wonder if they’ve also been duped? At best, it will cause dissension in countless previously happy homes. At worst, innocent women will die. I won’t go there, Wrayan. Not even for Alija.”
“I admit, I never thought about it like that.”
“That’s because you’re a man, Wrayan. You don’t have to worry about losing your children. The law in Hythria favours fathers over mothers.”
He finished his wine and walked to the small table near the window where Marla was standing, to help himself to a refill. “You always manage to make being a woman in Hythria sound something akin to one of the seven hells.”
“Try it sometime,” she suggested grimly. “You might be surprised.”
Wrayan turned to the princess and looked at her curiously. “Are you all right, your highness?”
“Are you reading my mind, Wrayan?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not the clever actress I thought I was.” She handed him her glass for a refill. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lost. You can’t know what it meant to lose Elezaar.”
“I think I can guess.”
She shook her head. “No. Unless I open my mind to you and let you see the wounds for yourself, you will never understand.” Marla’s eyes filled with unwanted tears. “She took him from me, Wrayan. And she forced him to betray me. I think that’s what I hate her for most.” She brushed away the tears impatiently. “Isn’t that odd? She stole Nash from me. She’s tried to kill Damin the gods know how many times. And yet the thing I really despise her for is that she made Elezaar fear me.”
“That’s understandable.”
Marla turned to face him, her eyes glistening. “I’ve been putting on such a brave face, pretending I don’t know what’s happened to him. Pretending it doesn’t hurt that he’s gone. Pretending I don’t care what he did …” She sniffed and wiped her eyes, squaring her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to blubber like a child. It’s just you’re the only person in Hythria I can’t lie to, Wrayan, so you’re the unfortunate recipient of my maudlin self-pity.”
“I don’t think you’re being maudlin, your highness. Or self-pitying.”
The princess shrugged, feigning indifference with little success. “He was just a slave. We highbom aren’t supposed to get emotional about our slaves. It’s unseemly.”
Because of the mind shield Wrayan couldn’t read her thoughts, but he could easily feel her pain. Her bottom lip trembled as she spoke; it was an effort for her to hold back the grief she’d been working so hard to contain. Without thinking, he held his hand out to her. Marla turned to him and let the tears flow as he took her in his arms and comforted her the same way he’d comforted Kalan after Leila died.
Wrayan let her cry on his shoulder and said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Marla Wolfblade was probably the strongest person Wrayan had ever met, and it pained him to see her suffering, but even with the ability to wield magic there was nothing Wrayan could do to ease her pain except give the princess—quite literally—a shoulder to cry on.
Marla was still sobbing quietly in his arms when Wrayan glanced up and discovered Kalan standing in the doorway, staring at them with a thunderous expression as if she’d burst into the room and discovered Wrayan and her mother doing something indecent.