Wolfblade (62 page)

Ignited by a moment of madness, her ardour had no bounds. There was no need for words. Nash stumbled backwards and Marla landed astride him on the small patch of lawn. Neither of them had the breath or the wit to speak. Perhaps it was this place. Here in this grotto dedicated to the Goddess of Love, reason and duty dissolved into mist. Only pleasure mattered. Only love prevailed.

Marla didn’t even realise her gown was gone until she felt Nash’s lips on her breast, his hands between her thighs. She was so consumed by the heat
of her desire, she didn’t even notice that he’d unbuckled his belt. Nash didn’t bother trying to undress completely, for which Marla was extremely grateful. This was urgent and the awkwardness of high boots and tight trousers was something she had no time to deal with. She was still tearing at his shirt when she felt him enter her. Arching her back, she cried out—a moan of sheer ecstasy. Nash pulled her head down and silenced her with a kiss, perhaps still aware enough of his surroundings to understand that anybody strolling past the grotto through the gardens might hear them. Marla didn’t care. She just wanted Nash. She wanted this to go on forever; wanted this moment of bliss to last a lifetime.

Marla wasn’t sure how long it was before they were spent. She knew only that nothing in her life, not all the lectures from Elezaar, or demonstrations from Corin, or even the considerate ministrations of her husband, had prepared her for this.

It was, she decided, worth everything it might eventually cost her.

“Why don’t they warn you it’s like this when you’re in love?” she murmured dreamily as she rolled onto the grass beside Nash, breathing hard.

“That would take all the fun out of it, I suppose,” he answered, gathering her into his arms. Marla snuggled into his embrace and looked up at the sky. The sun had barely moved but the world had shifted significantly since she’d last glanced at it a few minutes ago.

“I love you, Nash,” she sighed. It felt so good to say it aloud. And she needed to say it. She needed him to know she loved him; that this wasn’t some tawdry way to pass the time because she was bored and lonely as Laran’s wife and the Mistress of Krakandar.

“And I love you,” he replied, kissing her forehead tenderly.

“I just wish . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know . . . that it could always be like this, I suppose. Or that we could do it in a real bed.” She smiled suddenly. “This grass is going to make me itch like crazy.”

Nash laughed softly and sat up, making Marla do the same.

“Get dressed,” he advised.

She felt suddenly cheapened by his practicality. She wanted to lie here in his arms forever.

“I can come to your room tonight,” he offered as he tucked in his shirt.

“No, you can’t risk it!”

“Why not?” he asked, reaching for her gown. He tossed Marla the garment which lay abandoned on the grass a few feet away.

“Are you insane?” she gasped as she slipped the rumpled gown over her
head. “How long could we keep this a secret if every slave in the palace knows you’ve been sneaking into my room at night?”

“I’ll use the slaveways.”

“The
what?”

“The slaveways,” he explained. “The tunnels between all the suites. Some distant ancestor of Laran’s had them built. Seemed he didn’t like the idea of his slaves walking the same halls as their masters. They connect all the main suites with the kitchens and the other service areas of the palace.”

“You mean there are secret tunnels all through Krakandar Palace?” she asked in astonishment.

“Well, I’d hardly call them secret,” he laughed, doing up his trousers. “We used to play in them all the time when I was fostered here as a child. Some of them are still in use, as far as I know. It’s the quickest way from the kitchens to the main banquet hall, that’s for certain. And the only way to get the food to the guests before it cools. I thought Laran would have told you about them before now.”

“He never said a word.”

“Well, he probably didn’t think them worthy of mention,” Nash shrugged. “Anyway, it means our rooms are connected. I can come and go as often as you please.”

She smiled at him, thinking that to answer that comment would only prove how wanton she had become. “You’ll come to me tonight?”

“Nothing short of death could keep me away,” he promised, climbing to his feet. He held out his hand to her and pulled her up. In the distance they could hear voices. Female voices. Some of the palace ladies taking a turn around the gardens before lunch, probably.

Nash kissed her quickly, furtively, and then smiled, pulling a twig from her hair. “You’re a real mess. You’d best get back to the palace and get cleaned up. And hope you don’t meet anybody on the way back.”

“What will I tell them if I do?”

“The truth,” he suggested with a soft laugh. “That way nobody will believe you.”

She kissed him again hungrily as the voices drew nearer. “Tonight?” she whispered. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he said, peeling her arms from around his neck. “Now
go!”

Checking the path outside the grotto, Marla slipped away. She blew Nash a kiss as she left, wondering why, of all the emotions she was feeling at the moment, not one of them felt like guilt.

B
uilt on a small hill, the Krakandar palace commanded a view of the entire city, which sprawled across the surrounding slopes with geometric precision. The city was constructed of the local dark-red granite, which was quarried not far away and was one of the province’s major exports.

Krakandar’s population numbered close to twelve thousand, they guessed, and had been growing steadily for a number of years now, so consistently, in fact, that Mahkas had suggested to Laran on a number of occasions that he should take a census to find out what the current population was exactly. The city was laid out in concentric rings and looked—even to the inexperienced eye—almost impregnable, but that wouldn’t mean much if a shantytown grew up outside the walls, as had happened in so many other cities when their ruling lords gave little thought to planning for the future.

There were two rings in the city, each one protected by progressively more complex defences. The inner ring housed the palace and most of the government buildings. It also contained a huge grain store that each year at harvest time was filled as insurance against a siege. This close to the northern border, they couldn’t risk complacency. Prior to the annual harvest, the Krakandar stewards distributed the past year’s grain to the poor and, come harvest, the warehouses were filled again for the following year. The outer ring contained the markets and industries of the city and housing for the bulk of the population, the residences growing progressively more affluent the closer one got to the inner ring.

The men rode through the massive iron-reinforced gates into the outer ring of the city, the guards on the gate recognising Mahkas on sight. Little fuss was made of their return, although a few speculative gazes followed the troop as they rode by.

There was a good argument for building an outer ring and moving the
city’s industries and markets away from the inner ring, Mahkas thought, as they rode through the city. It would mean freeing up a good half of the existing outer ring and making it available for housing. An additional ring would enhance the city’s defences, too, but it would cost a great deal. Still, it wasn’t really as if they couldn’t afford it. The Warlord of Krakandar was richer than a god, now he had access to Sunrise’s revenue as well.

I’ll have to do something about that
, he decided. The people needed the room, and even with slaves doing the bulk of the physical labour, the city would benefit from the employment such an undertaking would generate.
I’ll bring a level of prosperity to Krakandar the likes of which have never been seen before
. . .

As they rode on towards the inner wall, however, Mahkas’s idle musings about vast capital works to improve Krakandar were no longer able to offer him a diversion. He began to feel ill. He was bringing home more than just cattle for the Feast of Kalianah and his burden weighed on him like the weight of the entire world.

They had delivered the cattle taken in the raid to the abattoir in the city’s outer ring earlier this evening. It had been a very successful raid in some respects. They’d got away with nearly thirty head of cattle—three times what Laran had estimated they would need. But the cost had been prohibitive. The Defender patrol they’d encountered on the return journey had been commanded by Captain Jenga, just as Mahkas had feared. They’d had no hint of the ambush waiting for them at the Border Stream, although they probably should have suspected something. But there had been so little sign of the Defenders—during and after the raid—that even Laran had been convinced that, for once, they might get away cleanly.

Mahkas consoled himself with the notion that it had been Laran’s error that had cost them so dearly. Laran was the one who judged it safe to cross the border. It really wasn’t Mahkas’s fault. He’d simply taken advantage of the situation.

You couldn’t hang a man for that
. . .

The patrol Mahkas led towards the palace was made up of the remainder of the troop that had left for the border more than ten days ago. They were few in number—barely twelve men left of the twenty who had ridden out of the city—so not many people marked their passing. A few curious souls cast a glance over the horse he led, but nobody really understood the significance of the covered bundle tied to the saddle.

It was almost dark by the time they reached the inner ring. The guards waved them through without stopping them. Inside, the road opened out into a vast courtyard surrounded on three sides by buildings. To the left and right of the square were the government buildings, three storeys high, gracefully symmetrical and uniform in their construction. In front of them lay the
sweeping steps of the palace itself, which rose up majestically, commanding a view of the entire city. Mahkas saw the palace as he’d never seen it before, with an air of possession he’d never dreamed possible until now.

Because now, there was nothing standing in his way but a child not yet two years old, his mother, a slip of a girl still in her teens and the High Arrion of the Sorcerers’ Collective, his uncle, Kagan Palenovar.

Orleon came out of the palace to greet them, holding a torch high against the gloom. Mahkas remembered thinking as a child that the steward had some sort of magical power. It didn’t matter what time of the day or night it was, Orleon
always
seemed to know when somebody arrived at the palace and was there to greet them. He walked down the steps a short way, recognised Mahkas, then looked around with alarm in the fading light when he couldn’t see Laran among the other faces in the troop.

Orleon’s eyes alighted on the horse Mahkas held by a lead rope and he shook his head in disbelief as understanding slowly dawned on him. “Surely not . . .”

Mahkas dismounted, his expression grim, as Orleon hurried down the steps.

“By the gods,” the old man muttered. “It cannot be . . .”

Mahkas stood back to let the steward look at the bundle tied to the pack horse, then glanced over his shoulder at Raek Harlen, who was still mounted. “Find Almodavar,” he ordered quietly. “Tell him what’s happened.”

Raek nodded and wheeled his horse around, heading for the barracks. Mahkas turned back to Orleon, who had untied the cloak covering the corpse tied to the pack horse. Laran’s body was not a pretty sight. His face and limbs were swollen and black where the blood had pooled after death. Orleon just stood there, shaking his head.

“It cannot be . . .” he repeated, too stunned to think of anything else to say.

“I share your shock and grief, Orleon,” Mahkas said, placing a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder.

His words seemed to galvanise the steward. Orleon squared his shoulders and looked at Mahkas. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I will arrange to have my lord laid out in the appropriate manner, and begin to make the funeral arrangements. Do you wish to inform her highness?”

“I suppose I’d better. Is my uncle here yet?”

Orleon nodded. “The High Arrion arrived two days ago from Greenharbour. Lord Hawksword is also here.”

So Nash was here. That was a good thing. He was friendly with Marla. With another shoulder to cry on, Mahkas wouldn’t be required to console his sister-in-law. He still had enough honour left to consider himself the worst kind of hypocrite if he stood there sympathising with a young woman, when his actions (or lack of them) had made her a widow. Mahkas pushed the
thought away. Now was not the time to start reliving the gory details of Laran’s death. He had a lifetime to do that.

Or he would have provided Kagan hadn’t shared his news with anyone. Mahkas was still hopeful. Orleon had come to meet him alone. If Kagan had told anybody what he knew about Darilyn, there would have been a troop waiting to arrest him.

Orleon sent a Raider into the palace to get some help while he supervised the other men unloading Laran’s body. It wasn’t an easy task. Laran had been a big man and, with Orleon crying out in horror every time he thought them too rough in their handling of his dead lord, it was no mean feat getting him off the horse and laid out whilst trying to be respectful.