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  “She won’t suffer the way I did,” Jeryma explained. “You’re a good man. I know you won’t hurt her.”

  “Are you so sure of that?” he asked pointedly.

  She met his gaze evenly, almost defiantly. “Yes, Laran. I am.”

  “I’m twice her age.”

  “Marla is sixteen, or so close it barely matters. You are thirty. That’s merely fourteen years. In a few years, your age difference will mean nothing to either of you.”

  “What if she wants to marry someone else? And I don’t mean Hablet.”

  “Marla Wolfblade is the High Prince’s sister. She will have been raised to understand this is not her choice.”

  “Suppose I want to marry someone else?”

  “Do you?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Well, as you obviously don’t have another candidate in mind, I don’t see the point in discussing it.”

  “I will not have anything to do with your plans to overthrow the rightful High Prince of Hythria, mother.”

  “Nobody is asking you to overthrow him, Laran. I’m as staunch a Royalist as ever there was and I’m offended you would think otherwise. All I’m asking of you—all Glenadal is asking of you—is that you ensure the next High Prince of Hythria is a Hythrun, not a Fardohnyan.”

  “I could do that by joining the Patriots and backing Alija’s plan to have Barnardo overthrow Lernen.”

  “That’s not funny, Laran.”

  “Are you so certain I’m joking?” He shook his head, at a loss as to how he was going to get out of this. And wondering if he should try. Glenadal was right about one thing. This plan would ensure a suitable heir to the throne. And it would stop Alija and her cronies in their tracks. That was a more tempting reason than any other he could think of. But he still wasn’t convinced. Not completely. “The whole idea is madness. And without the backing of any other Warlord it will never work.”

  Before his mother could respond, a sudden cry echoed through the palace. It was a tormented keening that tore through Laran’s soul.

  “That’s Riika,” he said, on his feet and already halfway across the hall at a run as he spoke. Jeryma and Kagan were close on his heels as he ran towards Glenadal’s room, knowing with sick certainty that the only thing which could cause such a mournful cry was the passing of the Warlord of Sunrise Province.

  chapter 22

  H

  ighcastle was aptly named, perched atop the ragged cliffs of the southernmost coastline of Hythria. From high on the battlements, Marla watched the pounding waves surge and crash against the base of the cliff, throwing up curtains of glittering spray. The high mountains in the southern reaches of Hythria had always fascinated her. The world seemed to lose its colour here. The pristine snow from last night’s fall had settled serenely over the black trees and the entire horizon was cast in a monochrome still life. Huge pines blanketing the mountainside stood tall and proud, their heavy boughs tipped in pure white. Even the overcast sky had taken on the same shade of colourless grey that the rest of the world had assumed.

  Marla walked around the tower, hugging her fur cloak tight, lost in a morose fugue that had dogged her ever since Lernen had sent her away from Greenharbour after arranging for her to marry the Fardohnyan king. She barely spoke to anyone. Wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping. Suicide suggested itself as an option occasionally, but she wasn’t quite ready for so drastic a step. Perhaps I’ll do it on my wedding night, she thought. That would be dramatic. Not to mention tragic. And painful. And probably messy . . .

  With a mournful sigh, Marla ran a gloved hand over the ice-rimmed stonework and studied the icicles that stuck to her glove.

  “Cold enough for you?”

  She started at the sudden intrusion on her solitude. “What do you want, Fool?”

  Her court’esa shivered and stamped over to the edge, standing on tiptoe to look down with a shudder. “Lirena sent me to find you. What are you doing up here, your highness? It’s freezing!”

  “Just admiring the view,” she replied with a shrug.

  “Aren’t you cold?”

  “Yes.”

  He smiled, squaring his twisted shoulders manfully. “Well, if you can stand it, so can I.”

  Without being asked, the dwarf fell in beside her and walked with Marla as she finished her circuit of the tower. On the other side, the view stretched away into the distance over the white-capped black waves of the Bay of Mourning. A castle sat on the other arm of the bay, white and slim-spired, like a sketch of an enchanted kingdom. Its owners had built it to be as graceful and pretty as Highcastle was cumbersome and dull.

  “I wonder what’s happening in Fardohnya this morning,” Elezaar asked, easily guessing the direction of her thoughts as she studied the view.

  “You know, until now, I don’t think I ever realised how close to Fardohnya we are here.”

  “It’s not that close really,” Elezaar said. “There’s quite a few miles of impassable mountains between us and them.”

  “Couldn’t they sail across the bay?”

  “I suppose they could, but it wouldn’t do them much good. There’s nowhere to land down there. Does that place have a name?”

  “Tambay’s Seat they call it.”

  “Ah,” the slave replied, as if the name held some meaning for him.

  “Who is Tambay?”

  Elezaar knitted his brows as he looked up at his mistress. “Not is. Was. He was only one of the three most famous figures in both Hythrun and Fardohnyan history. Don’t they teach you princesses anything?”

  Marla shrugged. “They might have, but I probably wasn’t listening. I never put much store in lessons.”

  Elezaar shook his head. “A woman who can’t read or write would hide in shame in my profession.”

  “But noblewomen don’t need an education,” Marla pointed out petulantly. “Noblewomen are for looking decorative and making babies. I don’t know why the gods even bothered giving us a brain. I mean, it’s not as if we ever get to use it.”

  “Ah, so that’s what’s eating you up.”

  Marla turned her back on the view and leaned against the chilly wall, hugging her arms close to her body. “It’s not fair! Lernen sent me back here simply to shut me up. And to learn how to be a good wife to . . . that . . . that Fardohnyan brute! Well, it won’t work!”

  “Hence the reason you have yet to call on my services. Or Corin’s. Your highness, may I offer you a small piece of advice?”

  “Why not? I’m just as much a slave to my brother’s whims as you are.”

  “Then learn from a slave. Open defiance is rarely profitable unless you can back it up with force. You have no force, therefore your defiance does nothing but alert others to your discontent.”

  “I don’t care if Lernen learns of my discontent! I want him to know about it!”

  “You might find your cause better served by working in the shadows rather than the light, my lady.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t we go down to a nice warm fire? Perhaps I can educate you over a cup of mulled wine.”

  She stared at the slave suspiciously. His head was far too large for the body it rested on. “Why do you keep following me around, offering to help me?”

  “Because I have no more desire to go to Fardohnya than you, your highness.”

  She glared at the court’esa. “Well, if you want to do something useful, little man, find a way to prevent it.”

  “You are a princess, your highness, and, in your own way, just as much a chattel as I am. What separates us is the price they demand for our services. I may not be able to stop your wedding, but, if you let me, I can show you how to play the game so that you gain some measure of control over your life. You have a great deal of power at your fingertips.”

  “If I had any power, Fool, I wouldn’t have to marry Hablet.”

  “You have power, your highness,” Elezaar corrected. “Your son will be the heir to the High Prin
ce’s crown. Have you thought of that?”

  Marla couldn’t believe she was having such a discussion with a slave. She ought to call for a guard. Have the Fool disciplined for talking out of turn. But there was a ring of truth in the voice of the hideously deformed court’esa. She found herself unable to deny it. “Don’t be ridiculous! Lernen’s son will be High Prince, not mine.”

  “Your brother will never father a child, my lady,” Elezaar warned. “The only children to get close to him will be the ones he takes to his bed.”

  “Don’t you dare repeat that heinous nonsense!”

  “Why not?” he asked with a shrug. “It’s the truth. Every slave in Green-harbour can relate a story or two about your brother and the slaves he amuses himself with. Few of them have a happy ending.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “Are you so blind, your highness, to think that a man cannot be so base?” the dwarf asked. “Or is it because he’s your brother that you find the truth so hard to stomach?”

  “You have a nerve, slave, to speak to me so.”

  “I live to serve, your highness, and I can do you no better service than make you see the truth. The whole of Hythria knows your brother is concerned only with his own pleasure. He cares nothing for the lives he destroys in the process. And that includes your life.”

  “Even if it’s true, I still don’t see how it makes me powerful.”

  Elezaar smiled. “Then it will be my honour to instruct you, my lady. You have need of friends, I think.”

  Marla shook her head, puzzled by the dwarf’s comment. “I have plenty of friends.”

  “You have no friends, your highness,” Elezaar warned. “You have family who see you only as a tool in their political ambitions. Everyone else around you is either a slave or paid to be with you. Even Lirena, whom you trust implicitly, is the servant of your brother, not you. There is not a soul in your company you can rely on.” The Fool hesitated for a moment, then added carefully. “Except me.”

  “Except you?” she scoffed, wounded by his words, the more so because she realised they were true. “Why should I rely on you?”

  “Because you are the first master or mistress I have ever had who doesn’t treat me like a circus animal, your highness. I wish, with all my heart, to stay in your company. For that, I would do anything to ensure you are free to keep me around.”

  “I haven’t done anything but ignore you, Fool.”

  “When being the centre of attention means torment, my lady, being ignored can be a gift more valuable than freedom.”

  “What about Corin?”

  The dwarf hesitated before he answered. “Use Corin for his intended purpose, your highness. He’s very good at what he does. Make him teach you everything he knows. But don’t get attached to him.”

  “Are you saying I shouldn’t trust him?”

  “I’m saying he was a gift, your highness, from the woman who belongs to the faction trying to engineer your brother’s downfall. It would pay to be cautious around him.”

  “How do I know you’re not a spy?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Then I shouldn’t trust you either.”

  The dwarf nodded approvingly. “That is the Fourth Rule of Gaining and Wielding Power, your highness. Trust no one.”

  “The Fourth Rule?” Marla stamped her feet against the cold. “What are you babbling about? I swear you’ve more cheek than any slave I’ve ever met. I should have you whipped.”

  “You’d not be the first mistress to order that, your highness,” Elezaar shrugged. “Some even did it to discipline me.”

  “And the others?”

  “Pleasure comes in many forms, your highness. Some of it is painful.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean some people—more than you might expect—find pain arousing.”

  “That’s absurd!” Marla scoffed. “Why would anybody enjoy pain?”

  “Because pain, if sustained for a sufficient length of time, can bring on a state of euphoria.”

  “You’re making that up!”

  “It’s true. I swear. Mind you, it’s not a sport for amateurs. It is a precarious game finding the pain threshold that triggers the euphoria, but for those who hunger for the feeling, well worth the effort.”

  “I can’t imagine ever wanting to inflict pain on somebody I love.”

  “What makes you think arousal has anything to do with love, your highness? You don’t love King Hablet.” Suddenly, the dwarf smiled. “In fact, one can, without using too much imagination, see your highness gaining a great deal of pleasure from inflicting pain upon her new husband.”

  Marla laughed delightedly. “You are a wicked little man, Fool.”

  “But I’m your wicked little man, your highness,” he reminded her with a courtly—albeit awkward—bow.

  “What else can you teach me?”

  “Anything you want to know. I can teach you about love. And hate. And I can teach you the Thirty Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power.” Then he added with a cheeky grin, “Provided we do it downstairs. Near a nice warm fire.”

  “I suppose we should go in,” she agreed. “I’m just so sick of Lirena and Ninane and Aunt Lydia. They’re driving me mad.”

  “You have nothing to worry about for the next few hours, your highness. Your aunt and Lirena are currently engaged on an inventory of the pantry, and your cousin . . . well, she is easily taken care of.”

  “How?”

  “Send Corin to her.”

  “You want me to let that horse-faced bitch have my court’esa?”

  “It’s not as if you’re interested in using him, your highness.”

  “I know . . . but it’s . . . well, it’s the principle of the thing. Why should she get to enjoy him?”

  “Because it will give you power over her.”

  “How?”

  The dwarf smiled mischievously. “I promise you, Princess Marla, if you instruct him correctly, Corin will see to it that your cousin will do anything you ask of her in the future, if the reward is the promise of another visit from—what did Venira call him?—your ‘silver-tongued’ court’esa.”

  “That is a truly evil plan, Fool.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Then might I offer you my assistance, your highness? Those stairs are icy and quite treacherous.”

  Marla let the dwarf take her arm, thinking it was the first time in weeks that she hadn’t felt the gloom of depression weighing her down like a winter fog. Perhaps the Fool was right. Maybe, if she used her head instead of moping about like a lost child, she could do something about her future.

  At the very least, she might get rid of her cousin for a few hours and would not have to seek the battlements to find a few moments of peace.

  “If this works, Fool,” Marla announced as they descended the icy stairs, “I will have to find a way to reward you.”

  “You could start by calling me Elezaar,” the Fool replied.

  chapter 23

  R

  iika Ravenspear saw her father laid to rest in the Ravenspear family vault through a haze of unbelieving tears. She had never, in her short life, been forced to confront the death of a loved one; had never even contemplated the notion of living without her doting father watching over her like an indulgent guardian angel. She knew she was shamelessly spoiled; knew Glenadal and Jeryma had protected her from many of the harsh realities of life.

  And she knew, with certainty, life would never be the same again.

  Shivering in the cool wind coming off the high peaks of the Sunrise Mountains, Riika stood beside Laran, clutching her half-brother’s arm for support as her uncle, the High Arrion, beseeched the gods to watch over Glenadal’s soul. Almost the entire population of Cabradell had turned out to watch. The hillside around the family crypt was crowded with people; a silent, curious mob, come to see the ruling family in mourning and a great man laid to rest.

  La
ran glanced down at her every now and then, to see how she was holding up. Aware that she was being watched by so many people, Riika was trying very hard to be strong. She would have given much for even a fraction of her mother’s dignity. Even Darilyn’s dry-eyed composure was better than the blubbering wreck Riika had been since her father finally succumbed to the simple infection that had robbed him first of his strength and, eventually, his life.

  Riika glanced at Darilyn out of the corner of her eye. Her sister had arrived two days after Glenadal’s death, complaining endlessly about the state of the roads in the provinces and demanding to know why nobody did anything about them. For once, Riika envied Darilyn, who managed to appear both regal and suitably grief-stricken at the same time. Dressed in widow’s white, her veil embroidered with delicate gold flowers, a hand resting on each of her young sons’ shoulders, Darilyn was still making much of her own husband’s death while on a border raid into Medalon with Laran and Mahkas nearly two years ago. Darilyn enjoyed being a widow, Riika thought uncharitably. She liked the attention it got her. She liked the sympathy. And Darilyn thought she looked rather becoming dressed in white.

  Kagan finished his prayers and stood back to allow Jeryma access to Glenadal’s shrouded figure. Her mother laid the Warlord’s sword on top of the shroud, then stepped back, her lips moving silently beneath her veil in a prayer to whatever god she thought best equipped to guide her husband through the afterlife. Zegarnald probably. The God of War was a favourite of Riika’s father.

  Laran gently let go of Riika’s arm and stepped up to place her father’s dagger beside the sword, followed by her half-brother Mahkas who placed Glenadal’s favourite goblet on the funeral bier. Although three years younger than Laran, Mahkas was by far the more handsome of the brothers, a roguish charmer who relied on charisma as much as skill to get what he wanted out of life. A captain in the Krakandar army, he wore a beaten silver breastplate embossed with the kraken of his home province and a long blue cloak against the chill breeze. Mahkas had arrived only yesterday, full of apologies for being late and lamenting the fact he’d not been able to speak to Glenadal before he died.