Wolfblade (17 page)

The vassals and the people of Krakandar province, however, probably weren’t rejoicing at the prospect of Daelon Krakenshield’s son stepping up to take his place.

Krakandar had been under the protection of the Sorcerers’ Collective for almost twenty-eight years. Those who remembered the last Warlord recalled a savage, brutal, hot-headed young man whose folly cost him his life. Nobody was particularly anxious to have history repeat itself when his son inherited the throne.

The Collective’s governance of Krakandar had been both benign and astute during the years they had held it in trust for its heir. Consequently, Laran had inherited a province that was in a much healthier state than the one left to him when his father was killed in a drunken duel. He was now one of the richest Warlords in Hythria.

But his good fortune had a downside and Laran knew he would need every skill he owned to secure his newly acquired lands and position. Every move he made would be watched by the other Warlords. The nature of Hythrun politics was such that instability tended to prevent any one Warlord from rising to dominance. But nearly three decades of stable rule by the Sorcerers’ Collective meant Krakandar was enjoying an unprecedented level of prosperity. Rarely had a Warlord commanded so flourishing an empire. Laran privately wondered if he would live to enjoy his birthright for long. Ronan
Dell had been murdered for the crime of simply being close to the High Prince. Some nervous Warlord would probably have him assassinated long before he could wield any sort of real power.

It was a sobering thought.

But constantly looking over your shoulder for an assassin can be a tiring thing. Laran tried to forget about it and immersed himself in the day to day running of his vast province. Like the other Warlords, Laran commanded the loyalty of seven vassals who in turn administered their own smaller estates, made up of seven boroughs each. Laran was so busy dealing with
them
, that thoughts of assassins, factions and the distant politics of Greenharbour were pushed far back in his mind.

But midwinter, two months after his arrival back in Krakandar following the Convocation in Greenharbour and the formal assumption of his inheritance, brought news which both shocked and saddened the young Warlord.

Glenadal Ravenspear, the Warlord of Sunrise Province, his mother’s fourth husband, was mortally injured in a riding accident. His uncle, Kagan Palenovar, the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, brought him the news himself, arriving unexpectedly on his golden sorcerer-bred mount with his apprentice, Wrayan Lightfinger.

Laran quickly ordered the palace into action, and then set out with just a handful of guards on the hard ride to the city of Cabradell in the southern province of Sunrise, some eight hundred miles from Krakandar, where his mother lived with Glenadal.

“Laran! Thank the gods you came so quickly.”

It had taken just under eleven days and several changes of horses to get to Cabradell. Exhausted from the forced ride, Laran took a moment to collect himself before he embraced his mother. Always a small woman, Jeryma had gained weight since he saw her last, no doubt the result of middle-aged contentment as Glenadal Ravenspear’s wife. There was a smattering of silver among the gold of her hair, too, these days. She was dressed in red, not mourning white, which Laran took as a good sign, although her expression was grim.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he told her, taking in her weary face with concern. “He still lives?”

“Barely,” she agreed. “He’s been asking for you.”

“I’ll go to him. You should get some rest.”

Jeryma smiled. “There will be time for rest soon enough, Laran. Go see your stepfather. Kagan can look after me.”

The High Arrion nodded his agreement, offering his arm to his sister. Laran spared his mother a concerned glance then strode down the walkway to Glenadal’s chamber.

The Cabradell palace was more a villa than a fortress, nestled at the foot
of the majestic Sunrise Mountains, for which the province was named. Built of white stucco with a red tiled roof, the palace sprawled over the peak of a small rise which gave it a commanding view of the city below. The air was cooler here, closer to the mountains, and the breeze that snatched at Laran’s cloak as he traversed the walkways connecting the various wings of the palace had the taste of distant snow upon it.

When he reached Glenadal’s suite, the guards on duty opened the carved doors without question, recognising Laran on sight. He stepped into the gloom and the heavy scent of lavender, which was smouldering in oil burners placed around the room. The Warlord lay on a low, exquisitely carved pallet in the centre of the dimly lit room. On her knees beside him was a girl with long fair hair and a tear-stained face. She sobbed silently as she applied a cool compress to Glenadal’s forehead, her tears staining the silk sheet covering the Warlord.

The girl looked up at the sound of the door closing. When she saw who it was she scrambled to her feet, ran to Laran and threw herself into his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” she sobbed, clinging to him.

Laran held his sister close for a few moments and let her cry, not saying anything. In truth, he wasn’t sure what to say to her, anyway. It was hard to imagine what she was going through, sitting here watching her father die. Riika was just fifteen and beginning to fulfil the promise of her mother’s beauty.

“Why don’t you go and get some rest?” he suggested gently, when her tears abated a little. “I’ll sit with him for a while.”

“No. I can’t leave him, Laran. If something happens . . .”

“Then it won’t be your fault,” he assured her. “Now go! Get some rest! You’re not going to be able to help anyone if you collapse, are you?”

She hesitated, glancing back at her father. “I really shouldn’t . . .”

“Consider it a big-brother order then.”

Riika sighed in defeat. “Promise you’ll call me if anything changes.”

“I promise.”

Riika glanced back at her father with a frown. “Maybe I should go to the temple first. I could ask Cheltaran to aid him.”

“The God of Healing will hear your prayers wherever you are, Riika,” Laran promised. “Rest is what
you
need.”

She smiled hopefully. “Maybe . . . now that you’re here . . . he might perk up a little. He’s been hanging on for so long, Laran. I can’t believe the gods could be so cruel as to take him from me now. Not after all this time.”

“Go, Riika,” Laran urged, walking her to the door, certain that was the only way she was going to leave. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was haggard. There was no telling when she’d last slept. Kissing the top of her head, he held her close for a moment then opened the door. “I’ll stay with him until you get back.”

She nodded, squinting a little as she stepped out into the light. Laran pulled the door shut before she could change her mind and walked back to the bed where his stepfather lay. Glenadal’s breathing was laboured and a drop of blood-flecked spittle rested on the corner of his mouth. As if sensing the change in the person watching over him, the old man’s eyes fluttered open. It took them a moment to focus on Laran and then he smiled.

“You’d think,” he rasped painfully, “that at my age . . . I’d have more sense than to try breaking a horse by just climbing on its back.”

“Is that what happened?” Laran asked, taking a seat on the floor beside the pallet. “Kagan said it was a riding accident.”

“He’s just being kind. Probably trying to . . . protect my reputation as a wise . . . old statesman.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Damn it, boy!” Glenadal gasped, “I’ve got a couple of infected ribs poking through my lungs! What do
you
think?”

Laran smiled. “Is there anything I can do?”

Glenadal took a couple of painful breaths before he answered. “Promise me you’ll take care of Riika.”

“You know I will.”

“And your mother. Take care of her, too.”

“Of course.”

The old Warlord closed his eyes for a moment, breathing shallowly, while he gathered his strength. Even from where Laran sat, he could smell the sickness on Glenadal’s breath. The infection that had turned a simple punctured lung into a life-threatening injury had a firm grip on the old Warlord now. When he opened his eyes again, he reached for Laran’s arm. The grip was frail, but determined.

“This . . . accident is a great opportunity for you, Laran.”

“You’re going to die on me, old man, and leave me a sister and a mother to take care of,” Laran said with a smile. “I’ve seen the way you spoil them. I’ll be bankrupt in a month.”

Glenadal smiled wanly. “It’s good you’re here, Laran. Everyone else has been tiptoeing around me . . . like I’m too stupid to know I’m dying.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you may actually survive this, you old fool?”

“I thought about it,” he said, shaking his head painfully. “But I know my time is up. I can feel it. I can feel Death sitting at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to falter.”

“And this great opportunity you speak of?”

“My death will save Hythria.”

Laran smiled at the old man fondly. “You just can’t help yourself, can you? Just have to think you’re the most important person in the world.”

“I mean it, Laran. I have no legitimate son.”

“Then whoever Riika marries—”

“No!” Glenadal gasped, gripping his arm with desperate strength. “I promised her mother . . .
your
mother, I’d never force our daughter into a marriage she didn’t want. You must swear to me you will honour that promise.”

“I swear, Glenadal,” Laran agreed doubtfully. “And it’s a noble sentiment, but realistically—”

“I have drawn up my will, Laran. I have named you as my heir.”

Laran stared at him, shocked beyond words. “But . . . but you can’t! I already hold Krakandar. The Convocation will never grant me lordship over Sunrise as well. Gods, Glenadal, that would give me control of a third of the whole damn country.”

“I know.”

“This is insane!” Laran said, shaking his head. “Who else knows about this idiotic idea?”

“Only your mother.”

“And she agreed to it?”

“As you will. When you’ve had time to think about it.”

“When did you get time to cook up this ridiculous scheme between you?”

“We didn’t
cook it up
. At least not the way you’re thinking.” He had to stop to catch his breath before continuing. “We just discussed how you were the only unmarried Warlord . . . and how, up until now, no Warlord was in a strong enough position to make an offer that could counter the Fardohnyan offer for Marla Wolfblade’s hand.” Glenadal smiled wanly. “And don’t look at me like that. I didn’t seek my deathbed deliberately. Circumstances have . . . conspired to aid us, lad. Don’t be a fool. Take the opportunity and run with it.”

“You’re denying Riika her birthright.”

“She won’t
have
a birthright if Fardohnya overruns us, Laran. Take the chance. For me. For Hythria.”

“What about Chaine?” he asked cautiously.

The Warlord shook his head. “It’s just a rumour, Laran.”

“One that’s never let up in all the time I’ve known you.”

“Still nothing more than a rumour, though. And even if I was willing to admit to such a thing, it would cause too much pain to those I love . . . to acknowledge a bastard on my deathbed. It would embarrass your mother. It would kill Riika.”

“That’s not a reason not to do the right thing by your son, Glenadal.”

“I have no legitimate son, Laran. If it will make you feel better then I give you leave to do the right thing after I’m gone. Right now, I am only concerned about Hythria.” Glenadal closed his eyes, exhausted by their discussion. He said nothing more for a time, simply lying there, his breathing laboured, clinging to life.

Laran watched him draw each painful breath, wishing his stepfather wasn’t dying, because he would dearly like to throttle the old fool.

“Glenadal,” he sighed, trying to word this as carefully as he could. The man was on his deathbed, after all; he really didn’t want to upset him. “You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a father, and I hold your opinion above all others. You know that. But in this, you’re being completely irrational. You can’t expect me to agree to it. You can’t ask it of me.”

Glenadal smiled and turned to look at him.

“And that, Laran Krakenshield,” the old Warlord mumbled through his pain, “is why it
must
be you.”

J
eryma led Kagan inside to a low couch in the main reception hall and signalled a slave for refreshment. It was a long room with an intricately patterned black-and-white tiled floor. The palace at Cabradell had changed a great deal since Jeryma first came here nearly two decades ago. Room by room she had stamped her personality on the place until it felt as if this was the way it had always been. As they sat down on the beautifully embroidered, brightly coloured silk cushions, his sister glanced at Kagan’s companion, waiting for an introduction.

“This is Wrayan Lightfinger.”

“Your apprentice?” Jeryma asked with a slightly raised brow before turning to Wrayan and offering him her hand. “I’ve heard of you, young man.”