The Lyre Thief Read online

  “We spoke to Death when we could not revive the prince, wondering if his time had truly come,” Telenara explained. “Death assured us it had not, but he is holding the High Prince’s life in trust.”

  “In trust for what?”

  “He refused to say.”

  “Make him tell you!”

  Telenara smiled at Adrina, which made her want to punch the lovely young healer, with her endless smiles, her golden skin, and her midnight-black eyes, in the face. “He did tell us one other thing that might be important.”

  “What other thing?”

  “He mentioned the demon child.”

  “R’shiel?” Adrina turned to Kalan. “But nobody has seen her in years.”

  “Not since the last treaty negotiation,” Marla reminded them. “Is Damin in any immediate danger?”

  “Not at all, your highness. He rests peacefully and will come to no harm while in Death’s care.”

  “Then I need to talk to the guard commander and ensure he’s issued the order to seal the city. Until we’ve resolved this, I’ll have to manage this crisis and find a way to keep this quiet. If the Warlords get wind of the fact that Damin is incapacitated in any way, they’ll swoop down like vultures circling a corpse.”

  Listening to Marla issuing orders, Adrina had a sudden vision of her future. The future in which Marla ruled Hythria again and she became nothing more than an irritating—if somewhat decorative—presence at court, as she had been in her father’s harem.

  Damin trusted her. Damin appreciated her intellect. Damin had been prepared to make her regent while he was in Medalon.

  And he would be furious if she let the reins of power fall back into his mother’s hands because she was too busy grieving him to object.

  “No.”

  Marla turned to Adrina in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said no.”

  “What possible reason can you have to—”

  “Because you are merely the High Prince’s mother, Marla. I am High Princess of Hythria, Damin’s wife, and he has already signed the decree giving me the regency in his absence, in anticipation of his journey to Medalon for the treaty talks. You may advise me—in fact, I welcome your wisdom—but you will not be issuing orders to anyone in Damin’s name, or mine, is that clear?”

  Marla stared at Adrina in silence for a long moment. “I am sure Damin did not sign that decree expecting a crisis like this. He would want—”

  “Adrina to act as regent,” Kalan cut in, stunning Adrina with her support. “She’s right, Mother. Damin appointed her regent, and I signed the decree off days ago. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Marla was usually quite good at keeping her anger under control, but right now, she looked ready to burst something. “I will not stand by and watch one of Hablet’s wretched daughters destroy everything I’ve worked for . . .”

  “Then you needn’t watch,” Adrina said. “We still have to renegotiate this treaty with Medalon, Karien, and Fardohnya. Someone needs to represent Hythria at the Citadel, so it might as well be you. Damin had already decided he needed your counsel, so I see no reason why you shouldn’t take his place.”

  “I am not leaving Greenharbour with my son in this condition.”

  “Actually, I think you should go, your highness,” the Raven suggested.

  Adrina was almost faint with shock at the idea of both Marla’s daughter and the head of the Assassins’ Guild siding with her.

  “Nobody asked you, Master Raven.”

  “But I’m giving my opinion nonetheless. Adrina is right. That treaty is critical to the peace and prosperity of the whole continent. And I find it highly suspicious this has happened, with Death interfering so directly and suddenly talking of the demon child, when nobody has seen R’shiel té Ortyn since the last time this same treaty was on the table.”

  “You think they’re connected?” Kalan asked.

  “I’m not a great believer in coincidences.”

  “My son is dying, Elin.”

  “Actually, your highness, he’s not dying at all,” Telenara assured her. “As I said, Death his holding his life in trust. He will come to no harm.”

  “At least not until R’shiel fails,” Adrina pointed out.

  “What do you mean?” Marla snapped.

  “Damin’s life is being held in trust against something. Doesn’t that mean if she fails, or loses the bet, or mucks up whatever the seven hells she’s gone and promised Death she’ll do, Damin may still die?”

  Marla turned to Barandaran. The Harshini healer had listened silently to their argument and offered nothing. “How does one arrange a meeting with Death?”

  “By dying, your highness.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Both the Harshini shook their heads. “What you ask is not possible.”

  “I agree,” Adrina said, filled with an unfamiliar sense of control—despite the very real possibility her entire life was, in fact, spiraling out of control and she had no way of stopping it. “We need to focus on what is possible, not what isn’t. Marla, I need you in Medalon for the treaty, although I won’t be letting the children accompany you. Until we know if this assassin was acting alone, we need to keep the children where they can be protected. Master Raven, would you see if you are able get anything further out of the assassin? If you can’t, then we’ll execute him. I don’t plan to waste the food keeping him alive. Kalan, can you find the demon child?”

  “I can try . . . but . . .”

  “Find her, then. And bring her here. If we can’t ask Death what’s going on, she’s the only other possibility.”

  “And what will you be doing,” Marla asked, “while the rest of us are running errands on your behalf, my lady regent? Choosing flower arrangements for the wedding, perhaps? Approving the menus?”

  Adrina let out a very unladylike curse she’d picked up years ago on the battlefields at Treason Keep, when she was fleeing her first husband, the crown prince of Karien. “Gods! I totally forgot about Rakaia.”

  “I’m sure your wretched father hasn’t. Or the concessions he managed to extract from my fool cousin by dangling a bit of nubile young flesh in front of him.”

  Ignoring the jibe—which was pointless, because Frederak had not agreed to a damned thing Damin hadn’t wanted him to—Adrina turned to her newest, unexpected ally for help. “My Lord Raven, can you use your guild contacts get a message to Ky on the road? Ask him to wait with Rakaia at Warrinhaven? I’d arranged for him to stop there anyway, until I’d sent word we’re ready for her to arrive. He’ll need to know why his stay is being extended.”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s settled, then.”

  “What about closing the city?”Marla asked.

  “To what purpose? It will panic the population and we don’t even know if this attack was a conspiracy or just the act of a lone madman with a song stuck in his head.”

  “I still think—”

  “We’ll meet tomorrow,” she announced, cutting Marla off. “In the council chamber straight after breakfast. We can discuss it then. In the meantime,” she added, turning to the Harshini healers, “I am going to visit my husband and sit with him for a time, while I try to figure out how I am going to tell my children that Death is holding their father’s life in trust, and I can’t promise they will ever see him alive again.”

  Without waiting for anybody to respond to that, she turned toward the bedroom door. Telenara opened it for her and she stepped through with her head held high.

  It wasn’t until the door closed behind her and she saw Damin, laid out on the bed, so perfect and so lifeless, that she gave in to the despair. She leaned against the door for a moment and then sank down to the floor, sobbing as if Damin were already dead, because she knew, whatever happened from this moment on, her life, and the lives of her children, would never be the same.

  Chapter

  23

  WARRINHAVEN WAS THE home of the baron of Cha
relle, Cam Rahan, his wife, Lady Saneyah, and their five sons under five. Adrina’s orders were to rest her sister’s entourage at Warrinhaven before finishing the journey to Greenharbour. She wasn’t only being considerate of her sister’s welfare, Kiam knew. The High Princess wanted advance warning of Rakaia’s imminent arrival. Her instructions were to send a bird when he arrived at the Warrinhaven estate, and await further instructions before undertaking the remainder of the journey to the capital.

  It was a bright spring day when they arrived, the sky a cobalt canopy dotted with fluffy white clouds, offering a spectacular backdrop to Warrinhaven’s emerald, white-fenced pastures. Cam Rahan was a portly, middle-aged man, but more importantly, a good friend of the Wolfblade family. Although Kiam had never met him formally before today, the baron knew the family well enough that he wasn’t required to explain who or what he was.

  Lady Saneyah was a different matter. An Eaglespike from Dregian Province originally, she was too polite to refuse the High Prince’s stepbrother a roof over his head—her husband would never have tolerated her turning away any member of the Wolfblade family, in any case—but she made only a token gesture of civility when they arrived and then excused herself almost immediately, claiming one of the children was ill and she was required to attend him.

  Rakaia didn’t seem to mind their hostess’s absence. In fact, she almost seemed relieved by it.

  Yet another puzzling reaction from this most puzzling of princesses.

  For perhaps the thousandth time since meeting her in Winternest, Kiam tried to figure out exactly what it was about Rakaia that intrigued him to the point where he found himself thinking of little else. It wasn’t her guileless blue eyes, or the way they lit up on the rare occasion he’d been able to make her smile. It wasn’t her lovely face, her gentle way with Broos—who’d taken to trotting beside her all day and sleeping at the entrance to her tent at night—or even the way she treated each of his men like they were her chosen companions.

  Before they’d even cleared the mountains she knew all of them by name and made a point of speaking to each one of them, every single day of their journey. Kiam didn’t doubt any one of these hardened warriors would have laid his life down for Rakaia after only a few days on the road in her company. And these were men handpicked for their tough and uncompromising natures. Men he’d been sure would not fall under the spell of a manipulative little witch raised in the viper’s nest that was the Talabar Royal Harem.

  Rakaia was either completely untouched by the taint of her upbringing, Kiam decided, or the most brilliant actress ever to draw breath.

  Either way, there was something about her that got under a man’s skin in a very short time and even he, it seemed, was not immune to it.

  Kiam wasn’t looking forward to this break at Warrinhaven. He’d made a promise to Adrina and he feared he was in danger of breaking it if he didn’t put some distance between himself and the enigma that was Rakaia of Fardohnya.

  “Our seneschal, Kratys, will show you to the rooms we have set aside for you, your highness,” Lord Rahan told the princess, once his wife had departed. “He’ll see you have everything you need.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  The baron looked surprised to be thanked as he waved another slave forward. “Your men will be accommodated in the stables, if that’s acceptable, Master Miar. Lortan will show them where they can unsaddle, and take care of their mounts.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate the relative luxury of a straw bed after three weeks on the road.” Kiam motioned to the men to follow the Warrinhaven groom. With a nod, they led their own mounts, as well as their packhorses and the mounts Kiam and Rakaia had been riding, across the checkerboard paving toward the estate’s vast stables. Rahan studied Kiam’s golden sorcerer-bred mare as it was led away with open admiration.

  “She was a gift from the High Prince,” Kiam explained, before Lord Rahan could frame the question.

  “No chance, then, I suppose, that you’re interesting in selling her?”

  “None at all, my Lord.”

  Rahan smiled, as if he’d expected Kiam’s answer, and then turned to Rakaia. “I trust you will find our humble home adequate, your highness. I would have made arrangements to provide more attendants for you, but we were expecting you to have your own.”

  They walked together up the broad, marble steps to Cam Rahan’s palatial “humble home,” overlooking a vast forecourt with a large fountain in the center of the delightful checkerboard paving. The household staff—freeborn and slave alike—awaited them like a guard of honor. Warrinhaven was a small barony, but a wealthy one. The racehorses they bred here were almost as prized—and certainly more affordable than—the sorcerer-bred mounts the royal family favored.

  “I’m sure everything will be perfectly adequate,” the princess replied graciously, although she declined to offer any explanation about why she had dispensed with her entourage back at the border. Kiam was hoping she’d say something to Lord Rahan, because he still didn’t know why she’d done that. The closest thing to a reason he’d been able to get from her was she’d been afraid they’d be homesick, but that was patently a lie. Few people cared if a slave was homesick, least of all a Fardohnyan princess.

  “Do you have a problem with Broos being in the house?”

  Kiam’s dog—traitor that he was—trotted along beside Rakaia as if he were her dog rather than his. When Rakaia stopped, Broos stopped too, sitting patiently beside her. Without thinking, she reached down and scratched him behind the ear. The dog was big enough that the princess didn’t need to bend at all to rest her hand on his head, which was perhaps why the dog had figured out this was the best place to be sitting.

  “Ah . . . ,” the baron said, eyeing the large dog warily. “If that’s what he’s used to, then of course, your dog may stay with you.”

  “Actually, he’s Kiam’s dog, not mine. He’s sort of . . . adopted me.”

  “If it’s too much trouble, he can sleep in the stable,” Kiam offered.

  Although he didn’t sound convinced, the baron shook his head and said, “No, if her highness wishes it, he’s welcome inside. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  “You are a most gracious host, my lord,” Rakaia said, looking at him with those big blue eyes that could melt granite when she smiled. “And we are imposing on you at a very inconvenient time. I do hope your son is not seriously ill.”

  “Just one of those childhood fevers youngsters are prone to, your highness. He’ll be better in a few days, I imagine.”

  “Probably just after we leave,” Kiam muttered, not really meaning for the baron to overhear. Or perhaps he did mean it. Snobbery always brought out the worst in him.

  Cam Rahan obviously did hear the remark. For a moment, he couldn’t meet Kiam’s eye. He, at least, had the good manners to be embarrassed by his wife’s transparent excuse to avoid playing hostess to a common-born assassin—even one as well connected as Kiam Miar.

  “Perhaps you would care to join me for some refreshments, once you’re settled in?” Rahan said. “I have another houseguest from Greenharbour at the moment. Lord Erlon.”

  The name meant nothing to Kiam. “I’m not acquainted with Lord Erlon.”

  “Then we shall have to change that,” the baron offered. “Lord Erlon is thinking of buying some racehorses. Perhaps you will join us this afternoon, inspecting the sale yards.”

  “I’d be honored,” he lied, unable to think of a single thing more boring than two old rich men haggling about horseflesh neither of them was competent to control.

  “Actually, you promised you would attend me this afternoon, Master Miar,” Rakaia said. “To continue my lessons in Hythrun . . . court etiquette.” They had no such arrangement. There were no lessons to continue. But she was staring straight at him, almost as if she were willing him not to object or reveal her lie.

  “So I did, your highness,” he agreed after a moment, trying to figure out what her game was. He turned to th
e baron. “Another time, perhaps, my lord.”

  “Of course. Kratys, show our guests to their rooms.”

  “Your highness, Master Miar,” the seneschal said with a bow. “If you would follow me, please.”

  Kiam fell in beside Rakaia, with Broos trotting along contentedly between them. Rakaia waited until they were out of earshot of Lord Rahan before saying in a low voice—in Fardohnyan so the seneschal, even if he heard her, would not understand what she was saying, “Sorry about that, but you looked like you needed rescuing.”

  “Thank you,” he replied in Fardohnyan in the same low, conspiratorial tone, marveling at the fact she had realized it. Either he’d been openly rude to Lord Rahan by revealing his true feelings, or this perplexing young woman could see right through him. “And you’re right. I think I would rather have spent the afternoon sticking hot needles in my eyeballs. Damin loves his racehorses, but they bore me witless.”

  “Well, you’re free to spend the afternoon with hot needles,” she said with a suddenly coy smile as they entered the cool darkness of the passage leading to the west wing, where the guest suites were apparently located. “You don’t really have to entertain me. I just said that to get you out of it.”

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness, so he couldn’t tell by looking at her if she was genuine or simply toying with him, like a cat tormenting a particularly juicy mouse.

  “I’ll offend our host if I do anything else,” he told her, knowing even as he uttered the words that he was lying again. Rahan wouldn’t care, and had probably only offered to have him accompany him and Lord Erlon as they haggled about horses out of politeness. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for the afternoon, your highness—proof positive that no good deed goes unpunished.”

  “I don’t think of it as a punishment,” she said as they almost collided with Kratys, so wrapped up were they in their whispered conversation.

  “This is your room, your highness,” Kratys said with a disapproving look at the two of them. Kiam wondered what he must be thinking, as they’d followed him, heads close together, whispering in a foreign tongue. “I will have one of the women draw you a bath so you may freshen up before dinner. Master Miar, your room is this way, at the far end of the hall.”