“I’m not interrupting anything important, I hope?”
Marla looked up and stepped back out of Wrayan’s embrace, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, darling. You’ve caught me in a rare moment of weakness. Wrayan was kind enough to loan me a shoulder to cry on.”
“Well, aren’t we lucky Wrayan’s here?”
“Luckier than you know,” her mother agreed. “Shall we talk over dinner? Cadella has everything ready in the dining room. We were just waiting for you to finish your bath.”
“And to think, I was worried I might have arrived too soon for you.”
The thief looked at her strangely, but Marla didn’t seem to notice her daughter’s sarcasm. They walked through to the dining room, took their places at one end of the long banquet table and talked of inconsequential things as Cadella supervised the slaves serving the first course.
Kalan sat on her mother’s right, Wrayan on Marla’s left. She watched the two of them intently, so many things suddenly making sense to her now, the memory of her conversation with Wrayan back in the barn of that isolated farmhouse a few days ago aching like an open wound.
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Once.”
“What happened?”
“She was … is … way out of my reach.”
Kalan picked up her spoon and stared determinedly at her bowl. Of course she’s way out of his reach, she realised now. He’s a thief pining for a princess. A woman whose station in life was so far above his that it was astonishing he would even consider such a relationship possible.
And what of you, Mother? Kalan looked up and studied
her out of the corner of her eye, wondering if Marla reciprocated Wrayan’s feelings.
“Did she love you?”
“I suppose. In her own way.”
“But not enough to stay with you?”
“Things are never that simple, Kalan.”
No, Kalan mused. Things are never that simple. Marla is the High Prince’s sister. When Alija plotted to kill Damin the first time—when Kalan herself was merely a baby—it was Wrayan, she knew, who uncovered the plot and risked the wrath of the Thieves’ Guild to tell her mother of it. It was enough to make them allies, certainly, but Kalan never dreamed it might be enough to bring them even closer.
“Do you still miss her?”
“Every day of my life.”
Kalan had no reason to doubt they’d been friends before her father died. But how long had they been lovers? How long had Wrayan and her mother kept their tawdry little secret … ?
“Kalan?”
She looked up in surprise. Her soup bowl was empty and Cadella was clearing away the dishes in preparation for the next course. She didn’t recall swallowing any of it.
“Sorry, Mother. I must have been daydreaming. Did you say something?”
“This business with Leila and Starros,” Marla said sadly, obviously taken aback by the news of her niece’s suicide and Starros’s brutal torture. “I can’t believe Mahkas would do such a thing.”
“Oh, he did it, all right,” she confirmed, her own woes fading at the reminder of her cousin’s fate. “It was the worst thing I ever saw. You can’t imagine how bad it was.”
“Did nobody try to stop him?”
“Nobody could.” Kalan shrugged. “With Damin away in Medalon—”
“What was your brother doing in Medalon?”
Kalan was surprised her mother would need to ask. “Raiding cattle, of course. What else would he be doing there?”
“And your uncle approved of this?”
“I don’t think Damin left him much choice. But there was nothing to worry about. Geri Almodavar and Raek Harlen were with him.”
“Damin’s father had a whole squad of Raiders with him when he was killed raiding cattle in Medalon, too,” Marla pointed out, unimpressed, as Cadella wheeled in a small trolley with the next course. “It didn’t do him any good.”
“Damin is fine, Mother,” Kalan assured her impatiently.
“Although in hindsight,” Wrayan added, “it might have been better if he’d stayed home. Maybe then, Mahkas wouldn’t have found them …”
Marla shook her head sorrowfully, as the slaves began to lay out the main course. It was ham, boiled with figs and bay leaves, rubbed with honey, baked to golden-brown perfection in a pastry crust. Even in the midst of a plague, Marla managed to set an impressive table. The effort was lost on Kalan, however. She was too concerned with the deception that had apparently been going on under her very nose her whole life to care how inventive Marla’s kitchen slaves were.
“I can’t say I’m the least bit surprised Leila and Starros were lovers,” Marla told Wrayan, “but I’m still in shock over what you tell me about Mahkas’s reaction to it.”
“He crucifies innocent farmsteaders in Medalon whenever they dare resist him,” Kalan reminded her, feeling argumentative. “Why are you acting so surprised that he’s proved himself capable of being just as cruel to a member of his own family?”
Marla looked a little bewildered by Kalan’s question. “I’m not acting surprised, Kalan. I am surprised. Your uncle doted on Leila. His daughter meant the world to him.”
“The world he feared losing if you didn’t allow her to marry Damin,” Wrayan pointed out. “Finding her in bed with Starros was akin to slapping him in the face with a reality he didn’t want to contemplate. And he didn’t take kindly to it.”
Marla shook her head in disbelief. “But Damin must have
said something to him to dissuade him from that belief, surely? He wrote me asking permission to set Mahkas straight on the issue of their betrothal—or the lack of it—weeks ago. I sent a letter as soon as I could, stating in no uncertain terms that while I loved her like a daughter, I did not consider Leila a suitable consort for Damin.”
With the main course served, Cadella tactfully shooed the slaves out of the room, leaving them alone.
“Your letter arrived the day after Leila killed herself,” Kalan said, as she heard the door close. “Brilliant timing, Mother.”
“Kalan!” Wrayan exclaimed in surprise.
Marla was just as shocked at her daughter’s sarcasm. “You think this was my fault, somehow?”
“You could have put Leila out of her misery when we were children, Mother,” she accused. “But you’re too fond of playing politics.”
The princess shook her head in denial. “If I thought my silence might cost Leila her life someday, or harm Starros in any way, I would have shouted it from the rooftops, Kalan. You must know that.”
Kalan shrugged, picking up her fork and turning it over and over in her hand. “I don’t know what to believe any more.” Wrayan was studying her with concern. Feeling his eyes on her, she glared at him. “What?”
“What’s the matter with you, Kalan?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re spoiling for a fight.”
“What would you know?”
“Kalan!” Marla scolded, shocked by her daughter’s belligerent tone. “Wrayan’s right. What is wrong with you this evening? You sound like you’re looking for somebody to argue with you.”
“Maybe I’m just sick of all the pretence.”
“What pretence would that be?”
“Why don’t you tell me, Mother?” she suggested, rising to her feet. Kalan tossed her fork down and shoved her plate aside. “You’re the one with all the secrets.”
With that pain-filled declaration, Kalan pushed her chair back and stormed out of the dining room, unable to bear the sight of the two of them sitting there so cosily together, leaving them staring after her in surprise.
“Kalan!”
Ignoring the call, Kalan tucked her knees under her chin, and stared out into the darkness. The windows were open and she could smell the sharp salt air of the harbour, the fresh breeze blowing away the rank smell of the city. The door shook as Wrayan impatiently tried the lock and then a moment later it opened.
She turned to look at him as he stepped into the room. “Your talent is supposed to be for reading minds, not opening doors.”
He held up a small key. “I’m pretty good at getting what I want out of people, even without resorting to magic.”
Kalan scowled at him. “Cadella’s master key, I suppose?”
He shrugged. “What can I say? She likes me.”
Kalan looked back out over the small garden with its two fresh graves. “Cadella’s not the only one in this house who likes you, apparently.”
Wrayan placed the key on the small table by the door, before closing it behind him. “And just exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t need me to explain it, Wrayan.”
“I think your mother might like an explanation. You owe her an apology, too. Your behaviour at dinner was appalling.”
Kalan turned back to glare at him. “Don’t you dare lecture me on my manners!”
Wrayan crossed the room, stopping by the bed. He leaned against the bedpost and studied her curiously. “Have I done something to upset you?”
“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I’m just being childish, aren’t I? Isn’t that why you’re here? To scold me for my appalling etiquette? Do you think sleeping with my mother gives you the right to act like my father?”
Wrayan was silent. If Kalan hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was shocked by the accusation. Maybe he was shocked, but only because he believed nobody would ever learn the truth.
“I see,” he said after a time. “You thought what you saw down in the hall earlier was proof your mother and I are lovers?”
Kalan glared at him. Far from being offended or guilty, he sounded amused.
“I’m not stupid, Wrayan.”
“Up until just now, I probably would have agreed with you, Kalan.”
She was staggered by his denial. “You as good as admitted it to me!”
“If you’re talking about the conversation we had on the way to Greenharbour about whether or not I’ve ever been in love, Kalan Hawksword, I don’t believe your mother actually rated a mention.”
“You said the woman you loved was way out of your reach.”
He smiled. “And you think the only woman in the world who falls into that category is your mother? I’m truly flattered by your high opinion of me, Kalan.”
“Don’t you dare patronise me!”
“Then don’t behave like a child.”
Kalan looked away, determined not to let him see her pain. “I know what I saw, Wrayan.”
“You saw me comforting a friend, Kalan. That’s all it was. Your mother’s lost a good husband and her closest friend within weeks of each other and if you’d hung around a bit longer at dinner, you would have found out Elezaar’s parting gift to his beloved mistress was to blab every secret he knew about the Wolfblades to Alija Eaglespike’s favourite lackey, Tarkyn Lye, right before poisoning himself and dying in your mother’s arms.”
Kalan stared at him in shock. “But that’s not possible! Elezaar would never betray us!”
“This really is your night for badly misjudging people, isn’t it?”
Kalan swung her feet around and stood up from the window seat, not sure what concerned her the most, Elezaar’s betrayal or the idea she might have misread what she saw in the hall and made a complete fool of herself. “Is my mother all right?”
“Of course she’s not all right, Kalan. She’s devastated. And what’s more, she needs your help to fight Alija. If you ever get over this little jealousy tantrum you appear to be having, you might realise that.”
“I’m not jealous!” she gasped, horrified to think she’d been so transparent. Afraid he could tell what she was thinking—even if he wasn’t actually reading her mind—Kalan tried to put some distance between them but Wrayan caught her arm as she passed him and stopped her.
“Your mind is shielded, Kalan, your emotions aren’t.”
“Let go of me.”
“It would never work, you and I.”
“Because I’m too young for you, I suppose?” she asked. “Well, you’re right, Wrayan. You should probably only get involved with women your own age. So tell me. What are you planning to do when you’re two hundred years old and still look thirty? Only court two-hundred-year-old women?”
He sighed. “It’s not that simple, Kalan.”
“That excuse is starting to wear a little thin, Wrayan.”
“Then be practical,” he suggested. “Even if we ignore the inconvenient reality that I’m twice your age, despite the fact I don’t look it; even if we discount the possibility of your mother sending an assassin after me if she thought I’d laid a hand on her daughter, I can’t give you what you want, Kalan. I’m not in love with you and the cruel reality is, I’m never going to be.”
“What’s her name?” Kalan asked, pulling her arm free. Her anger was fading in light of his honesty. She hadn’t expected such candour from him.
“Shananara.”
“The Harshini princess?”
He nodded.
“Way out of your reach, eh? I guess you weren’t kidding.”
Wrayan smiled apologetically. “On the bright side, she is over two hundred years old …”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Indescribably. But it’s not just about physical beauty, Kalan.”
“You told me the Harshini may never emerge from hiding again,” she reminded him, not prepared to give up her dreams without a fight. “Certainly not in my lifetime and probably not in yours. Don’t you think it’s foolish to deny yourself any chance of happiness on the off-chance the Harshini may come back, some day?”
“You think I’m deliberately masochistic? I want to be happy as much as any man. And that’s the problem. Even if she came back tomorrow, it wouldn’t make any difference. There’s no happy-ever-after waiting for me. I’ll be lucky if she remembers my name in another ten years. Shananara is Harshini. They don’t look at the world the way you and I do. They’re not even capable of loving the way humans understand it. But they have this gift … this way of … I can’t explain it really; it’s something you can’t appreciate unless you’ve experienced it. The Harshini even have a name for it.”
“Kalianah’s curse,” Kalan said softly, beginning to understand. “It’s what happens when a mortal falls in love with a Harshini. I’ve heard of it. But Wrayan, it’s not as if we couldn’t …”
He put his finger on her lips to stop her protests. “Don’t, Kal … there’s no point.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, as the logical part of Kalan understood what he was telling her, even while her heart was shattering into a million little pieces at his touch. “So that’s it? I can’t ever love you, Kalan, so let’s just be friends?”
“Given the family you come from,” he remarked dryly, “I certainly don’t want to be your enemy.”
She sniffed back her tears and drew herself up proudly, determined to preserve what little dignity she had left. “So you’re telling me to grin and bear it? That I’m doomed to go through life suffering the pain of an unrequited love?”
Wrayan shrugged.
“Welcome to my world,” he said.