Wolfblade (47 page)

B
y the time her captors removed the hood, Riika knew she was well over the border into Fardohnya. She had been bundled away to a place some miles from the picnic site where Mahkas and the others lay dead, and then thrown over the back of a sturdy mountain pony. The three men responsible for her kidnapping had ridden hard through the forested slopes for the rest of the day, their efforts at concealing their tracks helped considerably by a short, savage snowstorm that obliterated all evidence of their passing. They sheltered in the lee of a shallow cave while the storm blew itself out and then moved on until they finally entered the Widowmaker Pass about two miles from Westbrook. Once they were on the road, their speed increased considerably and they were safely behind the walls of Westbrook before nightfall.

Just on sunset, Riika was handed over to the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook, confirming her suspicion that this was no random attack by slavers. These men were too well prepared, too organised and too nonchalant about their fate to be acting without high-level government sanction.

“Your highness,” he said with a bow, as her hands were untied and she was lifted from the back of the mountain pony. “I am Symon Kuron, the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook.”

“I demand you return me to Hythria at once!”

“We intend to, your highness,” the Plenipotentiary promised. “As soon as your brother pays your ransom.”

“You’re mad if you think you can blackmail my brother,” she scoffed.

“We’ll see,” Symon Kuron shrugged. “In the meantime, I’ve made arrangements for your accommodation here. You’ll be moved further inland in the morning. I’m sure you understand how foolish it would be for us to keep you so close to the border until an agreement has been negotiated for your release. I would like your word you won’t try to escape.”

“And if I refuse to give it?”

“Then instead of the room we have prepared for you, your highness, with a nice fire and a warm bath, a feather bed and complete privacy other than a guard on the door outside, I will be forced to incarcerate you in the keep’s dungeons among the thieves, murderers, rapists and runaway slaves we normally hold down there. Unfortunately, we’re a bit crowded at the moment, so I won’t be able to offer you a private cell.”

“You wouldn’t dare throw someone like me in a dungeon full of murderers and rapists!” she gasped, quite certain that nobody intending to collect a ransom on a noblewoman would be so stupid. It was an unwritten but well-understood rule that when you held a prisoner of rank for ransom, particularly a female prisoner, you made certain they remained unmolested.

“This is the frontier, your highness,” the Plenipotentiary said. “We’re a long way from Talabar and really not renowned for our skill in the niceties of court politics. If you do not give me your word that you won’t attempt to escape—and please note I said
attempt
, because there is no way you could succeed—then I have no choice but to confine you to the most secure, albeit most dangerous and uncomfortable, place in my fortress. You see, I have orders to hand you over to my superiors. They didn’t actually stipulate you must be unharmed.”

Riika studied the man in the fading light, wishing she could tell if he was bluffing. Surreptitiously crossing her fingers against the lie, she nodded. “Very well, then. You have my word. And you don’t have to keep calling me ‘your highness’, you know. My lady will do.”

“If that’s what you prefer, my lady,” the Plenipotentiary replied. “This way.”

Riika followed Symon Kuron inside, looking around hopefully, but she hadn’t been taken to the northern keep, where, like Winternest, most of the trade of the border post took place. She was led into the southern keep, through the bailey and the dingy main hall, up a dark narrow staircase and into a room that contained—as Symon Kuron had promised—a fire, a bath already drawn and a comfortable-looking feather bed. She stepped into the room and looked around before turning back to face the Fardohnyan. “Am I to be fed, or is starving me also part of your plan?”

“Your dinner will be brought up shortly, your highness. Once you’ve eaten it, I suggest you get some sleep. You have a long journey ahead of you tomorrow and you’ll be leaving before first light.”

“Where are they taking me?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“You mean you don’t know,” Riika guessed.

The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook smiled faintly. “Goodnight, your high—I mean, my lady.”

Riika turned to watch him leave. “You know, my brother is just as likely
to declare war on you for this,” she warned as he opened the door. “He won’t want to pay any sort of ransom.”

Far from worrying him, Symon Kuron seemed to find the threat amusing. “Won’t, or can’t?” he asked. “Still, he can always borrow the money from your husband. The gods know
he’s
rich enough. Goodnight.”

The Plenipotentiary of Westbrook closed the door and locked it before Riika had a chance to point out that her brother was probably the richest man in Hythria and she didn’t actually have a husband for Laran to borrow anything from, anyway.

Three days later, Riika was exhausted but a little less frightened than she had been. No longer tied hand and foot, she had been given a beautiful dun gelding to ride and, with an escort of thirty men—making no attempt to hide the fact that they were Fardohnyan army troops—she was taken west at a hard pace, leaving before first light each morning and pushing on until after dark each night.

The officers of her escort treated her with courtesy and the deference due the daughter of a Hythrun Warlord. It was clear the Fardohnyans intended to treat her as a prisoner of rank. Riika breathed a huge sigh of relief. Laran would get a ransom demand in a day or two, she supposed. He’d be furious that his sister had been kidnapped, but he wouldn’t hesitate before ordering the gold brought to Winternest and the exchange could take place shortly after. With luck, Riika calculated she would be in Fardohnya no more than a month before she was on her way back home.

Of course, Laran may not be satisfied with simply paying a ransom to get her back. Mahkas might be dead, too, and Laran would demand vengeance for that. Riika clung to the hope that he wasn’t dead. Perhaps he’d just been badly wounded and the Fardohnyans mistook his injury for a fatal one. She kept telling herself that. In between imagining what had become of her nephews.

Every time Riika closed her eyes she saw those guards lying by the trampled fire, bleeding into the snow. And prayed Travin and Xanda hadn’t finished up lying there beside them.

Their destination proved to be a large estate in eastern Fardohnya called Qorinipor. It was also known as the Winter Palace, King Hablet’s Summer Palace being his main residence in the capital, Talabar, located on the coast some twelve hundred miles north of this place. Although she was saddle-sore and weary from the long ride, she was impressed by the palace as it came into view, nestled in the spectacular foothills of the Sunrise Mountains.

Built of polished pink marble on a small island, it rose majestically out of a broad crystal-blue lake, linked to the mainland by a bridge that looked as if
it had been crafted of cake icing. The scrollwork was so delicate, it seemed impossible that it had been carved from anything as crude as stone. As they rode across the bridge, Riika couldn’t help but wonder what it had taken to build such a place. Perhaps the Harshini had had a hand in Qorinipor’s construction. The place seemed too beautiful to have been wrought by human hands.

They rode into the main courtyard of the castle and halted at the foot of a set of broad steps that reached up to a large open area in front of the palace itself. The paving was made of alternating light and dark stones in a pattern that wound around each other like snakes swallowing their own tails.

There was a man waiting for them at the top of the steps. He wore a long, elaborate robe of red and gold silk and his head was shaved in the manner common among eunuchs. Riika guessed who he was. Even in Cabradell, they’d heard of King Hablet’s chamberlain, the eunuch, Lecter Turon. Riika’s last doubts about her fate vanished as he walked down the steps to greet them. If Lecter Turon was here to meet her, she was right. This plan to kidnap her went as high as it could go. Right up to the King of Fardohnya.

“Who is that?” the eunuch asked, jerking his head in Riika’s direction as the captain of her escort dismounted. She didn’t know his name. He’d never bothered to introduce himself.

“That’s the hostage, Lord Turon. The Princess Marla.”

The Chamberlain stared at the man for a moment and then cursed. Riika stared at him in shock, too. Suddenly it all made sense: the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook’s comments about her brother borrowing money from her husband. Calling her “your highness” all the time . . .

Oh, by all the Primal Gods! They think I’m Marla Wolfblade!

“That is not Marla Wolfblade, Captain.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t know who you have there, Captain, but I met Princess Marla when I was in Greenharbour and I can assure you, that’s not her.” The eunuch walked over to where Riika waited astride the dun. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Riika,” she replied cautiously. Until she worked out what was going on, the rest of her name was a secret she preferred to keep to herself.

“And are you a princess? The sister of Lernen Wolfblade, perhaps?”

“No.”

The Chamberlain turned to the captain and shrugged. “There. You see, captain. That’s all it took to establish that this girl is not Marla Wolfblade.” Then he added at a yell only inches from the captain’s face,
“All somebody had to do was ask!”

The captain flinched at Lecter’s tone, but stood his ground.

“I’m sorry, sir. But this is the girl the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook handed over to us with the assurance that she was Marla Wolfblade.”

“The gods
forbid
you’d think to use a bit of initiative and establish that
for yourself! Look at her!” he shouted furiously, making Riika wince. “She’s dressed like a galley wench! Didn’t
that
alert you to the fact that this might not be a
princess?”

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Not as sorry as the Plenipotentiary of Westbrook is going to be,” Lecter promised savagely.

“What are your orders, Lord Chamberlain?”

“My orders, you
moron
, are to get that idiot Symon Kuron here from Westbrook, before the King arrives, so that he can explain to our esteemed monarch how he mistook a chambermaid for the High Prince of Hythria’s sister!”

Riika opened her mouth to protest that she was no chambermaid, but the words froze in her throat as another thought occurred to her. If the Fardohnyans didn’t realise who she was, they might simply let her go. Granted, there was a certain level of protection in being a hostage, but she was more determined than ever to escape. It was a much better idea than sitting around waiting to be rescued.

Lecter Turon turned away, heading back into the palace.

“What did you want me to do with the Hythrun girl then?” the captain asked his retreating back.

The eunuch stopped and turned to glance uninterestedly at Riika over his shoulder before fixing his gaze on the captain. “Kill her.”

Riika gasped as the captain saluted in acknowledgement of the order.

“No . . . wait!”

Lecter Turon continued walking back into the palace. The captain turned to face her, drawing his dagger from his belt as he did so.

“But you don’t realise who I am,” she began, as he moved towards her. All of a sudden, her silence seemed foolish, not clever. Two other soldiers closed in on her from behind and Riika was dragged from the saddle. She screamed, her heart pounding so hard she couldn’t speak. Blood rushed through her ears so loudly she couldn’t hear herself think. Her knees collapsed as she hit the ground. The captain drew closer. Riika screamed again, paralysed with terror. They intended to carry out Lecter Turon’s indifferent order for her execution right there and then.

Tell them who you are!
a small voice in her head shouted at her urgently.

With a burst of terror-inspired strength, Riika found the will to struggle against the hands that held her down, but with two strong men pinning her to the ground, she had little hope of fighting them off. The words that might save her—
I am Glenadal Ravenspear’s daughter. Laran Krakenshield’s sister
—couldn’t get past her terrified screams.

The Fardohnyan captain hesitated for a moment, looking down on her with a hint of pity, giving Riika a brief glimmer of hope. But it lasted only an instant before the blade came down, cutting off her cries of protest and ending any chance she had to explain that she wasn’t some nameless chambermaid.

After a sharp, brutal pain there was a sudden feeling of warm, sticky wetness as the blade sliced across her throat; more pain, shock—and a refusal to believe this was really happening—all filtered through the gauze of her unintelligible terror.

The world went dark. Riika Ravenspear’s blood spilled unhindered onto Qorinipor’s delightful chequerboard paving.

And then the pain stopped and there was nothing. Not even darkness.

K
idnapping Marla Wolfblade had seemed a wonderful idea to Hablet, right up until he arrived at the Winter Palace to taunt Laran Krakenshield with his victory, only to discover he had nothing to bargain with.