When he got back to his tent, dogged by the persistent rain that hadn’t let up since the day of the battle, Damin was stunned to discover the messenger from Greenharbour was Wrayan Lightfinger. Narvell was with him and the two of them were standing either side of the brazier, talking in low voices while they dried their damp clothes. They looked up when he entered, Wrayan smiling wearily when he saw Damin.
“You look like I feel,” the thief remarked, taking in Damin’s less-than-pristine attire, as the young prince shed his dripping cloak.
“Wrayan? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been seconded from the Thieves’ Guild by your mother to act as a royal courier.”
“Why you?”
The thief shrugged. “I’d like to say it was because she trusted me, but I suspect it had more to do with the fact the
High Prince has several sorcerer-bred horses in his stables and I’m the only one she knows who can use such an animal in the manner they were bred for.”
“He got here from Greenharbour in two days,” Narvell added, obviously a little shocked at the notion himself.
“How is that possible?”
“Sorcerer-bred horses,” Wrayan repeated. “You were fostered at Izcomdar, Damin. Surely I don’t have to explain it to you?”
Damin nodded in understanding. “According to old Rogan Bearbow, they were bred by the Harshini because of their ability to link magically with their riders. He claimed a sorcerer-bred mount will go for days without foundering if he has access to the source of the Harshini power through his rider. I thought he was joking.”
“Well, now you know,” Wrayan said, reaching into his jacket for a small packet of letters which he handed to Damin. “And I come bearing gifts.”
“What’s this?” Damin asked, after tossing the string aside and breaking the seal on the first letter.
“Ah, now that one would be the decree from the new High Arrion, Bruno Sanval, advising that all appointments made by the former High Arrion, Lady Alija Eaglespike, are null and void, pending a review of every decision she made while in office. I believe it also temporarily transfers to the High Prince control of the armies of Greenharbour, Izcomdar—and probably Sunrise as well, if what Narvell tells me about Terin Lionsclaw’s fate is true—until the war is concluded and the matter of heirs can be appropriately dealt with.”
Damin read through the first letter in stunned disbelief. He was almost afraid to open the second document. “What’s the other one?”
“I believe it’s a decree your mother drafted at your request some time ago, formally lowering the age of majority to twenty-five. Given the contents of Bruno’s letter, and the fact the heirs to Greenharbour and Izcomdar are currently in the war camp, she thought it might come in handy.”
“But Lernen refused to sign it,” Narvell pointed out. “It’s no good without his signature and his seal.”
“The seal I can help you with,” Wrayan announced, producing another small packet from the pocket of his vest and handing it to Damin. “The signature you’ll have to arrange yourself.”
Damin accepted the High Prince’s seal from the thief and shook his head in wonder. “How … what happened?”
“Long story.” Wrayan shrugged. “No doubt you’ll get the full version from Kalan or your mother when you get back to Greenharbour. The short version goes something like this: Alija tricked Elezaar into thinking his brother was still alive and to save him from being tortured he told her everything he knew, right down to the colour of your mother’s undergarments, then he confessed his crime to Marla just before he killed himself out of guilt, leaving your mother with no choice but to do something about Alija. So she hired an assassin to kill Tarkyn Lye in retaliation. Then Kalan got involved—she’s a very scary young woman, your sister, by the way. Don’t ever get on her bad side. Anyway, she, and your mother, and this assassin, Galon Miar—another long story I don’t intend to get into right now—managed to manipulate Alija into confessing to thirty or forty-odd murders she’s been responsible for over the years in the presence of the Lower Arrion and the Chief Librarian of the Sorcerers’ Collective.”
Damin stared at him. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“You had to be there, Damin,” Wrayan told him.
“Where is Alija now?”
“She’s dead. She drew too much power to herself and it killed her. You’d have to be a sorcerer to fully understand what happened.”
“So what’s happening in the Sorcerers’ Collective?” Damin asked, stunned by the news.
“Poor old Bruno Sanval is losing his hair trying to figure out how he’s supposed to deal with all this. I’m sure Kalan will have a few ideas for him. She managed to manipulate
him into appointing her Lower Arrion, while she was at it. Did I mention that? I can’t imagine what Rorin’s reaction is going to be when he finds out.”
Narvell smiled at the news of his twin. “She has been threatening she’d be High Arrion since she was ten years old. Lower Arrion by the time she’s twenty-three augurs well for her ambition.”
Wrayan looked at Narvell askance. “Trust you to think that.”
Damin smiled too. Like Narvell, he admired his sister more than he worried about her. “I’m guessing Cyrus doesn’t know anything about this, yet?”
“I’ve spoken to nobody other than you and Narvell since I got here, and given my journey was magically assisted, I doubt the news has beaten me here by traditional means. Unless someone sent a message by bird from Greenharbour, then he’s probably none the wiser.”
Damin looked at his brother. “Can you get Rogan Bearbow and Conin Falconlance in here? Quietly?”
“I suppose,” Narvell replied. “Why?”
“I want to speak to them after I’ve spoken to Lernen. I shouldn’t have any trouble getting Lernen to sign the decree—he promised me as much the morning of the battle. But I want to make damned certain that when we announce the new order of things, they’re ready for it.”
“Shouldn’t you warn the Warlord of Pentamor?” Wrayan asked.
Damin shook his head. “Wherever Cyrus is, I can guarantee Toren Foxtalon will be one step behind him. We’ll break the news to him at the same time we inform Cyrus his mother is dead.”
Narvell picked up his cloak. “I’ll go find the others then.”
Damin nodded. “We’ll meet back here in an hour.”
Once Narvell had left, Damin turned to Wrayan. “I still have one problem neither your welcome news, nor these decrees, does anything to solve.”
“Are you talking about Mahkas?”
Damin smiled ruefully. “All right, I have two problems neither your welcome news, nor these decrees, does anything to solve.”
“What’s the other one?” Wrayan asked, lowering himself wearily down onto the cushions surrounding the brazier.
“Sunrise Province. Tejay just suggested I have Lernen appoint her the new Warlord.”
Wrayan held out his hands toward the coals to warm them. “Well, under the circumstances, you can’t hand the province over to the Sorcerers’ Collective, even if they were in a position to accept the guardianship. Appointing Valorian’s mother as Warlord would preserve the inheritance for her son. And she’d certainly do a better job than the previous incumbent, from what I hear.”
“But she’s a woman!”
Wrayan frowned. “Don’t ever say that in front of your mother, lad.”
“I’m not saying that’s the reason she can’t do the job,” Damin argued, exasperated that everybody assumed that about him. “I’m saying that’s the reason nobody will accept her.”
“Are you certain of that?”
“Well …” Damin hesitated as he realised he was relying entirely on his own reading of the situation. He hadn’t even put the notion to anybody else to gauge their opinion. “Actually, I don’t know for sure, but …”
“Let me ask you this, then. Do you think Tejay Lionsclaw is capable of doing the job?”
“Of course.”
“And will it secure your throne in the future to have Sunrise Province as an unswerving ally?”
“You know it would.”
“Then you have your answer, your highness.”
Damin sighed. “I love Tejay like a sister. You know that. So does she. And I think she’s a better man than half the Warlords in Hythria. But how do I get anybody to accept her, Wrayan? How would I get the Convocation to appoint her?”
“The High Prince has the discretion to appoint Warlords
as he sees fit, Damin. He did it when he appointed Terin’s father, Chaine Lionsclaw, as Warlord of Sunrise Province. So you don’t need the Convocation. All you really need to do is convince Lernen to make the ruling, which shouldn’t be too hard given he’s basking in the glow of your victory at the moment. As for the other Warlords, one of them is her own brother and you’re about to hand two formerly underage heirs their inheritance years ahead of when they were expecting it. Don’t you think—at least until the shine wears off your handsome gift—you’ll get a bit of cooperation out of them?”
Still doubtful, Damin shook his head. “Cyrus Eaglespike would never allow it. And Foxtalon will support him, just on principle.”
“Cyrus Eaglespike is going to be too busy for the foreseeable future distancing himself from his mother’s crimes. He hasn’t got the time to worry about who’s appointed Warlord of Sunrise, Damin. If anything, the next few days are going to be his most vulnerable time. If you want to do this, you’d better do it now, when—for a few days at least—all the players are aligned in your favour. There’ll never be another opportunity like this.”
“What do you think my mother would say about it?”
Wrayan smiled. “I think she’d be delighted.”
Damin frowned, still not convinced. “And what about afterwards? When things go back to normal and all the players, as you call them, aren’t aligned in my favour any longer? What happens to Tejay then?”
“If you have any doubt about her ability to handle the aftermath, Damin, then you shouldn’t even consider appointing her Warlord in the first place.”
Damin smiled suddenly. “You know she gave Cyrus a black eye for calling her a whore?”
Wrayan laughed. “And you worry about whether or not she can handle the other Warlords?”
Damin picked up his damp cloak, and glanced down at the letters Wrayan had brought him. There was something else he wanted to talk to Wrayan about, but he’d kept his own
counsel on the matter for so long now, it was surprising how hard it was to talk about it.
“Damin?” Wrayan asked curiously, sensing something was amiss.
He took a deep breath and faced the sorcerer. “If I told you I’d spoken to the God of War, would you think I’m crazy?”
“People pray to their gods all the time, Damin.”
“I wasn’t praying, Wrayan. He appeared to me.”
To Damin’s intense relief, the thief didn’t seem to doubt his word. “When was this?”
“A couple of months ago. Just after I left Krakandar.”
“What did he say to you?” Wrayan asked curiously.
“Not a great deal, in hindsight. Just a whole lot of stuff about honouring him. And that I was favoured by him.”
Wrayan studied him thoughtfully. “Then you are honoured, Damin. Zegarnald chooses his favourites carefully.”
“Do you think that’s why we won so easily?”
Wrayan shook his head. “If Zegarnald had his way, you’d be fighting for months yet. The victory is yours, Damin. Don’t belittle your achievement by thinking the gods intervened.”
That idea cheered Damin considerably. “Have you ever met him?”
The thief nodded. “A few times. When I was in Sanctuary. I’m sworn to Dacendaran, though, so he didn’t take much notice of me. Have you told anybody else about this?”
“Not a soul,” Damin assured him. “I’ve got enough problems now without everyone thinking I’m a lunatic. Or worse, that I really have been singled out by the gods. That would be enough to make enemies out of some of my best friends, I fear.”
“You’re right about that, I suspect,” Wrayan agreed. “And wise to keep your own counsel.” He reached out and gripped Damin’s shoulder reassuringly. “There’ll come a time when it doesn’t matter if people believe you’ve inherited the divine right to rule, Damin. But it isn’t now.”
“Then I’d better go talk to Lernen, I suppose. Help yourself to the wine and have someone bring you something to eat while you’re waiting. You look exhausted.”
“I will. And don’t look so worried. You’ll make the right decision, Damin. About all of this.”
He shrugged. “Well, even if I’m wrong, it’ll be a classic application of Elezaar’s Eleventh Rule.”
“Which one is that?”
“Do the unexpected,” he replied, and then he refolded the letters from Greenharbour and tucked them in his belt to protect them from the rain.
With Wrayan settled in beside the brazier, Damin ducked back under the tent flap and headed across the muddy camp to visit the High Prince thinking—divinely sanctioned or not—if he succeeded in his quest, in the next few hours the whole make-up of Hythrun society was going to be turned on its ear.