Wolfblade (36 page)

It seemed as if her journey had taken her much further than the few hundred miles between Highcastle and the eastern border of Sunrise Province. The journey took her from innocence to disillusionment, from trusting naivety to jaded cynicism, all in a matter of a few days.

While she physically moved from the cold of the mountains to the warm humidity of the alluvial plains, her heart seemed to move in the opposite direction. Marla had left Highcastle resigned to the thought that nothing more than a cold and practical future awaited her, in which politics was the primary concern of everyone involved and her ability to breed the next generation was her most valuable asset.

Although Marla was heartbroken over the realisation that her dreams of Nashan Hawksword were nothing but her own foolish imagination, she was not so overcome that she couldn’t see the merit of the arrangement. She would always love Nash, she decided privately, but he was out of her reach. She was the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria. For Marla Wolfblade there was no choice.

It could have been worse, she told herself. It
would
have been worse had she been forced to leave Hythria for Fardohnya and a life trapped in Hablet’s harem. She was saved from that fate at least.

Laran Krakenshield was not the sort of man Marla would have chosen, but she accepted things could have turned out far more difficult. Laran wasn’t unbearably old. He wasn’t uncouth or particularly offensive. He seemed quite considerate of her circumstances. He wasn’t even that ugly, although his face was too stern to be called attractive. He was probably
court’esa
trained. He was certainly rich enough to give her anything she wanted. All she had to do in return was give him a son.

Or—more to the point—give her brother a nephew.

It was raining again, as it had almost constantly since Marla arrived in Warrinhaven. The water pattered on the tiled roof and trickled down the window in little grey rivulets, until they merged into a larger puddle on the windowsill. She was wearing her wedding dress, a beautiful red silk gown embroidered in gold and seed pearls, provided by Laran’s mother who had been waiting here at Warrinhaven for Marla and Laran to arrive. It was the Feast of Jashia, the God of Fire, today. Being married on the Feast of Jashia was supposed to mean you were in for a fiery relationship, an unfortunate belief that Lady Jeryma had shrugged off as foolish superstition.

Am I in for a fiery relationship?
Marla wondered.
Don’t you need a bit of passion for that to happen? I have nothing. There’s nothing between me and Laran but a polite distance
.

Another, more cynical voice in her mind added:
But one day you’ll be the mother of the High Prince of Hythria
.

Chaine Tollin, the captain of Laran’s guard, had told her that before they left Highcastle.

Marla remembered her conversation with him as she waited for the wedding to begin. It had occurred the day she was scheduled to leave with Laran. Marla had been pacing her room nervously while she waited for Lirena to return with her trunks when Chaine had arrived, along with her breakfast. He directed the house slave to lay out the meal near the hearth, dismissed the slave, then sat down and began to help himself to the honey-smothered wheat cakes.

“Sit down, your highness,” he’d offered. “Laran and Nash have gone hawking with your uncle, so you have only me for company this morning, I’m afraid.”

“Where are my slaves?” she’d asked, thinking it very odd that the captain of Laran’s guard would act in such a familiar manner with someone who was clearly so far above his station.

“The dwarf was arguing with your nurse in the kitchen when I came through. Something about how many trunks you’re planning to bring.” He smiled then, and added, “It looked like they were settling in for a good long fight, so I volunteered to bring your tray up while they slugged it out. The other one . . . what’s his name . . . Dorin?”

“Corin.”

“He was on his way to visit Lady Ninane, I believe.”

“Are you here to guard me?”

“Do you need guarding?”

Marla had wavered between being offended by the captain’s rather cavalier manner and hunger. Hunger won, so she had taken the seat opposite Chaine and begun to pile her plate with the wheat cakes.

“So, the Warlord of Krakandar has Sunrise’s army in his pocket as well as his own,” she’d said, noting the raven embossed on the captain’s cuirass.

“Actually, Laran and I have known each other since childhood,” he told her. “I grew up in the Cabradell palace.”

Marla didn’t know that. The power at Laran’s beck and call fascinated her. She could appreciate the danger Laran had brought upon himself by accepting a second province. But with the backing of Sunrise’s army, he had double the forces of any other man in Hythria. And who would have thought they would follow him so readily?

“Was your father employed in Glenadal’s household?”

“My father
was
Glenadal Ravenspear,” the captain replied bluntly.

She looked at him curiously. “So
you’re
the bastard?”

“You say that like you’ve heard of me, your highness.”

“Just rumours,” she shrugged. “Did Lord Ravenspear not acknowledge you in his will?”

“No.”

Marla cocked her head. “Then why are you following Laran Krakenshield, Captain, instead of mounting a challenge against him?”

“Right now, I believe my interests and Laran’s coincide.”

“And when they no longer coincide?”

Chaine smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“So, who else is in on this little coup?” she’d asked, through a mouthful of wheat cake. “Laran has the High Arrion in his pocket, if I’m to believe what he says about Kagan Palenovar. And obviously Lord Hawksword and his son are allies or Nash wouldn’t be here.” Marla said it without thinking, and then suddenly found herself swallowing down a fresh round of tears.
Oh, Nash, why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you warn me?

Chaine shrugged. “Laran has plans that even I am not privy to. But for what it’s worth, in his boots, I’d be doing exactly the same thing. Particularly with you as a prize at the end of it.”

The compliment took Marla completely by surprise.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said, blushing furiously. “I
think.”

“I meant it as a compliment, your highness.”

Abruptly, he had put down his empty plate and risen to his feet, brushing away a few stray crumbs, then bowed and walked to the door. Marla got the impression Chaine was here for more than her company, but at the last minute he had changed his mind.

He’d hesitated with his hand on the doorknob. “Your highness,” he said, a little nervously, “if ever . . . if you ever . . .” Chaine had faltered at that point, looking very uncomfortable.

“Captain?” she prompted.

“I just wanted to say . . . if you ever need a friend . . .”

Marla considered him thoughtfully. “I can count on
you
? Why?”

Chaine straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath before he spoke. “Because someday you won’t be a child any more, your highness. Someday you’ll be the mother of the High Prince of Hythria. I’m a baseborn son with no chance of claiming what is mine unless I have friends—influential friends—of my own.”

Marla smiled. “You think I’ll be influential someday?”

“A good third of the country’s armed forces have been mobilised just because you’re getting married, your highness,” he pointed out. “That’s not a bad effort to start with.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“Well, the offer’s there if you want it.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Marla had replied. Thinking back, she was left with the feeling that Chaine really meant what he said. He might have been trying to curry her favour for his own political ends, but she got the impression there was more to it than that. Perhaps, being an outcast himself, he knew what it was like to be the victim of other people’s schemes and plots.

“You look lovely, my dear.”

It’s time
, Marla thought, putting aside thoughts of political allies that she may or may not have. She turned away from the window and looked towards the door. Lady Jeryma was standing there, a warm smile on her face, her hand on the door knob.

“Will anybody care?” Marla shrugged. “It’s my womb they’re all interested in, Lady Jeryma, not what I look like on the outside.”

Jeryma shook her head and closed the door. She crossed the small bedroom allocated to Marla by Lord Murvyn when she had arrived in Warrinhaven and took the princess by the hand. The Warlord’s widow led her to the bed and sat down beside her, her expression full of sympathy and understanding.

“I’ve had four husbands, Marla,” she said. “The first was a drunken fool. The second was like a father to me. The third was a brutish pig and the fourth was a man I grew to love dearly. You are lucky, my dear. You’re starting with number four.”

“Lady Jeryma, I appreciate what you’re trying to do—”

“No, Marla, I don’t think you do,” Jeryma said. “I’m trying to tell you that this is not the end of the world. You are marrying a good man. An honourable man. And you are keeping the throne of Hythria safe from a foreign pretender.”

“Only if I have a son.”

“You will,” Jeryma predicted confidently.

“Suppose I have half a dozen daughters?”

“Then Laran will love every one of them as if each is the most important person in the world. He’s like that, Marla. Don’t let childish dreams of romance blind you to the fact that your new husband is a good and decent man.”

“I’ll probably bore him to tears,” Marla warned. “I know he thinks I’m just a child.”

“You are no child, Marla,” Jeryma told her. “You are a Hythrun princess. You are the future of this land. Don’t belittle yourself by thinking otherwise.”

“But I don’t know what to
do,”
she confessed, cursing the tears she’d sworn she wouldn’t shed. “I mean . . . it’s not like being in love, is it? Or even being with a
court’esa
. That’s easy. Everyone knows their place and what they’re supposed to be doing. But what do I say to Laran? What do I do?”

“Is that all that’s worrying you, dear?”

“That and the fact the Convocation of Warlords will probably declare war on us as soon as they learn what’s happened here today,” she pointed out. The Lady Jeryma seemed to have overlooked that minor but extremely pertinent detail in her glowing recommendation of her eldest son.

“Perhaps,” Lady Jeryma conceded. “But that’s not your problem. As for my son, well, in my experience, he reacts better to the truth than any other kind of persuasion. If you’re frightened, Marla, tell him. He’s not going to punish you for it.”

“I’m not properly trained, you know,” Marla admitted reluctantly, as she wiped her eyes. “I was so angry about having to marry Hablet that I refused to have anything to do with my
court’esa
until a couple of nights before Laran arrived at Highcastle.”

“Tell him that, too, Marla. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

Marla sniffed back her tears and studied Lady Jeryma curiously. “Did he send you here to reassure me?”

“Gods, no!” Jeryma chuckled. “He’d die if he thought his mother was in here with his future bride discussing the best way to bed him.”

“I suppose it is a little bizarre.”

Jeryma smiled and squeezed her hand comfortingly. “But necessary, I think. Don’t be frightened, Marla. Be proud. We women of Hythria so rarely get to do anything that makes a difference. Don’t let your chance go to waste.”

“You make it sound so . . . noble.”

“It is noble, Marla,” Jeryma assured her, rising to her feet. “Now dry your eyes and let’s go out there. As my third husband was fond of saying, just grin and bear it, girl, it’ll be over before you know it.”

Marla’s wedding to Laran Krakenshield took place little more than an hour later, on a rainy afternoon in Warrinhaven in the hall of Lord Murvyn Rahan, the Baron of Charelle.

Marla was required to say nothing during the ceremony. In Hythrun marriages only the groom’s opinion counted. All she had to do was stand there looking decorative, while Kagan Palenovar made Laran swear he would take care of his wife and any children or property she might bring to the marriage—a joke, Marla thought, when one considered she had been sold off like a brood mare.