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  “Don’t you take that uppity tone with me, missy!” the old woman retorted with a disturbing lack of respect for her mistress’s rank. “You get back to your room right now, or you’ll be making your first official public appearance with a tanned backside. You’re not so old you can’t be taken over my knee to teach you some manners, you know.”

  Marla opened her mouth to object, and then clamped it shut as a door opened along the hall and three figures emerged, deep in conversation. She turned to Lirena in a panic, pulling her pale green gown tighter around her slight figure. The men walked toward them, engrossed in their discussion. The oldest of the three had closely cropped grey hair and wore the black robes of a sorcerer. The younger men were dressed in unremarkable dark trousers, boots and plain linen shirts which meant they were probably servants, she decided, dismissing them immediately as beneath her notice.

  The older man looked up and nodded to them politely, barely diverting his attention from what his young attendant was saying. Lirena curtsied as low as her old bones would permit as they passed. Marla followed suit, hoping her graceful (and much practised) curtsey, was sufficient. The sorcerer and his companions walked on for a few steps and then stopped suddenly. The grey-haired sorcerer turned back to study Marla with a quizzical eye.

  “You’re Lernen’s sister, aren’t you?”

  “I am the High Prince’s sister,” she replied with another curtsey, and just the slightest emphasis on the “high”.

  “You look younger than I thought you would.”

  Marla swallowed down a moment of panic, wondering why this man would be thinking about her age—or anything to do with her for that matter. She smiled, hoping her expression was as sophisticated as she imagined it to be.

  “I am almost sixteen, my lord. I would hardly call that young.”

  The sorcerer studied her for a moment with dark, inscrutable eyes.

  “Almost sixteen? I do beg your pardon, your highness,” he said with a faintly mocking smile she didn’t much care for. “Are you enjoying your return to Greenharbour?”

  In truth. Marla was quite overwhelmed by her sudden and unexpected removal from the quiet mountain retreat where she’d been hidden away for the past ten years, but she wasn’t going to admit it out loud to anybody. “It is a pleasant change of pace, my lord.”

  The sorcerer smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find it even more so, once the party begins.”

  “Will I see you there, my lord?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps for a short while. Several thousand people crammed into a confined space isn’t my idea of a good time. But I’m sure Wrayan and Nash will find it entertaining.”

  Marla glanced at the young men. They were both staring at her, rather rudely in fact. The tall one was quite handsome, with thick brown hair and nice hazel eyes. In contrast to his companion, the other young man had laughing eyes and thick dark hair that Marla thought might be very nice to run her fingers through. The unexpected thought made her blush. But his smile seemed infectious and she couldn’t help but respond to it.

  “Perhaps you’ll be serving us,” she said, in a generous attempt to give the poor lads some encouragement, although they didn’t really deserve it for gawking at her like that.

  “Wrayan is my apprentice, your highness, not my servant,” the sorcerer informed her. “And this is Nashan Hawksword, son of the Warlord of Elasapine.”

  Lirena hissed softly in horror. Marla said nothing for a moment, hoping the balcony would open up and swallow her. When it refused to cooperate, she was forced to smile apologetically at the young men.

  “I’m sorry, my lords. I had no idea—”

  “There’s no need to apologise,” Wrayan assured her generously. “I’m not wearing the robes of the Collective. It’s a common enough mistake to make.”

  Common enough for country rustics who don’t know any better, she wailed silently in despair. “I hope you took no offence, my lord. I mean, I . . . I didn’t really mean to imply that . . .” I’m babbling! Oh, the gods take me now!

  “I promise, Princess Marla, neither Wrayan nor I are offended,” the Warlord’s son reassured her. He really was very handsome.

  “It’s my fault,” the older man said. “I suppose I should have introduced myself and my companions before attacking you like a Karien inquisitor. I am Kagan Palenovar, and this, as you have already discovered, is my apprentice, Wrayan Lightfinger. And this is Nash Hawksword of Elasapine. And it is I who should be apologising, your highness. It’s just I’ve heard your name mentioned a great deal recently and I always like to put a face to a name.”

  Marla stiffened with alarm. Kagan Palenovar? The High Arrion himself? Why wasn’t he wearing his diamond pendant, so she could tell? Then she noticed the silver chain around his neck, the edge of the pendant denoting his rank hidden in the folds of his black robe. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat, nervously assuming what she hoped was an air of innocence. “I can think of no circumstance that would bring my name to the attention of the Sorcerers’ Collective, sir. I trust it was in a pleasant context?”

  Kagan seemed amused by her question. “I believe the discussion had something to do with an offer for your hand, your highness. As the most recent offer came from someone in whom I have a great deal of interest, I was curious about you, that’s all. Now, if you will excuse us, I have several things to take care of before the ball begins.”

  He bowed politely and, followed by his apprentice and the young lord, turned away, heading down the long hall until they were swallowed by the gathering darkness. Marla stared at their retreating backs, numb with shock.

  “Marla! Come on, lass! You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one evening—standing here chatting to the High Arrion in your underwear.”

  “Did you hear what he said?”

  “Aye.”

  “He said he was discussing my betrothal. He said the young man in question was of great interest to him.”

  “Aye.”

  She turned to the nurse, eyes glittering with excitement. “Don’t you see, Lirena? He said the offer came from someone in whom he has a great deal of interest. Oh, by the gods, Lirena, do you think I’m going to marry a sorcerer?”

  “That’s not what he said, Marla.”

  “But what else could he mean? Wrayan is his apprentice, and sorcerers only ever take one apprentice at a time.”

  “Sorcerers don’t usually marry,” Lirena pointed out.

  “Then he must have been talking about Nashan Hawksword.” She smiled shrewdly, thinking there was an opportunity here she would be a fool to ignore. Marla was desperate not to be sent back to Highcastle. If everyone believed she was happy with the marriage her brother was negotiating on her behalf, the chances were good she would be allowed to stay in Greenharbour. A bit of enthusiasm might be prudent . . . She sighed dramatically. “His eyes, Lirena. Did you see his eyes? They were so blue . . .”

  “What I saw was a foolish girl standing in her underclothes chatting to the High Arrion like a common streetwalker,” Lirena snapped. “And if that girl doesn’t get her backside straight back to her room this minute, she won’t be getting anything other than spanked.”

  Marla tossed her head and gathered up the folds of her dressing gown, refusing to dignify Lirena’s crass threats with a reply. She turned her back on the old slave and flounced along the hall to her room.

  I’m going to marry a Warlord.

  It couldn’t have been more perfect if she’d planned it herself. She would have a townhouse here in Greenharbour, she decided, and another in Byamor, the main seat of Elasapine. In Byamor she would no doubt reside in one of the vast, magnificent palaces belonging to the Hawkswords and have countless slaves to do everything for her, court’esa to amuse her, a sorcerer-bred horse that nobody would tell her she was too inexperienced to ride, and a handsome Warlord for a husband . . .

  I’m going to marry a Warlord. I’m going to marry a Warlord.

  She would have to write to her cousin
back at Highcastle immediately. That horse-faced bitch, Ninane, would be green with envy. They didn’t let just anybody marry a Warlord. You had to be somebody and she was the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria, after all. One didn’t come much better credentialed than that. You had to be beautiful to marry, and clever, and sophisticated . . . all the things Marla hoped she was. She reached her room and ran straight to the mirror.

  Nashan Hawksword. Marla Hawksword. Lord and Lady Hawksword . . . it had such a nice ring to it.

  “Look, Lirena, already my skin is glowing with the first bloom of love!”

  “You’re red-faced from running up that damned hall,” the old woman corrected crossly as she closed the door behind them. “Now you finish getting dressed, my girl, or you won’t be goin’ nowhere.”

  Marla smiled brightly, feeling suddenly generous toward her old nurse. She’ll be able to retire, once I’m married. I’ll see she’s given a small estate and enough to live on comfortably. I may even free her if she wants it. Lernen should be able to afford it now. With his only sister married to a house as powerful as the Hawkswords, the other Warlords will give him anything he wants. I will be a grand lady, with jewels, and carriages and all the power I want . . .

  Because I am the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria and I’m going to marry a Warlord.

  chapter 3

  W

  rayan Lightfinger poured his master and the young lord of Elasapine a generous cup of wine each and crossed the sitting room of the High Arrion’s suite to hand the cups to them. Kagan was staring out of the window at the torch-lit dock, watching the guests’ barges wait their turn to tie up and disgorge their passengers. Lernen had treated everyone to a harbour cruise for the afternoon. Another extravagance he could ill afford, and probably done solely to impress his visitor from Fardohnya. The High Arrion took the cup and turned to look around his apartment. The rooms were sumptuous here in the High Prince’s palace. Every painting was a work of art, every piece of furniture crafted by a master. Kagan kept rooms here for convenience. His own palace was less than a mile away.

  “So, what did you think of the Princess Marla?” Kagan asked his young companions.

  “I think I’m in love!” Nash declared, accepting the wine from Wrayan. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “I’m not surprised Lernen’s been swamped with offers for her hand,” Wrayan answered, much more careful of his opinion than Nash. Kagan rarely asked idle questions. Until he was sure why his master wanted his opinion, he would not elaborate further. In truth, Marla Wolfblade was quite simply the most stunning creature Wrayan had ever laid eyes on. In his mind’s eye, he could still see her standing out there on the balcony in her pale green dressing gown, as if by holding it so tightly closed she was protecting her virtue. He could still clearly picture her long blonde hair, tousled and in disarray, and her large blue eyes wide with excitement. She was funny too—all puffed up with her own self-importance, which did nothing but draw attention to her innocence.

  “You think she’s gorgeous, Nash?” Kagan said, taking a sip of wine. “Now there’s an opinion you’d be wise to keep to yourself. Until she’s safely married, Lernen will treat anybody who even looks crosswise at his sister as a threat. The same goes for you, Wrayan.”

  Wrayan frowned. “He’s never treated me like a threat. For that matter, he actually made a pass at me once.”

  “Did he really?” Nash chuckled. “I thought you’d be a bit old for the High Prince’s tastes, Wrayan.”

  Kagan wasn’t nearly so amused. “You sound like a Patriot, Nash.”

  “Well, you have to admit, the Patriot Faction does have a point. Our venerable High Prince Lernen really is a disgrace to his throne.”

  “And any attempt to unseat him would be treason,” Wrayan reminded him.

  Nash looked unconcerned. “I didn’t say I supported the Patriots, necessarily. I just think they might have a point, that’s all.”

  “Well, our High Prince’s rather disturbing sexual preferences notwithstanding,” Kagan shrugged, “Marla has spent the last ten years safely out of sight at Highcastle. He’s never had a reason to feel threatened about her until now. But she’s reached a marriageable age and suddenly she’s the most valuable thing he owns.” Kagan took a good swallow from his cup and frowned. “I foresee interesting times ahead.”

  “Oh, so now you think you’re a prophet, I suppose?”

  They all turned towards the unexpected voice. Lady Tesha Zorell stood at the door, as tall and effortlessly elegant as always, her long black formal sorcerer’s robes soaking up the lamplight as she moved. Ranked second only to Kagan in the Sorcerers’ Collective, the Lower Arrion’s dark hair was arranged to perfection and she wore a look of vast disapproval.

  “Pity your newly discovered seer’s gift didn’t extend to the fate of Ronan Dell.”

  Wrayan looked at his master, wondering if Kagan had any idea what she was talking about.

  “Ronan Dell?” Kagan repeated in confusion.

  “He’s dead.”

  “When?” Nash asked in surprise.

  “Earlier today,” Tesha informed them. “The assassins took out Ronan and every slave in the household. It was a real bloodbath, by all accounts. I’ll have one of those,” she added, pointing to the wine Kagan held.

  Wrayan hurried to comply. Tesha Zorell was the second most important member of the Sorcerers’ Collective. Although not nearly as well connected as Kagan, what she lacked in family connections, she more than made up for by the sheer force of her personality. While not exactly afraid of her, neither was Wrayan anxious to incur her displeasure. He filled another cup and handed it to her with a small bow.

  “He even has manners,” Tesha remarked, as she lowered herself gracefully onto the cushions without waiting for an invitation to be seated. “He certainly didn’t learn those from you, old man. Or that slimy little pervert, Lernen Wolfblade.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes they just pick these things up of their own accord,” Kagan sighed. “I’m not sure where I went wrong.”

  “Do we know who was responsible for the assassination, my lady?”

  “I’m guessing someone in the Patriot Faction,” Tesha suggested, sipping her wine. “Lord Ronan was a close friend of Lernen’s, after all. But with all the slaves dead, there’s not much chance of proving it.”

  Nash downed his wine in a swallow and handed the empty cup back to Wrayan. “Forgive me for being rude, but I really should be attending my father. He’ll want to know about this. You will excuse me, won’t you? Lord Palenovar? Lady Tesha?”

  “Of course,” the High Arrion replied. “And please give your father my regards.” When Nash had bowed hastily and fled the room, the Lower Arrion faced the High Arrion with a suspicious frown.

  “Do I want to know why you seem to be so friendly with the only son of Charel Hawksword these days?”

  “Nash is Wrayan’s friend, Tesha. That I enjoy his company on occasion is simply a pleasant consequence of his acquaintance with my apprentice.”

  “And you still have one, I see. I’m astonished. I was certain you would have managed to dispose of him by now.”

  “He’s proving to be rather more resilient than I anticipated,” Kagan replied with a shrug. “But never fear. I’m sure I’ll manage to get rid of him, eventually.”

  “Sooner, rather than later, I imagine,” she said with a frown. Tesha sipped her wine and studied the High Arrion thoughtfully. “This is starting to get out of hand, Kagan.”

  “And what do you expect me to do about it?”

  “The factions are resorting to assassination to resolve their differences. You’re the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective. Don’t you think some of the responsibility is yours?”

  “I haven’t been idle, Tesha.”

  “Yes . . . I hear you’ve been meeting with Hablet of Fardohnya and the prince.”

  “High Prince,” Kagan corrected, in a fair imitation of Marla. Wrayan was certain Tesha ha
d no idea Kagan was mocking her.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t try my patience, old man. What happened?”

  “Hablet made an offer for Marla,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s no great secret, my dear. The Fardohnyans want to stitch up the hole in the royal line they lost when Hythria first separated from Fardohnya twelve hundred years ago. Our venerable High Prince of Hythria, on the other hand, is flat broke, terrified of his own Warlords, under threat from a pretender who’s backed by an entire faction who opposes him—to the point where they’re openly murdering his friends—and he has no real desire to govern his country, particularly if it’s at war with his neighbour.”

  “Then Lernen will accept the offer?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Tesha took another thoughtful sip of wine. “Our influence in Fardohnya has been eroded considerably since Hablet took the throne. Perhaps you could arrange the release of those members of our order he imprisoned when he was crowned King.”

  “Well, don’t get too excited just yet. In his moments of sobriety, even Lernen can see the danger in the idea of his sister becoming queen of a neighbouring country that’s just as likely to turn on him without warning.”

  “Traditionally, the King of Fardohnya has no queen.”

  “Up ’til now.”

  “This could be the start of something very promising,” Tesha decided. “You’ve done well, Kagan.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the gods Lernen has a sister of marriageable age. There won’t be any deals without that.”

  “Then you had best see she remains safe, hadn’t you?”

  “I’ll keep Marla safe and sound,” he promised. “Just you make sure you keep an eye on the Warlords. And your dangerous little protégé, Alija Eaglespike.”

  “Are you implying Alija might have had something to do with the attack on Ronan Dell?”

  “I’m not implying anything, Tesha; I’m saying it outright.”

  Tesha shook her head. “You’re wrong.”