Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (37 page)

“How did you make friends with the wolf?” Elra demanded.

“She fed it,” said one of the cooks, who knew.

“I spoke Lenay to it,” Alythia corrected. “Tashyna's a Lenay wolf, she only speaks Lenay.”

“Her name's not Tashyna, it's Dessi!” Tristi insisted.

“Ah, but that's where you're wrong!” Alythia said brightly. “You see, all Lenay animals have true names. They have old, pagan spirit names—Goeren-yai names. But you need to speak Lenay, and you need to speak it to them nicely, or they won't tell you their true names.” It was utter horse manure, all of it, but the crowd on the patio all stared with a look somewhere between discomfort, amazement and respect. Alythia nearly laughed. Perhaps now, finally, she'd found a way in. A way toward respect. Through a wolf, of all things. A wolf that they were all scared of. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps the only way to gain respect amongst wealthy Petrodorians was through fear.

“Can I pat her?” Tristi asked wistfully. “I've wanted to keep seeing her, but Papa wouldn't let me. I'm sure she'll remember me.”

“Did you ever beat her?” Alythia asked doubtfully.

“Oh no, I never did! I was always nice to her, honest!”

“Master Tristi,” said a maid, “I really don't think that you should…”

“Nonsense!” announced a guard. “The third son of Halmady isn't scared of some stupid wolf! If a girl can do it, so can Master Tristi!”

Alythia turned to look back at the garden. She caught only a brief glimpse of Tashyna, a fast shadow against the far, downhill wall. “Come quickly,” she said to Tristi, who came running. Alythia put her hands on the boy's shoulders when he arrived and turned them both downslope. Tashyna seemed far more interested in racing from one side of the lower garden to the other as fast as her legs could take her.

“Look how fast she is!” Tristi exclaimed. “I bet she'd make an excellent guard dog. Maybe we could let her loose in the garden more often. Maybe all night. She'd deal with any sneaking nightwraith!”

“I think that's an excellent idea,” said Alythia. In truth, she wasn't sure at all—she knew from her brothers that wolves did not bark, so she wouldn't make much of a guard dog if she couldn't raise the alarm. And she was still so wild, probably even this huge garden would not be enough for her. But anything would be better than that little enclosure against the side wall. “Now just remember, move very slowly and be very careful. She's
really very sweet, but she gets scared easily. And scared wolves are dangerous. Understand?”

Tristi nodded. He was nearly nine now and curly-headed like her Gregan. Also like Gregan, he was a bit of a mummy's boy…or a daddy's boy, at least. Fancy not visiting the pet wolf just because daddy had forbidden it! It would never have stopped her brothers, not even Wylfred.

Tashyna leapt through some bushes, tongue lolling, now slowing as she loped past the fountain. She looked tired and happy. Tristi stiffened anxiously and Alythia squeezed his shoulders. Tashyna saw him and pricked her ears. She ran about them in a circle, head poised, more curious than alarmed.

“It's all right, Tashyna,” said Alythia, forcing confidence into her voice. “Come and say hello to your old friend. He's missed you.”

Tashyna stopped circling and trotted closer. Stopped, ducking her head nervously, trying to go sideways. “Oh here, come on!” Alythia crouched beside Tristi, a hand out. “It's all right, it's only me!” It astonished her how easily she could read the wolf's thoughts. Fear battled yearning, self-preservation struggled against risk. She'd seen it in people, in the courts of Baen-Tar Palace. The young noble from the provinces, uncomfortable in his newly bought clothes, sighting a glamorous Lenay princess and torn in two directions—backward, toward safety; and forward, toward opportunity. And she'd seen it in the palace girls upon sighting some particularly handsome arrival. For herself, the instinct had always been forward. She'd never known what it was to retreat, until she'd come to Petrodor. Perhaps it was a common affliction for Lenays in Petrodor, walked they on four legs or two.

Tashyna came close enough for Alythia to pat. “Let her sniff your hand,” she told Tristi. Tristi did so, breathlessly, and Tashyna sniffed. And licked, as if remembering a familiar taste. Tristi grinned. “Pat her. Scratch her neck, she likes that.”

Tristi did that too, his smaller hand sinking into the wolf's thick fur. Tashyna whined, wriggled on her stomach, then rolled on her back.

“That means she likes you,” Alythia laughed, rubbing Tashyna's chest.

“She's very pretty,” said Tristi, matter-of-factly. “Sister, would you help me ask Papa to let me see her more often?”

Alythia climbed the stairs with more energy and purpose in her legs than she recalled since her wedding day. Finally, she had a reason to go and see her father-in-law. Only a little thing, to be sure, but perhaps that was best…
and, besides, the patachi doted on Tristi. If brave Tristi had befriended the wolf, then surely his father would find some pride in that.

Perhaps Gregan would be in his father's chambers, she thought as she walked the polished boards of the ornate upper hallway. She'd barely seen Gregan for a week. For some of that time, he'd gone to pay respects to the various dukes gathered in their properties neighbouring Petrodor. The short while he'd been home, he'd slept in a separate room and spent his time at great luncheons for Halmady and Steiner allies, or plotting in his father's chambers. Alythia began straightening her hair as she walked…and considered the grass stains on the sleeves of her dress. She nearly turned for her room to change, but she dared not lose this opportunity. And besides, soon word would spread that the barbarian daughter-in-law had dangled dear Tristi's head in a wolf's jaws for sport, and she preferred to be the one breaking news of events, instead of always reacting to them. That lesson, she'd learned long ago.

Arriving at the patachi's chambers she made a final adjustment to her hair and necklace, and knocked on the twin wooden doors. There was no reply. No footsteps either. Perhaps he was out…but there was typically a commotion when the patachi left the residence and there had been none tonight.

It frustrated her, to have such an opportunity, only to turn back now. She knocked again. Come to think of it, there was usually a guard outside this door. Where was he? Concerned, she opened the door. At the far end, glass doors opened onto a balcony, and a broad desk faced the view. Candles and lamps were lit. How odd that it should be empty. Perhaps the patachi was in his adjoining bedchambers…but if he were preparing for an early night, where were the private servants?

She walked forward past the table…and saw something odd on the floor beneath the desk. Only when she was nearly at the far windows did she recognise the shape in the shadow cast by the chandelier. It was a body. The body of Patachi Halmady, his face to one side, staring at her. Face down in a spreading pool of blood.

A hand clamped over Alythia's mouth before she could scream, and a knife pricked at her throat. “Not a word!” hissed a voice in her ear. “The signal's been given. It will be over soon!”

The man dragged her backward into the patachi's bedchambers. She was thrown onto the bed, and recovered to find herself staring at a man she recognised as a servant, in black tunic and lace collar, levelling a wicked looking knife. “Make a noise and you're dead,” he snarled. He was sweating, and seemed highly agitated. Through her terror, Alythia realised there was a weight on the
bed to one side. She looked, and found Lady Halmady, her face pale and expressionless, eyes wide with shocked disbelief. Beneath her, the bedcovers were soaked red. On the floor beyond lay a maid, likewise unmoving.

Another man entered the patachi's chambers, giving a small whistle for recognition. He talked with the first in low, hushed tones, giving quick glances in Alythia's direction. Alythia saw that they had both armed themselves with sword belts—most unservantlike. Assassins.

Suddenly she could hear yells from beyond the balcony. Her heart leapt, hope and fright in equal measure. Someone had discovered the treachery. Any moment there would be armed men battering down the door and she'd be in the middle of the fighting. But, as hard as she listened, she could hear no running footsteps in the hallway. Instead, there came a faint metallic sound then a shriek of pain. The yells and clashes grew louder, seeming to come from all about the house. A battle, Alythia realised. Halmady was betrayed. The entire house was falling.

Alythia lay on the bed, frozen with fear. Only a few times in her life had she been truly frightened for her safety, but those had been nothing compared to this. She could not bring herself to move, barely even to breathe. Her left elbow was wet with Lady Halmady's blood. As much as she'd hated the old lady, she'd
never
wished upon her anything like this. Or if she had, she surely hadn't meant it. Nor imagined it so horribly, gut-wrenchingly awful a sight. Inexplicably, her frantic eyes fixed upon an ornate, golden sword in its sheath above the doorway. She'd seen such swords in her father's chambers in Baen-Tar and knew that, for all their decorative value, they were as sharp as any armoury weapon. But what could she do with a sword, even if she could retrieve it? Against two well-trained, professional murderers?

Footsteps rushed along the hall outside. A hammering at the door to the patachi's chambers. “Patachi! We are attacked! You must get to safety!” Alythia heard the door open, followed by a scream of pain. Then yelling in the chambers and the clashing of weapons. More screams and yells of rage. Through the doorway, Alythia saw a man fall, crash and roll. He struggled to rise, but seemed to register a helpless horror, for the sight of all the blood that poured out of him. Then to panic, tears in his eyes, a young man sobbing at the prospect of his own death, slashed from breast to navel and soaking in blood. Alythia nearly vomited, and then the world went black.

She awoke barely a moment later, for now the screams and howls of combat rang in her ears. Beyond the balcony windows, she could hear fighting in the garden. Vansy and Selyna! The thought of her maids thrust her from the bed and she leapt for the decorative sword above the door. It didn't come down the first time, so she knocked it upward instead, and it
clattered to the floor. She picked it up and stared into the chambers beyond. There were bodies on the floor, Halmady soldiers, perhaps five. A bookshelf had collapsed, chairs overturned and the floor awash with blood. Beyond the central table, a struggle continued on the floor with desperate gasps and shouts. There was a final, horrifying scream, then a gurgle, as an arm thrust a knife repeatedly into a body.

A man rose—one of the assassins, his black servant's tunic bloodied and torn, a dripping knife in his hand. He turned, surveyed the carnage, and saw Alythia. Alythia's heart nearly stopped. The man's eyes were wild, yet cold. He saw the sword in her hands and snickered.

“You're not your sister, little Princess,” he said. “Put it away. I'll not lose my reward so easily.”

“I'm a princess of Lenayin! My father will double any reward you've been offered!” The words were out of her lips before she could think. She was aghast at herself.

Something hit the bedroom window behind from the outside, a shatter of falling glass. “What good is Lenay gold to me?” said the assassin, limping about the end of the table. He held his bloody thigh with one hand. “I live in Petrodor. So do you,
Princess
. The favour of Patachi Steiner will carry me further than your father's ever shall.”

Alythia stared at him. Patachi Steiner? They were attacked by
Steiner
? Their great and powerful ally?
Marya
! was her first thought. Her sister would save her. Marya would not see her harmed. But the roar of battle came loud and near from all about the mansion now and she was scared for her maids, and scared for Tashyna, and scared for little Tristi and Elra, and Halmady were so powerful, and there were so many guards, and surely they could not lose this fight in a direct assault…

She tore the sheath off the sword and circled the table, about the motionless body of the dying boy. She tried to hold the sword as she'd seen Lenay soldiers hold them, but this was a Torovan sword, thinner and lighter, made more for stabbing than cutting. There was only really room on the hilt for one hand, but she held it with two anyway, having no idea how it was done, otherwise.

The assassin blocked her way to the door. He held only a knife against her sword, yet to get past, she would have to go through him. It was clear from the look on his face that he didn't believe she could do it. Neither did she.

Suddenly there were new footsteps in the hall and a figure appeared in the doorway. The assassin half turned and Alythia saw a lithe man in embroidered tunic and tight leggings surveying the scene with horror, a sword in
his hand. Gregan. In an eye blink, the assassin scooped up a fallen blade and threw the knife at Gregan. Gregan ducked aside before Alythia could scream, the knife slashing his sleeve, and charged the assassin. Blades clashed and Gregan half stumbled on a body, struggling to defend himself as he staggered sideways. Before she knew what she was doing, Alythia had charged, her blade upraised. The assassin cut at her and she jumped back just in time. Gregan took that chance to slash, taking the assassin across the forearm. He spun away with a strangled yell and Gregan was on him before he could recover, hacking once, twice, three times before the fourth finally exposed the man's defence and the fifth stabbed him clean through the ribs. The assassin fell into a wall and slid down, leaving a bloody trail behind.