Wolfblade (64 page)

She
was
feeling distraught, but not for the reasons Mahkas imagined. “I’ll get by. We Wolfblades are hardier than we look.”

Marla could see him battling to contain his emotions.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For asking me to be your son’s regent.”

“You are the only one I would consider for the job, Mahkas.”

“I know. It’s just sometimes . . . well, I don’t think Laran ever truly saw me as anything other than his little brother.”

“I chose you because you’re the only one I can truly count on.”

He nodded, and lifted her hand to his lips. “And you
can
count on me, Marla. I promise.”

Thinking back over the conversation, Marla wondered if Mahkas’s determination to take on the mantle of regent was his way of compensating for the guilt he felt for letting Laran die. And it was obvious he believed it was his fault. When he was telling them about it earlier, he’d kept on saying,
if only I’d been faster, if only I’d turned around sooner, if only I’d advised Laran to wait a little longer
. . .

Poor Mahkas
. To be burdened with such guilt must be appalling.

Almost as bad as the guilt Marla was trying to deal with.

“Deep in thought?”

Marla jumped with fright at the unexpected voice and turned to find Nash standing behind her. He held out his arms to her, but she pushed him away, aghast.

“How did you get in here?”

“I told you this morning. Through the slaveways. The one in this room comes out behind the mirrored panel in your dressing room.”

“Then you can leave the same way,” she told him coldly, turning her back on him.

Nash reached for her again, ignoring her attempts to fight him off. He pulled her close and held her until she stopped struggling and finally relaxed against him.

“There, there, my love,” he crooned as she began to cry. All the tears she’d been unable to shed earlier suddenly seemed to catch up with her. “It’s all right.”

“This is all our fault,” she sobbed into his chest.

“It was an accident, Marla,” Nash told her gently, stroking her hair. “You have to believe that, or you’ll go crazy.”

“No, it’s our fault,” she insisted. “The gods are punishing us.”

“Kalianah
rewards
lovers,” he reminded her. “Only the Kariens up north believe that nonsense about sinning and paying penance for honouring one god over another. Laran was a follower of Zegarnald, Marla, and the War God only takes his favourites in battle.”

She sniffed loudly and looked up at him. “And that’s how you expect me to look at this, I suppose? I should be happy that while I was honouring the Goddess of Love with his best friend, my husband was honouring the God of War with his life?”

“Stranger things have happened, my love.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Nash smiled faintly. “You were fine with it this morning when you thought your husband was still alive. Do you really think it all right to cheat on him in person, but somehow wrong to betray his memory?”

“You’re twisting things around,” she accused.

He kissed her forehead and pulled her close again. “I’m sorry. Did you want me to stay with you tonight?”

Yes. I want you to stay. I want you to make love to me again like you did in Kalianah’s grotto so I can forget this is happening. I want to
. . .

“No,” she said, pushing him away. “I don’t want you to stay. Not now. Not tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

He nodded, accepting the wisdom of her decision if not the reason for it. “I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

“Probably.”

Nash kissed her again, this time on the mouth, leaving her hungry for more, and then he turned and walked back into the dressing room without another word. When Marla heard the panel sliding shut a few moments later
she returned to her pacing, thinking the chances of her getting any sleep this night had just moved from unlikely to impossible.

If she couldn’t bring herself to sleep with Nash, she had no chance of sleeping with her guilt.

T
he Feast of Kalianah was celebrated in Sanctuary like no other place in the world. The Harshini were, after all, the only race alive to whom violence was an anathema, so they didn’t have a lot to choose from when it came to celebrating with the gods. Their natural aversion to violence meant they couldn’t really commemorate the Feast of Zegarnald, the God of War, the way he would have liked, although they did offer him their praise and honoured him like any other guest whenever he came to visit.

Kalianah, on the other hand, was a particular favourite. The goddess treated the Harshini like they were her own people, even though (in theory) the Harshini had no favourites and treated all the gods with equal respect. The Harshini didn’t worship the gods, though. They spoke to them on a daily basis, they begged favours of them when they wanted something, and they even disagreed with them at times.

The Harshini drew on the same source of magic as the Primal Gods. They had been created by the gods for just that purpose—a race specifically designed as a safety valve to prevent the immortals from tearing each other apart when the balance of their powers became unstable. But it was only humans who worshipped them.

And only humans from whom the gods drew their strength.

Dacendaran appeared on the path beside Brak as he headed down to the concert. The god was looking a little peeved.

“Well, if it isn’t the King of Larceny. What brings you here, Dace?”

“Hello, Brak,” the boy replied miserably. His motley clothes hung on his slumped shoulders as if he’d just thrown them on and hoped he wouldn’t miss.

“What’s the matter?” Brak asked with a sigh, knowing that when he used that tone, Dacendaran was looking for sympathy.

“I’m just feeling a little . . . unwelcome tonight.”

“It’s the Feast of Kalianah, Dace. This is Kali’s time, not yours.”

“Why don’t they have a festival for me?”

“They do,” he reminded the god.

“But not like this one.”

“That’s because thieving isn’t as much fun as a bit of unbridled lust,” Brak told him with a grin.

Dacendaran was not amused. “I think it is.”

“Yes, well, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Is Wrayan going to take part?”

“I suppose.”

“But he belongs to me.”

“Not while he’s still here in Sanctuary,” Brak reminded the god. “You can’t get your larcenous little claws into him until he goes back into the human world,
Divine
One. So stop whining about it. Go visit the Grimfield, or something. It’s a prison town so there are lots of thieves, I hear. I’m sure
they’d
be happy to worship you.”

“But the Grimfield is in the middle of Medalon. They’re all atheists now.”

“If they’re thieves, Dace, what do you care?”

“Oh,” Dacendaran said, suddenly brightening with the prospect of finding some new worshippers. “I’ll see you later then.”

The god vanished abruptly, leaving Brak shaking his head. It was the god’s own fault, Brak thought, that Wrayan wasn’t quite as devoted to him as Dacendaran would have liked. It was Dace, after all, who had introduced Wrayan to Kalianah.

The God of Thieves and the Goddess of Love were strange but frequent companions. It had little to do with their areas of divinity. Brak speculated it was a power thing. Depending on what was happening in the human world at any given time, Zegarnald generally had the advantage over Kalianah and Dace. He grew stronger with each new conflict the humans managed to embroil themselves in. He was not the strongest, though. Not by a long way. If you didn’t count Xaphista the Overlord, who wasn’t actually a Primal God (although lately his power was starting to rival the combined strength of the other gods), then Voden, the God of Green Life, probably held that honour. If not him, then Brehn, the God of Storms, or Kaelarn, the God of the Oceans, were just as likely candidates for the title. Kalianah and Dacendaran, and even Zegarnald, had to work at it a little harder.

As humans were much more efficient at making war than love, the War God tended to keep one step ahead of Kalianah, who considered herself Zegarnald’s self-appointed nemesis. Dace hung around the other two, Brak was certain, because with no chance of ever being as strong as them, he liked to bask in their reflected glory.

The Goddess of Love favoured the form of a child, although she could assume any aspect she wanted. Kali believed that everyone loved children and chose to appear in that form more often than any other. Her first question was invariably “Do you love me?” and she could sulk for days if one was foolish enough to answer in the negative. On her feast day, however, in the Harshini settlement “Do you love me?” became the greeting of the day. To further mark her divinity there was to be a concert tonight, followed by a feast and then the Honouring.

“Wrayan!”

The young human stopped and turned at Brak’s call as the Halfbreed strode down the path behind him. Tall and dark-haired, dressed in the traditional white robes of his people, were it not for his blue eyes the lad looked almost like a full Harshini.

Wrayan waited until Brak caught up with him, standing aside to allow two Harshini to pass. The man and the woman were holding hands and smiling—the Harshini were
always
smiling—as they passed the young human. They stopped for a moment and the woman turned to look at him with her totally black eyes.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“Sure,” Wrayan agreed. “Do you love me?”

“Of course,” the woman laughed. She dropped the hand of her companion and took Wrayan’s face between her slender, long-fingered hands and kissed him, tenderly and lingeringly.

“Put him down, Sam,” Brak ordered as he caught up with them. “You don’t know where he’s been.”

The woman let Wrayan up for air and laughed. “Do
you
love me, Brak?”

“You know I do.”

“We’ll see you at the concert?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for all the fanatics in Karien,” Brak assured her. Seemingly content with that, she smiled at them both, took the hand of her companion again and headed off down the path. Wrayan watched her leave with a thoroughly bemused expression then turned to Brak.

“How come she didn’t kiss
you
like that?” he asked.

“Who? Samaranan? She’s my sister.”

“That woman is your
sister?”
Wrayan asked in shock.

“I know,” Brak shrugged. “Hard to credit, isn’t it? Still, she’s never seemed too upset that I got all the looks in the family.”

Wrayan adjusted his robes uncomfortably as Brak fell into step beside him. “Well, too many more greetings like the one she just gave me and I’m going to end up doing something really embarrassing before the evening is over. Are they always like this on Feast Days?”

Brak nodded. “On Kalianah’s Feast Day, they are. You would’ve still
been recovering from your little bout of Almost Being Killed during the last one, I suppose. But yes, this is pretty usual. Kali’s fairly popular around here.”

“That’s because the Harshini love me,” a voice announced smugly. The men stopped and looked back to find the goddess had materialised on the path behind them. She was dressed in an airy waif-like tunic and appeared to be no more than five or six years old, with fair hair and an angelic face. You could feel Kalianah’s power from ten feet away. The compulsion to love her when she was this close was almost irresistible.

“Pick me up, Brak,” she demanded, holding out her arms to him. “I don’t feel like walking.”

“You’re a goddess, Kali,” Brak pointed out. “You can fly, if you want.”

“I know that, but it’s not the same. Oh, hello, Wrayan.”

“Divine One.”

“Do you love me?”

“Of course.”

She turned back to Brak and held out her hands again. “Pick me up.”

“Wrayan loves you so much, why don’t you ask him to carry you?”

“He belongs to Dace.”

“But it’s your Feast Day, Kali,” Brak reminded her, and then added with a smile, “I’m sure Dace won’t mind.”

“I suppose.” Kali held out her arms to Wrayan. “Pick me up.”

Unlike Brak, Wrayan wasn’t nearly so certain of himself that he could deny a direct order from a god. He lifted her into his arms and she sighed contentedly, resting her head on his shoulder. Brak knew she weighed almost nothing, but he could see Wrayan was having a hard time thinking of anything else but the need to cater to every whim of this adorable child.

“And let the poor bastard breathe,” he ordered.

Kali sighed heavily, but the overwhelming desire Wrayan felt to do whatever she wanted faded into something more manageable.

“Are you going to the concert?” she asked, as they resumed their trek down the path towards the amphitheatre.

“No, we’re heading this way because we want to build a shrine to Zegarnald and we thought your Feast Day would be the best time to do it.”