Warrior (53 page)

Now, as the hot, humid months of the rainy season approached, she was starting to think it might not be such a bad idea.

A low moan on the bed distracted Alija from her idle musings and she turned to her patient.

Ruxton Tirstone stirred in his sleep, his body on the verge of giving in completely.

As a favour to Marla, Alija had come when she heard the news that Ruxton had been struck down. And he’d been struck hard. By Alija’s estimate, about half the people who contracted the disease managed to survive, whether they were treated or not, but she doubted Ruxton would be one of them.

There were large inflammations the size of grapefruits in his neck and groin that showed no sign of abating.

It won’t be long now
, she guessed. It was as if he was dead from the moment the high fever, the exhaustion, the headaches and the chills set in; his body just hadn’t acknowledged it yet. He’d fallen into a coma several hours ago, his body wrung dry from vomiting and coughing up blood, which he seemed to have done in equal measure for days before finally settling into this uneasy coma. The dark lesions on his face and upper body that were visible above the silk sheets were so purple they were almost black and his breathing was becoming increasingly laboured.

She had little pity for the man, despite the fact that she had willingly risked her own life to come here. Ruxton could have been safe if he’d stayed in Marla’s extensive and well-guarded town house, secure and isolated from the disease-ravaged city.

But no, you had to carry on as if it was business as usual, didn’t you, Ruxton?

He’d been down on the wharves, trying to protect his spice cargoes, when he succumbed to the disease. With plague rampant in the city, Hythria’s ships were being turned away from ports all over the world. Ruxton Tirstone stood to lose a fortune if he couldn’t get his spices delivered. He’d sent his youngest son, Adham, north into Medalon several weeks ago to try to find somewhere to store his precious cargoes until the plague abated, but even that wasn’t enough for him, apparently.

Serves him right
, she thought unsympathetically.
That’s what you get when you put profit ahead
of common sense
.

But Alija wasn’t here to help Ruxton. She was here because Marla believed she was a friend and Alija wasn’t ready, just yet, to reveal how wrong the princess was about that.

They enjoyed a strange relationship, Alija Eaglespike and Marla Wolf-blade. Although she showed every indication of being an astute and intelligent woman, even after more than a quarter of a century it astonished Alija that Marla never once suspected how she truly felt about her. The princess had never guessed that her beloved second husband, Nash Hawksword, had been Alija’s lover. She continued to rely on Alija’s counsel, with no clue her supposed friend was behind several attempts on the life of her precious son, Damin.

It never occurred to Alija to think Marla’s ignorance arose out of anything other than her own skill at deception. She scanned the minds of the princess and those closest to her every opportunity she got, but not once had she detected even a glimmer of concern about the High Arrion. Their thoughts were always of ordinary, mundane things. There were no dark thoughts of vengeance or hunger for power in the minds of Marla or her staff.

Alija had been particularly concerned about the dwarf. If anybody knew the truth about the murder of Ronan Dell and his household all those years ago, it was Elezaar. But the dwarf
court’esa
’s mind was as mediocre as his mistress’s, his thoughts just as bland. If he knew the truth, he had forgotten about it, or buried it so deep he would never remember.

Ruxton moaned again, even the oblivion of a coma not enough to block his pain.
Oh, for the
gods’ sake
, she thought impatiently.
Will you hurry up and die
?

The door opened and she turned to see who it was, not surprised to find Marla standing there, hesitating on the threshold.
You don’t mind sharing your bed with a peasant when there’s a profit to be
made, do you, Marla? But it’s a different story when he’s dying of the plague
.

“How is he?” Marla asked softly, as if she was afraid her mere words might wake him from his coma.

Alija shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, cousin. But it won’t be long now.”

Marla nodded, dry-eyed and in control. That always surprised Alija about Marla. She seemed to be able to contain her feelings far more than Alija would have expected, given what she was like as a girl. Perhaps it was the result of four calculated and emotionless marriages. Perhaps it wasn’t control at all. Perhaps Marla’s outward calm was just a total lack of feeling.

“You should get some sleep, Alija,” the princess said, looking at the High Arrion with concern.

“It’s bad enough to think I’m soon to lose another husband. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.”

Alija smiled. “Thank you, Marla. You don’t know what it means to me to hear you say that.”

“Can I have something sent up for you?”

Alija shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”

Marla spared Ruxton one last long, meaningful look, before closing the door behind her.

Idiot
.

The High Arrion crossed the room and stopped at the foot of the bed, looking down on this commoner who had been married to Marla Wolfblade for over sixteen years.
What did he have
, Alija wondered,
that would make Marla want him
? She was the High Prince’s sister.
Nobody
in Greenharbour doubted greed was the reason she’d married a common-born sailor, but after Jarvan Mariner died, Marla could have had any man in Hythria. She’d refused every offer for her hand from those of her own class and married another commoner instead.

The reason had always bothered Alija, but she had never been able to fathom it. Marla and Ruxton got on well enough, Alija could attest to that. Ruxton was an intelligent man and more than able to hold his own among his betters. But there had to be more to it. Marla didn’t need his wealth.

Between the fortunes left to her by her first three husbands, Marla’s wealth was bordering on obscene.

Ruxton brought her no alliances Alija knew of, no strategic benefit at all, really. And it wasn’t love, Alija was certain of that. She had seen Marla in love and there was no hint of emotional turmoil in the self-contained woman who had dutifully arrived at the palace each morning for the past twenty-odd years to aid her wastrel brother in holding the country together.

What have you got, Ruxton Tirstone
, Alija wondered,
that makes her want you so?

Ruxton’s breathing grew ragged, as if her silent question had upset him.

He’ll be gone in a matter of minutes
, Alija decided, coldly assessing his chances, hoping the end would come quickly. She had things to do and places to be.

But when you’re gone, the secret of what Marla saw in a common spice trader goes with you
.

It was too tempting. Too puzzling. Cautiously, Alija moved around the bed and sat down beside her patient. In order to read his thoughts she would have to touch him, something she’d managed to avoid until now. She hesitated for a time, until curiosity won out over fear, and laid her hand on Ruxton’s limp arm, wondering if, in the last jumbled thoughts of an unconscious man, lay some insight as to how a common-born merchant had won the hand of the only sister of the High Prince of Hythria and managed to stay married to her for as long as he had.

Ruxton’s breathing was deteriorating rapidly as she entered his mind. Even the large bunches of lavender placed strategically around the room could no longer smother the stench of death he exhaled with every tortured breath.

Ruxton’s mind was blank, Alija discovered, disappointed. She thought
something
must be going on behind that veil of unconsciousness, but there was nothing. His mind was vacant, like the inside of an empty sphere, the walls slippery and smooth as coloured glass, opaque to her probe and any last residual thoughts that might struggle to find their way into his consciousness.

His last thoughts were of you
, Alija murmured silently. She would tell Marla that to keep her happy. Or maybe she would tell her the truth.
His last thoughts weren’t of you, my dear . . . they were of
absolutely nothing at all
. . .

Another burst of coughing tore through Ruxton as his bleeding lungs tried vainly to find air. He was very close to death. So close that Alija would be a fool to remain in his mind any longer. She didn’t know if she would die along with the spice trader if she was still linked to his mind in the moment of death and didn’t fancy putting the theory to the test. Carefully, Alija un-hooked the tendrils of her thoughts from Ruxton’s mind as his breathing turned to weak, strangled gasps. A little concerned that she had left it too late, Alija hurried to extract her mind from that of the dying man. Somewhere in the background, she heard him draw his last, desperate breath . . .

And then an explosion seemed to go off in Alija’s mind. She screamed, clutching her hands to her head as she fell off the bed and collapsed to her knees.

Even though the physical contact had been broken, the link remained in place as the smooth glass wall that she thought was Ruxton Tirstone’s unconscious mind shattered into myriad, crystalline pieces, overwhelming Alija. Her skin prickled, itched and burned, the familiar, terrifying touch of true Harshini magic washing against her skin as a mind shield she hadn’t even known was there disintegrated on the death of its owner.

It was instantaneous and blinding, unleashing a flash flood of Ruxton’s memories and thoughts held back by the subtle shield—a work of such mastery she couldn’t even conceive of it. The tirade washed over her like a crashing wave. It was too much to understand, too much to deal with, too much to bear.

Alija’s last coherent thought before she lost consciousness was a name she had thought long passed into history. It jumped out at her from the maelstrom of Ruxton’s final dying thoughts, flaring like a beacon in a storm. A threat she had believed dealt with and destroyed more than twenty-five years ago.

A ghost come back to haunt her.

Wrayan Lightfinger
.

Orleon had already shown Tejay into Mahkas’s study by the time Damin arrived downstairs.

There was no sign of the children—presumably Orleon had made arrangements for their care—and the Warlord’s wife was looking tired and travel-weary. Her riding habit was stained with mud splatters, her damp hair even more unruly than usual.

As far as Damin knew, Tejay Lionsclaw hadn’t been back to Krakandar since Rielle and Darvad Vintner’s wedding. He’d not seen her since about halfway through the third year of his fosterage in Natalandar, when, in keeping with their long-standing arrangement, Tejay had married finally Terin, the only son of Chaine Lionsclaw, Warlord of Sunrise Province. That was almost nine years ago. He had fond memories of his foster-sister, however. A skilled swordsman, she had delivered a sound beating to Damin on more than one occasion in the first few years he was fostered with her father.

“Tejay?”

She turned when she heard the door open. Motherhood and nine years had added a little bulk around her hips and a few crinkles around her eyes when she smiled, but other than that she was still the strong, forthright young woman that Damin remembered from his childhood.

“Is that
you
, Damin?” She smiled tiredly at him, looking him up and down with a critical eye “My, didn’t you grow into a big strong boy.”

He crossed the room, taking her hands in his and kissing her palms affectionately. “What in the name of the gods are you doing here, Tejay? Where’s Terin?”

“It’s a long story.”

“You look exhausted. Sit down,” he urged, offering her a seat. There was a low table with cushions around it in the centre of the room, but Tejay gladly sat in the chair facing the desk.

“Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head. “Orleon’s got everything under control, as usual. I was so relieved when I heard you were here. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“What are you talking about? Go where? Why aren’t you in Sunrise with your husband?”

“I was,” she informed him. “Until I got word Father was ill. Terin was having trouble with the Fardohnyans closing the borders, so I took the children and headed for Natalandar to see my father.”

“Is everything all right, Tejay?” he asked with concern. “With you and Terin, I mean?”

“That’s hardly the point, Damin,” Tejay said, shrugging off his question. “And why would you automatically assume that there’s something wrong with my husband? Or my marriage?”

“I didn’t mean there was,” Damin assured her, surprised by her defensive reaction. “It just seems a little odd that he’d let you go alone, that’s all.”

Tejay bristled at the implied insult. “Why? You think I can’t look after myself?”

“No, of course I don’t think that!” he assured her hastily. “I just think I wouldn’t let my wife traipse all the way across the country, on her own, with plague on the loose and four small children in tow.”

“Good thing I’m not your wife, then,” she replied tartly.

Damin let the comment pass. “Why not leave Chaine to deal with the Fardohnyans?”

Tejay shook her head, her face etched with weary sorrow. “You haven’t heard, then, I suppose.”

“Heard what?”

Tejay took a deep breath. “Chaine Lionsclaw is dead, Damin. My husband is the Warlord of Sunrise Province now.”

Damin sank down on the edge of the desk in stunned surprise. “When . . . when did this happen?”

“About a month ago. Chaine was killed in the Widowmaker Pass trying to get through to Fardohnya to convince the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook to keep the borders open. It was bandits, we think.”

“Then the news would have reached Greenharbour just after I left.”

She nodded in agreement. “We were still reeling from that news when we got the word about my father within a day of Chaine’s death. There was no way Terin could leave Sunrise after that. So I took the children and headed for Izcomdar without him.”