The Lyre Thief Read online

  Taking their two eldest children was a stroke of genius, too. Damin was right about it being good politics for them to be seen, but more importantly, Marla would jump at the chance to have unfettered access to her grandchildren, and probably not raise a whimper of protest about leaving Adrina alone in Greenharbour while they were gone because of it. For all that she despaired of her mother-in-law’s perpetual mistrust, Adrina knew Marla would give her life for her grandchildren and they’d learn a great deal from her along the way.

  “You’ll miss the wedding.”

  “That can’t be helped.”

  “People will wonder why.”

  “I think I’ll be forgiven if it means they don’t have to go to war.”

  “Marlie will be devastated. She’s convinced she’s going to be a wedding attendant.”

  “She’ll get to see the Citadel. I’m sure she’ll get over it.”

  “You’ll have to formally name me regent in your absence.”

  “Of course.” He was smart enough not to gloat. Ten years of some fairly epic fights had taught them both that simply conceding the point and moving on was the best way to deal with situations like this. It was more important to get the job done than to decide who was right and who was wrong.

  “When are you leaving?”

  “In about four days, if I can get everything organized.”

  She eyed him suspiciously for a moment. “Are you sure you’re not fabricating this whole thing just to get out of spending time with my sister?”

  He smiled and took her hand, drawing her closer. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  “Are you taking Rory with you?”

  “I wasn’t planning to.”

  “You should. A human magician you can trust would be useful. There might come a time when you need to emphasize your point during the negotiations, and the Harshini can be so prickly about smiting people where they stand.”

  He pulled her down onto his lap. “And this is why you’re not coming with me. Medalon is an ally, darling. Tarja is a friend. There will be no smiting of anybody.”

  He kissed her, and she let him, because even though she knew he was shamelessly trying to manipulate her, being kissed by Damin was a very pleasant way to pass the time.

  “I’m sorry,” a sharp and anything but apologetic voice remarked from the door before their kiss could escalate into making another baby on the High Prince’s desk. “Am I interrupting something important?”

  Damin broke off the kiss, but he smiled at Adrina. For a fleeting moment, they remained close, foreheads touching, in a silent, shared moment of solidarity, and then they turned to face the door, although Adrina made no move to rise from her husband’s lap. It was all part of the silent war they waged against Marla, this constant reminder that Damin loved his wife—the wife Marla had not chosen for him—and that she wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Good morning, Mother. It’s good to see you up and about so early. How’s the hip?”

  “I got a message you wanted to see me, Damin.” She made a point of not looking at Adrina.

  Damin squeezed Adrina’s hand and nodded almost imperceptibly. Adrina rose from Damin’s lap and turned to face her mother-in-law, certain Damin would back her up. “Damin and I were wondering if you’d like to join him on his journey to the Citadel for the treaty renewal negotiations,” she said. “I’m sending Jazrian and Marlie along for the experience. I thought they might benefit from your guidance.”

  Marla stared at her suspiciously as all the things Adrina had just been thinking must be churning through her mind. Damin said nothing and did nothing to hint this was anything but a joint decision. He knew what his mother was like.

  “Who will rule Hythria in your absence?” Marla asked her son.

  “Adrina, of course.”

  “Do you think that’s wise?”

  “Mother, if my wife were planning to open our borders to a Fardohnyan invasion, she might have done it long before now, don’t you think?”

  Marla didn’t like it when Damin called her out so openly. The dowager princess nodded with ill grace. “Make sure you brief Kalan before you go. Without any formal training in governance, your . . . wife . . . will need the assistance of the High Arrion while you’re away.”

  “I’m standing right here, Marla.”

  Marla looked at Adrina directly for the first time. “Oh, believe me, I know you are,” she said, and then she turned on her heel and limped from the room, her silver-topped cane tapping sharply on the tiles as if spelling out her disapproval.

  The door swung closed and Damin stood up, putting his arm around Adrina. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You don’t have to be. Did you see the look on her face when you told her I would be ruling Hythria in your absence? It was priceless.”

  Adrina had played this game for a decade. If anybody had been keeping score, she and Marla were probably about even.

  She turned to Damin and added with a hopeful smile, “Although if you think Tarja might benefit from Marla’s vast wisdom and political experience on an ongoing basis, I wouldn’t mind at all if you left her in Medalon and came home without her.”

  Chapter

  17

  CHARISEE WISHED SHE had time to grieve her sister, but she was supposed to be a princess of Fardohnya. She might lament the tragic loss of all those lives in the Widowmaker Pass, but it would have looked very strange if she gave in to her need to sob inconsolably. So she kept her tears at bay during the day, rode with her head held high, and tried to give the impression the loss of the Farmen Brothers’ caravan to a bandit attack in the Widowmaker Pass meant nothing to her at all.

  At night, however, when she was alone in the spacious silk tent Kiam Miar arranged to have erected for her each evening, after she’d eaten apart from the soldiers charged with her protection, she could retire. In the privacy of her tent, in the dull light of the coals glowing in the wrought-iron brazier, she could sob her heart out, both for the loss of her beloved Rakaia and for the stupidity of what she was attempting.

  It amazed and relieved Charisee that since announcing she was her sister nobody had thought to question her identity. It made her realize how little people were judged by who they were, rather than what they seemed to be.

  Every morning, as they headed ever downward toward the plains, the coast, and whatever fate awaited her in Greenharbour, Kiam Miar rode up beside her—Broos trotting faithfully at heel—to inquire about her welfare. As the days grew warmer and longer, he did the same thing every morning not long after they broke camp. He would ride beside her for a time, ask how she was, if there was anything with which he could assist her, and then tell her of their intended destination that day and when he planned to make camp that night. Their daily discussions were sometimes the only time she spoke to another human all day and she had come to look forward to them, and the time she spent with Kiam, rather more than she probably should.

  She wondered what Rakaia would have thought of this handsome assassin who also happened to be the High Prince’s stepbrother. She’d probably tell him off for being too familiar. And then Charisee remembered she would never be able to tell Rakaia anything, ever again. She would never be able to share her observations about Kiam—the way he smiled, the easy way he moved or the way he laughed or even the way he doted on that monster of a dog that followed him everywhere—and her eyes would fill with tears she couldn’t explain to anybody.

  Being a liar and a fraud, Charisee discovered, was a lonely occupation.

  Her grief faded as the days passed, the excitement of her new life slowly overtaking—if not completely quelling—her guilt and grief at taking advantage of Rakaia’s foolish generosity. But the loss of her sister and best friend would hit her unexpectedly at times, so she would ride in the van, her head held high, hoping nobody would notice she was crying.

  They rode about thirty miles each day, depending on the availability of campsites and feed for their mounts. Charisee thought it odd the
y camped each night when they passed a number of perfectly serviceable inns along the way. When she asked the reason, Kiam explained they’d been expecting an entire Fardohnyan royal entourage, which few rural inns could cater to, so they’d brought sufficient provisions for making their own camps. Then he’d asked if she would prefer an inn, and she’d told him she would do whatever was easiest for him, which made him look at her very oddly.

  It was only then Charisee realized her mistake.

  She was a princess of Fardohnya. A spoiled and entitled young woman who expected mountains to be moved if they got in the way of her view. She was being far too accommodating.

  So she called Kiam back and demanded they use inns from now on. Kiam nodded and smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes, and promised he would see she was accommodated in a manner befitting her status from now on.

  He didn’t speak to her for the rest of the day.

  But this morning was different. After several days of him being distant and polite and sleeping in taverns of varying quality for the last three nights they had finally reached the plains. Kiam rode up beside her about an hour after they left the tavern in the small village of Somen, Broos faithfully padding alongside him, and let his horse—a magnificent golden sorcerer-bred mare—fall into step beside her much more sedate and ordinary mount.

  “Did you sleep well, your highness?”

  Charisee nodded. “Well enough.”

  “We’ll be stopping in Warrinhaven this evening. Are you feeling better?”

  She glanced at him sideways. It was a warm day and he was riding in shirtsleeves, his jacket thrown over the back of his saddle. He had the body of an assassin, lithe, muscular, and alert, even when he seemed relaxed. She’d caught herself watching him sometimes when he rode ahead of her, wondering how he managed to look so relaxed and tense at the same time. “Why do you assume I’m not well?”

  Kiam was silent for a moment before he said anything, as if debating whether or not to answer her question. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I hear you crying yourself to sleep almost every night.”

  For a moment, Charisee didn’t know what to say. She had thought her tears were her own secret. “I do not!”

  “I’ve heard you.”

  “How could you hear me?”

  Idiot . . . deny, deny, deny . . . you’ve just admitted you were crying . . . gods . . . what do I say now . . . Sorry, sir, but I’m just a bit upset because the real Rakaia is dead and I might have saved her if I’d said something about her running away?

  “You sleep with one of the High Prince’s own guard outside your door. It keeps you safe but the cost is your privacy, I fear.” He looked at her with genuine concern. “Are you so terribly homesick, your highness?”

  Homesick. That was her excuse. Kiam had handed it to her without realizing. She nodded, fixing her gaze straight ahead, certain he knew she was lying with every breath she took. “It’s hard, being so far from home.”

  “But it’s not as if you’re gone forever. You’ll be able to see Fardohnya from Highcastle after you’re married. Perhaps your husband will take you home for a visit.”

  My husband. The old man with syphilis.

  Gods, Rakaia, what have you done to me?

  Charisee shook her head. “My father is an old man and my brother, Alaric, will take the throne when he dies in the not too distant future. Fardohnyan kings have a history of cleaning out the harem when they ascend to the throne, to ensure a clear succession. If I want to live, I can never go home.” They were Rakaia’s words—her oft-expressed fear—but they applied just as well to Charisee now.

  “Cleaning out . . . ?” Kiam asked, and then it dawned on him what she meant. “Oh . . . Gods! That’s barbaric.”

  “You think killing is barbaric?” She looked at him, not sure if he was teasing. “You’re an assassin.”

  “That doesn’t mean I don’t think killing innocent women and children in cold blood is barbaric.”

  “But it’s all right if you’re being paid to do it?”

  “Assassins don’t kill innocent people.”

  She raised a brow at that. “Just those wealthy enough to attract enemies who can afford to hire someone like you?”

  Kiam smiled. “Your highness, in my experience, anybody wealthy enough to attract enemies who can afford to hire someone like me is far, far from innocent by the time the Assassins’ Guild comes knocking at his door.”

  “You knock? How terribly civilized of you.”

  Don’t joke around with him, a little voice warned her. The more you say, the more chance you’ll say something stupid and give the game away. Don’t talk to him. Don’t kid around with him, and for pity’s sake, don’t like him . . .

  “You’d be stunned by how civilized I can be,” he chuckled, in a rare good mood Charisee couldn’t explain. “As my former stepmother is fond of telling me: Just because you kill people for a living, Ky, doesn’t mean you’re allowed to have the table manners of a goat-herder just down off the mountain after a summer on his own.”

  “Former stepmother?”

  “The Princess Marla. The one person in all of Hythria you do not want to fall afoul of.”

  Charisee had heard of Princess Marla. Everybody in the whole world had heard of Princess Marla. Her reputation was terrifying. “Is she really that scary?”

  Kiam nodded, but Charisee got the feeling he wasn’t nearly as afraid of her as he was making out. “I’d rather face a fleet of Trinity Isles pirate ships while armed with only a butter knife and a rusty spoon than cross Princess Marla.”

  “And what does she think of your profession?”

  “She’s fine with it,” Kiam said, studying her as if he couldn’t understand why she’d even ask such a question. “She was married to my father for a good number of years and he was an assassin, too, you know. In fact, they were good friends right up until he died.”

  “Then she doesn’t have a problem with assassins killing people?” Oh, for pity’s sake, stop talking . . . you sound like a pompous, self-righteous old lady . . . You should be saying something sympathetic, you heartless fiend. He just told you his father died!

  “Not so’s you’d notice . . . do you?”

  “Well . . . isn’t killing people . . . you know . . . wrong?” she asked, ignoring the stern voice of reason in her head completely.

  Kiam stared at her in puzzlement. “Seriously? Who told you that?”

  “I follow Kalianah, the Goddess of Love.” No . . . right now you’re honoring the God of Monumental Fools.

  “Assassins honor Zegarnald, the God of War,” he reminded her. “Old Zeggie doesn’t have a problem with killing at all.”

  “Old Zeggie? Assassins actually refer to their god as Old Zeggie?”

  Kiam smiled. “No . . . it’s kind of a family thing with the Wolfblades. It comes from a friend of the family who’s met Dacendaran and that’s what Dace calls him.”

  “You have a friend who has actually spoken in person to the God of Thieves?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I’ve never met anybody who’s spoken to a god before.”

  “Well, I haven’t spoken to one. Not directly. But Wrayan Lightfinger has. He’s the head of the Greenharbour Thieves’ Guild, hence the reason for his conversations with Dace. And there are any number of Harshini living at the Sorcerers’ Collective in Greenharbour these days. They talk to the gods all the time, apparently.”

  Charisee shook her head in wonder. “The dread Princess Marla? Harshini? Gods? Thieves and assassins who are friends of the High Prince’s family . . . what am I letting myself in for?”

  Yes, Charisee . . . what are you letting yourself in for?

  “Well, whatever it is,” Kiam pointed out, his smile fading, “it’s bound to be better than being butchered in a harem because your brother doesn’t want any competition.”

  Or spending your life as a slave to the rest of your family because you were born on the wrong side of the b
lanket.

  “There is that,” she agreed with a thin smile.

  “That’s better.”

  “What?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  Charisee felt her face go red, thinking, No, I’m not . . . I’m blushing . . . “You make me smile,” she replied, before she realized how that sounded and hastily corrected herself. “I mean . . . you’re making me smile. On purpose.”

  “Then my work here is done,” Kiam said with a grin, and then kicked his horse forward into a canter to catch up with the two outriders leading their party before Charisee could respond and make an even bigger fool of herself.

  Chapter

  18

  ADRINA’S TWO OLDER children, Jazrian and Marlie, were bouncing off the walls with excitement when she told them they’d be visiting Krakandar and Medalon with their father and their grandmother. The twins didn’t quite grasp what “a few months” meant, so other than a momentary flash of envy that their older siblings were going on a journey, they soon got over their disappointment and ran outside to play.

  Jaz was almost eleven now, his sister Marlie nine, going on sixteen. She was a precocious child, the inevitable result of being the daughter of Adrina of Fardohnya and Damin Wolfblade and having a grandmother like Marla.

  Jazrian, on the other hand, was much more sensitive. If Marlie charged at a task like a bull at a gate, Jaz would stop and consider the gate’s feelings before he charged anywhere. He wasn’t weak. He could hold his own in any physical challenge his tutors put before him, but he would stop and think things through before acting, sometimes to the frustration of everyone around him, and particularly to his much more impulsive sister. Adrina couldn’t imagine who he’d inherited such traits from—certainly nobody in her family. Adrina feared he took after Marla, which would make her mother-in-law even more intolerably smug if she realized Adrina saw anything of Damin’s mother in her own son.

  With the children planning their big adventure north, Adrina was heading back from the day nursery when she ran into Caden Fletcher in the wide, tiled corridor of the Greenharbour Palace.