Wolfblade (46 page)

But along with their sympathy came a healthy dose of caution. Nobody was sure if Mahkas should be hailed as a hero for trying to save his sister, or a cur for not being able to, and until the people of Winternest figured which way the wind was blowing, they preferred to avoid the young captain.

Realising there would be no joy here tonight, Mahkas swallowed his ale, refused a refill and headed back to the stairs that would take him up to the bridge and over to the southern keep. Maybe tomorrow, when Laran returned from Westbrook, things would settle down a bit. Maybe tomorrow the
ransom demand would come and they could get to work on assembling the money.

Maybe tomorrow he wouldn’t feel like this.

Maybe tomorrow he would wake up and be able to find some small measure of merit in what he had done.

“A messenger has arrived from Cabradell,” Darilyn announced, looking up as Mahkas entered the hall. The fire was lit and it was almost cosy in the normally draughty chamber. Quite an accomplishment when one considered the size of the hall. The boys were absent, probably getting ready for bed, given the hour.

Mahkas was glad they weren’t here; he was in no mood for Travin or Xanda this evening.

“A messenger?” he asked, taking a seat in front of the fire. He relaxed back into the cushions, wishing there was something he could take for the pain in his arm. Or maybe it simply needed to be warmed. The air was icy out on the bridge and he’d been up there most of the day.

“The messenger had a letter for Laran,” Darilyn told him. “From mother.”

“What does it say?”

“It was addressed to Laran.”

“That wouldn’t stop you reading it.”

Darilyn scowled. “It says that it doesn’t matter what we do, dear brother Laran always manages to come out on top.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s pregnant.”

“Mother is
pregnant?
”

“No, you idiot!” she snapped. “The future heir of Hythria has been conceived, just as Laran planned. He’s single-handedly quelled the Warlords of Hythria and now he’s proved his manhood. Mother is thrilled, as you can well imagine. We will find ourselves bowing at the feet of our own nephew some day, Mahkas. Won’t that be fun?”

“What are you
talking
about, Darilyn?”

She held up the letter with its broken seal, shaking it at him. “She’s pregnant, fool. Marla Wolfblade is pregnant.”

S
hivering a little in the weak winter sunlight, Marla sat on the edge of the fountain in Jeryma’s private courtyard, trailing her fingers in the chilly water, waiting for Jeryma to finish her discussion with Delon Grym, the Ravenspear family physician. Originally a
court’esa
, Delon’s skills as a medic had kept him in Jeryma’s household long past the time a
court’esa
would normally expect to remain in service. Like Elezaar, Delon had other talents to offer his mistress that had secured his place in her household on a permanent basis. In his sixties now, with a head of thick white hair, a quick mind and an arthritic limp, he had delivered all four of Jeryma’s children and was probably the only man Jeryma trusted to deliver her grandson, too.

It was no surprise to Marla that news of her pregnancy had spread through Cabradell, almost before she was certain of it herself. She had been watched with eagle-eyed enthusiasm by everyone in the palace from the first day she had shared a bed with Laran; and by her mother-in-law most of all.

Marla understood the position she was in and knew, in her heart, that this was as good as it was ever likely to get. This plan to save her from a marriage to Hablet was Jeryma’s idea, Marla realised. Either Jeryma or her late husband, Glenadal Ravenspear, had thought it up, at any rate. She didn’t fool herself for a moment that it had in any way been motivated by the notion that Marla would rather have died than be sent to marry Hablet in Fardohnya. Their plans centred entirely on the desire for a Hythrun-born heir to her brother’s throne. Saving Marla from Hablet was merely a by-product of their scheme.

Laran was not a volunteer. He had been conscripted to their cause, Marla decided, after a few weeks of marriage to him. He was not the type to launch a coup without reason. Laran could see the sense in the plan, was prepared to do what he had to, to ensure its success, but it was clear that he would rather
have found a way to achieve his political goals without taking a wife. Particularly a wife almost half his age with whom he had nothing in common.

Marla had not been much help in the early days, either. Still smarting over the harsh realisation that she was, essentially, a walking womb on offer to the highest bidder, she didn’t really have much enthusiasm for fulfilling her duties as a wife. Besides, she was in love with Nash Hawksword. It seemed like a betrayal to even think about sleeping with another man.

She had come to her marriage bed the night of her wedding as drunk as a victorious warlord, and had passed out before anything happened. The second night she had been drunk again—Hythrun wedding receptions went on for
days
—but this time, instead of passing out, she threw up all over the bed, effectively putting an end to anything remotely romantic for the rest of that night, as well.

On the third night, she began to feel a little guilty that she wasn’t being fair to Laran. She made a new resolution to herself.
Stop putting it off. Get it over with. Do what Hythria needs you to do
. . .

So, full of wine and good intentions, determined to do what she must to honour the bargain her brother had made in her name, Marla let herself into Laran’s room. She draped herself alluringly over the chaise near the fireplace, her long hair unbound, dressed in a sheer gown that offered a tantalising glimpse of the bare flesh beneath, and waited for her husband.

Laran arrived a few moments after Marla. He looked at her in surprise. “You’re conscious,” he remarked coolly. “And appear to have kept your dinner down, as well.”

“I’m sorry about . . . last night,” she said. “And about the night before.”

Her apology probably would have sounded more heartfelt if she hadn’t hiccupped loudly at the end of it. Laran took the chair opposite the chaise near the fire and studied her curiously.

“How much have you had to drink tonight, Marla?”

She shrugged. “One or two . . .”

“Glasses?”

“Decanters.”

He shook his head. “And this drinking problem you appear to have developed in the past three days. Is this something you’re planning to continue, or can we expect you to sober up any time soon?”

“I’m not a drunk!” she protested.

“No?” he asked with a raised brow.

“It’s just . . .”

“You can’t bear the thought of sleeping with
me
?” he concluded.

Marla couldn’t tell whether he was angry or disappointed or simply making an observation. Laran was good at not giving away things like that. “You’ve had two
court’esa
at your disposal for months, Marla,” he pointed
out, a little puzzled by her reluctance. “Surely there are no surprises awaiting you?”

“I know . . . but . . .”

“What?”

“Well, Elezaar might be a
court’esa
, but you really don’t think that I . . .” Her words trailed off as she squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. “Anyway, Corin was . . . helpful, but I was so angry at Lernen for promising me to Hablet, I only used him . . . a bit.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’m afraid you’ll think me . . . I don’t know . . . stupid, or something . . .”

“Coming to my bed drunk each night is going to convince me of your stupidity, Marla, much faster than you admitting you’re afraid or inexperienced.”

She hadn’t thought of it like that. “I’m sorry, Laran, truly I am. It’s just . . . I don’t want to let anyone down. Not you, or my brother. Even your mother and the High Arrion. I know what everyone wants of me. I understand what’s riding on it. I can even see the logic of it—”

“When you’re sober?” he cut in, with the ghost of a smile.

She pulled a face at him. “All right . . . when I’m
sober
. I’m just so afraid of not being what everybody expects of me. Suppose I don’t have a son? What if I’m barren? Or suppose—”

“Marla!” Laran said sharply, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“What?”

“Go to bed,” he ordered. “Your
own
bed. Tomorrow, when it’s
you
talking and not the wine, we’ll talk again. I’m sure we can work out a way to deal with this then.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“Not this time,” he assured with a smile. “Too many more nights watching you stagger inebriated from the dinner table, however, might start to wear on my patience a little.”

Marla smiled in remembrance of his words, thinking that was the moment she began to
like
Laran. She didn’t love him. She loved Nash. But Laran was likable and, when all was said and done, if you had to be married to someone, it rather helped things along if they were tolerable company.

“Well,” Jeryma announced, putting an abrupt end to Marla’s reminiscing as she dismissed the physician and walked back out into the courtyard. “Delon says you’re fit and well.”

“I suppose I’m to be packed away now,” Marla sighed. “And coddled like an invalid until it’s born?”

“Gracious, child, whatever makes you think that?” she exclaimed. “You’re pregnant, not suffering some terrible disease. Besides, how do you expect your child to become vigorous and healthy if you’re spending the next few months lying about like a slug?”

“I thought that’s what happened when noblewomen get pregnant. They’re confined like well-kept prisoners until their child is born for fear of damaging the precious heir they carry.”

“And it’s half the reason so many of those precious heirs don’t thrive,” Jeryma said, sitting beside Marla on the edge of the pool. “If you were a farmer’s wife, Marla, you’d be out working the fields until your water broke and be back at the planting the very next day, your baby strapped to your back.”

“Do you think Laran will be pleased?” Marla asked. “Or just relieved?”

Jeryma smiled. “Both, I suspect. Once he gets my letter informing him of our happy news, I’m sure he’ll come straight home from Winternest. And he’ll bring Riika back with him. It will be good for you to have a friend your own age here.”

“I hope she likes me. I’ve never had a real sister before. It’d be a bit tragic if we discover we can’t stand the sight of each other.”

Jeryma looked at her with concern. “Are you unbearably lonely here, Marla? I could send for your cousin, Ninane, if you wish.”

“No,” Marla replied hurriedly. “I’d really be quite happy if you didn’t send for Ninane.”

“Well, if there’s anything you need . . .”

“Was it difficult for you, Lady Jeryma?”

“Was what difficult, dear?”

“You’ve had four marriages to men you never knew. Didn’t you ever wonder what it was like to be in love?”

“All the time,” Jeryma admitted with a rueful smile. “I don’t think I ever was, although there was a young man once—”

Marla was shocked.
“Really?”

“It was while I was married to Mahkas’s father. My husband was much older than me, forty years older, actually, so we didn’t have much in common. Thelen was one of the Krakandar Raiders the Collective assigned to protect Laran when he was a small boy.”

“Were you in love with him?”

Jeryma chuckled softly. “In lust with him would be a better description, I think.”

“And you actually had an
affair?”
Marla found the idea that the perfectly proper Lady Jeryma had ever done anything so . . . risky . . . almost beyond comprehension.

“For a while. It was after Mahkas was born and I was feeling rather . . . unattractive, I suppose. Thelen made me feel like a goddess. It didn’t last long; couldn’t last, realistically. Affairs like that are doomed to fail. Phylrin could turn a blind eye for a time, but if the news had ever leaked out, the scandal would have been much worse than the few moments of pleasure that
precipitated it. Trust me, Marla, if you need that sort of comfort, stick to a
court’esa
. They’re actually better at it and they don’t come with all the risks attached to one’s own class.”

“Do you think Laran would turn a blind eye if I took a lover?”

Jeryma looked at her in alarm. “Are you planning to?”

Marla smiled. “Hypothetically.”

“Let’s not find out, shall we?” Jeryma suggested.

“I was only joking, Lady Jeryma.”

“I’m sure you were, my dear,” her mother-in-law agreed. “But right now we’ve just confirmed that you are pregnant with the next High Prince of Hythria. Let’s not muddy the waters by wondering aloud about what your husband’s reaction would be to you having a lover, yes?”

“Yes,” Marla agreed with a smile.

Jeryma patted her hand, looking rather relieved. “There’s a good girl.”

There’s a good girl
, Marla repeated silently with a sigh.

I wonder if she’ll still be saying that if I don’t give birth to a son
.